All Entries in the "Featured Peeks" Category
BARBECUED CANNABIS STRENGTHENS EXPORT MARKET
(COLONA) Barbecued Cannabis is becoming the go-to, authentic Western Colorado bud for taste and texture. The bumper crop, decreased by recent wild fires should be ready for consumption by November 1. It will be sold by the refined ounce or the crude branch formula. Pine, aspen and cedar scent are only the beginning. The smoke is lightly smoked, not burnt – It was kind of jerked during the fires. This report does not celebrate or in no way support hate groups like “Barbecued Cannibals”, a radical carnivore movement anchored on Columbine Pass nor the far-flung political action groups in the Twin Cities of Naturita and Nucla, the West End of Montrose County. Barbecued Pot tastes good, say growers and is ultimately enjoyed with sautéed mushrooms or an ice-cold beer. Smoke Jumper approved since the Horsefly Blaze. A host of farmers told The Horseshoe that they were damned exited by this development and , faced with a plethora of smoked weed are game for the barter system. One woman ran an ad for the stuff in the popular Pea Green Peeper offering 3 kilos in trade for 1957 Chevy. Another read: Free barbecued marijuana—You pick.
-Susie Compost
Frying eggs on the pavement is not illegal, says Mañana HOA Tyrant.
HOA icon, Mike Hunt concedes that frying eggs or any other food item on the local pavement does not constitute an infraction with state or town ordinances. The strict, self-enthroned lawn juggernaut further acquiesced that normally even calm fellows and ladies had been exhibiting anxiety agitation syndrome (a term he invented for this kind of thing) and pedestrian behavior, especially on the asphalt.
“It may not be illegal but it’s distasteful, unhygienic and downright messy,” he told a group of Kazakhstani tourists, who thought he was giving away something and listened to his rambling for almost 20 minutes before disappointedly kick-starting their eclectic skateboards and vanishing into the afternoon. “It’s dirty,” he further pleaded.
“They thought he as president of something,” said one uncooperative home owner who has repeatedly threatened to drown or mutilate Hunt if he sees him out alone. The neighbor, who agreed to be quoted in return for anonymity added that “frying eggs on sidewalks is one thing while successfully flipping them sunny-side up on tricky, hot asphalt is something quite different altogether”.
He accused Hunt of toxicity at the highest levels and shared his plan to terminate Hunt by poisoning him with hemlock gummies or hurling him 200-feet off a steep cliff into mounds of bladelike, jagged skree.
Egg frying of this persuasion, followed by days of blistering heat with little rain can discolor most concrete say poultry engineers who warn that duck and goose eggs are no safer to fry in the above-discussed manner.
“This is not a homeless issue,” quacked Hunt. “This is a classic case of putting the chicken before the yolk. They’ll all be back banging on my henhouse when the snow plows can’t get through. Then we’ll see who rules the roost!”
-Pepper Salte
“My libido came roaring back the moment you entered the room.”
–Melvin Toole, to unidentified lover, August 10, 2026
Parisian treasures in all shapes and sizes
Her conversation is in quotes.
“First time in Paris?” She asked
No, I replied, but this trip I have time to really appreciate the city.
No place in the world like it.
Is this your first visit?
No answer
Have you passed before these streets, museums and rivers before? Do you grasp the grids, know the neighborhoods, recognize the shaded avenues? Do you know the city?
Still no response. She was already half way down Promenade Plantee, engaged in who knows, framing architectural treasures and pointing them out haphazardly just beyond earshot. The grand experience! But at least it appears I have an escort for the day. Is she actually acquainted with Paris? Familiar if not conversant?
“Hurry or we’ll miss the Bateau-Mouche on the Seine.”
Who is this woman?
She looks like a tourist too and clearly loves to wander the city.
“I love Paris in the Springtime. I love Paris in the fall…”
“Ah the land of Charlemagne, Napoleon , Bridget Bardot
Victor Hugo, Marie Currie.”
“Will you join me in a tour of Paris “The City Of Light”. I can show you the surprises and the backstreets.”
She called herself a Francophile or something close. She looked like a silly tourist in a flowered straw hat, too much lipstick and hightop sneakers, but harmless enough, so I said agreed to the free “guided” tour.
She smiled a satisfied smile.
“Here we are celebrating Bastille Day, or some such holiday of reverence and grand expectation,” she puffed up. “Wandering these ancient streets reminds me of the lost Americans like you strolling down Rue de L’Abreuvoir like Hemingway in The Sun Also Rises. The lovely city offers a multitude of charms and secrets accessible to those in the know. It can be overwhelming but with keen language skills and a fine-tuned nose for urban geography and common sense, we should make it home for supper.
“First I must stop for sustenance on this breezy summer morning. Ah the Rue Soufflot for coffee and brioche, or maybe the Terrace at the Neapolitan, although they mock early arrivals in that scornful, yet stiff, proper mode.
Oh yes Monsieur. Of course Mademoiselle. Our gourmet coffee beans come from Brazil and of course Vietnam.
” And now let’s be on our way. It could rain and a dry Paris is a better Paris, at least to walk around in. Where is your umbrella? You must carry an umbrella!”
I asked her her name and where she was from, what country, even what planet? Did she come here often? Was she related to King Louis the 14th? 16th? Maybe she was one of the Antoinette sisters or related to Charles DeGaul?
“She smiled and answered, “Around, I am from around. I lived around Rue Cremieux and quite possibly around Montmartre or Le Marais during the war.”
“Look it’s the Notre Dame Cathedral, burned badly in 2019 and back minus a few flying buttresses and the cosmetics of the ecumenical persuasion. One can see the Seine from the upper floors!”
It is becoming clear that she has walked this neighborhood before. She shares constant dialogue with all of the street dogs, calling them by name. She remembers the exact moment in the afternoon when the gourmet pastry shops drop their sweets and baguettes to day-old price. She takes dingy back alleys when it pleases her and sometimes comes out in neighborhoods she does not know. She talks of old days with her grandfather and uncle, veterans of the Great War.
I should have been listening closer but her back was turned and, in my defense, she ranted, emersed in the ridiculous then returning to a familiar Fracophile or tourist. Although she shouted and gestured menacingly toward some buildings and lovingly toward others I could not make out her observations. I no longer possess keen hearing abilities and we left a lot of information strewn about the dakening streets in the City of Light.
She looked exhausted. We walked another block and stopped right in front of LeFouquet and ordered .
“Wait! That doesn’t mesh with my guidebook, she said, or your GPS either. The Sorbonne should be right over there and the Hotel Crillon across the river. I wonder if someone moved it or forgot to list the correct location. Hasn’t the Avenue de lOpera always dissected the Rue des Pyramides? I must say, I am embarrassed at my recall. Perhaps a cognac or Pernod would rescue my memory.”
“Oh now I know where I am. There are the a hoards of flower women on the Pantheon just an alley from Place de la Contrescarpe, just a short walk from my favorite hotel, Le Meurice on Champs-Elysees or was it Rue de Rivoli?”
Don’t you think the Le Meurice was back there?
“No! Definitely No!”
Paris addresses weave into ridiculous and somewhat arrogant tapestry but it is all part of the charm. There is nowhere else in the world like Paris. Ah, yes, I have been looking for the Post Neuf and it’s right there all the time. It crosses over to the Rive Gauche and Louvre. I knew reading…
“WAIT. That was supposed to be Palais Garnier.”
“The river should be east of here but…”
“I could ask in any one of hundreds of cafes but then they’d think I was an American tourist.”
Frantically consulting her guidebook and flashing angry looks in the direction of her GPS she stops on a centime, staring at the patio of the Cafe de Flor. She enters through the wrought iron gate, orders an Absinthe and promptly falls sound asleep. Tiny snores fill the mid-afternoon tableau. Taxis honk. People make love to their wine.
The waiter walks over to her table, winks at me, and places a blanket around her shoulders. “She comes here every day, usually for her nap. Today she is drinking. It must be special. Maybe it’s you.”
Who is she then?
She is a special lady. She was born right upstairs (He gestures to a mezzanine window) in 1926. The place used to brandish a Juliet balcony before the Great War. Her name is Clare Dubois. She’s our Aunt Clare. She’s been stopping in to this cafe for 50 years for a glass of a glass of wine after her walk. Lately it’s been more napping than sipping. Living in the back of the cafe with her truffles and tom cats she loves to stroll about Paris, and good people like you are kind enough to kind of keep an eye on her. We don’t want her colliding with a bicyclist or falling into a river. Did she tell you… she follows the same route and goes to the same places every day, often becoming lost and requiring a rescue and subsequent arrival on our patio.
Reminds me of the time a young black bear got stuck in an apple tree in Ouray and I ran it off with a ball-peen hammer and some cherry bombs effectively saving hundreds of lives for the glory of France! But that is an entirely different story.
– Signelle de Bushe
Colorado Governor Pledges to End Dust
(Denver) Governor Jared Polis today promised to eradicate the plague of summer ——dust in Colorado. In what is seen by some as an off-election year gesture to Squeaky Clean Republicans Polis guaranteed the termination of flying dirt, gritty film, related debris and general air-borne riffraff by the Fourth of July, 2027
Although he did not say exactly how this measure would be carried out, he did say his program would be implemented immediately with funds confiscated from several professional sports stadium drives and by arresting and fining everyone out on the street after midnight on East Colfax, the Mile High Champs Elysees of the 1950s.
While critics say the plan is impossible and merely another development scheme, most Coloradans appear hopeful that he can pull it off.
“This is just another grandstanding attempt at attracting even more people to our state,” said Eva Drippe, a water engineer and conservationist from Boulder. “Don’t these politicians understand that Denver, and most of the eastern part of the state is a desert and the West would be sagebrush save for projects like the Gunnison Tunnel. There is not enough water to keep building?”
Supporters of the End Dust agenda say Polis is on the right track, albeit a grimy one. Detractors say “the dust is earth and earth is real estate and real estate can be sold to pilgrims.”
“He’s got plenty of city and state crews at his disposal and everyone here agrees that the place would be far better without dust,” stressed Riviera Hammerman, a former belly dancer turned councilperson from Dove Creek. “We could grow larger onions and potatoes and our livestock would be more secure without dust all over everything.”
The cost of the plan, if determined, was not disclosed.
According to a release received from the gubernatorial mansion this morning “the methodical termination of state dust will follow other recent success stories such as the Marmot Protection Bill, Rockies’ Relief and, of corpse, the innovative flagship blueprint which helps Aspen residents sell household junk on E-Bay.
“We’re seeing fewer marmots squashed on the highways and Aspen trash sales are way up over May, and why not?” smiled Hammerman. “Everyone wants their own little piece of the glitz.”
Residents in other resort towns have expressed interest in selling their “affordable garbage” on the net as well with Telluride and Vail offering matching funds to get the ball rolling.
“One thing at a time,” said the councilperson.
– Small Mouth Bess
A HIKER’S GUIDE TO HIKERS
One of the most dangerous threats to hikers on our mountain trails is other hikers. From National Forest to State Park, from Wilderness Area to mountain peak, growing numbers of hiking and backpacking enthusiasts are creating perilous conditions for themselves, for you and for posterity.
In an actual hiking situation it is essential to identify various types of hikers, so that you might better understand how to interact with them, or get away from them altogether. Avoidance of certain species of incompatible hikers (called trekkers in more anal circles) may save your life or save you from an afternoon of unremitting anguish.
Learn to spot all kinds of hikers from a safe distance, identify them with rapid-fire accuracy, and be prepared to take evasive action to avoid detection and/or direct contact, “No I don’t want a drink of tepid creek water from your saliva-caked water bottle. I have my own cold water from town sans parasites.”
Here are some of the more common categories of hikers. The well-rounded outdoorsman will be quick to assimilate these classifications into a early warning system of his own:
The Elegant Hiker
Able to negotiate steep, winding San Juan switchbacks in high heels and a cute tennis skirt the female looks good on short hikes but the make-up fails on the longer jaunts. Characteristic markings: jewelry glittering from the fingers, earlobes and neck along with the perfect unruffled hairstyle are sure to attract predators such as mountain lions and bandits. In some cases the male dons priceless treasures too since he is concerned with plumage and first impressions in the woods. Both ascend and descend the trails as if they were negotiating a grand ballroom staircase (Frankly, Rhett they do give a damn). Head held up high in designer boots, they fail to study the path before them for all kinds of debris both dangerous and simply annoying. These are the kind of people who are appalled by a pile of elk shit but aren’t the least bit offended by miles of parking lot asphalt poured over former pasture, at their local shopping center. NOTE: The Elegant Hiker NEVER ever perspires. In a hiking costume that costs more than a used car, they keep up if it’s not too steep and breathe deep if it’s not too high. Mountain Goats and Bighorn Sheep are safe when one of these comes gingerly up the trail. Bears like the jewelry. These hikers are likely to invite you to party at their condominium and often carry credit cards on their hikes.
The Slob Hiker
The perfect antidote, or anecdote, to the Elegant Hiker. The Slob Hiker is perpetually unshaven, grimy, uncombed and in need of a shower. He or she thinks bad hygiene is compatible with the forest. His gait is heavy, a stomping, assertive, destructive stride patterned after Godzilla or an oil exploration crew. He appears to have just awakened from a long hibernation and smells the part. Trailside wild flowers are often his first victims. White t-shirt and canvas shorts are tinged gray with wear and age. Grease-stained handprints are clearly detected. This type of forest visitor can be identified by a strange call, a hoarse bellowing that sounds tragically like a badger in heat, which could lead to countless tribulations as the hike goes on. He loves to chatter to himself on the trail breaking serenity for others while he points out painfully obvious points of interest. “Look! A pine tree!” or “Look… A rock!” He pees everywhere. This hiker is loaded with spittle which is discharged constantly, leaving signs of his presence embraced by pack rats and deer flies. The Slob Hiker is happy to take your picture or pose for one. Watch your camera.
The Survivalist Hiker
This one would never think of breaking trail without an assault rifle or at least a pistol holstered to the side. High caliber is the key here…not his person but his weaponry. His pack is full of ammo but he has a granola bar hidden away in case of emergency. He carries a knife or bayonet for potential hand-to-hand combat with aggressive alpine creatures or topographic terrorists. Difficult to detect due to a barrage of camouflage that blends well in any environment – be it the Iraq desert, the Congo rain forest, the Rockies or the chic El Lay hip-hop disco, this person carries enough to win whatever competition he has imagined. He has provisions and supplies enough to feed a small militia along with buried emergency rations and backup gear to keep him comfy in the forest for about three years. Then there is the cyanide pill in case he or she is captured. Away from his bunker he is often anxious and clearly nervous when approached. He can be unpredictable and downright ugly when it comes to right-of-way on the trail and electric storms on the ridges. Paranoid people like this should not go into the woods. They should stay home in the cities and suburbs where the secret police can monitor their daily activity. Just because he points a gun at you doesn’t mean it’s loaded.
The Name Brand Hiker
Easily recognized due to his or her resemblance to a pretty LL Bean or Eddie Bauer model from the respective catalogues, the Name Brand hiker should not be confused with the Elegant Hiker although the species share many common traits. The manufacturers label is always proudly displayed on clothing, footwear, gear, hats and even socks. A T-shirt proclaiming Old Navy, Nike or GAP completes the outfit. Rarely seen on the actual trail, this hiker prefers to stay home and do laundry and shop on the internet. Name Brand hikers also exhibit the best smiles, the best tan, the best canteens, the best dogs and the best cars to take them to the trailhead. Their Day-Glo packs are crammed full of unnecessary but tasteful accessories along with clothing options for any change of weather. These strollers can be easily identified by two unmistakeable traits: They are the only ones wearing fanny packs (apparently nobody has let them in on the joke) and they actually consume boring handfuls of trail mix, chocked full of nuts, seeds, roots, bark, herbs and dried fruit that even the local squirrels and chipmunks won’t eat. Some of these folks are more informed than experienced in that they have read all of the guidebooks and maps but never seem to have time to get into the woods.
The Back-woodsy Hiker
Aka: The Natural, this hearty breed not only tackles the most challenging, death-defying trails and summits but does so with a minimalist demeanor. He or she can spend up to a week in the wild with just a bottle of water, a toothbrush and some crackerjacks. He climbs in flip-flops or barefoot, running circles around the hiker that just spent $300 on some glorified flatland Chinese footwear, made for the mountains. He likes the feel of rocks, pine needles and horse manure on the trail. When he wears a shirt it is a bit of tattered memorabilia from some masochistic triathlon in Leadville or Maui. If he wears trousers, they are of the cut-off variety with lots of room to hang loose. Not to be confined by packed gear he or she relies solely on wits, finesse and luck. For the evenings the Backwoods species carries a Swiss Army knife, a pair of backup thongs, a few waterproof matches and a boat bag filled with homemade wine. He can then subsist on the trail mix and water all day then let it all hang out in camp by adding a handful of party wine to the fare. With this beverage he can survive another few days, with no serious after-effects, when the crackerjacks and toothpaste run out. Helpful in a tight spot but likely to leave you behind so you can get lost again. Always has the answer, or at least a light.
-Pepper Salte
