All Entries in the "Fractured Opinion" Category

The prominent San Juan peaks…

An interview at 14,000 feet

This interviewed has been compiled under duration by a crack team of investigative journalists trying to rationalize spending a good chunk of the long, hot summer stumbling around high in the San Juan Mountains. It in no way reflects the shortsightedness, political bias or intolerant stands common to this newspaper. The report is not intended to substitute for the eerie harbingers, half-truths, crisp dialogue, educational opportunities, fantasy time travel or twisted focus presented in the mainstream funny papers.
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Horseshoe: (crawling up the last few feet to the top of Mount Sneffels) Good day, Ms Sneffels. I hope we aren’t intruding so early in the morning. Did you sleep well?

Sneffels: Sleep well? Up here, with sheets of bedrock? You must be kidding. It snowed last night. I’m soaked to the strata and haven’t even had time to fix my face. I must look hideous.
Horseshoe: On the contrary…you look…quite majestic.
Sneffels: Why thank you. How about a nice hot cup of tundra tea. I have it imported from the Sangre de Cristos.
Horseshoe: Sure. I guess you’re wondering what I’m up to here so early.
Sneffels: We don’t get a lot of visitors until about noon, then the lightning scares them off by two and things calm down again. (A rock falls down almost hitting me). Damn mountain goats. Clumsy bastards. No consideration. No sense of design. They never used to come up this high until the humans started the jeep tours and helix skiing.
Horseshoe: My publisher sent me up here to get a story on the Pacific Rim and climate change…
Sneffels: Well you’re 800 miles off course.
Horseshoe: But I came to talk to you and several other mountains here in the San Juans to get your angle on it all. Even though there are few actual volcanoes here, the whole place is the largest erosional remnant of a complete volcanic field. Scientists say the San Juans were created by five volcanic eruptions each with a magnitude ten times greater than Mt St. Helens.
Sneffels: When was all of this to have happened?
Horseshoe: About 35 million years ago.
Sneffels: Before my time.
Horseshoe: Did you ever meet La Garita Caldera?
Sneffels: I knew her during the Precambrian Era when we were a lot younger. She was an eruption waiting to happen. All talk-no action.
Horseshoe: Are there mountains like her in the San Juans today?
Sneffels: You mean volcanoes? Say it. It’s not so bad. Yes, Lone Cone still fancies himself an active volcano but most geologists laugh him off the stage when he starts in. He’s the only mountain in this range with enough hot air to almost pull it off.
Horseshoe: A real hot head, huh?
Sneffels: Oh he’s a genuine volcano all right…though extinct from what I hear. We don’t talk about that in front of him. You should stop and ask Old Man Wilson about him. They’ve been neighbors for millenniums. No love lost there. I’d go with you but I think I’ll just stay here and be high.

After crossing into the Western San Juans the hard way we finally reached the crest of Mt Wilson. We carefully ascended the steep rock face and scrambled up to the top of the magnificent 14er.
Horseshoe: Hello Mount Wilson. Are you there?
Mt Wilson: Yes I’m there. I’m here. I’m pretty much everywhere up here. But please get off my chest. It’s hard enough to do crunches when you’re made of metamorphic rock.
Horseshoe: Oh sorry.
Mt. Wilson: Men who move mountains, huh. What a crock of lava.
Horseshoe: May I speak with you for a moment about global warming and seismic energy and…
Mt Wilson: So you’ve been talking to Mount Sneffels? That bony broad doesn’t know if she’s coming or going. Not well grounded if you know what I mean. What did she say about me?
Horseshoe: Only that I should talk to you about Lone Cone.
Mt Wilson: So that’s it. I should have known. That Lone Cone gets all the attention. Don’t know what the ladies see in him. He’s always been a punk in my book. I knew him at Vesuvius Junior College. He was very active in a lot of underground volcanic activities there.
Horseshoe: Do you think he plans to erupt in the future?
Mount Wilson: He has too many faults and that crater face ain’t gonna win him any friends. His volcanic block along with his personal hygiene could dictate anything.
Horseshoe: When was the last time he blew his stack?
Mt Wilson: During the Haleyolithic Era he got all huffy about some pterodactyls using him for nesting. Up here…mind you. He shot a few rounds of steam and they split. If you don’t believe me, ask him yourself. He’s over there toward Norwood with his head in the clouds. Just do yourself a favor and don’t say anything about his faults. He’s also touchy about the word dormant…something about his twisted male ego.
Horseshoe: Thanks Mr. Wilson.
Mt Wilson: You betcha. Hey if you run into Last Dollar Mountain on your travels tell him he still owes me money from a poke game in 450, will ya.

We proceeded to climb the south ascent to Lone Cone despite warnings of electric fields and unfriendly ptarmigan. As we approached his conical mound he resembled a medieval castle. We yelled a greeting like before.
Horseshoe: Greetings Mr. Cone. We’re from the San Juan Horseshoe. I understand you’re a volcano.
Lone Cone: Well I’m not a Chevrolet.
Horseshoe: I’ve been talking a lot of your neighbors about volcanoes and global arming and I…
Lone Cone: Those ninnies over by Ouray? Bunch of angular nonconformists. I went to a barbecue over there a couple of hundred years ago and it took me three years to get home. Damn.
Horseshoe: Are you extinct like they say?
Lone Cone: I certainly was not that Fourth of July. It was a Carnival atmosphere. Extinct? I should say not. It started as an impulsive glance and ended in a landslide. I’m known as quite the ladies’ mountain you know.
Horseshoe: You know La Garita Caldera?
Lone Cone: Garita babe? We saw quite a little of each other during the Triassic Period, but the commute cooled things off. Have you ever tried to get a mountain into the back seat of a 57 Ford?
Horseshoe: Not recently.
Lone Cone: Oh a wise guy? How would you like a little eruption or maybe a landslide aimed in your direction? Didn’t your momma ever teach you any manners?
Horseshoe: Yes but I gave them up to go into journalism. But do you plan to erupt soon?
Lone Cone: Only if I get another real estate sign stuck in the side of my head. The other day some lady asked me for my listing. Was she coming on to me? You people ski all over our faces. You take our pictures. You gaze in our direction but when it gets dark you leave us out here…all alone. Lone as it were. Lone.
Horseshoe: So…the eruption potential?
Lone Cone: Yeah, I think I will. Imagine the attention from the rest of the world if I spewed out and made a mess. I’d probably qualify for federal assistance. A disaster area right here in the San Juans. The Andes and the Urals and the Alps would be green with envy. Maybe I’ll do it for Christmas. Back in the old days the tribes would throw me a virgin princess or two…to calm me down…but with civil rights and all I can’t expect that this go round.
Horseshoe: Those days may be gone forever. Thanks for talking to us. We’ll send you a copy of the story. – Gabby Haze

The Journeys of Parson Hogg

SATAN TURNED BACK ON OPHIR PASS

“It would generally take about a panatela to get over Ophir Pass in the winter whereas in the summer I could make the trek on a cheroot.”
– Otto Mears
“Gimme two cards..” – Parson Hogg

This photo has little or nothing to do with the accompanying story but we thought a slinky red dress might get more attention.

People rarely ask me about my uncle, a circuit preacher who was well known in the gambling saloons of Telluride in the 1880s. Nonetheless he’s on tap for this month’s column.
Parson Hogg was a fearless traveler in these mountains, the San Juans, tracked by grizzly, confronted by warriors, almost freezing to death in a late spring snowstorm right out of the seminary, or so he said. His weekly trip over Ophir Pass from and on to the boom town of Telluride, was probably the most perilous according to his diaries. The solitude was paradise at times and eternal damnation in a moment, depending on who or what one encountered. In the 1880s the place was crawling with highwaymen, looking for gold and silver shipments to steal.
Relatives later said that it was the regular exposure to these dangers what made the man take to gambling.
Parson Hogg never took a drink of alcohol in all his adult years, having made himself deathly ill on snake oil bought from a migrant chemist in Delta as a boy. He was a man who not only learned hard lessons but made it look easy. He made it to Sunday services 47 out of 52 Sundays in 1885 and broke his own record in 1886, with one short of perfect.
Arriving in Telluride one morning at half passed seven he hurried to Jim Hurley’s corner saloon where his eager congregation would be waiting. Such as it was, the Saturday night smelling bar room was the site of the weekly Sunday service. The sermon today would focus on the attributes of prudence, considering the fact that it was already September and the winter was breathing its frigid breath down local necks.
“The man who plans ahead, stays ahead!” declaimed Hogg, working himself into a furry in just moments. “Ye shall flourish in the eyes of the Lord,” he wailed. “The Lord helps them what helps themselves!”
Hogg collected $14 which wasn’t too good for a stunning sermon delivered deep in the land bulging with precious ore. It was a puny stake but it would have to do.
When the Lord placed the opportunity of a gambling table in the lap of the faithful it would be sacrilegious to turn the other cheek.
The game had started across the alley in the parlor of the Woods Hotel.
“Hey, Reverend…you sitting in this morning? Collection basket pretty heavy, was it?” asked a lop-eared miner whose eye-balls needed a shine.
“Maybe for just a hand or two,” said Hogg
And that’s generally how it started, an innocent flirtation with the devil’s dictionary. Tonight Hogg was on too, drawing an inside straight right off and following it up two hands later with Queens and threes…a full house.
“Mighty fortunate card playing, Parson,” said one of the old timers that orbited the table.
“If we didn’t know you were a man of the cloth we’d think there was some monkey business going on,” said another.
“Ye shall flourish in the eyes of the Lord!” muttered Hogg to himself as he pulled in yet another cascade of chips.
“The Lord helps them what helps themselves,” he whispered, “and I damn well helped myself this morning!”
“Well, boys, it was a pleasure doing business with you this fine Sunday and I hope to see you all in church next week,” smiled Parson Hogg sincerely, careful not to tip his arrogance. “I’ve got to be cashing in my chips and going back to Silverton.”
My uncle’s winnings for that Sunday came to just over $200, a pretty good haul for a few hours work in 1887. The preacher shoved the money into his pocket, salvaged his mount from the local livery and headed toward Ophir, weighed down with the worries of a frontier cleric but secure in the fact that he traveled with the Lord and the $214. Although there was an eternity of daylight left and probably very few robbers operating this early in the morning, he took precautions, sticking the $14 collected at church in his pouch and his evil gains (in silver) under his flat-brimmed, black hat.
About two miles up Ophir Pass Hogg was confronted by a surly looking type who demanded his money.
“Why, I’m no more than a poor pastor,” said Hogg, “returning to my flock in Silverton. Surely…”
“Silence, preacher,” said the robber. “You’re carrying a tidy sum of money that you just won on a gambling table in Telluride.”
“How do you know about…I mean what are you talking about? I told you I…”
“Silence, preacher,” said the highwayman. “Now pass me that pouch before this pistol goes off in your general direction.”
Hogg slowly passed the pouch remembering that he had stashed the majority of his treasure under his hat.
“There’s only fourteen dollars here, preacher,” blasted he robber. “Where’s the other $200? Lets check them boots.”
Hogg thought quickly. How could this rabble know exactly how much money he was carrying? Unless…
“Do I know you sir,” offered Hogg.
“Many do,” answered the robber.
“Do you travel in darkness?”
“Many have seen me that-away.”
“Are you the fallen angel, Lucifer?
“At your service.”
Lucifer smiled and bowed condescendingly.
“Now hand over the cash, parson, before I blow your head off your shoulders and look for it within your remains.”
Once again, with his stake at ground zero Hogg had to rely on his wits. He was a tried and true gambler and he had heard the Devil was the wagering type.
“All right, you win,” said Hogg, his voice shaken. “If the $200 is in one of my boots, let’s make a wager. If you can pick the right boot, the money is yours. If you choose the wrong boot you let me go on my way in peace,” quipped Hogg.
Lucifer frowned, then smiled, then frowned again.
“Why should I agree to this wager when I could just take the money right now?” he asked.
“Because I’ve always heard that you’re the sporting type. Is that true or are you just the kind who relies only on his demonic might?” teased Hogg. “Your love of the game is legendary down in the gambling halls and I hate to see you lose such status over a measly $200.”
The Devil frowned again saying that he only wanted to keep the money from falling into the wrong hands anyway. He holstered his pistol and say down on a rock.
“You’re on, parson,” he spat. “Let me get a better look at those boots.”
The devil, now quite immersed in the game pondered the situation. He looked right and he looked left. He looked Hogg smack in the eyes. He looked again.
“It’s the right one,” said Lucifer. “The right boot. Take it off, preacher.
Feigning disappointment Hogg removed the boot exposing only one poorly sewn sock.
“What?” screamed the devil. “Where is the money? Let’s see that other boot!”
No such luck, Mr. highwayman,” chirped Hogg. “You didn’t pay to see that hand.”
And just as quickly as he had appeared, the defeated devil vanished leaving Hogg holding his boot, alone on Ophir Pass. And that’s how the story goes.
If there are those of you out there who are expecting Hogg to see the light and change his card playing ways, forget it. He continued to make his treks throughout the San Juan and was always a fixture at the green, felt table no matter if it was green, felt or otherwise.
– Kevin Haley

Ronald McDonald Enters Treatment Facility

(Montrose, CO – March 10, 2015)
The McDonald Corporation confirmed that its lead cook and front man, Ronald McDonald, has entered a drug and alcohol treatment facility somewhere in LaPlata County. The clown, known for personal appearances and senseless TV advertising on Saturday mornings, was not available for comment.
It was clear he did not go voluntarily.
McDonald will spend the next three months undergoing therapy aimed at combating recent disorientation and serious depression stemming from his cheerleader role in helping to destroy global small business. Besides the chronic impersonalization of “eating out” McDonald has been implicated in blatant misrepresentation of ingredients, mislabeling menu items, the use of genetically modified foods, and, in the more serious charge…the brainwashing of small children.
These grease mongers have brought the concept of nutrition to its knees and created an unhealthy environment both physically and socially. They have dealt a deathblow to the concept of choice and made the country just that much more plastic and homogenized. It would be far bad enough if they were the only fast foodies but quick success has begat millions of absentee owner/corporate slop houses. They are like cockroaches.”
“Imagine a world without McDonald or McDonalds. What would we lose?” asked one critic. “People I meet in other countries think we all eat this shit, watch television and spend weekends roaming endless malls. How embarrassing,” she winced.
Just last January McDonald seemed to be crumbling, having shouted at a group of preschoolers at the opening of one of his diabetic parlors in Green River. Days later he threw a watered-down coke at a ZYX executive news anchor executive then furiously drove away in his 1949 Porsche, police on his heels.
Upon seizure of his vehicle, officers discovered an illegal stash of clown pornography, a case of Tums and three cosmetic surgery catalogues.
Interviewed back in October McDonald seemed shaken, admitting that the rigors of the restaurant business had taken a toll.
“He was going through some heavy trips,” said Mona McDonald, the clown’s half sister and heir. “Yes, he is a disgrace but I know in my heart that he never intended to hurt anyone.” – Susie Compost

Violence in America

by Dr. Efram Tinklholland, BFD. LSD, LSMFT

From a recent release “Verbalization – Underplaying Violence in America – The far away threat to do bodily harm

In our hectic lives we encounter interactions which might be perceived as harmful or hazardous. Immediately the fight or flight mechanism shifts into gear, triggering an appropriate (or inappropriate) response from the host human. Stress factors such as freeway driving, mega existence, fiscal status, other people and, yes, drugs and alcohol, can create a Jekyll and Hyde response with the slightest provocation. Verbal attacks and even physical threats can be generated by friends and enemies as well as strangers and acquaintances.
Here are some everyday aggressions, spoken or implied by aggressive body language in a prelude to a conflict:

“You keep that up and you’ll be picking your teeth out of your socks”. Sure it’s cute, and even clever enough but in actuality there has never been a recorded case of this redistribution of bicuspids or dentures, at least in the civilized world. The saying originated at the Little Chef Saloon in Ridgway back in the late 70s and has no application to the modern day town where people prefer lawsuits to fisticuffs.

“In just a moment, it’s gonna be open season on your face.” Popular during the fall hunting seasons even though everyone knows there is no official calendar period for violent threats. Friday and Saturday nights appear to be the most likely time but a mid-week brawl is not out of the question. The reference to “in a minute” shows both restraint and indecision and is misleading in that most perpetrators of violence are far more impulsive in application.

“I’m going to punch your lights out.” Likely reference to the fabled knock-out punch and to 25-watt true enlightenment, an elusive station on a bar stool. Rarely has connection to electricity but could leave participants in the dark over what to do for an encore. Voltage not a consideration although two of our friends Oral and Muriel DesPlants did manage to punch out all of the electric fixtures at Red’s Gravy Heaven one night doing $8 worth of damage.

“Watch your mouth!” This contortion, like so many other figures of speech, is physically impossible to achieve without the presence of mirrors or an embarrassing flare up of rubber lip syndrome. Here we observe the speaker offering the offending party another chance if he will simply stove it. No one expects potential sparring partners to roll their eyes in a downward spiral or perform a dangerous horizontal spin. We have seen people lose vertigo on this one and fall onto their faces long before the first punch has been thrown. Even Bill Shakespeare had some splendid advice on the subject: “Do ye not bother the bullfrog…for he is croaking for ancestors. Watch thine own yapper or he shall wop you in the gob…and away be squashed like a plum under the wheel.”

“I’ll slap you silly.” Usually meant as a recreational or off-handed threat rather than an attempt at industrial intimidation. If the conversation continues to go bad, the threatened slap ends up a punch and the recipient may actually end up silly. More likely the anger will subside before the action is embraced. Brawls and scuffles can leave one silly, which is not to be confused with funny.

“You’re gonna get your butt kicked.” This is the clearest intention to inflict pain, injury, damage or other hostile action on another in retribution for something done or undone. In this episode the potential attacker focuses on a different part of the body to make his or her point. Kicking someone in the butt can jeopardize both parties in the middle of a fracas and can lead to a loss of face. Biting is safer, more specific and certainly employs the element of surprise.

“You’re going to the Moon, Alice.” Sociologically speaking this utterance could be the most famous of all literary, domestic threats since Tennessee Williams, Virginia Woolf or even Charlie Dickens. This familiar early warning was coined by Ralph Cramden in “The Honeymooners”. Cramden was a bus driver in New York and the threat was usually voiced about 2/3 of the way through an argument with his wife, the smart-mouthed Alice, who did not take it lightly. In almost eight years of marriage Cramden never made good on his promise and Alice never left the planet. Living in a walk-up. cold water flat may not have been the epitome of elegance but it provided a great set for the domestic struggle. His intentions were often directed toward sewer worker Ed Norton but rarely if ever toward Norton’s wife Trixie. Men: If you choose to go this route, remember to substitute the name Alice for the name of your significant other.

Congress Forced to Meet in Europe

UNESCO Special to the Horseshoe – February 25, 2015
In an effort to comply with the Gramm-Rudman Act of 1985, the 2015 United States Congress has agreed to hold all future fiscal sessions at an undisclosed spot in Northern Europe, or maybe Southern Africa. The act, aimed at reeling in rampant spending, has been in force for 30 years. The finger pointing Congress, awash in partisan bickering has been unable to concentrate on the issues in Washington where opinion polls and lobbyists have them sidetracked from noon till night.
It is hoped that the lawmakers can get down to business out of the limelight.
“Since so many legislators are either out campaigning or on fact finding vacations abroad they don’t really need to be in Washington for a shadow appearance, paying lip service to constituencies,” offered Senator Oral Noise (Unitarian-CA) sponsor of a bill that calls for the relocation.
Surprise..Surprise! The measure passed on the first vote like a double-shot of prune juice in the House chambers. Congressmen voted unanimously to give themselves another vacation, and they also passed a bill that authorizes a cost of living increase.
One freshman senator from Wyoming or Montana was thrilled with the news saying he’s never been out of the country and couldn’t wait to see Europe, or even Africa. Another representative from Rhode Island equated the development with joining an elite, high roller’s Peace Corps.
The only snag appears to be the reluctance of Allied governments who may not want the Americans there taking up their courts and chambers. One possible swap is in the works where Congress has use of the British Parliament, in exchange for the occupation of the U.S. Capitol by Brits during the Cherry Blossom time in D.C.
It was not disclosed if elected participants would have the use of their counterpart’s jets, limos, hairstylists or extramarital companions. Nothing was said of towels or linens either. Insiders say the continued NFL matches played at Wembley Stadium may help smooth out the proposed switch.
Meanwhile host of Southeast Asian nations voiced distrust of the arrangement saying they would like to be included in what looks like a golden opportunity for getting paid for doing nothing. – Dirty Sally

Sell Black Canyon, Buy Suspension Bridge Says Local Man

(Montrose — February 25, 2015) Political activist and executive director of executive directorships executive, Melvin O’Toole, told an attentive audience at Wake Up Montrose that the city should sell the Black Canyon of the Gunnison to the highest bidder and purchase a state-of-the-art suspension bridge with the profits.
The bridge, which O’Toole says could be bought or built, would span an area from South 5th Street to Chipeta Lake by autumn.
“Progressive cities all over the world feature suspension bridges on their tourist brochures,” said O’Toole. “A suspension bridge would attract a strong cross-section of retirees from Orange County and meth addicts from the Confront Range. Then we’d really have something here.”
O’Toole was instrumental in bringing the first pigeons to Montrose in 1976 and lobbied heavily for a snow shed at Main and Townsend as well as a tasteless shopping center south of town.
“We got one of the two,” smiled O’Toole, who did not seem to grasp the loss of beautiful pastureland in exchange for a Target store and a lot of asphalt where cows and horses used to graze.
“Once the bridge is installed someone is bound to build a river underneath it,” said the speaker. “Think of all the jobs that would mean.”
O’Toole did not respond when remind that the Black Canyon was now a National Park and the property of the federal gov’ment.
As the presentation ended, he received a warm applause and reception from the three persons in attendance that had not fallen headfirst into their oatmeal. – Signelle de Bushe