All Entries in the "Lifestyles at Risk" Category
Diplomat Forced to Cook Turkey
(Hodeida UPS) Recently kidnapped and then released U.S. diplomat, Haynes Mahoney, was abducted solely to cook a traditional Thanksgiving dinner for Yemeni tribesman according to a State Department release. Although certain items were scarce in the remote desert region Mahoney, drawing heavily on culinary training absorbed in Georgetown, managed to provide his hungry captors with turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce and a delightful marshmallow-yam concoction.
After dinner they drove him back to his hotel, set him free and hurried back to an undisclosed oasis to enjoy several pumpkin pies baked by Mahoney in a dutch oven that morning.
“What we’re dealing with here is a band of Islamic fundamentalists who would never consider going out for dinner on such a day,” said government spokesman, Perewinkle R. Parvenu. “We’re just relieved that they didn’t get indigestion and that our associate is safe.”
It was not clear at press time whether the United States would reciprocate by bombing Yemen or inviting the tribesmen over for dinner after the holidays
-Merv Ditchwater
The Brave, New World of Hay Bales
Several weeks ago I went on-line and purchased 4 bales of designer hay as a birthday present for Bessie, my favorite Paso Fino mare. It was Amazon or EBay or some such robot retail entity. Since then I have been the recipient of a dozen or more emails but no hay yet.
The barrage of emails first congratulated/informed me that the order was “received”. Then they confirmed all of that again in another email. The number I had been assigned was #77776298474637.
I refused to memorize it and went on with my daily chores.
The next day I received a notice that the package was “ready to send” then the next day that it was being “processed”.
In no time another email arrived in my inbox saying the item will be sent on a given day with promises of puny credits if it is not at its destination by a certain date.
Big News Today! They are sending my goods to me and Bessie. Maybe they still have a chance to be here in time for the birthday party (She’s 20).
But not to be. The next email outlines options for tracking the package.
And more emails came stumbling. One apologized and told me the delivery would be a few days later than the original date. Another asked me to confirm my zip code. A third told me my hay was now in the hands of UPS or Fed Ex and that they would handle the transfer.
Another email warned me that the items ordered could be delivered in separate containers.
When I had all but given up on the order I got an email saying that my tracking number had changed and that the item in question could not be delivered to a post office box.
Finally yesterday (her birthday and all) I was informed that the item I had ordered was sold out. I should have bought local. Now I’m headed to town for candles, paper hats and some organic oats laced with molasses, a favorite of Bessie since she was a colt.
From “The herd life ain’t no good life – but it’s my life”
– by Gabby Haze
Campaign Litter Taxing Landfills
(Montrose) Mounds of discarded campaign litter have journeyed to local landfills causing a nightmare for workers there. The litter, comprised of signs, banners, buttons and bumper stickers started arriving the day after the national election and, according to dump sources, has not let up at press time.
“We even discovered human hair and what appear to be finger nails apparently pulled and nibbled during what was an incredibly close election for President on November 5,” said one sanitation associate.
At first it looked like the normal election year assault but this year it shows no indication of letting up. Tonnage is way up although estimates of actual gross weight delivery are difficult to determine since the new trash mixes quickly with existing, non-partisan trash.
One particularly offensive pickup load, mounds of campaign literature covered in fresh manure, green chili skins and rotting pumpkins fertilized some imaginations here.
“We didn’t know if it were just a coincidence that the elements were traveling together or if someone was trying to make yet another political statement,” laughed one worker.
Landfill crews hope to get the situation under control here before the onslaught of Christmas garbage reaches their gates in late December.
– Rory Lyons
CAMPAIGN SLURS EXPECTED LONG AFTER ELECTION DAY
Filed under the redolence Meandering Euphoria, this column is in no way reflective of the current state of daily chaos on the planet; nor is the feeble summation an attempt to make water from wine and to justify evolution, hallucination or reincarnation. Furthermore the writer is not a Jacksonian Democrat but is simply a rattled patriot responding the desperate, ridiculous and downright mean nature that has entranced and strangled the GOP since Richard Nixon.**
I read from my breviary:
“My sweet baby used to glide, now it’s more of a lunge. She was the hurry up sista adorned in nothing but horn rims, an understated choker and army-issue galoshes, but that didn’t slow her down one damn bit.”
… Ooops. Wrong breviary . There now. It’s the blue one. Here we go…
After gay Transportation Secretary Pete Buttigeig played him in a mock debate (Oct 1) with Democrat Tim Walz, J.D. Vance has expressed concerns that he in turn could turn gay?
Although he is reportedly worried in private. He remains macho-heterosexual in public according to election observers.
Meanwhile perceived enemies say Orange Donald has now compared his IQ to that of “Genghis Khan, Marie Pasteur, and Albert Einstein with a side of George Steinbrenner.” Donald was un available for elaboration in that he is taking (Benito) Mussolini lessons this week in Predoppio, Italy.
And as it turns out rattlesnakes in the 4th Congressional District did endorse Lauren Boebert back in October, continuing the lizard-like voting behavior of the know-nothing Democracy that is eastern Colorado.
(Editor’s Note) The San Juan Horseshoe in no way reported that the E Coli (Escherichia coli) bacteria outbreak at McDonalds after Trump visit had anything to do with his recent field trip even though both he and Ronald McDonald proudly exhibit similar color hair. It was coincidental, say GOP spokespersons, and after bloodless rumination we opt to let them play through for now.
Meanwhile in order to avoid jail time Trump has accepted immunity status as well as impunity recognition from Moscow and Pyongyang. He is expected to bring most top-hat MAGA supporters along with him to his new haunts. Many are busy learning new languages although most still cannot speak their native tongue properly.
**Musk is defined as a strong-smelling reddish-brown substance which is secreted by the male musk deer for scent-marking and is an important ingredient in perfumery.
For a related piece turn to: Trump Dumps Vance, Jumps bail, Pumps fist, Humps Georgia, Arizona on Cold Hands-Warm Heart News.
-Fred Zeppelin
Vice Squad Strikes Gold, Parrot City in Flames
Rocky Mountain Mammories
Special from The Gladstone Gladiator (October 26, 1884)
(Parrot City) The dark side of the mining boom came to light tonight as contingents of local deputies, backed by Pinkerton agents and remnants of the Colorado State militia staged a midnight raid on brothels and opium dens here.
Their expenses paid by railroad interests the small but hallowed army was silent moments before the strike. They are one as the new abolitionists joined by a young reporter from this paper, a foul-smelling circuit judge and an anxious undertaker from Silverton. They move on the sweaty gulch under the eye of a band of Utes peering from the painted ponies of their last hurrah.
Not since the Civil War have such perverse conditions existed unchecked by civilized men. Upon entering the muddy hollow that has come to be named Parrot City it becomes apparent that one must keep a firm hold on anything of value. Swaying residents, drunk from rapid fire fermentation, stand in the doorways of makeshift tar shacks watching for the slightest weakness, a blink, on the part of the regiment. A nickel for a beer. Four cents for a life.
The first order of business is to close down and torch the ramshackle Mule Billiards which doubles as a house of ill repute. Since January this dump has hosted several murders in its debauched halls. Miners, heavy with gold dust and momentarily rich in ore from surrounding claims are systematically fleeced here and then thrown out to the rutted streets to survive the frigid night in their skivvies.
Run by Polly Singleton, The Mule will be the first to go. Hallelujah. Watch it go up in flames. Watch the rats scurry to retrieve their lives as the flames creep higher into the frosty spring night. The sun seems to have stayed up in the sky just a wee bit longer to catch the finale. Ashes to ashes. Purification. On to the next den…
That same night there was gunplay out at the DeLila Mine, some fourteen miles from the main from Sullivan’s Ditch where my father was last seen packing ore onto his bare-boned burro before the descent to the flats and on to the assay office over at Lake City. Some people here say he never made it down the mountain, that a slide got him and washed away his treasure. Others say he was bushwhacked by bandits that roamed the ragged heights. I believe they did him in and took his precious cargo of life. I’m certain his murderers sleep in Parrot City tonight.
When we reach DeLila a loud explosion distracts us from our holy mission. Light in the sky. Handguns blaze. We return the fire. We can’t tell who is who. Now they’re all cold on the ground. We lost one of the Pinkertons to foot blisters but otherwise reported no casualties. After a meal of army rations we head back to town to continue sterile purge of the infested gambling halls.
The Chattanooga Saloon. Roulette wheels and keno. The devil’s picture book. Whiskey, soaked chips, courtesan champagne, tiny rooms of sin sag the ceiling above. Stains of the boom. Costumes of deplorable mirth!
One staggering poker face draws on a Pinkerton gun slinger. Dead-eye shot! He drops to the hard wood floor never again to shuffle a deck. Another thinks about it, fingering his leather holster but decides to exit through the back alley into the night. We disarm the lot and detain wicked in the parlor awaiting further instructions from Rev. Chivington, who should be arriving from Capital City this very night.
But wait…they’re hanging the inmates of the Parrot City calaboose! They’ve had no trial! Shouldn’t we wait further…”The boys are just having a little fun,” says a former Union sergeant. “Let them be. We’ll cut ’em down after we’d scared them a bit,” slurs the judge.
Then it was on to the hash parlor, the China Belle opium den where men fancy the foggy dreams of demons and narcotic fantasy, wasting away until the dehydrated dawn comes looking for another handout. Unfortunately there is no one there. They have been warned of our coming and we set the block of leaning shanties ablaze in their absence. It makes a dandy roast on a cold morning. They called the district Parrot City’s Rec Center. The damned at play in the alpine meadows of the Lord!
The Pinkerton fellows are getting itchy for a fight. We’ve met little resistance in our attempts to muck out this hole. Several of the men are headed back down Corduroy Street in search of holdouts. Someone has set fire to the Chattanooga. I wonder did our prisoners get out or face hell’s own fire right here on earth? No report at mid-morning. Witches burned at the stake? The tools of their misdeeds the kindling of vengeance.
Out in the street it is clear that the victims of the necktie party are still in flight, dangling from the noose. Unclaimed souls stranded in space, scarecrows of the swift sword. Fodder of decorum.
Suddenly there is gunfire coming from the upstairs of the Henson Hotel. Somebody’s got a rifle up there. Three of our men are down bleeding in the dirt street. Another is hit.
“Take cover,” screams the sergeant himself holding his belly. “He’s up there,” points one of the deputies, close to tears at the scene. “I can see the rifle!”
The firing subsides and we began the tedious chore of closing in on the balcony assassin. Creeping slowly on all fours I slide along the cupola and into an empty hotel room. The exchange of fire continues, while in its lapses I can almost hear my target breathing through the thin walls of the 19th Century. I hug the hallway wall making my way through barricades as the shooting subsides. I force the door my revolver hip high. There’s no one there.
Surveying the room one more time. Then I pull my handkerchief as a flag of truce and carefully approach the open window. A flurry of bullets greets me there.
Waking up heavily bandaged in a hospital cart I scribble my story while the ghost of John Brown speaks to the righteous of our next engagement. They’ve got excitement in their eyes. A pretty nurse tells me I will likely survive my wounds.
Three weeks later Parrot City is up and running again, a new cast of characters roaming its seedy streets, the mines giving birth to mounds of tainted gold.
– Kashmir Horseshoe
