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Last Year of My Life (Continued)

The Journals of Patrick McGinty
continued from yesterday

Is this a rash I see? Good lord I’ve got the pox! Maybe that’s the problem. One would think the doc could have diagnosed something so obvious. The train conductor tells me of a brother who dies of ulcerative colitis. That sounds important. If I’m going to drop dead I’d just as soon it be from something with an important sounding name or maybe it would be better to get run over by this train. It’s quicker. The conductor shakes me. We’re in Ridgway. He says I passed out and was mumbling about covering home with the bases loaded. The pain is bad today. There’s a McGinty family living somewhere in Ouray County. They might be relatives although they’ve never produced any ball players, so I doubt it. Prospects here are slim since everyone is working for the railroad or in the gold mines. Who can blame them for wanting to get ahead. Damn the pain! I hope if this is it they bury me with my spikes on. I’ll have to dig them out of my locker back in Denver. It’s been 10 years since I’ve played ball. What torture sitting there on the bench watching our boys take a pasting.

The train creeps over Dallas and makes a stop at Sams. Two young boys are playing catch along the tracks. One says he lost his only pair of shoes in Leopard Creek and is hoping for an early summer. That one kid has a cannon for an arm. I leave him my calling card. A prune-faced woman approaches as I board the train. She scolds the boy, and tears up the card while letting loose a scowl in my direction. They never said it would be easy. The pain in my back is getting worse. I wonder if it’s the altitude? I think I’m developing puritis ani…or something like that. Dr. Turlo prescribed a furlough from whiskey then he headed off to the local bar for lunch. I wonder if there’s a hospital in Telluride these days and, for that matter, if I’ll make it that far.

It’s snowing as we climb the last pass to Telluride and it’s only a few months till the dog days arrive back in the Midwest. There’s a rancher’s kid here by the name of Collins that I came to see play but the weather could be a problem. His dad was shot during the labor dispute in 1902 and I think he wants out of Telluride. Too many bad memories. All this way for another snowstorm. Maybe I should seek honest work like preaching or gallivanting around the countryside with a medicine wagon. I’m too old to find a rich woman to marry and too young to retreat to the rocking chair. Mining and baseball have a lot in common. The workers and players do the sweating and the owners make the money. But at least we play ball above ground in the sun. I sign up Eddie Dougherty, Mike Finnegan and two Tyrolean kids named Petresko. One looks like a catcher and the other throws kind of funny. Who knows. Telluride’s really hopping tonight. The miners must have just got paid. There’s not much point in getting back to the room since I can’t sleep anyway. I think I’ll take a walk.

I wake up in a room filled with the smell of roses and ammonium. There’s a nurse standing nearby. Did I die? Is this some kind of celestial emergency room? She brings me water as a young man walks into the room. He asked how I’m feeling. I say it’s too early to tell. He tells me how he found me passed out in an alley in Finntown. Thought I was drunk but then thought better when he checked me. Says I was screaming like bloody murder. It’s all foggy to me. After I tell him what I do he says he’s a baseball player and was the youngest member of the state championship team in 1913.

Then the doctor comes in and we go through all the pleasantries again. Hey, the pain is gone. Upon consultation with the doc I find that I have passed a kidney stone. Apparently I accomplished this feat at about three o’clock in the morning on the way to his office. Guess I kept the whole town up half the night. The kid asks if I want to see the little devil and I decline. Damn, I feel better. He brings me some eggs as the nurse encourages me to get up and walk around. The kid wants to talk baseball. Says he remembers me when I played for the Tigers in 1908 but that he won a few dollars betting on the Cubs in the World Series. We lost it four games to one.

According to this enlightened doctor I should be fine in a day or two. He adds that he can’t do much for my gout. I ask about my strangulated hernia and he just shakes his head. What about that pain? I thought I had tuberculosis or something. He laughs and says a kidney stone is no walk in the park. That’s a great way to put it, doc. He says I’m as healthy as a horse but should slow down on the drinking. I wire the doctor in Denver that I will not be keeping my appointment. I hear there are a couple of pitching prospects down in Dolores and a Ute kid built like Ping Bodie. I’m on my way.

– Rocky Flats

Eternity Inc.

Here we are in the heavenly boardroom of boardrooms, perched on a corporate cloud insulated by inhumane cubicles in the prestigious neighborhood near the Pearly gates. Sitting back in vests and cigars are Michael, Peter, Gabriel, Moses, Paul and Himself, the Creator and CEO. They have just concluded a final phase of a secret merger that would destroy the dominance of Lucifer International in the highly competitive, universal soul industry. Lucifer and his thugs could finally be brought to their knees if the spreadsheet was accurate. The time had come to streamline the operation here at Eternity Inc. and raise the funds necessary to deliver the deathblow.

Peter: Let’s just sell the Holy Roman Empire franchise we bought from that crooked Dutch pirate back in 1806. It must have some market value.
Gabriel: The numbers on that particular stock don’t add up to much.
Moses: Then I suggest we sell the Red Sea property and list the condos in Egypt and Jericho.
Peter: Our Joshua subsidiary won’t care for that. They’ll perceive it as a desertion, subject to a hostile takeover.
Moses: Joshua and his people can be replaced, Sir.
Michael: If we sell the Holy Roman Empire stock, the Red Sea land, the California Angels, the New Orleans Saints and the party box at South Bend we could pull this off.
Creator: Interesting. Good work, boys. But I have to tell you that for decades I have been considering the possibility of dropping the entire project.
Michael: Do you mean the entire human experiment?
Creator: I built the joint once. I can do it again and maybe the second time around with fewer botches and less conflict. There are plenty of stars out there and plenty of anxious species. Now, tell us again, Gabriel, what exactly do our numbers say?
Gabriel: They are far from conclusive. Production has been way down since the last audit. Nothing seems to help us lower operating costs while Lucifer chips away, gaining more and more of the soul pie. Natural resources on earth are dwindling, nuclear energy has arrived and yet all attempts to introduce new technology have been resisted at every turn by these pathetic creatures. Professionally speaking I would clearly suggest at least a sellout.
Creator: And what are the projections on potential buyers?
Michael: If I may interject GF, we have made every attempt from collective bargaining to fringe holidays but the humans won’t get on the straight and narrow for nothing. After over 2000 years in the saddle we are now at the point of diminished returns. Investment ratios are out the window. Anarchy looms. Sadly, I must agree with Gabriel.
Creator: If we dump the earthly portfolio how much are we talking about here?
Peter: We have 2.3 billion invested counting future escrow, low interest loans, salaries, pensions and benefits. The whole deal can’t be worth more than 5 or 6 in this sluggish market. That means we stand to make roughly 2.5 billion and gain temporary operating capital of 2 billion.
Creator: And that’s enough to close the door on Lucifer?
Peter: By about $300,000, Sir, if nonmonetary factors remain stable.
Creator: Well, I’ve got a 10:30 tee time. I’d like you to conclude this matter this morning. Any final thoughts, Paul?
Paul: I feel our best margin is in the franchise market. I’d like to sit on it for a few decades…but the thought of crippling Lucifer? That is tempting beyond words.
Michael: Let’s not forget that we have an emotional attachment to earth. We all love a weekend at the Vatican or lunch with the Archbishop of Canterbury. What about the ski trips to Park City and football in the Bible belt? If we sell we sweet and quick. No sense alerting brokers over at Lucifer.
Creator: Moses?
Moses: I hate to be negative but I’ve been watching the place deteriorate since they built the Great Pyramids. Lucifer keeps gaining souls with the same old tired message we had 4000 years ago. If we keep it we have to revamp it. If we can’t afford to do that much then we have to let it go.
Creator: I trust your judgment boys and I’m behind the eight ball with the carpeting of Purgatory and painting those Elysian Fields. Money is tight.
Moses: Then let’s sell it. The decision has been made for us.
(Peter, Gabriel, Paul and Michael seem to concur.)
Paul: They had their chance down there on earth. Instead of relishing the paradise before them they worry about what comes after. They have missed the boat.
Creator: I guess that about wraps things up. We dump it. There are plenty of lost souls that will thank us later…Now where did I leave my pitching wedge?

– Melvin Toole, Vicar, Oracle of the Blinding Light

July 29, 2016

Write off lost golf balls only until Friday

(Montrose  —  Linkster Line  —  July 25, 2016)

Golfers are reminded that Friday is the last chance to claim income tax credits on missing or vanished golf balls for 2016.

In order to successfully submit the loss one must register with some guy at a card table in front of the post office and secure references from at least three golf corpse supervisors as to the pathetic nature of your game.

Golf ball fatalities do not always qualify as a business expense but they can be easily and legally filed under
entertainment/medical expenses for anyone making taxable income in the country.

“Most tax preparers don’t realize that equipment damage or loss can be deducted right off the top from most returns,” said Zebrine Poltroon, a CPA in hiding somewhere outside Denver. “The laws apply to anything from track shoes to ice climbing fashions.”

The most common place for golfers to become separated from their balls is in water. Many courses are filled with cute little ponds and sadistically placed lakes that, although they offer little depth can gobble up a golf ball in no time flat. Other spots include forests, extreme shade, leafy fairways, rough, out-of-bounds and cottonwood stands at feeding time.

Despite government attempts to drain water hazards and lay sod in the bunkers most golf concerns have remained steadfast in an attempt to secure a future while maintaining the history of the sport.

Persons not filing income taxes are exempt from reading this article.

Pot Shop

For more information contact Jeff Brown at The Juneau What? somewhere in in Alaska.

Leaf-cutting marmots likely culprit in pot stink

(Crested Butte – Sweet Smell Review – July 18, 2016)

A late summer invasion of hungry leaf-cutting marmots is blamed for the increase in marijuana odor that has some residents upset here. Complaints about excessive smells emanating from personal marijuana growing operations are on the rise and the county is prepared to act.

According to local biologists the locusts-like rodents chew on the leaves and the biting releases industrially pungent blasts of pot odor. Although not thought to be dangerous to humans, the olfactory status has been calculated as registering  somewhere between baby powder and a busy feedlot.

Authorities are perplexed, with many hinging on two preliminary actions. The first is to rid the area of these mutant marmots. The second is to leave town and begin a new life elsewhere.

It is not clear why the rodents like to chew on the leaves or the state they are attempting to achieve. Scientists believe they have run out of other more traditional sustenance and are desperately attacking the marijuana grown in town.

Pursuing valid solutions to this classic multi-use issue is further clouded by across-the-board confusion as to what constitutes a legal growth effort. People who grow for personal consumption are not regulated like commercial pot producers and often it is difficult to determine what is what with regard to the six-plant per person rule.

One rogue town council member suggested spraying the affected areas with the smell of money to quell the protests. Other concerned citizens are firmly against this toxic approach preferring to deal with the marmots more humanely, by approved trap and release methods.

“Everyone likes the smell of a ten or twenty especially with the masses wandering Elk Avenue this time of the year,” she said. “It’s either that or we go back to burning coal which these leaf-cutter marmots detest.

Chaos at the legal level has spurred dire consequences for citizens not fond of the often-strong aroma on marijuana plants in heat. They are virtually surrounded by pot. Many complain that they cannot even smell their own car boxes or something burning on the stove.

“I didn’t realize there were people out there that found the smell of cannabis to be offensive,” chimed a longtime merchant. “They could be smelling exhaust fumes, landfill wisps or bad water like many other communities. The pot is harmless at this stage.”

Once again the scenario swirls around a case of a small number of greedy persons taking advantage of the lax laws and intruding on the rights of others. Vegetable garden laws are desperately needed in this municipality. People can’t police themselves. Transient mentality and a strong smell of bud pervades the  day. Simple enough on paper a tough nut to crack in the midday sun.

“These types are a lot like out contingent of bad dog owners,” said the merchant. “They don’t train their dogs and they continually fly under the radar of personal integrity.”

– Fred Zeppelin

Keeping Cool in Texas

This is how them Texans keep cool (especially the ones too poor to visit Colorado). Above we take a peek at the rare Lone Star, wet-backed water dog cools off on a hot afternoon. Notice the happy smaller variety of the same rare species in the background.  (Tessa Fano Photo)