(Okinawa) A visiting dignitary was badly beaten while swimming amid the exotic Ryukyu Islands according to a report filed this morning. Melvin Toole, the governor pro tem of Palau Island, was recovered hours later in the nets of a local fishermen who plans to sue everyone remotely involved in the incident.
Toole, who claims royal lineage dating back to the Sumerian pirates who once roamed these shores, is the author of Seeing the World From the Bottom of the Sea. His book chronicles adventures experienced while in the Portuguese submarine service during the Falkland Wars.
Legally referred to as Melvin DeRiviera Dot Com Toolini the almost knighted carbuncle, reportedly lost his monogrammed umbrella to the storm. At press time it has not been recovered.
(Crested Butte — Wing and a Prayer Review — March, 2017)
Police arrested over 300 persons in a predawn raid near Dark Canyon this morning. Those now in custody are wanted in connection with the establishment of utopian society up high in the Elk Mountains and away from the 21st Century.
It is believed that the community has been functioning without currency or taxes and has survived by selling cookies in town and trading the profits for necessities.
Police were tipped off to the existence of the utopia by carnivorous backpackers who came upon the scant encampment while wandering around lost in the woods.
Along with the detained, a subsequent search of the area netted an estimated 1700 pounds of chocolate chips and almost a ton of pecans with an estimated street value of $1.4 billion. Other paraphernalia such as mixing bowls, Dutch ovens and countless aprons were seized.
It is hoped that this action will severely curtail and seriously diminish illicit cookie operations in accordance with the far-reaching War on Fudge coming to a checkpoint near you.
– Tommy Middlefinger
(Pinkyville) Special, reserved parking spots for blissful, jovial drivers are popping up all over from country clubs to truck stops. The concept, along the lines of handicapped parking spaces is aimed at rewarding motorists for their positive attitude.
To qualify for these premium spots drivers must submit to a written test and a simulated life experience to determine eligibility. Many who think they are happy fall short of the plateau while others who see themselves as normal people trying to make it through another day are perfect candidates.
The happy spaces will become quite visible as winter sets in offering many citizens relief from long walks and parking lots brimming to the limit. Brain trusts herein feel that happy people should not have to waste a lot of time looking for a place to leave their car. Happy families, they say, should qualify for two spaces if they can prove minimum harmony and a diminished carbon footprint.
Authorities, although cool to the proposals at first, have come around saying they expect the overall etiquette to improve with the addition of the Happy Spaces. Already, some say, road rage has dropped off and resentment toward the plethora of empty handicapped parking spaces has all but ceased.
Conversely a system of remote, potentially dangerous, poorly maintained spaces for the chronically angry will be up and running by the summer. These inconvenient and spartan spots are expected to feature mounds of broken asphalt, trash and biting flies. They are available to anyone, no matter his or her particular take on life.
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so that they could barely grip the soggy club, especially after a good whopping by loyal sailors. Realizing that the Carbuncle Tribesmen enjoyed a good hoot as well as the next Irish-Dane, King Finbar brought along several Laplander oak knobkerries, his own crew’s stunning blue truncheons and a basket of curious blindfolds for the village dandies. He also lugged the cross of Hotspur, the Cuckold of Sibyl, in his waistcoat. He waited.
After swilling for position at the bucket of life the fight was on. First the Carbuncles teed off. Known for long drivers and little else, the proud tribesmen were led by Manannan, the Lord of the Sea.
“Lift up your kilts and follow me!” cried Manannan surging across the palm-lined fairway in an attempt to intercept Finbar’s dragoons, who had encircled the fortress green and had begun to barbecue hostages taken before the battle of Loamshire.
The High Summer of Cuchulain had never seen such a collision of caddie flesh as this one. Thousands, hundreds were thrown to the mulligan wolves with reinforcements hung up, their cavalry grounded in the freshly raked sandtraps of Kerry and Kilkenny.
“Mac Lir! Mac Lir!” was echoed up and down the jagged edges of the rough. “Saints intercession!”
At the end of the day mounds of scorecards, peppered with the little pencils of destiny, were swallowed up by great avenging sea lions, sent to the Over World to throw clubs, sneeze and flutter while the frustrated Manannan was about to put for his only eagle of the afternoon.
“Land Ho!” choked brave King Finbar from his golf cart, now submerged in a water hazard. “Save yourselves!”
And then, like the light of a midnight moon, forces loyal to Finbar broke through to the clubhouse and the sport of golf was wrestled from the clammy hands of the infidels. Today we have only Finbar and our own fascination with frustration to thank for countless afternoons of torture above the little white ball.
Finbar Returns to the Lestrigons Riding the Head of Boleslav
I remember Los Ticos from years ago when I was visiting my Colorado friend, Rex Jones, in LaPalma, Costa Rica.
One resident in the small town had a tall skinny mustache reminiscent of the most hated man in the world. And of course the locals called him Hitler. The nervous, 90-pound, mustachioed stand-in was the local pharmacist and he sold cocaine to the few tourists that wandered into town. It quickly appeared to me that he may have had a thirsty nose too.
He scampered around the town from his Garcia Pharmacy to the local bar (called the Machete Club by some). One day he got careless or neglected to pay off the right people and was arrested for trafficking and an assortment of lesser crimes.
When the people told me about his demise they were neither happy or sad. It was in the stars.
Rex and I then headed back to his place because “We got it going on.” The rest of the day we spent chasing monkeys away from his banana crop. Later we visited a friend whose son had just returned from a year-long student exchange in Minnesota. We asked if it was cold for him up north. He smiled and said You betcha!
These days Costa Rica is overrun by American tourists and the people are probably less friendly due to the invasion. As always it’s a mixed bag with some natives benefitting from the growth and others not able to keep up with rising prices.