All Entries in the "Featured Peeks" Category
Claimants Grow in Galleon Find
(Salvador, Bahia — Por Favela Favor — November 12 ,2016)
The number of persons filing Rightful Claim on all or part of the estimated 7.6 million dollars recovered from a sunken Portuguese galleon has doubled since last night. The treasure, in Portuguese reales, dinhiero, Malacca Sebastieo and silver rupees, was recovered last week off the coast of India, near Goa, a former Portuguese colony.
At last count over 300 persons and entities have claimed the prize. Some are nautical, some are fortune chasers, but one local man has what appears to be a valid, albeit bizarre, link to the recovery deep on the ocean floor. Melvin Toole, a retired coal stoker from Colona, says he has a right to the entire booty due to family connections.
“I am the direct descendent of Amal Santa Villa Cabralia, the love child of the homely Queen Maria I of the Braganza Royal Family and the suave Domingos Antonio de Sousa Coutinho, the Portuguese Ambassador to Brasil in 1807,” said Toole.
The entire Portuguese court, all 1500 of them, had been relocated to Rio de Janeiro so as to escape the clutches of Napoleon Bonaparte whose armies were quickly closing in on Lisbon from the north. Prince John VI, who would become reigning monarch upon the death of Maria in 1816, refused to bless the union, calling for the head of Coutinho who fled to Salvador and out of harm’s way.
“That makes me the great-great-great-great grandson of Maria I,” snapped Toole carefully doing the math on his fingers. “I don’t see how there can be any other explanation. My Uncle Wilbur de Sousa, a notorious womanizer in his own right, spilled the beans on this story back when I was a kid but I thought he was just a senile old man babbling along. Now I wish I would have listened to him.”
Toole will undergo painful DNA testing tomorrow in hopes of putting the matter to rest. He has until next week to show further genetic proof that he is the heir to the fortune or the entire $7.6 million will go to the Portuguese Humane Society.
– Mr. Ha Ha
COACH EXPLODES
continued from somewhere face down on the gridiron
so that he seemed a geyser of displaced energy from the first quarter on. And he was quite a sight on that rainy, frigid Friday night in November, watching from the sidelines as we demolished Water son’s first team. We had barely began to digest their third wave of hopefuls as the second half began.
“We been talking trash to you all night,” said one burly lineman, “and you don’t pay attention. You boys just aren’t intimidated,” he shook his head. “What’s the deal?”
I motioned toward the sidelines where Coach Demeritorious paced back and forth. He was dressed in a short-sleeve white shirt, sporting a black tie with training table soup stains. He wore faded slacks reflecting the frugal salary paid him by holy mother the church. Parochial sports. His spikes connected him to the planet. He had no coat or hat and in the sub-zero drizzle he looked like a popsycle, thawing and freezing back up at the speed of light.
“Look over there,” I gestured to the overweight champion in a mud-covered jersey.
“Whoa,” was all he said. “That man looks mad.”
“You should see him after a loss,” I smiled, knowing full well that I’d only experienced that pleasure once in my three years as a soldier of his terrible swift sword. “He’s never said a word to any of us in conversational tones. He just yells and paces and frowns. I wonder how his kids survive.”
“He wins football games,” said the lineman as the time out ended and players shuffled back to the huddle for another assault on the patchwork wall of humanity, by then begging for the game to end.
It’s really too bad that some folks attain a level of success and can’t enjoy it. It’s neurotic. It’s obsessive. It’s like finding oneself counting tiles in some nightmare men’s room at the end of the road.
“Ready – set – 21 – 66 -Red. Hut – Hut – Hut!” barked their quarterback like the death chant of a warrior, outflanked by his own shaggy militia. His artillery long quieted by countless assaults by fresh cavalry.
“You’re not hitting,” said Coach Demeritorious, now working himself into a frenzy. “You’ve got to hit!” he screamed.
We’re up by the lopsided score of 56-0 and the man’s concerned with esthetics, with the cosmetic application of fundamentals.
“We’ll play this fourth quarter as if it’s the entire game,” he jerked. “There is no score. There is no score up there on the board. Anyone sandbagging will run laps on Monday till they drop. Anyone not playing full tilt will ride the bench against Chaminade next Friday,” he raged. Do I make myself clear?
By now most of us were breathing a sigh of relief that soon we would be cruising with our girlfriends in Ford and Chevy chariots. To the victors go the spoils even though it would be only pizza since the sexual revolution of the Sixties had not made the front cover of Time even though in was already 1966.
I looked up into the stands to catch a glimpse of my father, who would congratulate me after the victory, touching on every tackle, celebrating every sack, sharing the triumph as just one more feather in the cap of the conquering hero.
“It’s great,” he would say, “but it won’t be so easy next week.”
As the fourth quarter snailed to an end Coach Demeritorious stopped dead in his tracks, his knees wobbling, his hand to his throat. No one went to his aid for fear of reprisal. We backed away and watched as he hit the hard cold ground of Southern Ohio.
“…that it’s only a game,” my father would say and if you hope to get into college you’d better pay attention to…”
And then, all at once like a Fourth of July in some distant galaxy Coach Demeritorious exploded. He didn’t spew or rattle or tremble. He blew up. Horrified we stared as he burst, erupting, then fizzling out as an ambulance arrived to collect his pieces, which were now scattered all over the field. This wasn’t the half-time show.
At the memorial service the assistant coaches talked about his winning record, his dedication to football, his accomplishments on the field. I looked over to his family. His son didn’t cry. He tired wife just stood there stunned, anxious to get the thing over with and get on with a life minus a tyrannical knight without the chink or humanity in his glowing armor.
No one whispered a sentence relating to Coach Demeritorious that didn’t contain the word “football”.
The next day’s paper featured a whole section on the deceased coach. He made the front page, the sports section and the obituary page all in one. Sadly, he would be remembered as a pit bull with a clip board and a whistle. He might have been remembered as a good man with the right intentions. Even sadder, he would quickly be forgotten.
The next week, prior to the Chaminade game our new coach calmly laid out the game plan in the locker room.
“Let’s pick up where we left off last week,” he said, “and play this one for our fallen coach. Play hard and have fun. We’re a better team. We’re ranked fourth in the state. We deserve it.”
Gunnison encourages residents, visitors to ramp up pot use
(Tomichi-on-Thames — Oct 29, 2016)
In a radical departure from previous policies the City of Gunnison is actively encouraging citizens, tourists and college students here to “smoke more pot”. The gesture, denied by cold-footed bureaucrats here, is seen as a blatant attempt to keep all of the town’s marijuana dispensaries in business, at least until the end of the tax year.
As of late last night Gunnison currently licensed eight dispensaries in a community of roughly 6000. In addition Western State enrollment is almost 2800. That’s one dispensary for every 11,000 inhabitants. These statistics carry with them some heavy responsibility.
Civic liters, once hesitant to issue even one license for fear it would “send the wrong message to our children” now features what many see as a multitude of pot shops within the city limits. Whether or not the decision to allow so many marijuana businesses has anything to do with the fees collected from licenses was not known when this story was published.
High profile communities as far way as Humboldt State in California have registered shock at the development. College towns in states where pot is legal were supportive of Gunnison’s attempts to negotiate the confusion related the new industry.
“Sure we want to see all of the dispensaries flourish,” said one unconfirmed source at the city. “Unlike our track record with juicers we have not had any two-in-the-morning incidents with the potheads. It’s all legal plus the cash is good.”
– by Pepper Salte
Next time: Is the marijuana glut threat to Colorado lifestyle?
Columbus Day Planned on the Navajo Nation
Special to The Horseshoe October 11, 2016
Excitement is in the air here at the 15th Annual Columbus Day Celebration planned for October 12 in Tuba City. Some 100 floats and 2000 dancers are expected to grace the main street, eclipsing craft booths and food stalls. Clowns and jugglers will no doubt entertain the children while the adults will be treated to horse races and high stakes bingo.
At 5 pm we will begin a Columbus Buffet with Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria portions! One doesn’t need a crow’s nest to see that we mean to have fun!
Sponsored by the local chamber of commerce, Navajo Columbus Day is in no way connected to the Cortez Corners Rodeo, the Juan Pizzaro Festival and Art Show, the DeSoto Pow Wow or the Father Junipero Serra Mission Feast Day and Chili Cook-off.
“This is our festival alone and even though Christopher Columbus never set foot in Tuba City many of his influences were felt here and still linger,” said Omar Cayenne of nearby Moenkopi.
Columbus Day allows for members of our tribe to socialize and pay tribute to a great American, even though he was a Spanish Conquistador.
The evening will feature fireworks and a watermelon-eating contest along with live bands until midnight.
“It’s fitting that we celebrate this day since without Columbus many of us wouldn’t be here on the reservation today,” smiled Cayenne.
-Kashmir Horseshoe
