All Entries in the "Featured Peeks" Category
“Thanksgiving in Turkey”
Continued from in front of you
so that Bob (is that his real name?) and I and the kids were pushed down onto the pavement and told to keep our eyes to the ground as the entourage passed by, snaking its way toward Mount Ararat and the grave of the Apostle Paul.
“Hey, mom,” said little Bennie, “says in this brochure that Turkey is larger than Texas. Is that for real?”
“No, stupid, it’s just all that jihad propaganda,” piped sister Beatrice from the pruned position. “Where did you get that brochure anyway?”
“Shut-up bitch,” said little Bennie. “Nobody’s talking to you!”
“Now kids, let’s try to put our hatreds aside. We’re miles from our hotel and not out of this yet,” said Dad. “These people are naturally friendly and engaging. They just have to get to know us. I thought St. Paul was buried at Lookout Mountain…”
No, that’s Buffalo Phil, fool,” said mom.
Finally, and not without more fanfare, the procession passed. The strange men in robes told us to get up and walk to the east and we would find true enlightenment…and our hotel.
“I wanna see Noah’s Arc,” said Beatrice, “and the ancient city of Troy. What a beat vacation. All my friends in Chicago will laugh at me if they find out I came all the way to Turkey without…”
“Wait, daddy,” I said to my husband, “isn’t that the road to Istanbul, or is it the road to Constantinople? They must sell ottomans there. I just have to have an authentic Turkish Ottoman or I’ll just die.”
“What about dinner?” whined Bennie. “We’ve been here three days and I haven’t seen a taco anywhere. Today is Thanksgiving. Where’s the stuffing?”
“Now Bennie,” said my husband, whose name eludes me just now, “this isn’t America. One has to adapt. Sure, all of these rugheads wish they were in America, the land of the free, but they aren’t. They’re marooned here in Asia Minor…have been for centuries. I thought you liked the filberts in barley sauce that mom cooked up last night.”
“I want pizza,” screamed Beatrice much to the chagrin of a large angry crowd that had now gathered, blocking our exit from behind one of a hundred mosques that crowd the cobbled square. “I hate filberts!”
“And where is the football!” demanded little Bennie. “Don’t these Tartar savages know that it’s Thanksgiving?”
“I hate tartar sauce too,” mumbled Beatrice, “and Kurds and whey…
“Stop!” cried daddy. “Look a fez stand right out here in the middle of nowhere. I think we should all take home a fez as a souvenir from this lovely trip. Say there sahib. How much for four fezzes…is that the proper term? Yeah, four…and don’t try to screw me. I’m an American and I have rights.”
At that he pulled out a U.S. fifty which the man selling the fez hats quickly grabbed and stashed in his robe. He smiled and then let go of the hats.
“Those hats look stupid,” said Beatrice, and for once her little brother agreed. We must have looked quite the sight wandering down those snarled filthy streets, sipping a Raki looking for some familiar signs of home.
“I have to pee,” said Bennie.
“We need to find a halkevi, or house of the people. Surely they will have indoor facilities…
“And cleanliness,” I crisply quipped.
“And a make-up mirror,” added Beatrice.
“And some good old American toilet paper,” smiled Daddy.
“We could ask someone,” I said melodically, swept up in the worldly banter of a man I no longer knew.
“None of these bozos talk American,” said Bennie
“Turkish isn’t so hard to learn,” said Dad as he wagged his finger at a would-be thief. “The Turks borrowed many Arabic and Persian words during the Ottoman Empire, then Kemal Ataturk changed the whole shootin’ match over to the Roman alphabet in 1928.”
“How does he know all that?” whispered Beatrice in my direction.
“Daddy was once a Middle East expert in of the Bush Administrations, dear,” I explained.
“It’s worthless information about a country that prefers figs to cranberry sauce, olives to pumpkin pie…”
“Shhhhh,” Bennie. Here come the mashed potatoes!”
As I looked up I saw thousands of men in the street. There were Turks from Ankara, Turks from Izmir, Turks from Cyprus. All were working together pushing a massive vat of freshly mashed potatoes, thinly veiled in Seljuk mohair, toward the largest of the mosques to the east of the square.
“Wow, dad!” said Bennie.
“Where are all the women?” asked Beatrice.
“Maybe they do celebrate Thanksgiving in Turkey,” I flinched.
“Look, kids. Look! It’s the march of the turkeys,” said Dad. “Look, honey, their coming this way. It’s going to be a wonderful holiday just like I told you. Honey? Honey? Hey, kids, where’s your mother?
“Oh, she was forced into that black Mercedes by two Turkish men who have been following us since yesterday,” said Beatrice.
“What? Forced into a car? gasped Daddy.
“Relax, man she’ll be back for dinner,” said Bennie.
– Luanne Julienne
Ms Julienne is a free-lance writer who lives in a big house in Connecticut. In addition to writing travel articles she raises amphetamines, which are then sold to collectors in New York and Washington.
Local power company acquires Wyoming
(Nucla) San Miguel Power Company has reportedly purchased the state of Wyoming for an undisclosed sum according to unreliable sources here. The transaction went down smoothly although many residents there are concerned about the future.
“We’re not going to force anyone to move,” said one engineer at SMP, “we’re just creating an avenue for growth.”
San Miguel Power plans to harness the legendary winds that prowl the region and turn that resource into energy. The remainder of the state, with the exception of Gillette will be used for storage.
FUDD HANGS UP SPURS
(Gunnison) Hunter extraordinaire and charter member of the Tomichi Creek Sportsman’s Society, Elmer Fudd has decided to call it quits after over 40 years in the field. His familiar wool cap and compelling stance at the sound of game will live on in the memories of hunters and outdoorsmen everywhere.
“Elmer has tracked deer, stalked elk, chased bear, cornered mountain lions, ferreted pheasant, trailed sage hen, shadowed antelope, snared duck, dogged moose, smoked salmon and hunted for rabbit over his three decades in the limelight,” said long time associate and toady, Porky Pig. “Before Elmer came along people just didn’t take cartoon characters seriously even if they were armed,” he chubbed. “Today his legacy speaks for itself.”
Fudd is expected to make the announcement after an early morning rabbit shoot near Almont.
While it is difficult to believe Fudd’s claims, especially considering close relationships with ducks, coyotes, roadrunners and rabbits over the years, statistics don’t lie.
“Elmer did nothing else but hunt,” continued Pig. “He’d get up every morning and shoot something before attending speech classes. Then he’d hit the trail again after lunch hoping to catch an inattentive grouse or maybe disoriented bighorn sheep. Cartoons don’t generally work a full 40-hour week so he had lots of free time to pursue his interests.
Contacted at his home yesterday Fudd greeted us with the familiar Hewo and much to our surprise told us to pwease be quiet as he was hunting fo’ wabbit.
“Old habits are tough to break,” offered Pig. “Elmer has quit just like he said but sometimes he still hunts in his sleep. I’ve seen his legs trigger finger twitching and his little legs go round and round.”
Fudd’s retirement leaves a staggering void within the ranks of hunters statewide. Although he has reportedly hand picked his successor over 4000 hunters have applied for the position since his announcement last weekend.
Detractors suggest that Fudd is a hateful symbol of intolerance with zero empathy people with speech impediments. Supporters say its all in good fun and that political correctness and overall consciousness had different spins when Fudd first burst onto the scene in the Fifties.
“He’s passing the torch,” said Pig. “Let me tell you, he’ll be missed. That boy bled blaze orange.”
-Susie Compost
Singer Hits Big Time in Food Rock Circles
(Crashville TN) With the release of Sophia Quacksalver’s newest single “Twenty-four Hours From Salsa” we witness the emergence of yet another great singer from within the ranks of the Food Rock phenomenon. Taking its lead from the successes of Christian Rock and closely following the formula country scene, food rock is a category of music of which little was known, or heard from, until just a few years ago.
Quacksalver on stage with one of her three twin sisters in 2018.
Quacksalver’s first hit “Bad at 30,000 Feet Is Still Bad, Baby” is a frank, examination of the airline food fiasco, sold over a million copies the first week before it tailed off due to limited attention spans. Her rendition of the Spam Cook classic “That’s the Sound of the Men Working on the Food Chain” followed up in rare style outselling “Bad 30,000″” and making a place for her on the Grand Ol’ Feed Bag and a host of TV talk shows. Then in 2001 her smash recording of “Johnny Vegetable” followed up by a new CD entitled “Don’t Worry – Eat Croppie” landed her dead center stage at the produce stand.
Once a backup singer at a roller-skating rink, Quacksalver appears in public wearing her trademark chef’s hat and whites although she admits she has never been in a kitchen.
“I made a box of macaroni and cheese once,” she smiled, exposing a mouthful of teeth that resembled ancient asparagus spears. “Hell, Country Music is chucked full of drugstore cowboys who are probably scared of horses and Christian rock…well let’s just say the Good Lord helps those who learn guitar and have exaggerated hygiene.”
– Fred Zeppelin
Beware of dawg?
This dapper fellow has decided to spend the rest of hunting season in my fenced yard in Colona. Security has never been better. He even runs off stray cats and an odd raccoon or two. (Pepper Salte Photo)
LOCAL ANARCHISTS COMMENT ON CENSUS
Second homeowners counted twice?
(Mañana) Most anarchists around here think the National Census is a joke. Joining many other less radical elements of the society these standard bearers claim the figures extracted from the populace in no way indicate anything about who we are or how we live.
Former Cahone grant writer, turned anarchist after one too many town council meetings, says the census is just another money laundering operation on the part of the feds.
“They pay census takers to knock on doors and write down statistics. These people aren’t properly trained. What if grandma’s hiding in the cellar or Uncle Bob is out of town?” he said. “It’s simple. A lot of scribble on an official Census form is not a valid basis for decision-making, funding or any other gov’ment intrusion. Even if it was it would not justify the expense.”
Mildred Cranmph, a retired navel officer turned anarchist thinks the Census expenditures could be better spent on tanks or a second Star Wars Defense System.
Another anarchist, Mildred Cranmph, of Camp Bird agrees, adding that the census is about on par with employment figures which she says are often distorted to benefit politicians and the party in power.
“We must ask ourselves where the feds could better spend the money which they have illegally collected through rogue taxing policies,” she flinched. “Then take it another step and ask what effect all that money would have on the economy if it were left to the consumer to spend as he or she saw fit.”
Pro-Census sources wrote off the cries of the anarchists saying that they just sought to sabotage the census taking since it provided cohesion and preserved order in the nation. Authorities fear that efforts to disrupt the census could emerge as the actual tabulations begin.
This unidentified anarchist, who claims to have invented the cow tag, thinks the Census is a sham. Others agree calling it yet another act of a stumblebum government plodding through another meaningless workday.
“In some countries census takers have been threatened and roughed up by rebellious rabble and in some cases kidnapped by factions unfriendly to law and order,” said Marco Rasputin, of the Trivial Liberties Union. “These census workers are brave Americans out to make an honest buck,” he stared. “Who knows what dangers lurk in the hearts of our countrymen? There are domestic disputes that may be encountered. There is the threat of the angry recluse or the lonely motor mouth, and that doesn’t even touch on exhibitionists, bad coffee or mean dogs.”
The anarchists are calling for a boycott of the census until the federals come to their senses.
“Considering the history of the past 200 years that could take forever,” said Cranmph, who suggests that an educated guess might do the trick.
“It’s like the football referee who roughly estimates were to down the ball after a play then meticulously measures his often invalid presumption with the exactness of 10-yard chains,” said one anarchist who demanded anonymity. “The whole thing is ludicrous, but what isn’t? Why do you think I’m an anarchist anyway? I’ll tell you…It ain’t for the benefits.”
– Melvin O’Toole
