All Entries in the "Lifestyles at Risk" Category

FBI Raids Cat Lady House

(Colona) A combined land and sea assault is in progress this morning targeting a notorious cat lady locale in downtown Mañana. Part of operation Feline Fandango, the feds will to storm and pacify roughly 400 known cat lady redoubts west of the Mississippi by 2022.  

These swoops have become necessary since local County Health office and Humane Society have been unwilling to come to the aid of county taxpayers. Many of these people are at risk of septic disease do to sick and unvaccinated animals. The condition remains critical at various coordinates throughout the Colorado Plateau and onto the Pacific..

The incursion included rounding up local tom cats —the after dark culprits in the population brinks. None of the tight-lipped agencies would say if legal action is in the wings but the demolition of contaminated adobes has already began.

“How assorted cat lady teams have survived in such gruesome and deteriorated conditions is beyond even the sickest imagination,” said one state health official who demanded anonymity. 

“Pets deserve to have a healthy life,” said the rogue health official. “These poor creatures are damned to an early death and all because of human retardation and shocking ignorance.

Upon completion of this daunting task FBI agents will begin deploying special nautical strike forces along 1000-square-miles of the Continental Shelf ocean floor. Their goal: Removal of an estimated 44,000 tons of discarded exercise equipment currently littering sediment-covered seabeds all the way to abyssal plains.

-Dag Katz

Potheads urged to take care with debris

Citizens harvesting cannabis crops in rural designate regions are firmly encouraged not to dump excesses near known migratory paths of indigenous species. Already biologists have noted that many mule deer appear slower and flocks of magpies have been getting to work later and later as they fiddle with and munch on sticky, stinky, newly caste-off buds strewn about the countryside. One can easily smell it on their breath. 

What we don’t need is for our wards to get hooked on marijuana,” said one USFS spokesperson. “They’re alfalfa bill is already through the roof! These herdies are desperately hungry bastards and can gorge themselves on bales of assorted grass and other fodder when not restrained, and that’s just the undulates. 

Marmots are particularly at risk in that the buds sustain them in their daily prowls while the leaves make mighty fine nests. It was recently noted that prairie dogs, existing in bar ditches from Limon to Cahone, have been putting on a little extra weight this fall. Is it anxiety over the coming winter or is it Oreos? 

Employee Housing in Ouray

The Ant, the Grasshopper…

and the Bar Fly

     So, this guy comes into a bar…actually the two of them had been lounging for most of the afternoon flexing what was left of their pale muscles, pumping wisdom like a tired old well about to call it a lifetime. Both were heavy into self-absorbed. But swashbuckling tomcats like Don Juan were light on scrutiny preferring the other side of the looking glass to the mirror.

     These were very important men. Don Juan had an opinion on everything which he shared with the less fortunate like Candy, his shell-shocked drinking buddy who had eager ears but little as backup. 

     “Yeah, I’ve damn well got her made,” started Don Juan. “Got my bank roll, my trailer house is paid for, and my pickup is runnin’ great.”

     He turned his neck ever so slightly and caught a glimpse of Candy who looked like he was trying to crawl into his cloudy pilsner glass.

     “For crying out loud, man, sit up straight,” he cuffed. “Look at your body language. It says everything about you. It tips your hand.”

     Candy looked at his body. He didn’t see or hear anything but he came to attention anyway following a pattern that had begun early on. Candy was there as a human reaction, to do as he was told. He was all but transparent because it had become easier that way.

     “Look at this,” said Don Juan, scanning the local gazette as he reached for his beer. “They sent a probe to Mars but it blew up when it got close. Idiots! I wonder how much that cost. I pay taxes and I’m damn sick and tired of the government shooting off space ships like they were butterflies.”

     Don Juan thought about what he had just said and smiled at his linguistic flair.

     “I don’t like bugs,” said Candy, “especially flying ones.”

     Don Juan continued to read the paper; his glasses fallen down around his cantaloupe nose. To him the expression on his face while reading was far more important than any information extracted from the experience. He wore a somber frown accentuated by hush puppies and a cap that read Cheyenne Frontier Days.

     “Winter’s comin’,” he soapboxed. “Look here. It snowed three feet in Duluth just yesterday. I’m glad I’m ready…got my wood all in and new mud and snows on the Power Wagon. How ’bout you?”

     Candy looked into the bar mirror. He had a propane heater in his small apartment that was paid for by the Veteran’s Administration because of the war. He didn’t drive and the last time he tried to can a batch of tomatoes, given to him by his sister over in Delta, he’d almost blown up the place. How could Candy prepare for winter? One season just plowed into another.

     “Oh, I’m fine,” he choked with an uncertain voice, all but drowned out by the television.

     “Fine, huh?” barked Don Juan. “Just like last year when you never got around to taping your windows and your pipes froze. Then you had to sleep on my couch for the whole month of January. You’re like the man who had a forest of firewood at his fingertips but forgot to discover fire.”

     Don Juan was on a roll.

     “Security doesn’t just wander up into your yard,” he preached. “You gotta go get it. Whether it’s financial, social or romantic there’s a brawl going on and you just as well join in right away. Lead with your left, boy!”

     He slapped Candy hard on the back. The tiny toothless aperture just under his road map nose was not to be stopped now.

     “Take money, for instance,” he continued. “I worked for thirty-five years to get me a nest egg and now I’m gonna enjoy it. I got stocks and bonds, 40 acres up on the Plateau, a great retirement, CDs, credit cards, a fat bank account and even some of them annuities. Everything I got is paid for and I don’t have any kids to leave nothin’ to.”

     Candy stared into his empty glass. Don Juan ordered two more beers and companion shots. He had a captive audience and the four dollars was a well spent investment to keep it that way.

     “You might as well spend it all,” quipped Candy breaking into a smile.

     “Hell, we might just do that this afternoon,” smiled Don Juan who continued to peruse the paper. He was a man smart enough to do two things at once.

     “Yeah, you got to be ready for winter around these parts,” he said glancing in the direction of his doleful disciple who smelled like an empty case of Pabst. “You still got time and maybe I’ll even lend a hand but first let me tell you a story. I know you don’t like bugs but it’s called The Ants and the Grasshopper. It’s by some fella named Aesop. He was a Greek a long time ago.”

     Candy perked up. “That’s a funny sounding name,” he mumbled.

     Maybe you’ll get the connection here. You’ve got to have your affairs in order. You never know when your card will come up. What would you do in an emergency? What do you have to fall back on?”

     Don Juan went on to tell Candy the story of the industrious ants and the lazy grasshopper. Despite the fact that Candy did not like bugs he listened intently. Don Juan told him about the ants drying grain on a fine winter’s day. The grain had been collected over long, hard days throughout the summer months.

     “Then along comes this grasshopper, half starved, begging for a handout,” he explained. “One of the ants asked him why he had not stored up any food during the summer. He says he had not leisure time enough and that he had passed the days singing. The ants scorned him saying that if he had been foolish enough to sing away the summer then he must dance supperless to bed in the winter.”

     Don Juan waited for a response.

     “Mean little bastards,” said Candy.

     “You miss the point,” said Don Juan. “The ants worked at getting their ducks in a row while the grasshopper wasted his time. It’s just like you and me,” he added. “I’m the ant and you’re the grasshopper. My house in order while your roof is caving in.”

     Suddenly Don Juan clutched his chest, executing a poignant plunge from his prosaic perch at the bar. A swan dive in a dive. He hit the floor hard, his satellite brew crashing beside him. He was a goner.

     At the funeral a lot of people that Candy had never seen talked about what a great man Don Juan had been. They said he had grit. They said he had enjoyed a full life. They said he’d be missed. What they were really doing was a little preheat jockeying for position with regards to his assets, which ended up going to an uncle and aunt Don Juan had never liked.

     Meanwhile Candy wandered home and spent the rest of the day putting up visquine over the peewee windows of his ratty chamber. Was there no end to the chores? Don Juan’s old pickup sat propped in the driveway, a gift from the counterfeit relatives who didn’t want to haul the thing back to Salida. Now he would have to put gas in it. How would he ever get around to that.

– Kashmir Horseshoe

Rogue Herefords Turn on Rancher

(Ridgway) Dozens of renegade cows have turned on their master causing non-life threatening injuries and sending a frightening message to other ranchers in the region. The uprising, said to have been in the making since July, reportedly stems from long undressed grievances on the part of the herd, who say they are manipulated and do not share in profits from agricultural operations.

“He’s pretty shook up,” said a neighbor of Merv Ditchwater, who ranches up Cow Creek. He trusted them cows.”

Authorities expressed concern that the assault might be connected to international terrorism or to Mooists operating in remote parts of Asia. Both have threatened stepped up action with regard to alleged abuses in the cattle industry.

“Up till now we haven’t seen any similar activities on the part of goats and chickens,” said an Interior Department Official. “The horses are loyal, the pigs are in clover, the ducks are ducky…but we’re monitoring the sheep.”

Animal behaviorists contend that radical Woolyists, hiding among the confines of local sheep herds could try something as early as next week. The blame radicals and dry conditions for militancy within these generally docile ranks.

“You look at a bunch of grazing cattle and you see peace and pastoral bliss,” said Ditchwater from his hospital bed. “That’s what I thought too. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t been there and seen the anger, the brutality. I’ve had enough. I’m moving to Denver and getting a gov’ment job.”

Intercepted codes reportedly originating within banned sacred cow networks suggest that this is only the beginning.

“As of 8:35 this morning we have broken the code,” said the Interior official. It’s “AND THE COW’S IN THE CORN but beyond that we don’t have a clue.”

The official said he’s not worried since his agency has a bottomless operating budget and will continue to “push the envelope until the cows come home.” 

Consumer groups and drugstore vegetarians expressed concern that the gov’ment will take advantage of these troubles to further tighten the noose on personal liberties within the cattle population.

“Before long you won’t see a cow grazing without security personnel on duty. X-ray machines, loyalty oaths and expired visas will be a thing of the past,” said the source. “They might even have to take off their shoes at the airport or surrender their toothpaste.”

The ringleader of the attack is thought to be registered breeding bull from the provinces who goes by several aliases including T-Bone Gaza, which is the name on his student visa from cow school.

Citizens are asked to report anything suspicious in the pasture. Wanted posters, featuring a photo of Gaza, are expected to be on display in local post offices before long. 

– Kashmir Horseshoe

Last Leper Colony Closes Doors

(Wildhorse Creek) The last known leper colony in Colorado closed today due to a disappearing clientele and conflicts with local logging interests. Actually there were no lepers living there. A short ceremony was conducted without incident and the place was then abandoned.

This community of people suffering from the disease called leprosy was founded in 1843 buy Guy Ultimathule, a Norse seaman who contacted the disease himself in 1840. For almost 50 years the leper colony thrived despite the inability to grow much food. Water and game, however, were plentiful and the lepers were not particularly concerned with the scurvy.

Then in 1893 some of the more industrious lepers struck gold in their little leper fountain in the town plaza. They were rich and, in light of their close-knit society, so was everyone else in town. From about 1900 the lepers had been living a life nothing short of pomposity, their lavish lifestyle delving into the stark, lower reaches of narcissism. 

Most people in the surrounding communities were never aware of  the leper stronghold.  In recent decades the only contact was by beer truck drivers dropping off kegs of beer, Thursdays and Saturdays since 1953.

The colony was nominated as an historic place by the Colorado Preservation Society in 2007.