All Entries in the "Fractured Opinion" Category
Rolled Up Street Injures Silverton Man
(San Juan de Las Montanas) They really do roll up the streets around here in the winter. Ask Marvin Tinkleholland of Silverton who was recently hospitalized in Durango following a head-on collision with 13th Street here Thursday night.
Tinkleholland, a sailboat mechanic, was returning from a friend’s house at about 8 pm when he was caught up by the diminishing street. Town crews had no time to react and could only watch and wait as Tinkleholland went round and round. The startled man had no choice but to go with the flow to avoid further injury. Finally, when the street was completely rolled up, he was extracted by emergency medical technicians and driven to the Saint Roscoe’s Hospital in nearby Howardsville.
“He was handling matters quite well until he was hit by a stubborn curb at the intersection of Blair Street,” said one EMT. “I really don’t understand all the fuss. This kind of thing happens everyday up in Gladstone.”
Tinkleholland was cheated and released the next morning. He had only recently recovered from bruises received during the infamous Running of the Bullshit in Ouray in back in November.
“We have published our street rolling up schedule and crews have been asked to exercise extreme caution in their daily chores,” said one Silverton town council member. “People have to do the rest. They know that dusk can be a dangerous time, especially with all the snow. We suggest that they limit evening strolls to Greene Street which is not rolled up until midnight.”
– Uncle Pahgre
POACHING RAMPANT IN SENIOR SET
(Montrose) Incidents of poaching have reached epidemic proportions here according to behavioral scientists at the ocassionally renowned Pea Green Academy. Researchers expect matters to get even worse with winter’s weather to the Rockies.
“One only has to look at the daily supplies in our grocery stores to realize that something is wrong,” winced one scientist who prefers his eggs cooked over-easy with a side of home fries. “These perpetrators think they have a right to poach at will. Most of the hard-boiled element won’t even consider legal channels such as the scrambled version or the more organic raw egg, right out of the brown shell.”
Local henboys agree that a few bad eggs often spoil it for everyone else but add that as long as the guilty get off with “just a slap on the hand” the problem will continue to grow. They alluded to a group of indicted poachers strutting around their cells like Bantam Roosters just prior to a preliminary hearing on Wednesday.
“One has to consider the fact that the older poachers cannot chew that well and a poached version makes for a far more pleasant morning meal,” said citizen’s advocate Henrietta Perdue of the National Association for the Advancement of Chickens and Poultry (NAACP). “If one really wants to get to the root of the problem he must look beyond the feathers. It’s all supply and demand! Don’t chastise the chicken farmers. The problem lies within the infrastructure here in our cities and towns, she cackled.”
Perdue claims that if seniors did not desire poached eggs there would be no profit in chicken ranching and this contraband would disappear from circulation in a matter of months. An ardent follower of Pol Pot, Perdue’s other solution is to force all the seniors, as well as the chickens, from the cities out into the rural parts of the country for reeducation.
-Rocky Flats
“Yeah, they said that it’s not a crime to party with Jeffrey Epstein, which is pretty much like saying it’s not a crime to have brunch with Jeffrey Dahmer.” — JIMMY FALLON
LOCAL ANARCHISTS COMMENT ON CENSUS
Second home owners counted twice in 2030?
(Telluride) Most anarchists around here think a 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 Telluride grant writer, turned anarchist after one too many town council meetings, says counting heads, officially or otherwise, is just another money laundering operation on the part of the gov’ment.
“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 intrusion. Even if it was it valid and effective would not justify the expense.”
Another anarchist, Mildred Cranmph, of Lawson Hill agrees.
“We must ask ourselves where the feds could better spend the money which they have illegally collected through various rogue taxing agencies,” 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.
“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 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 2030 census until the federals come to their senses.
“Considering the history of the past 250 years that could take forever,” said Cranmph, who suggests that an inspired and educated guess would do the trick.
“It’s like the football referee who estimates were the ball is down after a play then meticulously measures his presumption with the exactness of 10-yard chains,” said one anarchists 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
The grant writer from above, who claims to have invented the cow tag, thinks the Census is a sham. Others agree calling it yet another act of a stumble-bum government plodding through another meaningless workday.
Mildred Cranmph, a retired navel officer turned anarchist, thinks the census expenditures could be better spent on tanks or the Tomahawk missiles.
CELL PHONES — PAST AND FUTURE
Did anyone ever wonder what it might have been like at the Battle of Little Big Horn if George Custer would have had a cell phone?
He could have texted Major Reno for reinforcements. He could have left a message with Captain Benteen. Hell, he could have employed roaming devices and told General Alfred H. Terry of his predicament. History may have been recorded quite differently providing either a happy or sad ending depending on whom one was rooting for at the time.
But he might not have had enough bars for service out there in the Dakota Territory.
Silly? Perhaps. But consider this: What if the pharaohs had the electronic wonders tucked away in the Great Pyramids or other burial plots. Could they call out for pizza or let their mothers know things weren’t really so bad…you know, being buried with all ones’ worldly goods and all.
Imagine a cell phone on the bridge of The Nina, The Pinta or the Santa Maria. That certainly would have prevented all the stress but the underwater phone lines could have been tapped by New World tribes allowing that group, considering the immediate future, time to organize a proper (albeit violent) reception for the Spanish hordes. This concept, too, depends on the ying and yang and all the rumors of gods arriving from the west…or was it the east?
If cell phones hadn’t taken so long to be developed Napoleon may not have had his Waterloo. He might have called ahead and made dinner reservations elsewhere. Ah, the French…I wonder how difficult would it be to obtain Charlemagne’s unlisted number in the regular phone book? Maurice Chevalier’s? Sandrine Bonnaire’s?
With cellular phones at his disposal, would Robert the Devil, Duke of Normandy have engaged in obscene phone calls in 1027? Would Wamba, King of the Visigoths, still become a monk had the Lombards pestered him after hours regarding cheaper long distance rates? Would Paul Revere still have made his famous ride or would he have simply called ahead to warn of the impending British movements in 1875?
The answers to these questions and the questions themselves are far less absurd than a fat man calling around the corner for ice cream delivery on his cell phone. The entire concept is quite silly indeed. Imagine sending cell phones, in lieu of grain, to starving tribes in Africa. Imagine selfies.
Last month the the NFL’s Denver Bronco receivers were all issued cell phones with their shoulder pads. They fit inside the helmet (part of concussion protocol) so they can talk to Beau any time during a given contest. Next we’ll see the infant cell phone, a small but safe nerf device that allows anyone’s baby carriage to stay on top of developments world wide. It just mounts right there on the stroller. Some say it’s just another status symbol.
Next Month: Invisible Selfies and Calling Baby’s Voice
PRE-DAWN RAID ON POLE NETS NADA
Feds Trail Sleigh During Historic Trek
(North Pole) A combined alphabet operation by the FBI, CIA, ICE, OSHA, ATF and the FDA has produced little according to a report filed at the Star Wars Defense Center on Ellesmere Island.
According to unreliable sources, when the immense contingent of feds arrived they found the place pretty much deserted.
“It looked like the terrorists had been making toys and the like for some time here,” said Agent Arthur Rambeau, of the FBI. “They thought they were outside the long arm of the law, didn’t they…Ha! Sooner or later they had to know that we’d corner them!”
The pre-dawn raid aimed at trapping elves suspected of harboring dangerous un-American thought, was concocted by nervous elements of the Shadow Government anxious to get the show on the road. It was approved on fairway number seven by the lame duck White House.
“There’s nothing red, white and blue about myths like Santa and the elves. It’s a negative distraction at a time when we seek to return the United States to Cold War status when gas was cheap and people believed in their elected officials,” said Rambeau. Santa has been a thorn in our boots since my grandmother was a boy, he frowned.
Rambeau, who sucks lemons like Mussolini and eats fried potatoes before going into battle just like Napolean did, says there is conclusive proof that Santa is Canadian and that many of his helpers are members of the Communist Party.
Meanwhile the acronymic assault was organized in the Northwest Territories where only polar bears and seals have eyes and ears. It was supported by combined elements of the United States military, which were told they were fighting the war on drugs, although nothing, with the possible exception of walrus fur, thrives up here.
According to the official report, completed moments after initial contact was confirmed, indications were that the primary objective was secure and that a stubborn rear guard of elves was in custody. As it turns out a heavily armed Ms. (Sandra) Claus and a skeleton crew of exhausted elves with slingshots had managed to hold off the feds for about three days before running out of Cuban rum and capitulating.
“The scene here is sketchy what with all the snow,” said the agent. “I can confirm that we have about ten insurgents under lock and key but that we too are out of provisions.”
The date for the raid was based on information that Santa and his elves would not leave the premises until December 24 to make their annual round-the -world jaunt. However, with the increase in population, global warming, airline agendas and the unstable political climate here, the group departed early.
“We knew that Santa was on the hot seat, facing a vote of confidence in the elfin legislature,” said Rambeau. He was probably more secure out of the country than in it. Remember the Orange Wonder’s sudden interest in foreign diplomacy in the wake of the Jeffery Epstein scandal? Damn. We wanted to catch him (Santa) with is knickers down.”
Conjecture has it that Santa has been repeatedly seen in the company of buxom Lulu Boomer, an exotic dancer from Churchill, Manitoba, despite the comforts of holy matrimony. Federal spooks had hoped they could link Santa, a fallen away Canadian, with a promiscuous lifestyle above the Arctic Circle. Locals say Boomer is hot enough to mlelt the icebergs if there still are any.
“Who’s going to allow their kids to sit on the lap of an adulterer, or worse a man who is just a little left of Pyongyang,” asked Rambeau. “We’ve been going through Santa’s trash since earlier this evening and we’ve found letters from little kids in Iraq and Cuba, as well as North Korea. We even found a letter from a kid in Serbia asking for a bicycle…Now what does she intend to do with that? These are rogue nations undeserving of Christmas presents!” he pouted.
“They hate America,” she said, fondling her red tie.
As soon as the situation is in hand here, the FBI and CIA will begin trailing Santa and his reindeer in hopes of cutting them off from illegal destinations like Havana and Baghdad. It is not known if these actions will undermine attempts by the North Pole to adopt U.S. currency by 2027.
– Small Mouth Bess
A ROCKY MOUNTAIN CHRISTMAS
It was another quaint scene of rural Rocky Mountain Americana, long before the beautiful people landed here. A clothesline, heavy with a fresh wash, was stretched from the propped up hood of a black ’54 Chevy to the corner post of the flimsy, rotting front porch. A spotted mutt lay in the mud chewing on an old sneaker as three dirty-faced children ran half-naked through the snow and mud frolicking among the goats and chickens.
Grandma sat glum-faced in an old rocker on the front lawn bundled in a stained blanket. A dip of snuff lay soggy between her lip and gum. Brown spittle drooled down her chin, spotting the bosom of her Goodwill dress.
Mary Jane looked from the kitchen window as she kneaded dough for the Christmas baked goods. She watched as the warm sunshine melted snow from the old barn roof sending its cool droppings into a rancid mound of garbage and rotting deer hides. A mouse scurried from the pantry and into the corner. Mary Jane quickly finished her last slug of Keystone and hurled the empty at the unsuspecting rodent, shattering glass against the stove. The mouse ran back into the pantry, a sprig of parsley clutched fast between its teeth. It’s only parsley, thought Mary Jane. The kids won’t eat it anyhow.
Gus, Mary Jane’s husband, stumbled from the barn. His eyes were red from drink and blinded by the afternoon sun causing him to trip over an old rusty transmission. He fell headlong into the mud and snow cursing bitterly.
On the horizon came a fleet of pickups and vans. Here come the do-gooders, mused Gus. Then he smiled, for in the deep recesses of his foggy memory a thought emerged. Old Melvin Toole was playing Santa at the Grange today. At least he would have someone to drink with after all.
The visitors parked in the rutted road’s ankle deep mud and gathered at the gate. Phony smiles adorned their scrubbed faces. Beneath the holy makeup of a shaky Santa was the smug, devil-may-care Toole. He stepped from his pickup, hoisting a sack of toys over his skinny shoulder. He swallowed the last swig of his drugstore bourbon and tossed the empty bottle into the back of the truck, the melting snow muffling the sound of the breaking atop his jack, other bottles and a huge piece of petrified cottonwood.
“I use that for ballast,” he slurred. But not a creature heard him.
Next the county sheriff marched through the gate dragging a fresh-cut spruce. Behind him was a procession of the righteous carrying boxes of decorations and food.
“Ya got anything to drink in there?” asked Gus whose request was promptly ignored by the pilgrims.
The children, stone-faced and perplexed, stood next to Grandma as she rocked and chewed her cud. Gus lit a Viceroy. In the kitchen Mary Jane opened another beer, looking out of the window in disgust at the procession in her field.
All at once a rusty piece of barbed wire, hidden beneath the snow, caught the shiny patent leather toe of Santa’s boot sending him down the hill, gliding on his red Gore-Tex suit and crashing into Gus. The impact sent both men rolling into the pile of garbage and deer hides, causing a roar of laughter and cheer.
On the back of the pickup a guitar player strummed while a chorus from Al-Anon sang that famous old Buck Owens classic, “Santa Looks A Lot Like Daddy.”
Everyone just stood their in the yard wondering what to do next when it began to snow. In the distance silver peaks glistened like white marble against a powder-blue sky. The green pines shuddered, the sun met the land and once again another Christmas arrived in the glorious Rockies.
– Jose Katu
