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Highway 550 Shipped to Denver

(Colona) Colorado State Highway 550 will be transported to C-Dot bunkers in Denver as part to a plan to repair the road before tourists begin arriving in May. The principal artery will be hauled away in 5-mile increments and restored “in just a day or three months” according to officials familiar with this sort of excavation.

What this means for motorists accustomed to using the thoroughfare was not particularly clear this morning. Royal bridge builders and road maintenance engineers have already begun stockpiling massive piles of beetle kill near the roadway leading observers to believe that material will substitute for the more traditional asphalt. Until we know more it is apparent that venture brain trusts will persevere and the people will endure.

That stretch of highway from Montrose to Ouray has always given us trouble,” said Willy “The Pirate” MacLeish of C-DOT.  “And that says nothing of its bastard cousins “The Three Saints” – Red Mountain, Molas and Coal Bank Passes on the way to Durango.

There was no mention of conduits further south to Farmington since C-DOT does not recognize the sitting government in New Mexico and prefers to ignore all reference to the state, much like the EPA, which is allegedly engaged in a giveaway of public lands and the ED, which offers equal and inferior education to all.

The whole damn highway needs a lesson in humility,” continued MacLeish. “The highways in The Pale (The Confront Range) come first and these hick paths can just wait their turn. So what if thy were built based on traffic in 1965.”

– Kashmir Horseshoe


from Seamus McGinty, Skibbereen, Cork, Republic of Ireland

Please be careful with Harry and Meghan. Centuries ago when we allowed English gentry, not to mention royals, to land on our coast, things went bad fast. Cheers!

Bibliophiles must register in Montrose County

(Simms Mesa) Persons convicted of literary crimes must register with local law enforcement agencies after February 15. These generally well-read, often erudite offenders will remain on a Colorado database for 6 months.

After that time these bookish felons must renew/update vital information including address and telephone number so as to earn a safe conduct passage, dismissively referred to as a library card during more archaic periods of book burnings and pious interdiction.

Person deemed guilty of risk levels higher than 1.5, on a scale of 1 to 10, will be monitored for indications of loud talking, loitering and in some cases destruction of checked out items. Overdue fines could be levied and usually are when the person fails to honor his/her contracted responsibilities according to Penal Code 86R-Y, established in 2008.

Furthermore, the much-maligned Bookends Project demands that suspect persons must submit to indiscriminate ordeals and surgical diagnosis if behavioral patterns persist. Physicians may then prescribe colorful pills and failsafe injections (inoculations, vaccinations, flu shots) in hopes of driving out the parasitic demons of these so-called bookworms.

Bibliophiles who ignore this warning could face fines (compiled daily), loss of inter-library privileges and banishment to the Dark Ages.

-Tommy Middlefinger

For more turn to Celtophiles- Scourge of Connemara in your prayer books.

Elkin and his brother (s)

A few years ago a guy named Elkin came up to me in front of La Tampa in Jardin and tried to make my acquaintance. This abrupt behavior (especially here in Colombia where things tend to be a bit more formal) sent up a red flag but he was just a little feller and I figured I’d humor him for a while.

He said (surprise…surprise) that his brother was down in the hospital and he needed money to visit him and bring him a few things. I said I was sorry about his brother but had no spare cash. He kept on.

“I want to go and see him. It could be the last time,” he squawked.

“Oh, it’s serious then?”

“Yes, he boinged, “could you spare 50,000 pesos ($17 or so)?

“No, Elkin, I already told you I wasn’t going to give you any money.” But I am sorry about your brother.”

“But he has cancer, señor! He’s my only living brother. The others dropped dead of tuberculosis and the measles years ago. Please…just 20,000 then?”

Elkin, I’m beginning to think that you only want my money,” I jabbed, “because you think I’m a rich gringo and such.”

“Oh no señor. How could you think that? I’m just stretched thin and need to visit him before it’s too late. If you…”

“Where is he? Which hospital is he in?” I counterattacked.

Now I could see scammer’s wheels spinning inside that all too transparent cranium. This loutish hoodwinker! I did not know these accusing words in Spanish or I would have crucified him right on the spot. I had to hear more before I struck, plus I was mildly impressed by this little man’s brash hullabaloo.

Sly without the trump card, lacking even a butterfly net, catching caterpillar collapses without wings – This is your man Elkin. A myriad of minute conscience, delusional deception with grandiose cajones? Perhaps. Delicately, like the sound of heavy coins dropping into a metal bucket from the roof of a 5-story building, he went on.

“Just 20,000?” he asked flinching at this stubborn gringo. Most of his marks were either afraid of him or just wanted him to take his leave. That could translate into beer money or maybe even a bottle of Aguardiente on the weekends when business zipped along at full throttle.

“Ave Maria!,” he must have thought. “This was getting involved.” He hesitated, analyzing the state of affairs. This could quickly get sticky and complicated. He could tip his hand if not careful.

“In this hospital, here in Jardin,” he nodded, taking my hand with false intent and not letting go until I gingerly pushed and more forcefully pulled, escaping from his grip without shifting weight. I bent his wrist ever-so-slightly in a rear-guard maneuver. He winced.

He was beginning to aggravate  me, to the passing attention of some people I know in town, who were nursing cold beers nearby. Even his smile had now become annoying. It was yellow, maybe for all the lies.

But I am a guest in this country and should conduct myself as one.

“Elkin, I have an idea,” I said. “Let’s both go and visit him right now,” I said taking his arm this time. “It’s only a short walk away.”

He stopped, stuck like Br’er Rabbit to the tar baby, caught like a rat in a Pompeii of peanut butter. He looked from side to side as if someone in the plaza crowd might rescue him before he drowned.

“Oh, no, señor, he recanted…not now. I can’t. I have an appointment. I cannot….”

Then I heard my friend bellow from his perch in front of the bar:

“Hey Elkin: Enough,” he pleaded. “You croon the same song with different lyrics! And I, in all these years don’t remember you having a brother. You never even had a pet fish. Now if you don’t back off, your next “appointment” will be in the hospital. Se va! (go away!)”

And off slid our warped warrior, the champion debater, the fiscal wizard of Antioquia who could bamboozle these gringos with just the turn of a phrase. He seemed not the least bit offended by the inglorious banishment, keeping his eyebrows lurched and his posture tense for other los cadidos (naive ones) on the street. It’s a numbers game, heh Elkin?

Nonetheless we drank an acerbic toast to Elkin with tragos de anejo (shots of aged rum) lightly peppered with heart-of-sarcasm. We had another, after enduring an impulsive obituary about a deceased logger that I had never met.


One afternoon, two years later, Elkin again approached me up on Calle 12 and told me he was suffering from cancer. I had already seen him coming down the sidewalk and crossing the street to my side. This time I was ready for this jackal of all trades.

Sadly and dramatically, as he wove fantastic, his story was concocted: He now had cancer. He had barely a week to live. As proof he removed his sombrero and showed me his close-cropped hair. It didn’t look chemo-radiated. It just looked like a howler monkey had gotten ahold of some dull scissors. He didn’t remember me from years ago because all gringos look the same.

Amused, and somewhat impressed with his blubbering, I went along avoiding any remote reference to finances. He kept up crisp dialogue, quite politely getting to the meat of the issue. He continued trimming the fat until I stopped him like a hurled, ripe mango hitting a steadfast garden wall.

“So, Elkin,” I began “How is your brother, you know the one that was in the hospital with cancer a few years ago?”

“Who?” he blurted out, taken aback by the shift in the dialogue and my familiarity with his name. His con confronted, his armor extinguished, his plan now plummeted like clown pants tumbling down to his boney knees.

“Your brother…your brother, man. You said you had to see him for the last time and asked me for money to bring him a few things. Don’t you remember me?”

Now he was perplexed. He looked around for familiar redoubts. He shifted his stance.

“I don’t have a brother señor,” he frowned. “But I do have an uncle with diabetes. He is in the same hospital in Andes where I am getting treated. Maybe you could spare a few pesos so I could bring him a few things.”

“No, but I’d buy you a bus ticket out of town if you promise never to come back,” I mumbled.

“OK,” he smiled.

– Kevin Haley



With the holidays upon us local residents and visitors alike are hereby warned that the artsy-craftsy types are out in force and could be working your neighborhood at this very moment. These annoying individuals can even be observed going through the winter garbage in order to satisfy their creative obsessions. Fresh from looting the alleys they will then return to their little hovels and attempt to turn stinky milk cartons into furry little bunnies and even fashion Yuletide headgear from pizza boxes or banana crates.

It’s real bad. And the potters haven’t even began their cyclical counterattacks.

Please watch your coffee grinds since these warped craftspersons will often attempt to reconstruct replicas of ski villages from soggy grinds and bits of aluminum.

Birdhouses are particularly popular, especially within circles of depraved artists who intend to spend the rest of the winter somewhere warm, with your money as a cushion.

To further illustrate our point were you aware that the state of Colorado reported that over 400 traffic signs were stolen between December 1 and December 20 in 2019 alone? Many turned up as pirated lazy susans by New Year’s Eve. The best advice? Withhold all your garbage until after the new year. This way a concerned citizen deprives these parasites of the raw materials necessary to continue the age-old assault on all that is still right and decent within our borders.

If this doesn’t work we suggest a nine-iron at close range. Sure, that’s radical but considering the circumstances…With the cops out patrolling the bars for revelers during the holidays we must take matters into our own hands or soon there will be no garbage left to hand down to our children. Lest we forget, we are all responsible for the trash that we generate until it hits the landfill and that’s the American way.

And a further holiday warning: The heroes over at TSA will be scrutinizing stuffed Christmas stockings in airports through the New Year. According to our source they are looking for bombs and toothpaste. If you are traveling with Christmas stockings or small children be aware that you may be molested by these security personnel, who like the demons of Hades love to stick their pitchforks in the sides of the already tormented.

If given the choice between an eternity at DIA, DFW or LAX or the rest of eternity downstairs in the Netherworld this reporter would opt for the flames.



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Thanksgiving To Be Celebrated On Mondays Starting Next Year

(Washington) The federal government has decided to make Thanksgiving a Monday holiday in keeping with its concept of uniformity. The holiday, in which citizens give thanks for the year’s blessings, has been celebrated on Thursdays since its inception in 1623.

In 1789 George Washington issued a general proclamation for a day of thanks. That same year the Episcopal Church announced that the first Thursday in November would be a regular holiday, “unless another day be appointed by civil authorities”. In 1855 soon-to-be Confederate Virginia adopted the custom of a Thanksgiving Day. Ironically enough it was Abraham Lincoln who proclaimed Thanksgiving as the last Thursday of the month in 1863. In 1941 Congress ruled that the fourth Thursday would be observed as a legal holiday. In Canada the holiday is celebrated in October unless the Blue Jays get into the World Series.

“It’s that part about civil authorities that fouls up the muffins,” said one traditionalist who feels this country needs all the culture it can get.

“Why fool with a good thing like Thanksgiving. Aren’t there more pressing social issues to deal with here?” he spat.

Persons wishing to continue the Thursday celebration have been hereby informed that they are doing so outside the law.

“These rogue turkey day revelers must be brought to heel,” said Congressman Oral Noise, who first penned the proposal. “The next thing you know they’ll want to celebrate the Fourth of July on the fourth of July. Bunch of damn communists!”

Sources here feel that the population will put up a fight in the early rounds but succumb to the homogenized version of Thanksgiving before long.

“We’ll indoctrinate the school children first and then frighten the elderly into submission,” said Noise. “And if we have further problems we’ll put a tariff on pumpkin pie.”   – Melvin Toole