All Entries in the "Fractured Opinion" Category

Wall Street Bankers’ Organs Worthless to Science

(Mao Clinic — Hedger’s Review — June 22, 2016)

The American Medical Association, backing up affirmations by researchers here, has further established that organs donated by Wall Street bankers and most brokers are scientifically worthless. These include hearts, livers, as well as assorted nervous system parts and accessories.

In particular it is the heart that is of no use to medicine since that organ tends to shrink with every questionable transaction.

“While the chest may be extended the heart is most likely diminished due to professional associations, elitism and greed,” said one surgeon at Mao. “The hearts arrive post mortem and are sent back. Sometimes it requires a microscope to even see them much less detect a viable beat.”

Surgeons were quick to point out that any act of benevolence, such as willing one’s physical body to science, is appreciated by the hospital.

“They are also far too cold to be transplanted into the chest of a normal, warm-blooded human being,” added the source. “Most of their livers are shot as well due to years of alcohol abuse which tends to accompany the high stress work.”

The nervous system of the average Wall Street trader resembles the drive train on a rusted out Pinto (car not bean) and is of no use at all. Doctors here say many of the people are setting themselves up for an early end

“They should radically change their lifestyles, give away all their money and devote their lives to helping the poor,” said another Mao spokesperson, sliding into a bright red Alpha Romeo. “We at Mao are only happy to soothe this fiscal plight, especially if it leads to a healthier mind and body. After all, isn’t that what medicine is all about?”

None of the medical personnel cared to comment when asked about the value of Wall Street souls.

– Kashmir Horseshoe

Killer Bee Update

(El Pasto — Winged Crier — June 14, 2016)

Throng of killer bees have reached the outskirts of El Paso, Texas this morning and are headed north. Having outflanked the thousands of armed Tea Party vigilantes the bees are expected to arrive on the grounds of Fort Bliss if the pollution doesn’t destroy their tiny lungs.

Scientists in Texas, who don’t believe in the Ozone, say that the bees will almost certainly be exposed to harmful rays of the sun and could go blind. Another scenario shows the bees smoking tobacco and succumbing to cancer and related maladies before they make Oklahoma.

The Department of Instigation has been busy building fences all along the US-Mexico border to keep out the aggressive pests that, by last tally, number in the quadric-millions. If the fence fails to stop the onslaught a plan to deprive the bees of sustenance by blacktopping Mexico is firmly on the back burner.

Patriotic Americans are instructed to stay inside their homes and watch television until this newly emerging peril passes.

Colona Airport Observes Milestone Crash

Wildcat Creek — Storm King Syndicate — June 12, 2016

With the downing of Rasta Air’s prop jet yesterday morning, Colona has achieved what few other facilities only dread. Since the opening of the air shuttle/express and mini golf in 1986 300 planes have been lost at or near the airport.

Runways and trees have been the physical culprits in most cases although weather is often merciless miles above the scrubby mesa landing zones. Local pilots credit the morbid milestone to the 10% grade and the nearby abode cliffs.

Excelsior Airlines has called Colona its hub since the early Nineties although no one has seen one of the company’s fresh, sparkly attendant staff since 2007. Attempts to contact the airline by carrier pigeon proved futile.

The Federal Aviation Authority is expected in town later in the week according to unreliable sources congregated near the milestone.

– Fred Zeppelin

Biotech Pioneer Sloppy Housekeeper Says Mom

(Goat Gap, TN — El Moody Foodie — June 8, 2016)

A pioneer in the field of biotech foods often did dishes with a blow torch and carried out involuntary bacterial experiments in his refrigerator, says his mother.

“Mel would constantly rake his living room to keep it free of encroaching debris while discovering some 33 new species of mold growing to the size of a small dog in his vegetable crisper,” smiled Lucille “Mother Melba” Toole, hurling enthusiast and boat builder from Crookhaven in West Cork.

“I don’t approve of what those boys are doing over at the lab,” said the maternal Toole. “I don’t think people should eat food that has been tampered with, or modified genetically. Everything was fine on the job since that Monsatan rascal joined up. My boy Melvin may have 15 advanced degrees but what good are they when he spends the day making chemical fish sticks out of cloned egg shells.”

– Attila Diggins

NOAH’S LARK

It is dusk on the proverbial Noah’s ArK. Most of the animals have settled in for the night on the crowded craft that they would call home for some time. It has started to rain. Two giraffes are busy sharing an up-to-the-minute appraisal of the situation.
“Yeah, OK, I see the lions. I don’t think they pose a threat just so long as the rations hold out,” said the first giraffe. “Noah has warned all of the animals that they can be replaced if they exhibit antisocial behavior and even those big cats don’t enjoy water all that much.”
“It makes me nervous nonetheless,” said giraffe number two. “Did Noah really think that he could change instinctual patterns overnight, just because of a little flood?”
“The man is really quite amazing, I think. Here he is building an ark, gathering two of every animal on the planet to assure the continuity of the species after the waters subside,” said the first giraffe.
“It will have to be after we get off this ship,” laughed the second giraffe. “With the overcrowding there is no such thing as romantic privacy. Even the rabbits are abstaining.”
“Well, nobody really knows how long this flood will last so we might as well all get along. What puzzles me is why he chose only one pair of all the other animals and four giraffes,” said the first. “Where are our mates? I’ve searched the entire ship and I think there’s some mistake!”
“You mean you’re not a female giraffe?” asked the second. “This is embarrassing. Noah has been so niggardly with our standing room that I have yet to take a peek. I thought you were a female giraffe with a deep voice or an overactive thyroid. You’re a male?”
“Red-blooded and ready to rock and roll,” smiled the first. “Noah must have two females stashed somewhere. It makes sense that he would carry more than two of us on this nautical roster considering the fact that we are the most attractive and most advanced species and that the entire ecosystem revolves around our poetic abilities to reach into the sky.”
“Yeah, I’ll buy that,” answered the second, “but I wonder where our mates could be?”
A small chimpanzee approached the two giraffes looking for his mate as well. He stopped to exchange pleasantries.
“Oh, I know she’s on board. I’ve already met her,” he said when the conversation got around to the subject of pairs. “She’s sweet and bright but she’s already talking commitment,” he explained. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all that…”
“Quit your bellyaching, monkey,” asserted the first giraffe. “At least you have a mate. We’re both guys and we’d like to take a gander at Noah’s ledger in case there is some mistake.”
“There’s no mistake,” insisted the second giraffe. “Noah knows a good thing when he sees it. He’s just over booked on giraffes. It comes as no surprise to me…”
“That Noah is a few cubits short of a yard,” snickered the chimp. “He’s always hanging near the bow talking to the sky. Some of the birds have talked about going AWOL and searching for land on the horizon. Maybe you boys should join them. Well,” he waved, “I’m off to find my one true love and maybe a few minutes of privacy somewhere on this craft.”
“What an obnoxious fellow,” said giraffe number one. “It’s no wonder Noah only brought two of his species.”
“Enough about the damn monkey!” said giraffe number two. “We need to get to the bottom of this mess before we drift farther out to sea. Here Noah comes now. Let’s ask him about our mates.”
The captain of the arc was happily singing away as the two confused animals approached him. “Zebras are reactionaries, antelopes are missionaries…”
“Excuse me, Noah, we have a bit of a problem here that you might help us sort out,” said one giraffe. “After careful calculation and intense scrutiny we have established that we are both males. Our question to you is whether or not you have a couple of giraffe babes stashed aboard this vessel?”
“What?” screamed Noah. “Two boys and no girls? It can’t be. He’ll scuttle me for sure on this one!”
“Who will scuttle you?” asked the giraffe. “It seems like an honest mistake. Just tell us where you’ve hidden our mates and all will be forgotten,” said giraffe number one.
“Have you ever thought of dating a koala bear or a wildebeest?” asked Noah grabbing at straws. “How about a nice aoudad? They can be very nice companions and are said to be great cooks.”
“What are you telling us?” asked giraffe number two. “Is this some celestial foul-up or are your numbers off?”
“Let me check into it and get back to you,” shrugged Noah. “Do you know how many species I had to gather to pull this deal off? It ain’t easy being a major Biblical character when you are surrounded by such a zoological nightmare.”
Noah disappeared below claiming that he would set things right.
“Why is there only one human on this voyage,” asked giraffe number one.
“One is enough,” laughed number two, now becoming more comfortable with Noah’s ability to correct his mistake. “What I can’t figure out is why he hasn’t swatted those bothersome flies up on the poop deck? This appears to be the appropriate time to save mankind from an eternity of buzzing. I’d do it myself if I could.”
Noah returned smiling a few minutes later.
“I talked to the Boss and he was understanding. This misappropriation has not occurred in any other species,” said Noah. “He is sending a female giraffe over on the supply ship this weekend. It’s quite lucky for you guys that there are any left after the storm and all.”
“Great, said both animals, “but while we’re on the subject where is your mate?”
Noah frowned. “She’s at her mother’s. She hates the water. I told her this was no regular voyage but she’s not one to listen when her mind is made up. I expect she’ll show up as the storm progresses. The only problem now is that we have one too many male giraffes. Which one of you is the better swimmer? Just kidding, boys.”
Noah then shot off again, promising to examine all possibilities by the weekend but reminding the two giraffes that the Boss has clearly stipulated that only two of each species would be allowed on the ark.
“I guess we could always let the lady giraffe decide,” said Noah, “but I’m afraid that might set a powerful precedent for what’s left of eternity.”
“Hey, it’s only Tuesday,” said giraffe number one. “We have until the weekend to come up with a solution. Maybe there’ll be a last minute cancellation,” he flinched.
“Maybe she’ll bring a friend and the Boss will cut us a break,” said giraffe number two. “After all, the world can always use a few more of us.”
“Maybe the rain will quit,” smiled Noah, swatting away a fly.

Kevin Haley

May 19, 2016

Where’s Emmet?

While wandering down Antigua’s cobblestones on the way to Spanish class I wonder at the activity. It’s still early in the morning. The bakeries are buzzing. Citizens hose down the sidewalks. Meats hang in the butcher’s window like birthday piñatas waiting for adoption. Fix-it shops plow through mounds of damaged goods, busy fingers sprinting toward mid-morning breaks with coffee and tortillas.

My tranquil home in Ouray seems light years away. I stop and watch a young woman sew together a pair of ripped trousers. Two doors away someone’s grandfather tests a compact disc player, smiling when he hears the bouncing sounds of salsa. Sure, turn it up…You know you want to. Buenos dias and a smile. Before I reach San Francisco Church another shop door hangs open. Inside a cobbler bangs away at an army of shoes while his infant son watches from a nearby basket.

A brightly painted bus passes spewing diesel and smoke upon each take off. It’s one of countless chicken buses that troll the streets in search of passengers. These trademark transports are derelict school buses, discarded by the folks up north who like their things brand new. Here in Guatemala where quetzals don’t go far, the bus has been born again.

Back in Colorado I was talking to a man who works at the dump, oh excuse me, the landfill, the other day. He asked me about Central America. Says he’s going there after he gets off probation. Public service and all…

Somehow we get onto the subject of trash. The power of suggestion and the odor must have a hand in it. He swats at an almost bankrupt fly, saying he was reading a piece on landfills and the desperate situation facing the country.

A vision of a ghost garbage barge teaming with refuse comes to mind. That image was New York City’s tons of discharge looking for its place in the sun. Bring me your tired, your poor, your throw away society filling up the sea. New is better, ain’t it?
“We’re running out of room,” he says. “The dumps are full of televisions, tires, bottles and furniture. They won’t go away.”

Skeletons of affluence.

***

In Antigua, our neighbor, a thirty-five year old taxi driver named Hector, jacks up his ’64 Chevy to replace a badly dented wheel.

“These streets are tough on a car,” he smiles.

We take his photo next to the car. He asks how much we paid for the camera and is shocked when we tell him.

“But you can buy a throw away model for a whole lot less,” I insert. He looks at me but cannot think of anything to say.

His wife, Iris, is a seamstress. Her small shop next to the tienda is crammed full of well-worn clothing fresh from the United States. Rips and tears and holes and hanging threads greet her each day. Some of the trendy logos are difficult to make out in the shadows of mid-afternoon.

“Well, I don’t know what to say, Barney, if Aunt Bea can’t fix it you’ll have to take it to Emmet,” smiled Sheriff Taylor from behind his desk. “It could take a while. He’s busy this time of the year.”

“Maybe I’ll just buy a new one. Who knows how many slices of bread have been toasted in this one,” said the deputy, looking at the small toaster on the desk.

“You don’t need a new one,” popped the sheriff’s son Opie. “The one you have is perfectly fine. It just needs a little attention.”
He looks at his father, “Pa, don’t we have an extra toaster to lend to Barney until his is fixed?”

“That’s a good idea, son. Why don’t you both take a ride over to the house. It’s in the cellar. Take the patrol car.”

“I don’t know what we’d do around here without Emmet,” said Barney.

“Yeah, a good fix-it man is hard to come by,” answered the sheriff. “I remember when folks had to travel all the way to Mount Pilot to get a radio fixed. Now we have Emmet in the fix-it shop and Gomer down at the gas station. This is really living.”

May 18, 2016