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My breakfast in the Andes

Scrambled eggs, beans and rice, avocado, tomatoes, cheese and an arepa all enjoyed with the best coffee on the planet. The problem with the fresh delicacies here is that after a few days one is hungry all over again.

Rodman, Kim lista de gracia de las celebridades en Retooled The Apprentice

El ex-estrella de la NBA Dennis Rodman y el líder de Corea del Norte, Kim Jongun encabezarán una deslumbrante lista de concursantes en un The Apprentice recientemente renovado. El programa de televisión de la realidad adoptará el mismo formato que el original, que se emitió antes de que su anfitrión fuera elegido presidente de los Estados Unidos según la red de host NBC.

Rodman, ex destacado rebote y travestido aparecerá por primera vez en el programa, mientras que se espera que Kim participe por cable de circuito cerrado debido a problemas de inmigración.

“Si los reporteros Yankee no han descifrado cómo deletrear el nombre completo de Kim, se quedarán atrás”, dijo un comunicado de propaganda de Pyongyang, el epicentro del mal según fuentes occidentales.  “Kim Jong Un puede controlar el clima con seguridad”, dijo Rodman, quien solicitó permiso a la Administración Trump para visitar a su amigo en Corea del Norte. Si se le permite ir, espera negociar una paz entre Kim y Donald.

¿Vamos a creer que Rodman usará un vestido y Kim golpeará las tablas, marcando en la pintura, durante la visita?  Mientras tanto, la mayoría de las personas que viven en Corea del Norte están sujetas a la escasez de alimentos y la represión política es peor que lo que está ocurriendo en Puerto Rico según las Naciones Unidas. Missiles Over Mouths es el nuevo eslogan enlistado en vallas publicitarias en todo el país asiático.

“No hay cordura en enviar a un looney a encontrarse con otro looney para poner una buena palabra para un tercer looney”, dijo el senador Mario Rubio, quien ahora parece ver la escritura en la pared y está tratando de proyectarse como un moderado.

“Parece que olvidamos que los pobres de este país tienen derecho a votar”.  Muchos otros en el Partido Republicano están susurrando secretamente que Trump debería enviar a un Ray Moore recientemente derrotado a Pyongyang ya que habla en lenguas y podría traer algún diálogo bienvenido a la mesa.

– Herradura de Cachemira

Math Department to Measure Snow

(Crested Butte) Standouts in the WSC Math Department will assist CBMR staff in determining valid snow depths for the coming ski season. In the past the reports have been questionable at best according to sources here near the ground.

     In addition to the calculations the students will provide statistical analysis which could go a long way toward easing world hunger, global warming and the common cold. In addition it may even help keep snowboarders off the hill on holy days.

     According to one participant the snow depth measurements have a lot to do with moisture, the angle of sunlight, the price of Jim Beam and the cross referencing of skier days. Despite a drop in season pass rates these elements will continue to be controlled by the iron fists of the Caraway family.

     Meeting during a field trip to a local field, math majors pledged to provide unbiased square root reports and carefully police the slopes after all metric conversions.      

– Tar Sands

“If you kill that spider Buddha will get you.”

                      – from Guilt Trips for Buddhist Christians by Melvin O’Tao

Take Winter Health Warnings To Heart

(Montrose) Local physicians here agree even without a flu shot most of us will survive the winter. Besides being colder and noticeably darker the period from December through February holds many unpleasant surprises for the uninitiated. Getting stuck in the snow or coming home to frozen pipes is nothing compared to life-threatening disease, brain deterioration and slow starvation.

First and foremost residents and visitors alike are reminded that dog hair and ashes are not a suitable substitute for daily fiber in one’s diet. While these household particles may seem normal to most of us we cannot ignore our need for nutritional balance. Of course we have come a long way since bleeding with leeches, mindless limb amputations and primitive chanting but watch out for nouvelle vague trends such as consensual cannibalism, leftover colcannon and sneeze warts as the winter drags on. In the final analysis these ribald solutions help nobody and can cause lots of problems down the road. Cutting edge doctors suggest a nice tumbler of aged Nicaraguan rum with every meal (especially breakfast) and two before bed. The balance of reality to perception must be explored!

Even if you are a strict vegetarian doctors here suggest that you apply a liberal amount of writer’s block on your face and extremities when venturing out into the Colorado sunshine. Avoiding the harmful rays of self-absorption and literary prowess is not only logical but it’s the law! Ignore your health and your storybook existence will soon be in the dumpster with all the bad novels and crummy films that one could suffer in a lifetime.

– Dianna Pettifogger

Continued when your next health insurance bill arrives

Tranquility amidst the throngs

This beautiful statue in the plaza in Jardin, Colombia honors motherhood and family. It offers a peaceful reprieve from the maddening crowds of tourists in town for the holidays.


‘Twas the night before Christmas

And all through the castle

Not a digger was stirring

It was just too much hassle.

(Most of us had been down at Golden Gate Park all day diggin the music and were too wasted .)

The stockings were flung on the floor and the chair

Grab me my pants, there’s a party up there.

(Despite chronic fatigue the cat upstairs was making some kind of racket but soon he’ll be cool since his woman gets off work by seven.)

The horn men were nestled with notes in their heads

While visions of reefer waltzed with second hand threads.

(The North Beach Good Will has just scored new duds, the kind afforded by clothes horse jazz musicians who seem to be between gigs.)

And momma come home to see all this crap

She settled his brains and I don’t hear no rap.

(As expected the lady upstairs arrived home at the usual time and found her man engaged in extra-curricular diversions with an assortment of new friends. A gunshot. Another.)

When out on the highway there arose Dharma batter

The straights cruised on by engulfed in their chatter.

(Why do you want to show up to work everyday when there are places in this very galaxy that you have never been?)

Away to the window I flew like jack flash

Pulled down the Venetians, securing my stash.

(I wanted to see if the cat upstairs was alive or dead but I thought I’d better hide my stash before the North Beach Gestapo started asking a lot of questions.)

The moon and the rest of the ash-ridden snow

Convinced me that midday was too late to go.

(This place is nowhere. With a little luck and the right boxcar I could be in Mexico City for the New Year.)

When what to my wandering mind should appear

But San Francisco’s finest from the front and the rear.

(Somebody in the building must have called up the heat when they heard the shots. They were everywhere, responding in their noted Zen vigor in this neighborhood infested with home sapiens of the discarded variety.)

At my door an old sergeant, with stick of the night

I can’t wait till morning…it’s exit…stage right!

(My duffel bag lay packed in the corner. Once on my back it was out the door leading me to more tolerant horizons.)

More rapid than accurate I headed uptown

Grabbed a bus for the freight yard and waited around.

(The midnight train ride down the coast to LA would be a cold one but I could sleep on the beach in Santa Monica in the morning.)

A weathered old brakeman called out in the rain

If you’ve got ample dollars you’ll be riding this train.

(The tired, old drunk wanted some bread for letting me ride the boxcar. I promised him some Mexican grass and offered him a hit off my Thunderbird and, cursing, he wandered off.)

As wilted, dry leaves before hurricanes fly

I am one with the boxcar, fused to the Pacific sky.

(Finally headed toward Southern California, I polished off the wine and fell asleep despite the chill and the cold metal floor.)

So up through the mountains steel coursers they flew

With a cargo of nothingness as their time clock punched two.

(We hit the Coastal Range in the middle of the night as the full moon made another cameo appearance.)

And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof

The brakeman, another…resenting my spoof.

(The railroad cops didn’t appreciate my travel arrangements for the evening and when we stopped at Salinas they tossed my ass off the iron beast and into an unlikely Christmas Eve.)

As I brushed my self off and was turning around

Down the tracks dragged a hobo not making a sound.

(I had just seen this bum down in the Tenderloin last week. He was snoring away in a skid row hotel lobby, too drunk to make it up the stairs to his two-dollar flop.)

He was dressed all in rags from his head to his foot

His clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

(A bad dream Kris Kringle in the freight yard of America’s last brush with authentic culture?)

His meager belongings he had thrown in a sack

He smelled like a junkie and let out a hack.

(His personal hygiene didn’t improve with closer proximity.)

His face was one wrinkle, all haggard and hairy

He clung to Wild Roses and a jug of sweet sherry.

His droll, little mouth was drawn up like a bow

The fuzz on his chin as gray as winter So-Ho.

He rolled up two skags, “To you I bequeath”

The smoke pouring out from his cave of no teeth.

(The cat had played out his future in baggy pants and shoes force marched through an alcoholic haze.)

His poker face deluded, a bad loser still game

He choked when he spoke but he spoke just the same.

Uncapping his prize he delivered a belt

And I grabbed for the bottle, in spite of myself.

With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Out there in hell’s freight yard the hobo dropped dead.

(Time had run out for this earth-bound angel who had never spent Saturday mornings mowing his lawn in the suburbs or driving kids around in a new Ford Station wagon.)

I picked up his dreams, locked tight with no key

Next stop: Potter’s Field for this snarled refugee.

(A watchman helped me cover him and called the cops. There would be no heartbroken relative to identify him, no one to cry at his grave.)

Then catching the time, I watched for a freight

Skillfully boarding, make LA by eight

Back on a boxcar, I slept on my duffel

Agonized at the thought of that wino’s last shuffle.

But desolation’s despots on angels take toll

One long ago Christmas deep deep in my soul.

                                 – Paradise Stolen, 1959