All Entries in the "Featured Peeks" Category

New Chinese Regime Reaches Out to Colonese

(Colona) Outgoing Chinese leader Hu Jintao has joined with Beijing’s  new government appealing to Colona consumers to drop their 12-year boycott on Chinese made goods. Lambasting “critical errors in judgment” Jintao offered a roster of undisclosed concessions that his successor Xi would implement, if the dissent against the importation of non-tariff Chinese goods would simply cease.

Stopping short of admitting the effectiveness of the ban on Chinese products within Colona, the former former Communist Party boss promised to pave the Colorado town’s streets, build tennis courts and open an egg roll factory, “which would employ up to 50 persons”, on the site of an empty restaurant on Highway 550 at the entrance to town.

Asian economists say that the surprisingly stubborn boycott of Chinese goods in Colona has had a crippling effect on China’s GNP and hasn’t helped that country’s IFS, PGI and WEO either.

“One doesn’t have to crumble a fortune cookie to see that China is vulnerable to these kinds of grass roots movements,” said G. Buddy Dharma, a former lobbyist who now operates a Panda rescue mission in Taiwan. “When Colona started the original protests we all laughed but now we see what a micro community can do when its people are motivated.”

In a somewhat related development the United States has announced that it will send seven million tons of campaign signage and literature to the Asian nation in return for currency stabilization  and primary assurances that China will undress human rights issues in the coming year.

“We are sending the election debris so as to teach the Chinese about democracy,” continued Dharma., “even though we know the government will use it to stoke coal-fired industries and beef up the Great Wall. We tried this approach in the Mideast in 2004 and in Africa in 2008 with mixed results but China is a different cup of lotus blossoms.”

Dharma said that the very mass of cardboard and paper shipped east will serve as a reminder to the Communists that one cannot buy an election.Accompanying this slogan cargo will be Donald Trump and Karl Rove. A spokesman insinuated that the pair may remain in China indefinitely attempting to create inroads within the wealthy 2 percent in that nation.

“These days there is more freedom to be filthy rich in China than in the United States,” he said. “We look for a major migration of rich developers and investment bankers to the East and ultimately a hostile takeover of the country by 2015.”

– Kashmir Horseshoe

        

Colorado Loses Zoo License

(Denver) Lingering budget cuts within the state treasury have precipitated the expiration of Colorado’s long held National Zoo License which legitimizes the hosting of over 300 animal species in the woods and forests of the Centennial State. Fees paid to the federal government, reportedly located somewhere on the East Coast, have been in the rubber stamp category since Teddy Roosevelt was President.

Sources here expressed frustration over the loss of the prestigious beast status which has for over a century allowed Colorado to claim bear, lion, wolves, elk, moose and wolverines in the roster of residents. The wild creatures have been a source of pride to many much like the Centennial State’s sunny skies and miles of wilderness.

“The license has now expired,” said one Division of Wildlife official, “and we figure our jobs will be the next to go. Imagine our mountains without deer and elk, without sage grouse and ptarmigans. I can’t imagine that they fish are happy. Even the birds and the bees could be forced out before the end of the year.”

It was not clear if trout and Kokanee would fall under a protective umbrella since they are reputedly cold blooded and interstate in nature. Already Utah and New Mexico have moved to welcome mammals living near their borders with Wyoming expected to join these ranks by the weekend.

“We have our on four-leafed wards to deal with, said Flora Terch, an animal behaviorist from Santa Fe. “Our welfare rolls are already overburdened with too many needy animals, but we cannot sit back and watch these pathetic creatures wander around aimlessly or go without. They could end up in Oklahoma where they would be shot and eaten on sight.”

Colorado officials estimate that homes will be needed for about 300,000 displaced animals who will no longer be protected here.

It will be difficult to place some of the larger predators,” said Terch, “and we fear that natural selection, regulated populations. seasonal mating, and ancient migratory patterns will never return.”

Not everyone is upset about this fiscal adjustment.

“We have grown sick and tired of these deadbeat wildlife freeloaders carried by the rest of us taxpayers,” said Andrew Stripmalle, a Front Range developer. “People can hardly live the good life with all these fury beggars about.”

Many here have seen this situation coming for quite sometime. Fires and encroachment by suburbs and trophy dream homes have put the animals uptight but most seem to have adapted and figured they’d be living here forever.

“I guess they should have talked to the Utes,” said the DOW source.

– Fred Zeppelin

Toole named sixth man

(Mañana, CO) Editor Abstemious Melvin “I Never Said That” Toole was named Sixth Man today, narrowly winning out over some 200 qualified personages applying for the work in a tough economy. The position, which could start as early as next week, effectively sentences the piquant scribe to what insiders call coming off the bench.

“We do not know what this Sixth Man will do or won’t do,” said a close aide, “but our man Toole is up for the challenge.”

The undisclosed salary and signing bonus are estimated to be more than half that of the starters and twice that of the average salary in the Land of the Free in 2012. Toole, who has waited in the wings before, told reporters he is excited about his new role and, with this opportunity, hopes to break into the starting lineup before long.

A rhythmic base stealer, nose tackle and epicurean rebounder since graduating from Police State, back before harnessed electricity, the 101-year-old represents an innovative breed of specialty performer and ignites the hopes and dreams of older Americans who still seek to compete in the eternal arena.

“We don’t think his academic record had much to do with this appointment,” said the aide. “It was more a result of his willingness to jump in and fill holes while looking good in a cap and clipboard. His potential as a dugout jockey has yet to be realized.”

Toole has admitted that he has no clue as to the context of the Sixth Man status but that it was “certainly a step up from Seventh Man”.

“The job description is still not clear and we hope that basic responsibilities and duties will become more defined at the end of camp,” said a spokesman. “Either way it’s quite an accomplishment.” – Gabby Haze

The Running of the Kokanee

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and couldn’t see what harm it would do. Sure, I’ll take my chances, I’ll run with the salmon!

All a person has to know about swimming upstream, or down for that matter, is to watch out for rocks and overhanging trees. The high walls stretching down to the powerful current were chocked full of spectators. The participants began to bunch up, a turn in the river, the current swift, then peaceful, now tranquil as we float out at a snail’s pace to engage the Kokanee.

There…just off the right bank…spawning salmon and lots of them! Kokanee for sure, angry pent up emotions from the long hot summer flaring out through their lethal gills. They are moving toward the swimmers, bunched up still now breaking in panic at the sight of the fish.

I remember reading about this type of thing going on in Pamploma when I was a boy but not since the Heeny Tick Festival Flea Circus have I witnessed  such brute bloodlust squatting on our sacred Colorado soil.

Sadly the stragglers are dead meat in minutes, dragged to the depths of the cold, heartless stream like marshmallows at the mercy of a hungry black bear, like chokeberries toasting on a goldbrick fire. The survivors scurry back and forth into the water, clutching banks and willows vowing to stay on dry land forevermore.

It’s a lot like body surfing except that the salmon are the waves. Sure, there were moments when I was scared to death but, hey, everyone needs a little peril, a bite of fright in their lives. The icy cold water, the flags and banners of the crowds, the slimy Kokanee bent on death in the afternoon…it’s a lot different than TV.

If you simply use your head and concentrate…

What! I’m cut. I can feel the blood and see red in the water. I’ve been finned! Oh my god…I’m going down, the hooves of the beast cracking my scull like a shellfish in a blender, like keilbasa about to go under the knife. Trampled in the backwaters of the Slate, the East…what’s the difference now. Left for dead by fish with a morose, senseless agenda. Gored by the scale of it all.

Suddenly a surge of water lifts me. I pull myself out of the water and flag down a tuna boat and hop on.

That night in the ship’s stateroom the captain and his seductive wife told me of the hundreds of souls lost to the spawning each year.

“And they’ll be back for more next fall, them that survived the onslaught.”

IQ Pop Quiz Awaits Voters in November

(Washington) Going to the polls in November? Be advised that you could be tested on basic knowledge before being allowed to vote. This new approach to validating elections, a simple IQ test, will be administered randomly by non-partisan voter behavior experts to try to determine why the electorate is so easily manipulated and why our choices are so pitiful.

The quiz is in no way meant to suggest that the voting population is stupid and uneducated on political matters according to a source on the ground here.

“When we read that 17% of the voters think Obama is a Muslim and 22% don’t know where Mitt Romney was governor, we have a problem of credibility,” said the source. “This lack of savvy often dictates how a politician campaigns and why the two political parties keep nominating mouthpieces instead of brain trusts.

The questions on the quiz will run the gamut from Constitutional workings to American foreign policy to theories on democracy. It is not a trivia game and could represent a last ditch effort to reward intelligence and responsibility in the country.

There is no way to cram for the test and those failing will not be punished or made to feel bad.

The Night I Met Kenny Stabler

Editor’s note: Alabama All-American Kenny Stabler is a former quarterback for the Oakland Raiders. On one Saturday night in 1974 he was sitting at the bar in the Brown Palace Hotel preparing a game plan for Sunday’s game. With him was good friend and fellow conspirator, Fred Biletnikoff, a sneaky receiver with more guts than natural talent. Neither of the men were strangers to a good time.

Bobby and I had disguised ourselves as gentlemen, ala herringbone sport coats, shined boots and wallets bulging with one-dollar bills. If not blue-blood portraits of affluence we looked to be brown tin types of cowpuncher chivalry. Two taxi-delivered hayseeds grasping for an evening of sport or at least a mild diversion from the never-ending cattle drive of the Gunnison drywaller.

“There’s the bar,” said Bobby. “Every man for himself.”

We grabbed a stool at the end of the mahogany barricade that stretched around the stately tavern.

“Good evening,” said the bartender wiping away the sins of our thirsty predecessor. “What would you like?”

“Scotch with a beer back,” said Bobby. “It’s only Saturday night once a week.”

The bartender smiled. He was well polished like the oak floor and as eloquent as the market would bear.

“And you, sir?”

“I’ll have the same but with a Bud.”

“What’s an Irishman doing drinking Scotch?” started Bobby, the red-haired outrigger of a longshoreman and a chowder chef. “What’s the matter with the Jameson? Has it gone bad?”

 

We survived several toasts, secure in the fact that our safe return to the Pig N Whistle was cinched by prior prudence and the good fortune that a praetorian cabbie would still be lurking in the wee hours.

“I’ve got the cab money in my left pocket and the brannigan funding in my right,” laughed Bobby. “Two-fifty a beer, damn this must be a nice place,” he mumbled.

I looked around the bar stopping short of stare in the direction of two men sitting in an adjacent booth. They were overcome with laughter, slapstick tears in their eyes rising from the complexion of their banter. They ordered another, tipping the barkeep with wave of the hand.

“I know that tall guy,” I whispered. “And the little guy looks familiar too.”

“I think he used to be President of the United States,” chided Bobby. “I think I saw him on a ten thousand dollar bill.”

“You’ve never seen a ten thousand dollar bill,” I responded. “You’re lucky if you’ve seen a hundred.”

Bobby turned in his stool, frowned, and looked compulsively in the direction of the pair. His brass texture charged ahead like a fumbler with one last match looking for a lantern in the dark.

“He’s Kenny Stabler. It’s Kenny Stabler!” Bobby shouted gaining the attention of most of the patrons and the glance of the Oakland quarterback.

“You win!” snapped Stabler, not offended, in fact entertained by the remark. “And who are you?” he asked in a muddled Alabama twang.

We exchanged introductions and, as I had calculated, the other guy was Fred Biletnikoff, the enchanted receiver, built more like an ballet dancer than a football player.

“It’s nice to see the two of you uptown,” said Bobby. “You look larger than you do on television.”

Stabler told him it was all done with mirrors and that he really should buy a TV with a larger screen, at least for the playoffs.

“Can we buy you guys a drink?” I asked.

That’s how it started. We talked about football, and women, and living in the Bay Area. We talked about Bear Bryant and Gulf Shores and Pat Sullivan in the Auburn game back in 1970. Fred told us Sullivan, who had won the Heisman that year was out of football altogether.

“I think he’s selling cars or insurance in Mobile,” said Biletnikoff. “And the no name left-hander from the Crimson Tide is sitting here at the downtown Brown Palace surgically dismantling yet another defensive backfield while he masterminds the collapse of yet another set of brain cells.

“Where’s Floyd Little when you need him,” teased Stabler. “Get him on the phone, Fred…Fred, Get him on the phone. I want to talk to Floyd,” slurred Stabler. “Bartender: Get Floyd Little on the phone and get us another round while you’re at it.”

The other patrons smiled.

“And get me George Blanda too,” demanded Stabler as the bartender scoured the phone book in mock response to Stabler’s sudden request.

Kenny held up a menu in false desperation.

“I have a secret message for Daryle Lamonica. Please. Clear the area. I must speak to Daryle. We’ve broken the code.”

“Daryle Lamonica. Now there was a quarterback.” drooled Biletnikoff, swimming in his bourbon and water.

“Damn, Fred, you’re old. I can hardly remember back that far. I was a just a boy…”

“Oh, shut up, Kenny or I swear I’ll forget to block for you tomorrow,” said Fred. “It’s hard enough catching those flimsy passes thrown from the wrong side.”

“Your brain is on the wrong side,” said Stabler, “but what can we expect from a sawed-off Cossack surfer masquerading as a wide receiver. Besides the last time you threw a decent block was in high school.”

Although it was entertaining to listen to the two it was also difficult for Bobby and I to keep our mouths shut especially with the tonnage of alcohol that miraculously orbited our table through the evening. I still had cab fare and, considering the importance of the meeting, ordered some shrimp and potato skins.

“I thought pro athletes had to stay in training,” said Bobby fueled by libation. “Don’t you guys have a curfew?”

“Oh, I think so, don’t we Fred?” he laughed, “but once Madden’s asleep we can pretty much do as we please. What are they gonna do? Trade me for Craig Morton?”

Stabler stopped his windy rambling long enough to sign an autograph for a man who wished him good luck in tomorrow’s game. Caustically sketching a conglomeration of Xs and Os on a bar napkin he covered up his work accusing us of spying for the Orange and Blue. His cloak and dagger shenanigans continued pressing the shrimp and potato skins into service. It then culminated with an offer to sell out the entire Raider game plan for another drink.

Someone at the bar sent over another round.

“What time you getting up tomorrow, Kenny,” asked Fred suddenly squinting at his watch.

“What time is the game, Fred? laughed Stabler attempting to return our attention to his pigskin schematic.

“It’s at two, or three,” answered Biletnikoff now returning to a more jovial mood. “Is this Rocky Mountain Time?”

“What time does the bar close?” continued Stabler.

“Two or three,” quipped Fred which brought another chorus of whoops.

Just then a voice from across the room interrupted our rare silence.

“Hey Kenny, the well-oiled man bellowed. Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Thanks for the reminder,” joked Stabler, “but Al Davis should be by to pick us up in a minute.”

“I wouldn’t wait if I were you,” continued the drunk. “You look as if you need a little sleep before the game tomorrow.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” quacked Stabler. “We’re only playing the Broncos!”

The bar grew quiet. One could hear a mouthpiece drop. Everyone gazed in disbelief. This ruffian from Oakland via Alabama had insulted our sacred Broncos. Seconds crept by. The drunk stood up, walked to our booth, staggered once more trying to say something to Stabler, he then fell head first over into a large Boston fern minding its business in the corner.

That was enough to bring an explosion of laughter and more drinks.

“I didn’t mean to insult your team,” smiled Stabler in our general direction.

“That’s no problem,” said Bobby, “the plant got the worst of it.”

“Yeah, we’re Raider fans anyway,” I swilled. “You’ve been buying most of the drinks.”

“There’s still hope for you provincials,” said Stabler as he and Biletnikoff headed for the door at last call.

“We’ll be watching you tomorrow,” said Bobby. “We’ll be in the South Stands.”

“I’ll throw you one late in the fourth quarter,” said Stabler as he hopped into a cab.

The next day the Raiders beat the Broncos 42-6 with Stabler tossing three touchdown passes to Fred Belitnikoff, who ran his pass routes with uncompromising precision, although he did look a little shaky on the team bus at the end of the game.

– Melvin Toole