All Entries in the "Hard News" Category
Tom Turkey’s Lament
He was born on August 17 and, all things considered, that’s quite an accomplishment for any bird as stupid as a turkey. It is doubtful whether his father was present at the birth and probable that no one would have cared either way. His mother was a middle-age (by turkey standards) hen who has since disappeared from the barnyard. He was named “Tom,” which has been an appropriate name for turkeys since prehistoric time.
As a young turkey Tom played all the turkey games. He learned to gawk and twist his neck around into the most contorted positions. When the thunder rolled he learned to plea up with all the other birds of his type, usually causing a few of his fellow birds o smother. Life in the barnyard wasn’t exactly what one would call exotic, but it would simply have to do.
“The turkey, while notably the most ignorant bird in the Western Hemisphere, does fill a void in the culture. Take the Pilgrims and the Indians for instance. I dare say if it had not been for the stupidity of the turkey those miserable colonists would have starved to death for sure.”1.
Tom grew quite quickly and, because the owner of the turkey farm had not provided exercising equipment, he grew very fat. Although he had feathers and was in every sense a bird he could not fly. He couldn’t even jump. Despite these handicaps Tom developed mature relationships with some of the female birds. Most of them were as dumb as dirt as well, but a “well-read turkey is no good to anybody.”2.
The summer passed all too quickly. One day Tom and his breast friend Fred were gobbling about the barnyard when it began to rain. Most of the turkeys froze. They were frightened and amused at the water falling from the sky. The men who watched over the turkey farm began to herd the birds into shelter. Unfortunately all the turkeys didn’t make it and drowned while staring up into the clouds. Tom and his friend, Fred, were quite puzzled as to the disappearance of some of their fellow gobblers but they decided not to dwell on these matters.
“In 1778 Benjamin Franklin proposed legislation to the Continental Congress which would have made the Wild Turkey the national bird of the newly formed United States of America. Many of the delegates laughed and others stormed out of the chambers to inform the press of the old gentleman’s demise. As history tells us it was the Bald Eagle not the Wild Turkey which was proclaimed the national symbol and that is precisely why we don’t eat pork chops on Thanksgiving Day.”3.
Many other catastrophes befell the turkeys that fall as a few were wiped out by a fire in the hen house and another by a falling tree limb, but one incident outweighed the others in the fright category. On September 28 a young turkey, who had been born on the same day as Tom, was lost in a pile of falling leaves. No one realized that he was missing and in an attempt to procure nourishment he choked to death on an aspen leaf.
Like all youngsters Tom and Fred dreamed of running away to sea or of hopping a freight to California. Their dreams never got off the launch pad, though, as the dumb birds had enough trouble just finding their way to dinner. By the first week of October they were gaining two pounds per week and the turkey ranchers smiled as the two young turkeys paraded around their roost. That’s when they first met Spike.
Spike was likable enough, as roosters go. He had an arrogant stroll and a threatening glance for anyone who even looked like he might cross him. He looked on the turkey as one might look on an English Ivy plant.
“Hey, you dumb birds, get away from my fence,” shouted Spike one day as Tom and Fred stumbled around the barnyard. They just stared back at the large rooster, afraid to take another step. Spike was surprised and mistook their stupidity for courage.
“Well, I’ll be,” mused Spike. “Maybe you guys are different from all the rest. Come on over here,” he gestured. “Share some of my dinner.”
Tom and Fred gobbled over to where Spike was standing an cautiously began pecking at his healthy serving. They ate attentively for a few moments until Spike asked them how they liked the meal.
“Why, it’s delicious,” said Fred.
“Yes, delicious,” echoed Tom in agreement. “And there is such quantity.”
“Would you like to eat like this all the time?” asked Spike
Both the turkeys nodded excitedly.
“Well, you can. All you have to do is act important like I do. Be somebody. Quit gawking and gobbling and slouching. Stand up straight!”
The two birds stiffened on command.
“If you don’t wake up this could be your last Thanksgiving, boys,” smiled the rooster.
The turkeys looked at each other. Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving? What is Thanksgiving? It sounds pleasant enough but by the tone of Spike’s voice they couldn’t help but feel that there was a missing link. They thought about asking Spike but were afraid that they would blow their favorable status with the influential rooster. So they just smiled in agreement and attempted to strut like a rooster looking even more awkward than before. However, Spike’s words continued to haunt them all day and late that night the two turkeys discussed their recent experience.
“Do you think that Spike character is on the level? asked Fred.
“Why sure,” said Tom. “Look at how he lives. He’s free to roam the entire barnyard. And just look at the food he eats!”
“Well, what do you think he meant when he said this could be our last Thanksgiving?” Fred was trembling, but he wasn’t cold.
“Oh, he was probably just pulling our leg,” replied Tom trying to shrug it off.
The two continued a circular discussion trying to decide what this “Thanksgiving” thing might be. Soon they were fast asleep; thinking is a big drain on a turkey.
“Whenever you have more than two turkeys discussing anything more technical than a bowl of pea soup you have the potential of a full scale disaster. The only hope is that they are free spenders.”4.
As the first snow fell on their miniature world Tom and Fred wound their gawky way through a multitude of fellow turkeys still at odds about this thing called “Thanksgiving.” At first they were very worried about what Spike had said, but as the days wore on and nothing became of it, they soon put it out of their tiny minds.
“The memory of a turkey is in direct proportion to the size of their brain. The storage capacity approaches zero as the amount of data to be stored increases. In other words, their brain goes on the blitz. That’s how they can remain so carefree.5.
They came across Spike one day sitting happily on a water trough near the entrance to a hen house.
“How are you boys doin’ this afternoon,” he asked sharply.
“Oh, doin’ fine,” snapped Tom.
“It’s gettin’ on toward Thanksgiving you know. Maybe it’s time you boys made a break for it.
There it was. That word again. Spike laughed knowingly as the two turkeys stood completely still in apprehension of the rooster’s next enlightening bit of information.
“I can get you out of here before you’re somebody’s main course,” offered Spike.
“Main course?” asked Fred. “What do you mean?”
“A ‘Thanksgiving Turkey,’ you turkey!” Spike was beginning to realize that the two were as dumb as the rest.
“You mean……oh no. You couldn’t mean that. You mean…..they’d……eat us?! quivered Tom.
“You got it,” yawned Spike.
Well, as one might imagine, a turkey has little chance of making a decision of any kind, much less of this magnitude. Tom and Fred were very upset by this revelation but decided that a breakout was not the answer.
“I’ve never even been outside these gates,” said Fred, “in all my life.”
“What would we do on the outside without the rancher to herd us in and watch out for us? Who would show us where the food is? We had better take our chances here. Besides, nothing has happened to us yet, maybe you don’t know what you are talking about.”
This was quite a bit of reasoning for a turkey and a bit bold, too. When Spike began to get ruffled Tom and Fred retired to a nice, warm sunny spot for a quick nap before dinner.
As the month of November crept onward Tom and Fred became almost catatonic. They stopped eating altogether and avoided the pompous Spike who had returned to making fun of their confusion.
Tom woke up on November 15, which happened to be a cold, foggy sort of day. After a thorough search of the yard Tom noticed that Fred was gone. Tom didn’t know if Fred had taken Spike’s advice or if he was in preparation for the first phase of dinner. Spike was no help at all. He simply laughed at the troubled turkey, who gawked and gaped and stumbled and gobbled all over the barnyard in search of his friend.
Tom spent much of the next week in a complete void. Fred was gone – that was for certain. Spike was still strutting his stuff and all the other turkeys continued their gobbling opera.
One morning Spike startled Tom by speaking to him.
“Come over here, boy,” whispered the rooster.
“Well I see that you made it through Thanksgiving. That must be pretty embarrassing.”
“What?” asked Tom,” You mean it’s over. I’m not going to be dinner after all?!”
“Well, not now, anyway,” sneered Spike. “That reminds me….have you ever heard of Christmas?”
1 From Thanksgiving – The Revenge of the Tourist State by Montague Lament III, pp.67-68. Dog’s Nose Publishing House, 1981.
2 From Cranberry Sauces I Have Known by Montague Lament, Jr., pp. 39-41. Mashed Potatoes Publishing Inc., 1973.
3 From The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin by Montague Lament, pgs 3-5, Pumpkin Pie Press, 1945.
4 From Mincemeat Fever by Lamont Montague, Esq., pg 6, Ronald McDonald Publishers, 1966.
5 From Turkey Brains and other Appetizers by Montague Lamont, pp. 1106-1198, Julie Childs Publishing Co., 1984.
MAYOR’S WIFE RUNS OFF WITH CIRCUS STRONGMAN
(Gunnison — 1882) The reigning Baldwin strudel bake-off champion and mother of four, has eloped with a transient circus strongman it was disclosed this afternoon. According to a note left behind, Leandra Waker, lifetime resident of the Tomichi Valley, exited with her new love interest just prior to dawn on Thursday.
In an emotional farewell message Waker explained that she had had enough during her uneventful marriage to two-term Mayor Joe Waker, a local glass blower.
“The couple’s last kid at home (a strapping 20-year old) hit the road on Monday morning and I was long gone by mid-week,” said Waker in her scribbled correspondence. She reminded her husband of 22 years: “Don’t forget to milk the cows and take out the trash.”
Her accomplice in the detraction, Norman Quinte, had been in the area working for the Snivling Brothers Circus. It was not known how they became acquainted. Very little about Quinte is known although he has had steady employment in the entertainment business since running away from post-war Charleston in 1870. A source over in Montrose says Quinte did a stint as a preacher two years ago but gave up the collar for the thrill of the circus.
Response here has been guarded as most residents sit back in waiting for a response from the mayor’s office. Up till now his honor has been mute on the affair expressing only surprise peppered with guilt barbs aimed at his wife.
“They have done nothing illegal,” said one local peace officer. “It’s not a pretty scenario for the mayor or the town but sometimes people do crazy things. We’ve all been bored here from time to time…some more than others.”
Waker reportedly took only an overnight bag and her butter and egg money from a small cookie jar in the kitchen. The two were seen leaving town on horses owned by Quinte. Information was not available regarding the strongman’s continued status with the circus. However, insiders suggest that the big top institution has never been overly concerned with morality.
“Men get shot stealing other people’s wives,” said Red Harper, campaign manager for the mayor as he saddled his horse. “We’re going out looking for them this afternoon and accidents are known to happen out there on the trail.”
Blabber on the street says the two are headed for the Nevada gold fields where Waker will kick off a career as a dance hall entertainer. According to her sister Larunda, Leandra has always sought the bright lights and they were not to be found here married to “that man” (Waker).
Back in 1880 Mayor Waker engaged in a confrontation with Snivling Brothers over questionable games of chance and the presence of elephants on the sidewalks. It turned ugly with the circus pitching tents in Almont for the entire season. It is not clear whether these events precipitated the disloyalty or how long the state of coveting was out of control.
“She was looking for any ticket out of town and Quinte just happened along,” said the sister, who demanded anonimity.
– Susie Compost
Medicine Wagon in Ashes
Special from the Ouray Solid Muldoon
(Uncompahgre City –1880) The sale of more than 200 bottles of alleged cure-all elixir has resulted in the destruction of a gypsy medicine wagon and the near tar and feathering of one Doctor Orwadd Chestnut. According to local marshals Chestnut sold his self-heralded mixture to naive townspeople with the promise that it would relieve rheumatism, prevent small pox, treat bunions, prevent pregnancy, fade freckles, improve hearing, reduce stress, and attract the opposite sex. It also proved to be an effective meat marinade and intoxicant according to the doctor, who concocted the juice up in his clandestine Gladstone laboratory last summer.
Of the 200 persons who paid $2 per bottle for the stuff, about 195 were severely displeased. When the subject came up at the weekly town meeting and continued over at the Blind Horse Tavern it was decided that actions speak far louder than words. That night, under cover of January darkness, an angry mob approached the medicine wagon, parked illegally, we might mention, in the heart of the red light zone on 2nd Street.
A spokesman for the group, Al Utter, who had purchased two bottles of the elixir, demanded that Chestnut return the money spent on the cure-all. The doctor agreed saying that he would gladly accept unopened bottles in that they were legitimate returns. That would be impossible, said Utter since everyone tried “the worthless potion” and only then did they realize they had been hoodwinked.
Chestnut smiled nervously and said he could do nothing for them He then attempted to terminate the discussion by slamming the door of his wagon when Utter, aided by a size 13 shoe, blocked his evasive tactics. He grabbed the doctor by the collar and attempted to shake the money out of him.
“We heard a few coins drop on the wooden floor knowing that this charlatan had stashed or spent the cash,” said Sam Murphy, local undertaker a leading member of the vigilantes. “It was at that moment when somebody yelled Burn him out! and torches appeared. In moments the brightly colored gypsy wagon was in flames.”
After watching helplessly while his establishment fried Doctor Chestnut decided that discretion was in fact the better part of valor and that ill gotten gains could cost him his neck. He relented and gave back the $400 (a handsome sum to say the least), spouting apologies, quoting the moralists and begging for mercy. The mob then returned the remaining elixir, those bottles that had not been smashed against the burning wagon. Several eye witnesses insist that they saw evidence of tar and feathers in the wings and that Chestnut was smart to leave town.
“People just don’t like strangers coming into town fast talking them out of their hard earned money,” said one marshal. “It’s a long winter up here. We’ll just save the tar and feathering for another day,” he smiled.
Meanwhile up in Highland Mary residents report a severe drop in small pox, freckles and general stress. In addition they informed this reporter that rheumatism was under control and that everyone in town could hear much better after a week taking Chestnut’s recipe. Bunions, too, had miraculously disappeared from the toes of the miners.
“We don’t know how the stuff works with regards to the opposite sex since we don’t have any women currently residing here,” said one satisfied customer.
HUNTERS SHOOT HORSE
A Dream Shot of Some Consequence
a true story with Uncle Pahgre
(Delta) It all seemed to make sense, at first. A friend of ours, who shall remain very nameless, was awakened from his early winter hibernation by a loud pounding on his back door. He threw on a robe and stumbled in the direction of the interruption. When he opened the door he saw two men in blaze orange, heads hung down, shuffling their feet, serious about gaining his immediate attention.
“We done shot your horse, mister,” said the first, “and we come to make reparations.
The second man held out a wad of cash that turned out to be one hundred dollars in the company of four more bills of like currency.
“Well, come in,” yawned my friend. “I guess that was the shot we heard earlier. This time of the year one gets used to guns going off all around. What the hell time is it anyway?”
“Bout eleven,” whispered the first looking around the kitchen in the direction of assorted snores from the hallway.
“You people hit the hay early round these parts, heh?” winked the second man who turned out to be from just outside Dallas.
“We’re up here from Texas hunting and despite what you may have heard we’re responsible, respectable and accountable.”
“Then what’s all this about a horse?” asked my friend.
“Well, you remember the part about responsibility?” offered the first hunter. “That only goes so far, I guess. We’ve been prowling these hills for two weeks and ain’t seen nothing of an elk, unless you count the scat. We were frustrated. We were tired and hungry and headed back to a motel down the road when, just as dusk pulled up her skivvies, we saw movement in the hay field just north of here.”
The first hunter went on.
Jim here decided that it might be our last chance at glory so he took a chance. He sighted in and pulled the trigger. Blam! Then blam again. What a shot! Dropped that elk like a ton of greasy enchiladas on a Saturday night! Cow elk too, you know. No horns. And we each had a million-dollar tag right here in our pocket. Some shootin, Jim.”
The second man just smiled, still embarrassed but yet a little bit proud of his expertise with a rifle.
“We climbed your fence and snuck out to the kill which was dead as an armadillo after arm wrestling a semi on Highway 287. Then the problem emerged. It wasn’t a bull elk. No. It wasn’t a buck or doe, but neither was it a cow elk. It was your horse, mister.”
My friend just stared at the kitchen table.
“The old swayback. She was getting to be an old lady, too slow to ride much less dodge a bullet. Where is she now?”
The two men laid the five hundred dollars on the table and told him the mare was still laying in the spot where she dropped. He sighed.
“How am I going to get around reporting this to the authorities?” he asked.
“We hoped the five hundred would help you make that decision. It ain’t a bribe but it’s a far sight more than that old girl was worth alive. We realize that local cops would put our buts in a sling over this episode but I think you can see that out hearts, if not our brains, are in the right place.”
My friend yawned. He though to himself of a new tractor he needed. He thought of Christmas and his kids. He thought of the good it would do to turn these poor hayseeds into the pencil-pushing cops.
“You boys want a cup of coffee? I gotta think this out. Tell me again, what made you shoot what you thought was game on private property at dusk. Don’t you ever read the back of your hunting license. Cripe, at the cost of the thing I’d think you’d memorize every word just in case you lost it.”
The hunters went through their thinking process one more time dwelling on their fatigue and frustration. They apologized again saying that they wouldn’t blame my friend if he turned them in and pressed charges for trespassing and the whole cheroot.
“OK, but if I ever see you on my land again you’ll be the horsemeat,” he said “Now can you find your way back to your motel or should I drive you?”
They both laughed the laugh of men much relieved. They thanked him again and departed. He watched them as he pulled on his coveralls.
“I hope that backhoe starts. I didn’t plug her in and the weather’s turned cold.”
He stuffed the bills into his desk drawer, told his wife he had to check the cows and wandered into the night. He’d bury the mare before the rest of the family got savvy to what had occurred. He drove through the dark expecting a messy ordeal, then he saw the mound of flesh hugging the ground and approached.
“What the hell?” he barked standing over the kill. “It’s an elk. Those morons shot a cow elk and from the looks of things it was a perfect lung shot. I’ll be dipped!”
Thinking that the meat was still good he proceeded to dress out the elk there on the spot. The cold weather had kept it from going bad right away and the lung shot had insured that the meat wasn’t spoiled by adrenaline and trauma.
“Hell of a shot,” he smiled. “Hell of a shot.”
At dawn he woke up his oldest son who helped him cut up the elk and package it for the freezer. It would feed a lot of people a lot of nights this winter.
“Does this mean we won’t be going hunting, dad?” asked the son on the way to school later that morning.
“What makes you ask a question like that, son,” smiled our friend. “In fact I think we oughta stop by and look at that rifle down at the hardware store. It’s been fired a bit but they might let it go cheap if we flash them some cash, heh?”
“Whatever you day, dad.”
(Editor’s note: The San Juan Horseshoe in no way endorses withholding evidence from the law however until we can safely determine who the responsible parties might be we can tolerate temporary storage of such data. In closing this paper likewise does not ignore good karma, frontier justice, divine intervention or just dumb luck. In short: We suggest that one never look a gift horse (or elk) in the mouth, a part of the anatomy that should remain shut on a host of occasions.)
FISH GET NEEDED BREATHER
(Ridgway) Local trout, who have enjoyed the time off over the past month due to bow and black powder hunting seasons as well as the gov’ment shutdown, are ready to get back to work Monday.
“The reservoir is starting to freeze and we expect the ice fishermen to start arriving any day now,” said Ken Kokanee of Colona. “We look this season much like a hockey game. The only difference is that there’s a hole in the ice and half of the participants use fishing poles instead of hockey sticks. Also,” Kokanee spouted, “there’s no puck! Think of the fish as the puck.”
MATH CORONER
If Governor Polis would have spent his campaign funds on beer instead of all that annoying television advertising this year, how many of the beverages would have been bought for each American over 21 years of age? Would he have gained a larger percentage of the popular vote this way? How would this have affected the electoral college in terms of square roots and all that? Is a gubernatorial candidate expected to provide snacks too?
Write your answers on a bar napkin and send to Math Coroner, Potter Gazette, Pea Green, Colorado. The first person to answer these biting questions correctly will be, in turn, bitten by a member of our kitchen staff. In case of tie, all winners will be encouraged to run for President in 2028.
