All Entries in the "Fractured Opinion" Category

CLOWN BEHEADING CALLED ACCIDENTAL

(Montrose) A brutal beheading, that’s left restaurateur Ronald McDonald decapitated, has been called accidental by police despite the clown’s burgeoning list of enemies. The mortal incident occurred Friday at closing time when the clown’s baggy outfit appears to have been caught in an unattended chicken grinder, pulling him into the greasy fray one inch at a time, while programmed employees stood by recording the developments on their cellphones.

After a few minutes the whole thing was over. The clown had completely disappeared into the machinery and workers went back to cleaning up and clocking out. It was only after this that police were notified.

“It’s no big deal,” said one middle manager. “His head will grow back. It’s happened before. We’ve warned him not to wear his clown suit in the kitchen but he won’t listen. No one tried to save him because beheadings are not covered in our employee handbook and corporate reprisals here are rather harsh.”

Readers will recall a somewhat related occurrence last October, when Wendy, the Burger King and Col. Sanders were inadvertently sucked into a nuclear street sweeper/dog food compressor while jogging along Highway 50 north of town. Despite an all-out search, their mangled bodies have yet to be recovered.

Physicians exploring the range of McDonald’s healthy insurance policies have determined the cause of death to be acute, aggravated macro decollation.

“At least it was a clean cut,” said one doctor.

It was not clear at press time whether or not a service would be held for the decapitated clown or if employees would be paid for attending said event.

– Sir Otis of Liver

Reader Survey

In order that we can better serve our advertisers we ask that our readers take a few minutes out of their busy routines and respond to this simple survey. DO NOT SIGN YOUR RETURN, as we do not wish to meet you.

1. Explain your aversion to authority.

2. Are you currently incarcerated?

3. Name the communicable diseases you have contracted this month.

4. When was the last time you stole a car? 10 months? One month? Ten minutes?

5. Name your favorite prison warden.

6. Complete the following: My credit is currently…

7. Which sport do you most prefer?

a.) poker

b.) cock fights

c.) mud wrestling

8. Do you presently own a refrigerator? A bed? Chair?

9. What color is your dish?

10. Do you eat out often? Out of a can? Off discarded newspaper?

11. Are you much of a shoplifter?

12. How much money do you spend on liquor each month? $500? $750? $950?

13. Your highest education level attained…. 1st grade? 2nd grade? PhD?

14. Why do you so enjoy cattle mutilation? When?

15. Do you have a post office box on East Colfax Ave? Why?

16. How many books do you read in a year? None? One? Comic Books?

17. The best remedy to remove cheap wine stains from clothing is…

Thank you for spending your precious time on this little questionnaire. The tabulated results will help us to decide just who we are reaching and how better to hoodwink advertisers. Happy trails!

Paisas on the Bench

Afternoon brings out the best in Antioquia

The Beer Pilcher of Granada

The Hotel Alhambra occupies almost a block right in the middle of the Granada, across from Parque Central. The terrace potential here is high even if the service is the slowest in all of Nicaragua. After a day roaming dusty streets, followed by a swim with the sharks along the Las Isletas del Mar Dulce (Lake Nicaragua), a cold Victoria beer sounds like heaven.

The hotel terrace offers shade, well-worn comfort, cheap drinks, great local cuisine and an engaging (May I practice my bad English on you?) staff. It is the ultimate perch from which to observe the nightly neotropical parade in a fascinating city bent on forgetting decades of economic and civil strife, compounded the policies of my country.

The brightly painted walls of yellow and blue are accentuated by hordes of ancient vines, orchids, and vivid hanging flower baskets. The high ceilings, abstract art in chipped paint, create a subtle vertigo while the ceramic acoustics of the tiled palace chime the melodious Guardabarranco and Carlos Mejia Godoy.

The entire patio is one step up from the street and is encompassed by an imposing rail to keep the great unwashed from bothering the paying customers. Expanding the radius are struggling palm trees, the nearby lake, horse and carriage operatives, the aroma of frying fish, loud music, walled stucco houses, skinny dogs, pleasant people and crowded passageways wrapped around 16th Century cathedrals.

Delirious traffic in dilapidated chariots circles around and around the park acting out some mad petroleum mating ritual, horns keeping time with a torrid, indistinguishable beat.  Across the avenue enterprising venders sell anything from hash pipes to baby alligators. They have long ceased daily commerce and have headed home for the night. I have been warned to avoid the park after these hawkers have gone. Already a seedy element has emerged, preparing to propagate business after dark, intent on another crap shoot of drug sales, petty theft, outright robbery, muggings and drunkenness.

Poverty and tourism have never melded to anyone’s satisfaction.

But I’m on the proverbial sunny side of the street or so it seems with the combo-neon and florescent patio lights turned up to fine print levels. A world away from the park,  I enjoy another Victoria with a snifter of 12-year-old Flor de Cana  rum, arguably the best rum in the Free World (which of course does not include bad ol’ Cuba). The British couple sitting to my left is much impressed with the pungent black bean and garlic soup (another treat from Cuba) while three local merchants smoke trophy puros offering me one which I accept with a short referendum on my provenance. At the far end of the terrace banister are thee laughing tourists from Managua, who have accumulated at least 15 bottles under their table, an effective method for calculating beer purchases here.

That’s when I spot him. He stands out from the others. This guy looks the rough, crude menace but somehow less threatening from afar. He’s big for a Niacaraguan. He meticulously picks through the treasures in the park’s austere trash bins, discarding pieces then angrily kicking over the can. Underprivileged  garbage, dissipated fruits of the poor displayed in skeletal wire and grungy bins. I saw him sitting on a bench at the plaza talking to himself earlier. On second examination he appears almost harmless compared to some of the other toughs that circulated here. Just another shabby street man eyeballing the hotel porch. I look away yawning, stretching, looking for another beer.

He crosses the street but fades into the shadows only to surface at the far end of the block. Passing slowly by the terrace after several reconnaissance missions he suddenly swoops down like a parched falcon grabbing a glass of beer off the British table and drinking it in a gulp, setting the glass carefully down afterwards. He sets his sights on another beer, from the merchants table this time, and slams it down as well, gently replacing the bottle on their table. He then runs off happily between the alley notels, the abandoned language institute and the designated pickpocket staging zone.

I laugh to myself not wanting to appear entertained by the intrusions. The merchants do not appear particularly perplexed peering over at me with that only in Granada look, sans surprise. They shake their heads. The Brits are at first amused, then irritated, then amused again. Their eyes wander the terrace searching for some logical explanation, finding none. Is he part of the all-inclusive experience?

Moments later I catch his movements back along the rail. This time he grabs a bottle of Victoria off the Managua tourists’ table and drains it. The tipsy table is not quite sure who drank what. They call the waiter who comes running with one of his fellows and they throw the beer thief to the ground with the fury of Volcan Mombacho. Nothing personal…but he is fouling up the sacred serve and volley of gratuity. He escapes and returns to the badlands of the park and looks at us yelling, “Beer belongs to the people!”

I have to admit I am enjoying his antics with every cold Victorian that goes down. The waiters apologize to the victims and replace their beers. They even brought me a free beer after I expressed outrage and threatened to write a bad review on the place in The San Juan Horseshoe en los Estados Unidos. No one seems all that ruffled.

But this beer guerrilla is the real deal. This stalwart boozehound, this dry debunker, this macquerau guzleir may be more than what meets the eye. He’s a force. His clownish persistence cries out to be recognized. The man is a talent. The cat burglar of cold beer. He will not be denied!

He doesn’t try to steal beer from me. Perhaps I could be trouble. Perhaps there are easier marks. Considering my sense of fashion and attention to hygiene that particular evening the man probably figured I stole what I have and was intent on drinking it. I have actually had street people come up to me in South America and offer me their coats on a cold night. Maybe we are kin or at least kindred…

I finish another beer and move to the relative safety of a table next to the kitchen door where I can chronicle the action while avoiding future larceny. The bullish boob won’t get my beer.

“He won’t be back,” a waiter announces brushing his hands of the incident. “He won’t dare pull that stunt again.”

Yes he will.

I watch as the conversation returns and beer disappear down appropriate throats. The table I vacated is now occupied by three Nortes with backpacks. They order Victorias and quesillos (braided Mozzarella cheese served in a warm tortillas swimming in onions and cream) and sit back innocently while noisy hookers come out for a stroll. Hunched behind them is our beer thief himself, who is now spouting on about the glories of Sandino right there in ultra-conservative downtown Granada, trampling on nostalgia, and interrupting the colonial ambience of it all. I order another beer, ignoring his gaze but watchful, digging in for the rest of the performance.

The curtain reopens with the same sly grin, the slithered walk, the thirsty demeanor. He promenades by the terrace once more, the dirty and demented hops high jacker. He grabs a beer off the Norte table and drains it with the refined movements of a jaguar. The backpackers are stunned and in the momentary chaos he takes anarchistic license to drink another, without spilling so much as a drop. Then its the same delicate trademark return of the bottles to the table where they had been.

“Down with capitalism!” he cries as the cook and several bouncers grab him and roughly toss him into the street oblivious to freebooter traffic, jagged cobblestones and road apples. One of the burly men then punches him lightly, exhorting a muffled threat. He is gone.

Stunned, the Brits and one of the local businessmen join me at my redoubt by the kitchen. We are all now completely regaled by the heists. The tourists from Managua call it a night and the backpackers sit clutching their beers. I quietly indulge in my good fortune. I have yet to fall to these pranks. I feel cocky and worldly, bullet-proof and quite sophisticated. We order food, paella, avocado salad and fried plantains. The talk turns to the country’s turbulent past and hopeful future.

The British couple applaud me for my attentive vigil in the face of dangerous beer snatchers. The merchant does too inviting me to her shop the next day.

A traveler such as you who pays attention has nothing to worry about when visiting Nicaragua,” she smiled.

“When I am in unfamiliar terrain I try to remain alert,” I smiled back, showcasing my lunchroom Spanish and my alleged survival instincts.

“You have to appreciate the man’s persistence. There is a man who knows what he wants and how to get it,” I jive.

The conversation stopped upon further commotion in the kitchen. Moments later our beer man was hurled through the swinging doors to the floor chased by the owner and the bouncers. They were sweating and did not appear amused. He had apparently been hiding in the freezer knawing on a side of beef and breaking eggs against the side of the cooler. Despite his near strangling and his bouncing off the concrete floor he was still moving.

He looked up at me pathetically. I didn’t know what to do or think. Here’s this poor thirsty creature about to get his ass kicked who couldn’t give a damn eitherway. Sad. A tragic world…Just another day in the life…

Then with one desperate grasp he laughs and grabs my beer from the table and, despite his unfortunate horizontal posture sucked it dry.

“My beer!” I cried, as our ardent guest of dishonor was then most indignantly escorted out the front to destinations unknown.

– Kevin Haley

Visiting El Jardin, Antioquia

Tips from the self-propelled experts at Dip Advisor

Don’t step in dog poop.

(Actually these towns are far cleaner than most places in the world. People here are very good about cleaning up after their pets. The problem often rests with a few patos (jerks) and an assortment of free-lance canines that rarely carry around those plastic poop gloves. The absence of paw thumbs also poses a problem for even the most conscientious mutt).

Never wear shorts unless you want to.

(Despite what the guidebooks say nobody gives a damn what you wear or do. As I said to a friend on the street in Andes: “You are just jealous. If you had legs like mine you would wear shorts too”.

Engage

Since there are few gringos here you may get a stare or two from the locals. The best panacea is an enthusiastic greeting which generally calms their fears. (They’ve seen us on the TV crime shows after all). Like everywhere else in the world there are those who have yet to develop socially. It’s not about you but it could be.

Don’t step in horseshit. (Hey it’s a cowboy town. C’mon)

Dig los frijoles.

The aroma of beans cooking in the morning is a secure experience. It’s good for your mental health.

Tell the locals how much you love their town. They won’t be surprised but they’ll take it as a compliment. After all, it is a rare Andean jewel.

Tranquilidad.

Always tranquilo. Noise be damned. Nothings, is perfect. The acoustics are part of the landscape. You’ll get used to it after 10 years or so.

Always greet people before beginning a conversation. It sets the tempo.

Use your GPS to find the closest bano.

And suggest that the local people refrain from using electricity so that you can take that perfect photo without overhead electric wires everywhere. You may get a laugh or a stare depending on the depth of your conversational partner

It’s perfectly natural to talk to dogs. Everyone here does it. Just keep in mind that most don’t speak English. Add food to the conversation and they can translate.

Don’t step in llama shit

Play tango in the morning. The louder the better.

Pray Away the Hay Program Destabilizing Ranchers

(Ridgway) As with many self-righteous revivals there are often pitfalls most notably relating to over-zealous, twisted application and holier-than-thou contingencies within a congregation void of real love and toleration.

Such as it has become with Pray Away the Hay, a faith-based effort aimed at creating a strict theocracy with evangelicals at the stern. A once lauded syllabus outlining a concerted agenda has been shaved down to stubble allowing for the reemergence of heretics and pagans in the county.

Most of those engaged in the petitioning of the Lord with prayer have sordid pasts from drug use to alcohol abuse to a plethora of social ills. They escape from these addictions and substitute salvation tales and the dogmas of those who seek to control their flocks.

And there’s plenty of money in it for the Puritan bosses even thou their followers are suffering due to mindless tariffs and trade wars with China and former allies such as France and Germany. The frustration and misdirection herein has now invaded the ranching community causing fiscal harm and mindless summations not at all related to the spirit but rather to the pocketbook.

The promise of a bailout by the Trump people has turned into a fiasco where they only ranchers receiving money are of the big dollar corporate variety.

“We started evening vespers back in March but the hay is still there,” said Charley Tonne, who earned a doctorate of divinity at the University of Downtown Delta in 1980. “We hopped it all up during the summer months with rodeos and parades but still nothing changed. Last fall we introduced a more militant approach utilizing tirades of dutiful propaganda and the terrible swift sword of sabotage.”

Tonne, head preacher at the Church of the Once Damned insists on being called doctor even though the level of study is generally compared to a junior high school curriculum.

“I read the Bible and took accounting classes at night,” he said. “Looking back I wish I had taken more classroom work in banking and finance. I excelled in Bible study while securing a grasp of micro-economics. So long as there are the good folk we will have mega churches which have about as much connection to metaphysics as they do to hayfields.

Getting back to Pray Away the Hay, Tonne and his born again followers have suspended the controversial program saying that it is clear that the Creator likes hay and that they “should not be bothering him with incidental issues while heaven and hell collide.”

-Kashmir Horseshoe

“Make Italy Great Again!” – Benito Mussolini, 1925.