All Entries in the "Lifestyles at Risk" Category
Three friends enjoying the sun on the plaza in Jardin, Colombia
Colombia’s most beautiful plaza welcomes a sunny day in February
Nyuk, Whoop, Hey Moe recognized by Websters
Standards created by the Three Stooges Nyuk Nyuck Nyuck, Whoop-whoop-whoop, and Hey Moe, Hey Moe have been accepted by Webster. Nyuck…Nyuck…Nyuck was recognized as a viable breath of Americana while Whoop-whoop-whoop had to be reclassified as colloquial to qualify for the ranking. Hey Moe…Hey Moe, the only honor bestowed on what are are actually words and not just sounds made the cut to the surprise of the grammar gods. Barking in various modes as well as the famous shuffle made popular by Curly could not be classified as verbs or nouns and were thus discarded. Some sort of muddled or frenzied reception is planned for an undisclosed location.
Toole slapped with franchise tag
(Eldridge, CO) Long-winded scribe, Melvin Toole, has been slapped with a franchise tag here according to a testament released this morning. The statement, peppered with scant, illusive data and mumbled information said only that the tag was a surprise.
“It was just a flesh wound,” chided the 112-year-old who refuses to retire, or change his underwear regularly.
“It didn’t hurt but what should I do now,” he plead.
The recipient, speaking from the shaded deck at First Light Liquors here had no further comment and did not field questions.
Toole is the author of more than 200 books on the inner ear.
“He is the kind of person that slices his burger in half before he eats it.” said one close friend. “These little side trips without at least basic micro-dosing often cause a lot of chaos, even some violent episodes. In one case it required 4 large men to subdue the 117-pound Toole and that’s before he started hitting the weight room twice a day
Bequeath your ski pass to the poor gaining steam.
(Ski Dallas) In what appears to be a softening toward the less privileged, many affluent skiers are giving away their annual downhill passes to the poor. The surprising behavior is peripherally linked to accusations that the sport has become the haunt of the wealthy, cutting out middle and lower income groups.
“An initial reluctance has morphed into a sort of snow white caring or so it appears,” said a spokesman for Colorado Ski Country.
“It’s quite trendy these days for liberals to talk about one’s generosity at cocktail parties and even on the lifts. Many of the enablers here are quite comfortable and can donate their passes only to purchase another without leaving their bubbles as the season goes on.”
The more conservative element on the slopes has been slower yet less verbal in their commitments to ski access although many in both groups expressed concerns with crowding especially on weekends near urban areas.
“We don’t mind helping out a few low-op people just so long as they follow the rules and the etiquette inherent in the sport,” said one retired skier who expected the daily pass rates to explode to make up for skyrocketing expenses at most major resorts.
Person wishing to participate in the fledgling exercise should apply at gimmealift.com. Lessons and ski rentals are not included.
-Fred Zeppelin
Trump Not Elvis says DNA Test
(Mar-de-Lardo) Final DNA tests, denied as fake news by remaining insiders, prove that Donald Trump is not now and has never been Elvis Presley. Although the ex-President never made clear claims that he was Elvis, family members admitted that he had embraced the fantasy for decades.
“When Uncle Donald took a trip to Tupelo, Mississippi as part of a Ku Kux Klan camp in 1959 he imagined himself to be Presley,” said a distant cousin who has written a book on Trump.
“He saw that Elvis was the center of attention and therefore concluded that he must be the hip-swaying singer. It was all too clear to him.”
The recent DNA tests show no biological or ancestral link between Trump and Presley although hair styles maintain a slight resemblance. Even though Elvis sang an occasional gospel tune and Trump quoted the Christian Bible when it suited him, the study found both men to be “low spirited and agnostic.”
“They both adhered to religion only when it propped up their bank accounts,” added the cousin. “Their frightened followers ate it up.”
With this final appraisal the Presley estate now plans to file a lawsuit claiming copyright infringement and brand violation on the part of the defamed politician.
Supporters abandoning Trump say the Elvis fraud is far more serious than tax evasion and inciting a riot, two charges lingering in the Trump bubble. Some 88% says they would still vote for Trump/Elvis if he runs in 2024.
– Gabby Haze
Bronco defense requests trade
(The following was penned after the Rams debacle and before a coaching change and a decent performance against the Chiefs).
(Dove Valley) The much beleaguered Denver Bronco defense has requested a trade. The unprecedented petition, delivered en masse Wednesday, did not spell out how the players might be distributed or when the coveted transaction might take place.
Despite a ranking of 5th in team defense, the squad has reportedly grown tired of sharing the sidelines with an offense that rarely moves the ball.
A muffled voice from the Bronco front office suggested that nothing would happen until the end of the current season in January.
“It’s like the offense out there on the field,” he said. “Nothing happens. We ran the ball effectively against Arizona then opened up with passes against the Rams. Who pray tell is writing the script here?”
At present league officials and the players’ union are engaged in tense discussions with one eye on their pocketbooks and the other one on their pocketbooks.
– Syd Fardt
Nisei Christmas
“…Men speak of them well or ill; they themselves are silent.”
– Stephen Vincent Benet, Ode to Walt Whitman
One Christmas near Granada, Colorado in 1942 two soldiers sat in a dark cafe watching the snow come down. Snow was not a familiar thing to these two who would be shipping out for Sicily in a few days. There was no visible sun in the sky and the windows of the cafe looked as if they hadn’t been washed since the First World War concluded almost 25 years ago. One of the soldiers, Private Thomas Okamoto, would go on to be one of the most decorated fighting men in the European Theater. The other, also decorated, would serve for two years in the 442nd Regimental Combat Team and see action at Salerno Bay, at Naples, at Cassino, and at Anzio. His name was Kiyoshi Nakamura. He was killed by a German sniper near Saverne, France in November of 1944.
It was in late December of 1943, just north of Naples, that Nakamura met my uncle Clifford, and shared the following story.
We were staring out the window onto the soggy Colorado street. Private Okamoto was talking about his uncle’s strawberry garden back in California. We were not afraid to go to war but we were afraid of what may happen to our families behind barbed wire at Granada. A tall, thin rancher stumbled into the cafe, ordered coffee and sent a bone-chilling stare in our direction. It wasn’t a hostile look, more one of astonishment, of lassitude. He turned tiredly away from us and asked the walls and ceilings if we were spies.
Then, without warning, he approached our table. We thought he must be drunk.
“Looks like snow,” he said. “How long you been in?”
Private Okamoto answered him, followed by a crisp sir. He sat down.
“I’ve heard a lot of you pups were joining up,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to stare but you two are the first I’ve seen in uniform. Where they sending you?”
“Afica or maybe Europe,” I answered, “for the time being. We’re nor supposed to talk about it.”
“Loose lips sink ships,” said Okamoto.
“You won’t see much snow in those parts unless you make it up to the Dolomites. Where are you boys from?”
“Santa Ana, California, sir. We are only here for two days to visit our families in the camps. They were moved here in October,” I answered. “We brought them Christmas presents.”
“My name is Walters, Frank Walters. I remember spending a cold, wet Christmas at Cambrai, in France in 1917. I was at Belleau Wood as well, and with the Brits at Chateau-Thierry after the Germans broke through in 1918. I survived. At least I think I survived. A lot of them didn’t.”
“My uncle Joe was killed in the Argonne Forest,” I said. “His father and mother had only moved to the California in 1880 and they were proud of their native American son. They were presented his Silver Star.”
“And now our government is involved with another war with Germany…and this time with those bastards, the Japanese,” said Walters, catching himself. He looked at the floor.“You got a lot of family interned here at Granada?” he asked.
“Most of them,” I frowned. “The others, a cousin and Private Okamoto’s brother are in the army. We are Japanese-Americans, you know.”
“I know,” breathed Walters. “Good farmers. Good family people. I don’t think they deserve what they’re getting. Scaliwags up to no good. War profiteers of another stench, but the country’s in a panic.”
“After Pearl Harbor it’s not hard to believe,” said Okamoto.
Walters returned to his previous state, not saying anything for a few minutes, just staring out the window and then to the door as if expecting a visitor.
“How old are you boys?” he asked, returning to the present.
“I’m 19 and Kiyoshi is 20,” said Okamoto.
“The same age as my Tommy,” said Walters, after a moment. “He was lost when the West Virginia went down at Pearl Harbor last December, he said as if still not comprehending the trauma. “It was a beautiful morning in Honolulu they tell me.”
We sat there in shock. After two days visiting Granada and 12 weeks in Georgia training to kill Germans, and perhaps even Japanese, we thought we’d reached a certain sense of numbness. Now we were sitting here with a World War I vet who had lost a son to the Imperial Navy, to young men our age, who looked like us.
“My name is Tommy,” offered Okamoto, stumbling over his words in some attempt to ease the pain that all were feeling by now.
“You’re all just children,” said Walters, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “We were children too and it’s another Christmas. Babies with guns and tanks and planes. Germans and Japanese and English and French. Dead because of incompetemnt, greedy and power hungry leaders, or are we just blood-seeking animals standing erect? It’s insane,” he shook his head methodically from side to side. “They put your families in camps and yet you volunteer.”
“No matter how bad things seem we must retain honor,” said Okamoto.
“Honor,” answered Walters, gathering his emotions. “You boys had better drop back a few notches on the honor and hold onto a little common sense when you get over there,” he said. The Germans are entrenched all the way up the peninsula. It’ll be no picnic.”
“It’s a noble war,” said Okamoto.
Walters smiled a distant almost shell-shocked smile and changed the subject to the wine he had drunk, the friends he had made and the women he had met in France during his war. He somehow remembered these things and pushed the other horrors to the side. We both hoped this would be the case with us, if we survived.
He then took us totally off guard and asked us to write him a letter saying that it would get to him in Lamar without an address.
“Just send it to Frank Walters,” he said.
We told him we’d send him a postcard from Rome or maybe Berlin and asked him to watch out for our families if he could.
“I’ll do that,” he said, getting up and disappearing into the snowstorm.
– Kevin Haley
