All Entries in the "Hard News" Category
Bass boat fleet arrives at North Pole
The first frozen bass boat arrived at Santa’s Workshop this morning. The craft, one of 15 purchased in November is specially designed to make use of an overabundance of elf muscle available at the North Pole.
But primarily it is a sign of the times due to great polar melting and the disappearance of icebergs, fish and mammal habitat. The bruised topography has dictated a new approach to survival in the Far North. What used to be massive chunks of ice is now frigid water, ever rising, ever-consuming. Climate change does not support sleigh travel even if the sleigh can fly.
“We got tired of all the deniers, the greed and the ignorance associated with the man-made crisis,” said Santa Claus, who, with the help of twenty elves guided the boat into a protected slip out of the wind. “Fossil fuels are responsible for the demise of our lifestyle and yet they are drilling just over the horizon.”
One elf chimed in: We’ve got more water than ice and snow – sleighs can’t cut it and reindeer don’t swim well. We’ll still use reindeer to haul our new boats over what snowy terrain remains. Citing a “little known fact” the elf said that it always took more than one sleigh to make the rounds on Christmas Eve.
“Now we will have enough bass boats to deliver presents to every kid on the planet, at least while we still have a planet,” he bragged.
News that the loyal elf faction here would be expected to take to the ores did not go down well. Many are not comfortable with the plight of the galley slave even for one night in December.
“It starts with one night then before we know it we’re in chains rowing through glaciers and ice mountains whenever Santa wants to go on a road trip or has business in Canada,” squawked another puffed up elf.
The remainder of the fleet is slated to arrive this week and undergo major modification before the Yuletide begins. Each of the larger boats is named for one of the eight reindeer with other smaller vessels tagged for North Pole landmarks and Santas immediate family.
“If the destruction caused by human generated climate change is not addressed today we will need every boat and more to make it to dry land again,” said a visibly exhausted Santa. “Coal in their stockings hasn’t worked. Future believers may be writing me letters c/o Mount McKinley, Las Vegas or Mars.”
For a related piece turn to What to buy for a polar bear? in Lifestyles On Ice
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.
