Personal Essay: My Day -- Sunday June 6. 2022.

 

a little lower than angels

is what the Bible states

am I and all thy children --

celestial delegates!

I wish I were seraphic

when I do stub my toe,

and not so diabolic --

as my words often show!

 

 

and so my day begins up here in Wendell, Idaho. on a four day visit to amy's sister kathy and hubby steve. 

if i understand amy right, she wants to come up every weekend to visit her sister until they have to sell the farm in july. i initially put up quite a fuss about it, because the four hour drive is expensive and my tailbone would be throbbing by the time we arrived. plus their house is unheated this past winter and our basement bedroom was a virtual icebox. but all that has changed because i decided i would change my mind about the whole thing. instead of complaining and playing the martyr i decided to believe the whole thing is a jolly weekly holiday for us. so i increased my credit card limit to 1500 dollars. I cadged an old rocker/recliner to bring up to Idaho so I'd have some place decent to sit and rest my aching tailbone. and i bought a cheap ceramic space heater at walmart. turns out we didn't need the heater -- wendell was undergoing a heat wave when we got here this week, so the basement bedroom was actually a cooling relief. the rocker/recliner has been wonderful -- i can spend all day in it gazing at the flat idaho fields of alfalfa through the living room picture window. there are birds a-plenty winging their way through the manure-perfumed air, as the wide horizon fills with tumbling clouds just for my amusement. oh, and i stopped at the dollar store down in provo before we left to stock up on cheap sardines. i got five cans of sardines in louisiana hot sauce, and have relished ingesting a can every morning for breakfast. somehow it feels right to eat canned fish in a farm house in idaho . . . my life's summation, to be written on my tombstone should be:  He Finally Ate Cheap Sardines While The Chickens Befouled The Back Porch.

we drove fifteen miles yesterday to the moribund hamlet of Buhl, just to buy ice cream. amy said they had the best ice cream she ever tasted, so i insisted we go get some. and she is right. it is the best i've ever had. while in buhl i spotted an orange spire towering over the town. i asked amy what it was and she said it was a hindu temple. having been married long enough now to know better i did not immediately pooh pooh her answer. but instead when we got back to the farm house i googled hindu temples in idaho, discovering there was certainly none in buhl. what there is is an old Odd Fellows Hall, built in 1922, and painted orange. i did not rub it in. so, good for me! -- maybe i'm learning how to handle this marriage racket after all.

now, as i gaze out on the back forty while tapping away on my laptop in my rocker/recliner, i begin to miss not having my usual can of sardines in louisiana hot sauce. because today is Fast Sunday, and we will be going to the wendall ward for 9:30 a.m. services. i will be bringing along my notebook to jot down my observations, and you, dear reader, will have the benefit of my keen scrutiny later this afternoon . . . 

 

************************************************

 

 

Individual Income Tax Payments on Pace to Reach Record Level

the man inside the barrel with no clothes to wear at all

is no longer just a fiction or a piece of folderol.

for Uncle Sam is greedy and needs money by the sack,

and so he dings us one by one until our wallets crack.

I want to finance freedom, but these taxes are a joke --

how can I savor liberty when I am always broke?

 

i just had to write that after reading the above headline in the online wall street journal after coming home from church. here's what i wrote during sunday school in church today, based on the book of judges from the old testament:

 

after Joshua did pass

the Israelites turned into glass --

they shattered often due to sin

and let the philistines move in.

but when the hebrews did repent

a righteous judge was often sent

to set them straight and lead the way

all commandments to obey.

then the land had rest again --

as long as they stayed humble men.

 

i know i promised a full and scathing report on fast & testimony meeting in the Wendell first ward, but now i'm wondering if my observations are too bitter, cynical, and worldly to do any good or be considered a worthwhile literary endeavor?

believe it or not, it is not my intention to be cutting and sarcastic about anyone or anything. i just want to report what i see, what i hear, and what i feel. and to rejoice in the lushness and complexity of the english language while i'm using it.

 

there were ten people, plus the Bishop, who bore their testimonies this morning. rather than go through them one by one I'll just make some general observations.

seven women, one child, and two men. that's the breakdown. i've noticed over the years that women bear their testimony more often than men.

a woman in an orange polka dot dress said she wanted to walk with Jesus and not just bump into him occasionally -- which struck me as memorable. 

an elderly woman in a red and white horizontal stripped sweater was effusively descriptive of her grandchildren, and then gushed "everything denotes there is a God!"

she also said "i'm so grateful i can go anywhere in the world and find church every sunday at 9 in the morning!"  i'm still pondering that statement.

a man who had moved away from wendell thirty years ago got up to say he was back for his daughter's wedding. i lost the thread of his remarks after that. 

 

sunday school, as i said, was all about the book of judges. i got off one nifty during class, by stating that Samson was a great entertainer because he brought the house down. didn't get much of a laugh. idaho people are rather solemn, i guess. you would be too if your state license plate motto was 'great potatoes.'  

 

well, i guess that's all for now. the day is only half done, it being just 1230 p.m. but i doubt much more of anything will happen the rest of the day. i'll read p.g. wodehouse in my rocker/recliner until dinnertime at 4, then glut myself on beef, potatoes, creamed peas, and a flagon of that chocolate ice cream from Buhl, then sit comatose in front of the TV until 9, when amy and i will stagger to bed and sleep the sleep of the well-fed just.

tomorrow we head back to provo. to home. to smog.

insincerely yours,

heinie manush 

Our Summer Home in Wendell, Idaho.

 

Our rustic cottage on the outskirts of Wendell --

a bucolic Idaho town where the natives roll potatoes

down the streets each morning to keep the grass

from growing.

Lolling in our leather recliners the other day, Amy and I felt the need to get away from the brittle hurly-burly of Provo, with its obtuse academics and Silicon Valley wannabes. So we have rented a charming little villa in the midst of the wilds of Idaho.

We spend long weekends there now, soaking up the local color and reveling in the quaint traditions of the peasants. 

The manure-scented zephyrs and abundant road kill refresh our spirits. Clouds scud along the horizon like a billowy cattle stampede, and the corn is as high as a skunk's rheumy eye.

Stephano and Katrina, the caretakers of our rural retreat, greet us each morning with platters of potato knots, freshly churned butter, and parboiled alfalfa sprouts. Chickens in the doorway cluck happily while scratching lottery tickets.

The back forty, where we keep a few emus and 

mountain goats for their eggs, meat, and milk.

We had several yaks but they didn't care

for the liquor laws in Idaho and have

migrated to Nevada. 

 

Our days are filled with pleasant, non-stressful, activities -- such as skeet shooting, turkey raffles, and tenement removal. At night the peaceful rasp of armadillos mating with abandoned hubcaps lulls us into a deep refreshing sleep.

 Amy in a pensive mood, as she ponders the problem of

rural poverty, which condemns most rural residents to

a lifetime diet of milk, cream, potatoes, strawberries, and local unprocessed

meat -- all the time breathing nothing but

fresh mountain air.

 

The sleepy pace of life here along the frontage road suits us to a T.  The mail comes once a fortnight. The grocery store in town still gives Green Stamps. And the local bank only opens on Fridays, when the workers at the turpentine distillery get paid.

All in all, Amy and I are as happy about our decision to spend part of each week out here in the boondocks as a pig on an airplane. 

We hope you'll come visit us this summer, before the snow flies and the Visogoths return from Canada. We can promise you smoking platters of fried canal weed and a bed in the hayloft with the pigeons and earwigs!

And we'll only charge you by the hour.

The quilt on our bed is an authentic hand-woven Balkan

Coverlet -- sewn by Armenian albinos and bindlestiffs,

who settled this land a hundred years ago in

search of mascara deposits.

  

 

Today's Timericks: Nephi's Boat, among other things.

 

Nephi's boat had sails of skins,

which PETA would call grievous sins.

Had they been around that day,

Nephi could not sail away.

Thus we see fanatics cross

the will of God at ev'ry toss!

 

 

My house has got a mortgage on it

that strangles like a too-tight bonnet.

It's worth a fortune, that is true,

but I can't pay now what is due.

And so the bank will repossess

and I will deal with homelessness.

 

". . . an undertaking that even seasoned auto executives say is fraught." 

(WSJ)

 

'fraught' ain't meant to stand alone;

cuz otherwise, it's overblown.

the editor who shaped this piece

ain't fit to write a press release!

 

Baby Formula Shortage Expected to Persist Weeks Longer.

(WSJ) 

Hungry infants fill our ears

with their hollow shrieks and tears.

Formula is lacking still;

our supply chain serves them ill.

Little babies, don't you cry;

Mother Biden is close by!

Narrative Poem: Circus Peanuts.

 

One.

The weather had been unsettled

for the past several weeks.

In fact, it had been downright weird.

 The clouds seemed thicker and heavier.

Still white, but glowering.

And updrafts were terrible!

Every time you swept up a pile of dirt

it was immediately blown into the sky.

Dust devils were everywhere, sucking up trash

like vacuum cleaners and

throwing around lawn furniture.

The sun would come out and it would

rain. The clouds would cover the

sky and the heat was unbearable. 

Like a sauna.

The New York Times said it was

'Global Warming on a Rampage.'

Fox News commentators blamed it

on Johnny Depp somehow.

The old lady next door to me

called it 'The Harrowing of Hell.'

But she was nuttier than a fruitcake.

All in all, the weather appeared to 

be up to something.

Something beyond the ken

of meteorology. 

It had its own purpose

and I felt cold hostility

against me and my kind.

Two

Then it started to snow.

In June.

But the snow drifted down

to the ground and immediately

sprang back up again into the

sky.

It didn't stay and melt.

And when it stopped snowing

the sun stayed behind a haze.

And the haze took shape

as mountains and lakes,

valleys and rivers,

vast plains and dark

green pine forests.

Up in the sky.

Upside down from us.

The old lady next door

said it was a new heaven

and a new earth.

I didn't know what to think.

When scientists trained their

telescopes on it, there was

nothing there to see.

The Air Force sent jet fighters

into the floating mountains

and rivers, but the planes flew

right through them as if they

were mirages.

Which, I guess, they were.

You could see them clearly with

the naked eye,

but not with a dead telescope.

A new land, an imaginary place, 

a far apparitional country, 

uncharted and unpeopled.

We took to sitting outside

all day long, looking up at

the new landscape, waiting

to see what would develop.

Gradually it grew closer to us,

almost touching the skyscrapers

downtown.

And then birds and animals 

appeared up in the cloud lands.

There were zebras and toucans,

running and flying right above our heads.

I thought they looked sleepy and

discontented. 

Three

The new world above was silent.

And no odors drifted down. No scent

of dung or blossoms.

Then one day people began

walking around up there.

They looked and dressed just like us.

Young and old. Male and female.

I shouted myself hoarse trying to

make contact with them.

So did others. We sent up rockets.

But they ignored us, going about

their otherworldly business.

Until the day they began to send

down their message to us.

The day the orange circus peanuts

began falling on us. On the land

and the sea.

Reeking of banana oil, each circus

peanut was inscribed with

'Go back to where you came from.'

 The soft candies piled up, choking

rivers, blocking highways, poisoning

the oceans as fish sickened on the

dissolved corn syrup and pectin. 

Our earth was being smothered.

By a mirage. By strangers. 

By our doppelgangers. 

"Why?" I sobbed at the last,

as the circus peanuts pushed in

my windows and the front door.

"Why are you doing this to us?"

"We were here first, so where can

we go back to?"

Their silence remained unbroken,

but the circus peanuts stopped falling.

And I started a chiasmus and chant,

until the crazy old lady next door called

the cops to complain about the noise.

My Day. Sunday May 29. 2022. Old stories remembered.

 did I finally get the date right on this?

maybe i should date this june 10th 1956. who's going to notice or comment?

the quest for, the yearning for, the lust for immortality. is that what drives me to write this piffle? possibly. a bad motivation, then, and all just to develop carpal tunnel syndrome (i always want to say 'carpal tunnel vision.')

i've just subscribed to 4 different food catalogues, and will have them all sent to our new summer home in wendell, idaho.  i'm thinking of having my mailing address changed to up there as well. but maybe not.

'our new summer home.' has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?  it's amy's sister's farm. just five acres. but there's a big cold bedroom in the basement where we can sleep and possibly hang garlands of garlic and onions to cure.

i hope to investigate the raw inhabitants of wendell idaho, with photographs, and include the results of my anthropology investigations in these letters to oblivion.

which reminds me -- a postcard can't be hacked. so there.

amy is in the kitchen this afternoon making peanut butter cookies. we are going over to her cousin camille's house later today. i made a huge pot of unctuous chili con carne to bring along so they don't feel obligated to serve us sunday dinner. we are bringing them all the extra cans blocks bags boxes and tubes of food we have been given over the past few weeks. how many cans of greenbeans do people think we can handle? people leave stuff like that at our door like babies in baskets at the orphanage steps. they don't want it, so they palm it off on us.

so there's two stories i've been thinking about today. i often let my mind wander during sacrament meeting. my default mode is personal stories. i'm sure my hearing is going bad, since most speakers in church nowadays seem to mumble and rush through their comments as if someone is holding a gun to their head and timing them. they used to have classes on how to give talks in sacrament meeting, which i enjoyed taking. but i haven't seen anything like that offered in a month of sundays. have you? amy wears a special headset in church now so she can hear the speakers. but sometimes it's hooked into the spanish translator instead. then she just falls asleep during the meeting.

oh yeah, the stories. here goes:

when i came back from my mission to go back to work as a clown at ringling brothers the PR department was ecstatic. because back in the 1970's there was this big trend in mainstream christian churches to have clown ministers preach sermons on sunday. i don't know where that fad came from, but the marketers at ringling wanted to use me, a bone fide true blue dyed in the wool former proselytizing missionary as a clown minister to big churches in all the major cities we played. just think of it -- i could get up and say whatever i wanted. but i felt that such a thing was a desecration of the gospel, so i refused to do it. what a fool i was! i could have testified of joseph smith and the book or mormon and played my musical saw and told hundreds of people to their faces that there was a living prophet on the earth today. but i had to say no because of misplaced pride and arrogance. idiot!  luckily, peggy williams, another convert who was baptized by good old tim holst just like i was, and was a first of may clown, consented to give those sermons and homilies. 

my second story happened on my mission in thailand, where i did clown shows to raise money for the red cross. the mission president thought the PR would be good for the church, which was going through a bunch of libelous accusations in the thai press at the time. now the red cross was created by people in switzerland and so the swiss embassy in bangkok decided to thank me (and my companion) for doing these shows by having us over for dinner with the ambassador's wife. the dessert was candied orange peels, which she had made herself. i told her they were delicious and asked for the recipe. why? i don't know. maybe because i was nervous. anyway she gave me the recipe and said "I doubt you'll ever make them, young man." i promised her that i would and that i would bring some of them over to her.  it's an involved process to make candied orange peel, and there was no time to do it during regular proselytizing hours, so i got up at 4 in the morning for several days in a row to work in our kitchen making 'em. when i was done we took some over to the swiss embassy and left 'em for the ambassador's wife. i never heard back from her, so don't know if she ever got them or not.

and that's sunday at the torkildsons. after we get back from amy's cousin's house we'll settle into our recliners and watch reruns of Monk or something else that amy ordains as sunday suitable. by the way we bought all 9 seasons of monk on dvd at DI for 3 dollars a piece. put that in your coffee mill and grind it!

until the clouds roll by,

heinie manush

************************************

In response to the above one of my old missionary companions emailed me back thus:

I recall an invitation for dinner at the Swiss Embassy in Bangkok.  We were served beef stroganoff and the bathrooms were gilded mansions. I was just a poor boy from Virginia and my maternal grandparents were real McCoy hillbillies from the mountains of North Carolina. One year during the Great Depression, they moved back to Carolina and rented a farm for $50 (for the year) and subsistence farmed.  Did what was needed to keep their family alive. Blink and your life changes. I didn’t know where Thailand was when I was called to serve there. Next thing I know I’m paired up with a professional clown and performing on television in Phuket or at some provincial fair in Mahadsarakham. Life is interesting and strange.

And another old missionary companion had this to say about my post, in an email:

You should have told me in no uncertain terms when we were companions in Thailand that we were going to spend days just cooking rather than going out.  I would have learned something rather than wasted my time.

My memories of Bangkhen are few.  One was an encounter with some snakes in the underground water storage tank that for some stupid reason I decide to try to clean up.  I have NO idea why I felt I wanted to do that.  I see such nonsense ideas in my son Tom, quite often.

Another memory is when our house was burgled.  I lost something.  I think it was an inexpensive camera.  Elder Kelly was a missionary in that house.  He used to pray for long periods of time, at lunch break time.  Sister xxxxxx don't remember her name now, was our maid.  Good looking woman.  Pilailak?  She made pancakes.  Elder Nebeker slipped her extra money, I'm sure.  Elder Nebeker and Elder Wall (?) had a gun put in their faces just down the block at that corner restaurant or whatever, for some dumb reason.  And Elder Wright (visiting zone leader?) told me not to say "Before I start gossiping", when I was trying to say "Before I say too much..." when I was the silly Sunday School president or whatever I was, and had to run the meeting.

I was in Deseret Towers at BYU just two rooms down when Elder Wright got his mission call to Thailand.  He was underwhelmed.  He told me later he had hoped he'd go to Europe where there was culture, since he was an aspiring opera or conductor person.  When I saw his mission calling paper I thought "Wow, what a lucky guy.  Thailand!"  6 months later I got my mission call.

Elder Nebeker let Elder Ward give the baptismal challenge to some young woman when they taught her in our house.  I think he baptised her too.  

My son Tom asked me how my life would have been different had I not barely missed the Vietnam draft and been forced to go to combat.

I think there's some possibility that I would not have met Liping.  My Thai language capability, and exposure to Asia encouraged and aided me in finding Liping.  But had I been a soldier first, I may have just gone AWOL with some Vietnamese woman.  Good chance I would not have gone to BYU, and definitely would not have married Tom's mother.

 

My Day. Saturday. May 28. 2022. Personal Essay.

 

so I labeled yesterday's missive as May 28th. but it was friday may 27th. just goes to show i can't keep track of the date anymore. why bother? each day blends into the next, like a can of tuna into a glob of mayonnaise. i'm not complaining about it or worrying about it. old age means ignoring the calendar completely for weeks on end. instead i mark time by meals:  yesterday the soba noodles were too salty. in the evening a neighbor gave us a package of frozen bratwurst. so today is the day i decide what to do with them. should i put them in a red sauce for spaghetti? fry 'em up in a sauce pan with a little apple juice and apple cider vinegar for me and amy? or just let them sit in the fridge and amy and i will go out to eat today. yes, yes . . today could be a day to go out and get something to eat. not a burger. yuck. hamburger and i are not on speaking terms right now. but a fish fillet sandwich, with fries on the side? oh . . . that has possibilities.

so you see, that's how i mark each day of my life.

i also mark each day by how many bm's i have, since i now take two heaping tablespoons of metamucil each day -- one in the morning and one in the evening. but that is a subject even i will forbear from discussing further.

So it took a full hour to do the first 1000 word content sausage. that's ten dollars an hour. sweatshop wages. but it keeps me out of mischief.  amy seems to like the fact that i'm working on 'real' writing and not just making up poetry that i never get paid for.  here's what i wrote this morning, by the way:

I do not like to spend my coin

buying shoes or tenderloin.

In fact I hate to part with cash

in case there is another Crash --

I'll wear a barrel soon enough,

cuz Uncle Sam gets all my stuff!

I posted the above in the online Wall Street Journal, since I'm a subscriber, under a story about consumer spending.  A reader named Alex Guinness left me this reply:

well done Here is one I wrote you can have if you want Hobson's Choice, The Newest Colossus AKA The Kraken Like the brazen giant of Nordic fame, With groping hand fondles women's private parts; Here at our white-washed, gold-clad gates shall stand A mighty man with a cellphone, who inflames with a tweet on twitter, and his name Father of Fat-Cats. From his texting small hands Glows world-wide deceit; his squinting eyes demand The land-bridged beltway that frames D.C. "Give us oil-rich lands, that we may pump!" cries he With tweeting fingers. “Give me your rich, your corrupt, yearning to exploit the masses, the obscenely wealthy of your oil rich shores. Send these, the barons untroubled by ethics and morals to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

where do these nuts come from? i guess versifying always brings out the gooniness in people.

and he just left ANOTHER reply. Why does the wall street journal allow this drek to be posted under their comments? (I guess that could be asked about my original verses, couldn't it?) Here it is:

or take this one Ode to the Little Man A man who seeds both shade and shine and fails to see the pain of thine the world burns and he doth churn the worm turns as he yearns for more, he wants to see his pile grow large and strong as he is vile there is no place that he won’t go to stoke the fires of his ego as the bodies pile high he talks about the days gone by better times soon back again If you come with me they will reckon Pernicious pompous puppet pope at the pulpit preaching pulp tweeting yet another trope as the people lose all hope A man so vile and full of hate He will not stop or hesitate To strike u down and steal the crown To enforce his own renown A man whose only thought is greed He will cut and make u bleed Then he plants his fascist seed It grows and festers like a weed Rape and Pillage, Pillage and Rape Until there's nothing left to take Darkest days are just ahead Hide my children under bed Hide from the pied piper led

much later . . . 

amy and i are scrolling through the saturday offerings on tcm. slim pickins. i've got 4 of those 1000 word sausages stuffed and ready for market, with the help of amy, who right this minute is sitting next to me exercising with a can of Hunts pasta sauce, lifting it up and down with her left arm -- she's hoping this will aleviate the carpal tunnel syndrome that is on its way.  the movie she chose for us to watch while we eat a late lunch is the bride walks out, with barbara stanwyck. lunch is fried bratwurst with beans. for me. i'm never sure what amy is eating. right now she is boiling raisins in a pot.

i'm sure many more exciting and interesting things will happen to me during My Day today -- but this thing has gone on long enough. it's getting out of hand. out of control. i'm becoming another marcel proust, whose quotidian novel swann's way turned into seven volumes -- and he was an invalid and VERY boring. i've tried reading it several times.

i'm not sure anyone will ever read all this ragbag anyway. but i offer it up as something to wile away the hours if you should happen to be stranded on a desert isle with wifi.

ever thine,

Heinie Manush.

Personal Essay: My Day. Friday. May 27. 2022

 

 

This is the day we were supposed to get sealed in the temple here in provo, until the damn bedbugs intervened. once the kids found out we had bedbugs they refused to come see us, refused to let us into their homes, and said we should postpone the sealing a few months, until the bedbugs were eradicated, so they would feel free to give us hugs after the sealing ceremony.

we've had the exterminator over twice, and the bugs are still with us. I want to throw out the whole bed, but amy wants to keep it, since our son steven gave it to us. we slip in our recliners now, and it gives us terrific shoulder pains.

so today I was broiling chicken at 5 in the morning to serve for lunch, but the parchment paper it was on caught fire and set off the smoke alarm, which woke up amy who was still asleep in her recliner. we decided not to go back to sleep but to walk to the Rec Center instead. it was a cool morning -- too cool for amy to walk; she got a sweater and we drove there. we took the shallow pool aqua aerobics class -- at least amy did; I was in and out of the class for an hour, going back and forth between the pool and the hot tub. I love the hot tub.

then we camehome and served chicken teriyaki and chilled soba noodles to anyone who came to our door at 11 a.m.  only two people showed up.

now I've dumped a coupla cans of beef stew and kidney beans into a big pot and am warming it up for dinner at 5 p.m. amy is going to make pumpkin biscuits. we'll see how many moochers show up for that free meal.

this afternoon we stopped at home depot cuz amy wanted a new filter for our a.c.  but they didn't have the right size, so she bought a big filter and is cutting it down to size.

we also stopped at the post office for postcards. I sent Biden a postcard today, with one word on it:  cockalorum.  look it up.

Did I mention our tires are bald and we need new brakes on the Kia?

Gonna cost around 500 bucks total.  Phooey.

Luckily, amy and I are processing a lot of content sausage, at 5 dollars per article. it takes us about 15 minutes to produce a 600 word  content sausage, using things like copyscape and quillbot.

I just finished 500 words on The Future of Sports is in the Cloud. Amy will proof it and send it to the client. While she's doing that I'll get a five minute nap in my recliner. I hope to heaven there are no bedbugs in it! the guy was here yesterday spraying everywhere, but today we've found bedbugs on the bed, in the bathroom and on the living room wall. i'm sure there's a few i the carpet. amy is vacuuming as I finish this missive.

That's all for now.

Heinie Manush.

 

Today's Timericks.

 NRA convention begins in wake of school shooting. Delta cutting flights. Snow, severe storms and extreme heat expected this weekend.

 

NRA

Let us meet and shoot some guns.

Then we'll snack on hot cross buns.

 Firearms, our bread and butter;

it's the right of man and nutter.

Patriots we are, and free!

And not subject to scrutiny.

Delta cuts flights.

We're running out of planes, I guess.

The airlines are in deep distress.

We are not flying as we should,

cuz planes are made of balsa wood.

And Disneyland does not appeal

because its prices are surreal. 

Weather

Let's talk about the weather, friend;

it's something we don't comprehend.

It snows in Texas, melts in Juneau;

tornadoes ravage Greenland, you know.

Global warming? Greenhouse gases?

The weather knocks us on our asses.

Today's Timericks: Putin’s Powerful Orthodox Church Ally Helps Cement Russian Support for War (WSJ)

 

In the name of God warfare

is pretty much waged ev'rywhere.

If I were God I'd be confused

at how my name is often used

in killing children innocent

to prove some zealot's discontent. 

I do not care for email;

I'd rather get a letter.

When it comes to internet

I'm never a go-getter.

I like to hold newspapers;

no online stuff for me.

When it comes to digital

I'm all antiquary. 

 

In the morning I am bright;

but an inert lump at night.

All the world's my oyster, as

the sunrise gives me great pizzazz.

But the setting sun will find

I have fallen way behind. 

At night I'm nothing but a grouch

until I'm laid out on my couch.

Narrative Poem: My arms are your legs.

 

It was time to elect a new leader.

The old one had gone to Nugget City,

Nevada.

True, there was only one candidate --

as always.

But I liked his campaign slogan:

"My arms are your legs!"

 So I voted for him, and he won.

 He was voted leader an unprecedented

three times in a row.

Those were good years for us.

The rains came. The cattle fattened.

Corn stalks grew out of people's ears.

Wall Street and Silicon Valley made

everyone rich -- if you were a certain type

of person, that is.

And if you weren't, the government 

gave you food and money.

 "My arms are your legs"

 was the watchword to prosperity

and contentment.

Schools stayed open. Cars ran

on CBD oil. My eczema 

cleared up.

Then a new leader rose up.

And there was civil war.

Because the opposer's 

campaign slogan was:

"My legs are your arms!"

This confused people. 

Inflamed them.

After the civil war was over,

only a few of us remained.

The state of Delaware was 

annexed by Russia.

My electric toothbrush broke.

Everyone stayed home to

watch golf on TV.

There are no more

boba tea shops. 

But the sun still rises

every other day

and babies are still born

with spinach in their mouths.

So hope is still with us.