Author Archive for M. Toole
Celebrity Tour Popular Diversion
(Ridgway, CO from Miller Mesa Moon and Stars)
The 2025 Cow Creek Celebrity Tour has been well received and will expand in 2026. Over 20 celebrities, new to the area, have already signed up to view the homes of carpenters, plumbers, masseuses, cowboys and teachers in Ouray County.
The weekend experience is expected to give celebrities (many of whom are self-crowned) a chance to see how mere mortals live their lives. Organizers hope the visits will give the celebrities a peek at acceptable mountains fashion, interior design and culinary preferences in the Rockies.
“That was the first time I’ve ever been in a trailer,” said one sweet young arrival from California. “They’re nice.”
Coming autograph sessions will allow everyone to rub elbows after touring Ridgway Hardware, Billings, Rocky Mountain Jewelry and the local cemetery. These leading businesses will offer wine and cheese and encourage conversation between the two entities.
Maps to the local’s homes are available at the chamber of comments as well as through The New Chinese Theater, Dogs Are Profitable and the Integrated Shelter for Telluride Refugees, which is under construction above the water treatment plant on Domka Avenue.
“Things were rough around here before all the celebrities showed up,” said one old timer from his rocker at the Cookie Tree Saddle Shop. “But now we’re all saved.”
– Mario Swervo
WORDS ARE OUR FRIENDS
with Ella Benedictine Rockefeller
from her new book “Adverbs and Ignorance”
Can you define the following words?
1. GOOGOL: a.) Ten to the hundredth power; b.) To stare at someone stupidly; c.) A turncoat lieutenant in the service to Genghis Khan; d.) To purposely goose someone and later pretend the victim was one’s wife or husband.
2. ZONDA: a.) a small Japanese car; b.) The name of Dobbie Gillis’ girlfriend; c.) A hot wind of the Argentine pampas; d.) A cheese made from the pasteurized milk of a adolescent yak.
3. JEHU: a.) A Himalayan rope suspension bridge; b.) Someone who drives too fast; c.) A hayseed, a yahoo or someone from Hooterville; d.) The practice of eating dirt, gravel or yellow snow; e.) All of the above.
4. AGRESTIAN: a.) of the land; b.) A tribe inhabiting Northern Albania; c.) Growing wild in irrigation ditches; d.) Someone who is stupid but thinks he is way cool.
5. BUCKEEN: a.) A young man of lesser gentry aping the manners of the greater; an idle shabby young dandy (Irish); b.) Change for a Ten-spot in Wales; c.) Bad knees resulting from athletic abuse and unfortunate genetics; d.) The habit of jockeying back and forth on the potty in an fruitless attempt to relieve discomfort caused by Xiuhtecutli, the Aztec fire god.
United States Constitution To Appear on Talk Shows
(Washington) The U.S. Constitution and its sidekick, the Bill of Rights, will appear on four talk shows this month so as to remind Americans that it is still in existence (and that freedom is worth fighting to preserve?). Promoters of the event feel that this exposure will insure that the documents are not discarded by politicians in the immediate future. The Constitution, which guarantees almost all the basic rights enjoyed by Americans, will appear on a bevy of talk shows, one virtual reality game show and will be available in its entirety on Tic Toc and Toc Tick (the Chinese version).
Constitutionalists from all walks of life fear that the archive is in jeopardy due the presence of autocratic, right-of-center Presidential candidates and a puppet Supreme Court seemingly hostile, or at very least oblivious to, individual rights. Furthermore they are not convinced that television talk shows offer the best exposure for documents as well as candidates.
“We’ve also made gestures toward Jimmy Kimmel and Stephen Colbert, in case we need them too,” said Mel Toole, of the Civil Cheveres Union. Toole’s great-great-grandfather (T. Wright Toole) was invited to sign the Declaration of Independence and several other earth-shattering bills of the day but his alleged preoccupation with boozing, gambling and womanizing always created “irreconcilable conflicts.
“Mostly he signed bar tabs and IOUs,” spat Toole
“He did manage to sign a scorecard during the Whiskey Insurrection of 1794,” offered Tool. “Later in 1801 he signed the controversial Victoria Regia Ordinance which allowed Amazon maidens to compete in interscholastic athletics.”
Joining the Constitution and Bill of Rights on the talk show circuit will be The Code of Hammurabi, The Indian Vedas, The Torah, and the Magna Carta Dancers.
-H.L. Menoken
The Ant, the Grasshopper, and the Bar Fly
So this guy comes into a bar…actually the two of them had been lounging for most of the afternoon flexing what was left of their pale muscles, pumping parched wisdom like a tired old well gone slowly dry. Both were heavy into self-absorbed. But swashbuckling tomcats like Don Juan were light on scrutiny, preferring the other side of the looking glass to the mirror.
These were very important men. Don Juan had an opinion on everything which he shared with the less fortunate like Candy, his drinking buddy who had eager ears, wandering eyes and a keen sense of the irrelevant.
“Yeah, I’ve damn well got her made,” started Don Juan. “Got my bank roll, my trailer house is paid for, and my pickup is runnin’ great.”
He turned his neck ever so slightly and caught a glimpse of Candy who looked like he was trying to crawl into his cloudy pilsner glass.
“For crying out loud, man, sit up straight,” he cuffed. “Look at your body language. It says everything about you. It tips your hand.”
Candy looked at his body. He didn’t see or hear anything but he came to attention anyway following a pattern that had begun early on. Candy was there as a human reaction, to do as he was told. He was all but transparent because it had become easier that way.
“Look at this,” said Don Juan, scanning the local gazette as he reached for his beer. “They sent a probe to Mars but it blew up when it got close. Idiots! I wonder how much that cost. I pay taxes and I’m damn sick and tired of the government shooting off space ships like they were butterflies.”
Don Juan thought about what he had just said and smiled at his linguistic flair.
“I don’t like bugs,” said Candy, “especially flying ones.”
Don Juan continued to read the paper, his glasses fallen down around his cantaloupe nose. To him the expression on his face while reading was far more important than any information extracted from the experience. He wore a somber frown accentuated by hush puppies and a cap that read Cheyenne Frontier Days.
“Winter’s comin’,” he soapboxed. “Look here. It snowed three feet in Duluth just yesterday. I’m glad I’m ready…got my wood all in and new mud and snows on the Power Wagon. How ’bout you?”
Candy looked into the bar mirror. He had a propane heater in his small apartment that was mostly paid for by the Veteran’s Administration because of his collision with the war. He didn’t drive and the last time he tried to can a batch of tomatoes, given to him by his sister over in Delta, he’d almost blown up the place. How could Candy prepare for winter? One season just plowed into another.
“Oh, I’m fine,” he choked with a uncertain voice, all but drowned out by the television.
“Fine, huh?” barked Don Juan. “Just like last year when you never got around to taping your windows and your pipes froze. Then you had to sleep on my couch for the whole month of January. Your like the caveman who had a forest of firewood at his fingertips but forgot to discover fint.”
Don Juan was on a roll.
“Security doesn’t just wander up into your yard,” he preached. “You gotta go get it. Whether it’s financial, social or romantic there’s a brawl going on and you just as well join in right away. Lead with your left, boy!”
He slapped Candy hard on the back. The tiny toothless aperture just under his road map nose was not to be stopped now.
“Take money, for instance,” he continued. “I worked for thirty-five years to get me a nest egg and now I’m gonna enjoy it. I got stocks and bonds, 40 acres up on the Plateau, a great retirement, CDs, credit cards, a fat bank account and even some of them annuities. Everything I got is paid for and I don’t have any kids to leave nothin’ to.”
Candy stared into his empty glass. Don Juan ordered two more beers and companion shots. He had a captive audience and the four dollars was a well spent investment to keep it that way.
“You might as well spend it all,” quipped Candy breaking into a smile.
“Hell, we might just do that this afternoon,” smiled Don Juan who continued to peruse the paper. He was a man smart enough to do two things at once.
“Yeah, you got to be ready for winter around these parts,” he said glancing in the direction of his doleful disciple who smelled like an empty case of Pabst. “You still got time and maybe I’ll even lend a hand but first let me tell you a story. I know you don’t like bugs but it’s called The Ants and the Grasshopper. It’s by some fella named Aesop. He was a Greek a long time ago.”
Candy perked up. “That’s a funny sounding name,” he mumbled.
Maybe you’ll get the connection here. You’ve got to have your affairs in order. You never know when your card will come up. What would you do in an emergency? What do you have to fall back on?”
Don Juan went on to tell Candy the story of the industrious ants and the lazy grasshopper. Despite the fact that Candy did not like bugs he listened intently. Don Juan told him about the ants drying grain on a fine winter’s day. The grain had been collected over long, hard days throughout the summer months.
“Then along comes this grasshopper, half starved, begging for a handout,” he explained. “One of the ants asked him why he had not stored up any food during the summer. He says he had not leisure time enough and that he had passed the days singing. The ants scorned him saying that if he had been foolish enough to sing away the summer then he must dance supperless to bed in the winter.”
Don Juan waited for a response.
“Mean little bastards,” said Candy.
“You miss the point,” said Don Juan. “The ants worked at getting their ducks in a row while the grasshopper wasted his time. It’s just like you and me,” he added. “I’m the ant and you’re the grasshopper. My house in order while your roof is caving in.”
Suddenly Don Juan clutched his chest, executing a poignant plunge from his prosaic perch at the bar. A swan dive in a dive. He hit the floor hard, his satellite brew crashing beside him. He was a goner.
At the funeral a lot of people that Candy had never seen talked about what a great man Don Juan had been. They said he had grit. They said he had enjoyed a full life. They said he’d be missed. What they were really doing was a little preheat jockeying for position with regards to his assets, which ended up going to an uncle and aunt Don Juan had never liked.
Meanwhile Candy wandered home and spent the rest of the day putting up visquine over the peewee windows of his ratty chamber. Were there no end to the chores? Don Juan’s old pickup sat propped in the driveway, a gift from the counterfeit relatives who didn’t want to haul the thing back to Salida. Now he would have to put gas in it. How would he ever get around to that.
– Kashmir Horseshoe
Ouray’s Smoky Joe Wood
Once the best pitcher on the planet
29,000 fans crammed Fenway Park on September 6, 1912 to witness the matchup between the Washington Senators’ Walter “Big Train” Johnson and Boston Red Sox’s Smoky Joe Wood. The two fireballers, who admired each other greatly. Johnson and Wood carried with them impressive credentials, each having set records, winning 16 straight games during that season.
Smoky Joe warming up. His blazing “hummer” caused Giants fan and baseball historian Grantland Rice to write: “Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are, Wood pitched again.”
The newspapers loved it. Johnson had remarked, according to The Glory of Their Times by Lawrence Ritter: “Can I throw harder than Joe Wood? Listen, my friend, there’s no man alive that throws harder than Smoky Joe Wood.” Years later in a taped interview Wood said of Johnson: “He was always starting from behind with that ball club. Walter Johnson was the best pitcher that ever lived.”
That was Boston’s year due in part to Wood’s 34 wins and a .383 batting average by the great Tris Speaker. They finished the campaign with 105 wins and 47 losses. By the time of the historic meeting the Red Sox had already run away with the pennant.
Back to the game: Both hurlers dominated until, in the third, George McBride hit a lead-off double going to third on an infield out. Wood then walked two batters to load the bases but struck out the next two men to end the threat. In the sixth Speaker doubled down the third-base line and later scored on an error to give the Sox a 1-0 lead. The Senators put men on base in all three of the remaining innings but failed to score. By then Wood’s hummer was blinding. He gave up six hits and struck out nine in the victory. Boston went on to clinch on September 18.
The World Series pitted the Sox against Christy Mathewson and the New York Giants. In the first outing Wood struck out Art Fletcher and Doc Crandall, with the winning run on base, to end the game. In game 4 Wood, facing Jeff Tesreau for the second time, beating him 3-1 while striking out eight. The game ended with a Giant’s victory at the Polo Grounds. The score stood 3 games to 2 favor of the Sox.
Smoky Joe Wood with Christy Mathewson during the World Series of 1912.
On October 15 Joe faced more than the Giants. Due to weather and disruption on the part of Boston fans he finished his warm- ups only to wait 45 minutes before the start of the game. He got clobbered 11-4. The next day Mathewson started the seventh game for the Giants with Wood in the dugout. By the seventh it was tied. By the eighth Smoky Joe was once again on the mound. This time he held the Giants to a run while Boston scored the go ahead runs in the tenth to win the Series. That was his third World Series win that year.
He finished the 1912 season a phenomenal 34-5 after posting 23 wins the season before. He started 1913 on the right track posting an 11-5 record. It was then that he suffered a series of injuries that would ultimately end his pitching career. He went on to a 9-3 record in 1914 and was 15-5 in 1915. Excellent stats for most but not for Wood. Due to arm and shoulder injuries he sat out 1916 saying “I never threw a day after that when I wasn’t in pain.”
In 1918 he got a second wind. A standout in right field for the Cleveland Indians, he batted .298 through 1922. His career batting average was .283 and he was 116-57 with a lifetime ERA of 2.03 holding 51 Red Sox records. Only nine home runs were hit off him during his entire career.
With accomplishments like these Wood would certainly be inducted into the Hall-of-Fame, but to this day he is not. Insiders point to the brevity of his career although Hall-of-Famer Dizzy Dean played one less season. Others say it’s because he was never fully cleared of charges related to an alleged run-fixing scandal during an gray era when betting was widespread. An oversight on the part of Commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis left Joe’s name out of the mess when he exonerated Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker, who had been “implicated in the impropriety.”
Wood went on to coach baseball at Yale and was named to the all-time Red Sox pitching staff along with Babe Ruth, Cy Young and Lefty Grove. He passed away in 1985 at age 95.
The criteria for admission to Baseball’s Hall-of-Fame says: Candidates shall be chosen on the basis of playing ability, integrity, sportsmanship, character, their contribution to the team on which they played and to baseball in general. Wood scores high in all of these considerations and is deserving of honor at Cooperstown.
Said Tris Speaker in 1958: “Joe, there is no question that you belong in the Hall-of-Fame. Unfortunately you hurt your arm at the height of your career. Your all around ability and the fact that you made yourself into a good big league outfielder should count.”
Further information on the life of Smoky Joe Wood are available at the Ouray Historical Museum. Thanks to Joe’s son Bob Wood, and grandson Rob Wood for information on Ouray’s greatest athlete.
– Kevin Haley
The Beer Bandit of Granada
The Hotel Alhambra occupies almost a block in the middle of the Granada, across from Parque Central. The terrace potential here is very high, even if the service is the slowest in all of Nicaragua. After a day roaming dusty streets, followed by a swim with the friendly sharks along the Las Isletas del Mar Dulce (Lake Nicaragua), a cold Victoria beer sounds like heaven.
The hotel terrace offers shade, well-worn comfort, cheap drinks, great local cuisine and an engaging (May I practice my bad English on you?) staff. It is the ultimate perch from which to observe the nightly neotropical parade in this fascinating city bent on forgetting decades of economic and civil strife, compounded by the policies of Big Brother up north.
The brightly painted restaurant walls of yellow and blue are accentuated by hordes of ancient vines, orchids, and vivid hanging flower baskets. The high ceilings, abstract art in chipped paint, create a subtle vertigo while the ceramic acoustics of the tiled palace chime the melodious Guardabarranco and Carlos Mejia Godoy.
The entire patio is one step up from the street and is encompassed by an imposing rail to keep the great unwashed from bothering the paying customers. Expanding the radius are struggling palm trees, the nearby lake, horse and carriage operatives, the aroma of frying fish, loud music, walled stucco houses, skinny dogs, pleasant people and crowded passageways wrapped around 16th Century cathedrals.
Delirious traffic in dilapidated chariots circles around and around the park acting out some mad petroleum mating ritual, horns keeping time with an torrid, almost indistinguishable beat.
Across the avenue enterprising venders sell anything from hash pipes to baby alligators. They have long ceased daily commerce and have headed home for the night. I have been warned to avoid the park after these hawkers have gone. Already a seedy element has emerged, preparing to propagate business after dark, intent on another crap shoot of drug sales, petty theft, outright robbery, muggings and drunkenness.
Poverty and tourism have never melded to anyone’s satisfaction.
But I’m on the proverbial sunny side of the street or so it seems with the combo-neon and florescent patio lights turned up to fine print levels. A world away from the park, I enjoy another Victoria with a snifter of 12-year-old Flor de Cana rum, arguably the the finest añejo rum in the Free World (which of course does not include bad ol’ Cuba).
The British couple sitting to my left is much impressed with the pungent black bean and garlic soup (another treat from b.o. Cuba) while three local merchants smoke trophy Nicaraguan puros (cigars), offering me one which I accept with a short referendum on my provenance. At the far end of the terrace banister are thee laughing tourists from Managua, who have accumulated at least 15 bottles under their table, a most effective method for calculating beer purchases on this lovely patio.
That’s when I spot him. He stands out from the others. This guy looks the rough, crude menace but somehow less threatening from afar. Damn he’s big for a Nicaraguan. He meticulously picks through the treasures in the park’s austere trash bins, discarding pieces then angrily kicking over the can. Underprivileged garbage, dissipated fruits of the poor displayed in skeletal wire and grungy bins. I saw him sitting on a bench at the plaza talking to himself earlier. On second examination he appears almost harmless compared to some of the other toughs that circulated here. Just another shabby street man eyeballing the hotel porch. I look away yawning, stretching, looking for another beer.
He crosses the street but fades into the evening shadows only to surface at the far end of the block. Passing slowly by the terrace after several reconnaissance missions he suddenly swoops down like a parched falcon grabbing a glass of beer off the British table and drinking it in a gulp, setting the glass carefully down afterwards. He is smiling now. He sets his sights on another beer, from the merchants table this time, grans it by the neck and slams it down as well, again gently replacing the bottle on their table. He then runs off almost giddy between the alley no-tels, the abandoned language institute and the designated pickpocket staging zone.
I laugh to myself not wanting to appear entertained by the intrusions. The merchants do not appear particularly perplexed peering over at me with that only in Granada look, sans surprise. They shake their heads. The Brits are at first amused, then irritated, then amused again. Their eyes wander the terrace searching for some logical explanation, finding none. Is this thirsty intruder part of their all-inclusive experience?
Moments later I catch his movements back along the rail. This time he grabs a bottle of Victoria off the Managua tourists’ table, stands at attention and drains it. The tipsy table is not quite sure who drank what. They call the waiter who comes running with one of his fellows and they throw the beer thief to the ground with the fury of Volcan Mombacho. Nothing personal…but he is fouling up the sacred serve and volley of gratuity. He escapes and returns to the badlands of the park and looks at us yelling something akin to: “Beer belongs to the people!”
I have to admit I am enjoying his antics more and more with every cold Victorian that goes down my throat. The waiters apologize to the victims and replace their beers. They even brought me a free beer after I expressed outrage and threatened to write a bad review on the place in The San Juan Horseshoe newspaper en los Estados Unidos.
No one seems all that ruffled.
This suds guerrilla is the real deal. This stalwart boozehound, this dry debunker, this macquerau guzleir may be more than what meets the eye. He’s a force. His clownish persistence cries out to be recognized. The man is an overlooked talent. The cat burglar of cold beer. He will not be denied!
He doesn’t try to steal beer from me. I am clearly his size and perhaps I could be trouble. Perhaps there are easier marks. Considering my sense of swim fashion and attention to hygiene that particular evening the man probably figured I stole what I have and was fully intent on drinking it. I have actually had street people come up to me in the Andes and offer me their coats on a cold night. Kindred spirits.
I finish another beer and move to the relative safety of a table next to the kitchen door where I can chronicle the action while avoiding future larceny. The bullish boob won’t get my beer. Not on your Nellie!
“He won’t be back,” a waiter announces brushing his hands of the incident. “He won’t dare pull that stunt again.”
Yes he will.
I watch as the conversation returns and beers continue to disappear down appropriate throats. The table I vacated is now occupied by three Nortes with backpacks. They order Victorias and quesillos (braided Mozzarella cheese served in a warm tortillas swimming in onions and cream) and sit back innocently while noisy hookers come out for a stroll. Hunched behind them is our beer thief himself, who is now spouting on about the glories of Sandino right there in ultra-conservative downtown Granada, trampling on nostalgia, and interrupting the colonial ambience of it all. I order another beer, ignoring his gaze but watchful, digging in for the rest of the performance.
The curtain reopens with the same sly grin, the slithered walk, the thirsty demeanor. He promenades by the terrace once more, this dirty and demented hops high jacker. He grabs a beer off the Norte table and drains it with the refined movements of a jaguar. The backpackers are stunned and in the momentary chaos he takes anarchistic license to drink another, without spilling so much as a drop. Then its the same delicate trademark return of the bottles to the table where they had been.
“Down with capitalism!” he cries as the cook and several bouncers grab him and roughly toss him into the street oblivious to freebooter traffic, jagged cobblestones and road apples. One of the burly men then punches him lightly, exhorting a muffled threat. He is gone.
Stunned, the Brits and one of the local businessmen join me at my redoubt by the kitchen. We are all now completely regaled by the heists. The tourists from Managua call it a night and the backpackers sit clutching their beers. I quietly indulge in my good fortune. I have yet to fall to these pranks. I feel cocky and worldly, bullet-proof and quite sophisticated. We order food, paella, avocado salad and fried plantains. The talk turns to the country’s turbulent past and hopeful future.
The British couple applaud me for my attentive vigil in the face of dangerous beer snatchers. The merchant does too inviting me to her shop the next day.
A traveler such as you who pays attention has nothing to worry about when visiting Nicaragua,” she smiled.
“When I am in unfamiliar terrain I try to remain alert,” I smiled back, showcasing my lunchroom Spanish and my alleged survival instincts.
“You have to appreciate the man’s persistence. There is a man who knows what he wants and how to get it,” I jive.
The conversation stopped upon further commotion in the kitchen. Moments later our beer man was hurled through the swinging doors to the floor chased by the owner and the bouncers. They were sweating and did not appear amused. He had apparently been hiding in the freezer gnawing on a side of beef and breaking eggs against the side of its icy walls. Despite his near strangling and his bouncing off the concrete floor he was still moving.
He looked up at me pathetically. I didn’t know what to do or think. Here’s this poor thirsty creature about to get his ass kicked who couldn’t give a damn either way. Sad. A tragic world…Just another day in the life…
Then with one desperate grasp he laughs and grabs my beer from the table and, despite his disadvantaged horizontal posture sucks it dry.
“My beer!” I cried, as our ardent guest of dishonor was then most indignantly escorted out the front to punitive festivities unknown to a relieved clientele. Laughter subsides and smiles emerge as our dinner arrives.
– Kevin Haley
THE GELDED AGE IS UPON US
Is there anyone out there who believes Donald Trump? Sadly yes, the New York mafia film-flam man is still adored by blind, educationally and geographically challenged Americans who resent anyone of any color who doesn’t wave the flag and swallow the kool aid whole. But even some of these mislead victims are quietly wandering away from the MAGA fold.
“L’état, c’est moi”
Yet Soul cannibal oligarchs, like Steven “Gestapo” Miller and JD “Hillbilly Payday” Vance that seek to exert their power over the helpless and supine just like in the gilded era of F. Scott Fitzgerald, minus the irony with any visible pinch of conscience .
“(He is) Untethered to the facts” – That’s how Judge Karin Immergut (a Trump appointee) put it sharply in the Portland invasion case. The GOP emboldens fascism under the cover of religion and jingo-patriotism when all these leaders really want to is more and more wealth. . If our public schools were better than day care centers a loser like Trump couldn’t have been elected dog catcher. Many supporters are just about to be screwed by the man they worship. Sorry, but I can’t wait.
Hitler called anti-fascists terrorists too.
Did you know that roughly 99% of the allied troops deployed and fighting in Europe in 1939-1945 were Antifa, (or anti-fascist). They were on Hitler’s list of international terrorists. The Nazis were then lost in the rubble and the German civilians paid the price. Here’s Wishing Americans would fight as hard as the Ukrainians have to preserve their republic.
All for show
Breaking news: Trump wins Piece Prize for his retreats with Jeffrey Epstein (his imagined mandate). Many Americans are calling Portland, Oregon the “Epstein Distraction City.” Donald’s war zones are Trumped Up – Chicago/Portland/Memphis. Democrats, lame as they are, did not create the urban disasters around us—they inherited them. The displaced navigate to the cities in search of survival all over the workld. Just another porly performed show. Shining away with no contnt on reality TV. Pulling people of color off the street…Trump has now identified Sativa as a domestic terrorism cell. The emperor has no clothes but wears a red tie.
Meanwhile construction begins on West Lawn liar’s bench
Despite the fact that the very White House failed to secure a building permit to excavate for survival bunker, construction marches on. Insiders confirm that a Bavarian-design remodel is underway right under the humble and acquiescent bench. Does Trump’s plan include the burning a Reichstag of some sort? He could blme it on the “Hamas lovers who hate America”. It worked for Adolf but only for a dozen years . Considering the incompetence displayed by the Il Douche goons, it would not be surprising if they burned down one of the Trump hotels by mistake. Considering that Trump’s mass is almost double that of Herr Hitler he might not be able to fit in the bunker anyway. And oh, Don, good work commuting the sentence of George Santos – One liar to another heh?
Our readers write
A woman from Rifle says Trump is a Russian mole intent on destroying the US.
A man in Albuquerque writes that MAGA had Trump’s former carrousing buddy, Jefferey Epstein, murdered in prison so he could’t talk .
A Pennsylvania source insists that the attempted assassination of Trump was staged and that even the blood was catsup. The alleged bullet meant for him came from th opposite direction of the conveniently deceased shooter. The American killed in the incident was real and damn well expendable in the big picture.
A Utah forensic expert thinks Israel killed Utah evangelist, Charlie Kirk, who had been critical of Netanyahu’s systematic genocide in Gaza. She contends that the GOP then blamed the left and, with some success, tried to create a martyr to their cause. Prove me wrong.
And in the most shocking correspondence, a former nun says many Trump aficionados secretly think he is Jesus while a simultaneous anti-Christ status gives him unearned credibility.
Trump only prays to himself. He is as spiritual as bag of lawn fertilizer. Would a final Mega Rapture rid the world of this dangerous clown show? If so let’s roll.
IN CLOSING:
It’s all for show and polarization of the country for gold. Frightend Republicans mouth the drama then do nothing but promote fear and hatred as their boy meshes Divine Right with the Insurrection Act. What sort of twisted morality supports this? One riding the coat tails of an evil propsperity that he hopes to embrace?
The Trump Administration follows the professional wrestling model like margerine in a hot pan. Quick meltdowns. Crude. All fake! Rumors flourish that new fund me contest has emerged where contributors/participants could win two rounds in the ring with Trump at the WWF finals in 2026
CHEW ON THIS Would Ya?
Trump fires pollsters after 70% disapproval rate shakes the foundations with weasel Republicans and frightened Democrats soiling their polyesters. Meanwhile Il Douche continues his “What me worry? stature. “I’m staying on as your President as soon as we formulate an air-tight plan to kill the 2026 mid-term and 2028 Prez elections. It will be terrific.”
Oh, and Elon Musk’s dad, Errol Musk – “just one of the boys” was recently accused of sexually abused his own children and fellow pedophile, Price Andrew of England has now surrendered his Duke of York title. It is obvious a fat man from Queens, who colors his hair and cheats at golf, is on borrowed time.
-Kashmir Horseshoe
