All Entries in the "Reflections on Disorder" Category

Plastic diapers blamed for behavior disorders

Hemp the Savior?

(Yellow Rock) The use of plastic disposable diapers is being blamed for the rise in insanity in civilized cultures according to pediatricians from here to Brownsville. Aside from the obvious psychological damage that occurs when baby is left too long in any soiled duds the employment of disposable diapers may be the root of  the rampant social disorder  that has plagued the planet since turn of the last century.

     Pop culture icons agree that plastic diapers made their opening statement in 1948 and were embraced by mothers (and fathers) who could afford what was considered a luxury.

Despite the great invention, trouble was ahead. No diapers to wash but was baby different than before? Were these diapers really such a good idea? Were infants wearing these disposables losing ground both physically and mentally due to chemicals and plastic embracing their sensitive skin? Were babies becoming psychopathic because they wore disposable crotch threads?

     Some doctors say that a baby experiences gratification and security by touch at a young age. What can we expect when he or she is living in plastic and adhesive instead of soft cotton and safety pins? Super-absorbent polymers, resealable tape, elastic waistbands. Was this the stuff of cribs and changing tables in the future?

     Navel intelligence tells us there is less than 10% collateral damage here but is not clear what harm is done by the very nature of the garment. Unfortunately the key witnesses who are still parading around in disposable diapers are not likely to have mastered the language at that young age and thus cannot to tell us much about the nitty gritty reality.

     Then there is the environmental impact. Disposable is a two-headed monster and convenience comes at a high price. In just a dozen years discarded plastic diapers would account for 1.5% of the municipal waste in the country. In 2050 the diapers pitched in a landfill today will just begin biodegrading.

     One solution is to begin producing diapers from hemp which is comfortable, sturdy, cheap and last virtually forever. Although many parents are hesitant due to ignorance of hemp which has long been associated with the drug culture. Hemp diapers are ecologically friendly and cost a fraction of the plastic variety. Yes, they must be washed but considering the fiscal and environmental benefits it is clearly worth it. Already astronauts, the incontinent and a host of little circus dogs have been wearing hemp nappies for years to glowing reports. The more industrial versions have been known to  empower  Democrats to present longer speeches and control wikileaks in aging Republicans.

     One researcher, speaking on the condition that he not be associated with diapers of any kind said, “Virtually everyone in civilized society has worn plastic diapers and everyone is basically nuts. Logic is logic.

– Dag Katz

RV Ascends Mt. Taco

(Ridgway) Just when you think the last RV has flown south for the rest of the winter the unexpected happens. Last night a 4500 foot, self-contained, Open Road RV successfully ascended 14,001-foot Mt. Taco in the San Juan Mountains. Driven by Beth and Walter Whisper of Sun City, Arizona, the slow-moving recreational vehicle reached the top at about 4 pm Rocky Mountain Time much to the relief of a line of traffic they had held up on County Road 5.

     “Many of our neighbors thought it was Santa’s sleigh at first but the `I’m spending my children’s inheritance’ mud flaps gave it away,” said a local sheriff’s deputy who asked not to be associated with any of this.

     Authorities have been in contact with the pilot and co-pilot (the Whispers) in an attempt to determine whether the feat was conducted by plan or if the visitors had simply lost their way on the trip back to Grand Canyon State. Either way it is hoped that the RV has been stocked with provisions since the earliest rescue is projected for late May.

     It was not clear if the Whispers carried tire chains or sandbags on their  epic (albeit foolhardy) journey.

DEER HITS ELK ON HIGHWAY 550

(Colona) A 250-pound mule deer collided with a 800-pound bull elk near here last night causing a few tense moments for motorists traveling home during rush hour. Although the incident had the earmark of a major disaster there were no serious injuries reported. Damage is estimated at about $3500 as the mule deer sustained some front-end damage and the elk suffered an electrical setback.

     According to a ranger with the Division of Wildlife the accident was unavoidable and, since the hapless herd animals have no visible assets, no ticket was issued.

     “It’s amazing that we don’t have more of this type of thing what with the lackadaisical migratory habits of these big galoots,” said the spokesperson. “They never look where they’re going but at least these bozos were wearing feet belts!”

     The deputy declined to comment further as he was called off to investigate the presence of a rather large RV perched/stuck near the summit of Mt. Taco above the town of Ridgway.

EAT  MORE  ROUGHAGE, DOW  WARNS  DEER

(Denver) Wildlife experts over at the DOW on Broadway are warning deer to eat more roughage and avoid burning the candle at both ends during the winter months. Most of the animals, they insist, reach burnout point way before the spring thaw because they don’t take care of themselves.

     “The level of decadence that gets them through the night can be just as dangerous as skiing or sky diving if one isn’t prepared both physically as well as mentally,” said a DOW pencil man on his way out to lunch.

     Designated herds have already been enrolled in group therapy here where that move is appropriate according to sources on the Western Slope where deer are as thick as Kangaroos in Alice Springs. It is from within this pool that natural selection will determine “the chosen” who will enjoy the paradise that is summer in Colorado.

    The overpopulation of deer and elk (not to mention mountain lions, moose and bear) near state and federal highways, and especially on county roads has always a nightmare for drivers after dark. Despite years of investigation (migration patterns) and millions of dollars spent (deer fence) to control the migrations of these beasts the problem has not been alleviated

     “The way we see it we have two choices,” said Averill Fireaway, a spokesman for Elk Steak For Breakfast, “either we shoot the deer and have a bonanza barbecue or we go back to horseback and carriages.”

     Most residents concede that deer fence helps but it is limited. Other parties are not so sure as Fireaway what direction to follow. Many feel the DOW is pampering the animals and yet they say let nature take its corpse.  

-Fred Zeppelin

Thanksgiving To Be Celebrated on Mondays Starting Next Year

(Washington) The federal government has decided to celebrate Thanksgiving on Mondays in 2026,  keeping with its concept of holiday symmetry and uniformity. The holiday, in which hungry diners give thanks for the year’s blessings, has been celebrated on Thursday since its inception in 1623.

     In 1789 George Washington issued a general proclamation for a day of thanks. That same year the Episcopal Church announced that the first Thursday in November would be a regular holiday, “unless another day be appointed by civil authorities”. In 1855 soon-to-be Confederate Virginia adopted the custom of a Thanksgiving Day. Ironically enough it was Abraham Lincoln who proclaimed Thanksgiving as the last Thursday of the month in 1863. In 1941 Congress ruled that the fourth Thursday would be observed as a legal holiday. In Canada the holiday is celebrated in October unless the Blue Jays get into the World Series.

     “It’s that part about civil authorities that fouls up the muffins,” said one traditionalist who feels this country needs all the culture it can get.

     “Why fool with a good thing like Thanksgiving. Aren’t there more pressing social issues to deal with here?” he spat.

     Persons wishing to continue the Thursday celebration have been hereby informed that they are doing so outside the law.

     “These rogue turkey day revelers must be brought to heel,” said Congressman Oral Noise, who first penned the proposal. “The next thing you know they’ll want to celebrate the Fourth of July on the fourth of July. Bunch of damn communists!”

     Sources here feel that the population will put up a fight in the early rounds but succumb to the homogenized version of Thanksgiving before long.

     “We’ll indoctrinate the school children first and then frighten the elderly into submission,” said Noise. “And if we have further problems we’ll put a tariff on pumpkin pie.”   

– Suzie Compost

CONGRESS TO CEASE LAUNDERING OPERATIONS

(Washington) Both the House and Senate have approved a bill calling for the termination of dry cleaning services on Capitol Hill. They say their move will save the taxpayers millions and may even balance the budget.

In short, the legislative bodies will end the practice of sending their shirts out for cleaning and, in some cases launder and press the articles while they are out campaigning.

“It’s all part of our New World Odor concept,” said Senator Oral Noise (Unitarian-CA). “We have to stop thinking about personal hygiene in the three or four shirts per day mode and move on to a three or four days per shirt philosophy.”

Noise went on to say that while it is important for elected officials to look crisp (not necessarily sharp) the good of the nation takes precedence.

“We feel strongly that any Congressman worth his salt can get an extra day or two out of a lightly starched shirt before throwing it in the laundry,” added Noise. “It is important that we set a good example for the citizenry and save a few bucks on the side.”

Current projections imply that if one simply multiplies the number of Congressmen by $2.29 (the current cost of laundering a dress shirt on Maasachusettes Avenue) and then multiplies that figure by the number of cleaning items and then by 365 (the number of days in the year) the overall savings will exceed all former projections.

“We could take this money and have a big party for the taxpayer or send a manned space flight to the moon but I think we’ll go ahead and pay a few overdue bills,” said Noise. “How can we expect the fiscal cooperation of the nation if we don’t watch our pennies?”

When this plan is operational several sources in the Congress say that they will introduce new legislation aimed at prohibiting motorized travel by Congressmen and severely limiting the practice of talking out of two sides of the mouth within the governing body.      

– H.L. Menoken

Thursday is Bubblehead Night in Congress

(Washington) Citizens in good standing are invited to the First Annual Congressional Bubblehead Night at the Capitol. The first 5000 persons through the doors, after passing through security and taking an extensive loyalty oath, will receive an authentic bubblehead of their favorite elected official, dead or alive.

     Persons who do not have a favorite elected official will receive a Joe Biden or John Boehner bubblehead as a consolation  prize compliments of the Federal Reserve Board. A buffet meal and open bar will grace the festive atmosphere and guests are reminded to avoid bringing up issues that might be deemed embarrassing to the legislators, aka bubbleheads.

     In addition to bobbing senators and representatives each attendee will take home a quart of Fear in a Bottle, a newly brewed concoction aimed at keeping the people off balance and ultimately exerting more control of the domestic population. Tested in the War on Terror, the War on Drugs, and the War on Individualism, the fluid fear card has been produced for human consumption by those radicalized by the sequester and by the royal arrogance of rich, elite politicians.

     “People will like it,” explained one Congressional aide. “It comes in six different fruity flavors (including fresh hemlock) and is the right panacea for an electorate who put these people in power in the first place.

“Here in the Land of the Free it is one of the few things that is free,” she said.

     It is hoped that the circulation of bubbleheads and liquid fear will further divide and conquer the left and the right in this nation, who, if allowed to determine the real enemy, might react in unison  to affect real change.

     The event is in no way connected to the popular Send a Whoopee Cushion to Congress” which originated after the banking scandals of 2007-2009 which remain “under full investigation” until the public forgets about them.

– Susie Compost

The Beer Bandit of Granada

     The Hotel Alhambra occupies almost a block in the middle of the Granada, across from Parque Central. The terrace potential here is very high, even if the service is the slowest in all of Nicaragua. After a day roaming dusty streets, followed by a swim with the friendly sharks along the Las Isletas del Mar Dulce (Lake Nicaragua), a cold Victoria beer sounds like heaven.

     The hotel terrace offers shade, well-worn comfort, cheap drinks, great local cuisine and an engaging (May I practice my bad English on you?) staff. It is the ultimate perch from which to observe the nightly neotropical parade in this fascinating city bent on forgetting decades of economic and civil strife, compounded by the policies of Big Brother up north.

     The brightly painted restaurant walls of yellow and blue are accentuated by hordes of ancient vines, orchids, and vivid hanging flower baskets. The high ceilings, abstract art in chipped paint, create a subtle vertigo while the ceramic acoustics of the tiled palace chime the melodious Guardabarranco and Carlos Mejia Godoy.

     The entire patio is one step up from the street and is encompassed by an imposing rail to keep the great unwashed from bothering the paying customers. Expanding the radius are struggling palm trees, the nearby lake, horse and carriage operatives, the aroma of frying fish, loud music, walled stucco houses, skinny dogs, pleasant people and crowded passageways wrapped around 16th Century cathedrals.

     Delirious traffic in dilapidated chariots circles around and around the park acting out some mad petroleum mating ritual, horns keeping time with an torrid, almost indistinguishable beat. 

     Across the avenue enterprising venders sell anything from hash pipes to baby alligators. They have long ceased daily commerce and have headed home for the night. I have been warned to avoid the park after these hawkers have gone. Already a seedy element has emerged, preparing to propagate business after dark, intent on another crap shoot of drug sales, petty theft, outright robbery, muggings and drunkenness.

      Poverty and tourism have never melded to anyone’s satisfaction.

      But I’m on the proverbial sunny side of the street or so it seems with the combo-neon and florescent patio lights turned up to fine print levels. A world away from the park,  I enjoy another Victoria with a snifter of 12-year-old Flor de Cana  rum, arguably the the finest añejo rum in the Free World (which of course does not include bad ol’ Cuba).

     The British couple sitting to my left is much impressed with the pungent black bean and garlic soup (another treat from b.o. Cuba) while three local merchants smoke trophy  Nicaraguan puros (cigars), offering me one which I accept with a short referendum on my provenance. At the far end of the terrace banister are thee laughing tourists from Managua, who have accumulated at least 15 bottles under their table, a most effective method for calculating beer purchases on this lovely patio.

     That’s when I spot him. He stands out from the others. This guy looks the rough, crude menace but somehow less threatening from afar. Damn he’s big for a Nicaraguan. He meticulously picks through the treasures in the park’s austere trash bins, discarding pieces then angrily kicking over the can. Underprivileged  garbage, dissipated fruits of the poor displayed in skeletal wire and grungy bins. I saw him sitting on a bench at the plaza talking to himself earlier. On second examination he appears almost harmless compared to some of the other toughs that circulated here. Just another shabby street man eyeballing the hotel porch. I look away yawning, stretching, looking for another beer.

     He crosses the street but fades into the evening shadows only to surface at the far end of the block. Passing slowly by the terrace after several reconnaissance missions he suddenly swoops down like a parched falcon grabbing a glass of beer off the British table and drinking it in a gulp, setting the glass carefully down afterwards. He is smiling now. He sets his sights on another beer, from the merchants table this time, grans it by the neck and slams it down as well, again gently replacing the bottle on their table. He then runs off almost giddy between the alley no-tels, the abandoned language institute and the designated pickpocket staging zone.

     I laugh to myself not wanting to appear entertained by the intrusions. The merchants do not appear particularly perplexed peering over at me with that only in Granada look, sans surprise. They shake their heads. The Brits are at first amused, then irritated, then amused again. Their eyes wander the terrace searching for some logical explanation, finding none. Is this thirsty intruder part of their all-inclusive experience?

     Moments later I catch his movements back along the rail. This time he grabs a bottle of Victoria off the Managua tourists’ table, stands at attention and drains it. The tipsy table is not quite sure who drank what. They call the waiter who comes running with one of his fellows and they throw the beer thief to the ground with the fury of Volcan Mombacho. Nothing personal…but he is fouling up the sacred serve and volley of gratuity. He escapes and returns to the badlands of the park and looks at us yelling something akin to: “Beer belongs to the people!”

     I have to admit I am enjoying his antics more and more with every cold Victorian that goes down my throat. The waiters apologize to the victims and replace their beers. They even brought me a free beer after I expressed outrage and threatened to write a bad review on the place in The San Juan Horseshoe newspaper en los Estados Unidos.

     No one seems all that ruffled.

     This suds guerrilla is the real deal. This stalwart boozehound, this dry debunker, this macquerau guzleir may be more than what meets the eye. He’s a force. His clownish persistence cries out to be recognized. The man is an overlooked talent. The cat burglar of cold beer. He will not be denied!

     He doesn’t try to steal beer from me. I am clearly his size and perhaps I could be trouble. Perhaps there are easier marks. Considering my sense of swim fashion and attention to hygiene that particular evening the man probably figured I stole what I have and was fully intent on drinking it. I have actually had street people come up to me in the Andes and offer me their coats on a cold night. Kindred spirits.

     I finish another beer and move to the relative safety of a table next to the kitchen door where I can chronicle the action while avoiding future larceny. The bullish boob won’t get my beer. Not on your Nellie!

     “He won’t be back,” a waiter announces brushing his hands of the incident. “He won’t dare pull that stunt again.”

     Yes he will.

     I watch as the conversation returns and beers continue to disappear down appropriate throats. The table I vacated is now occupied by three Nortes with backpacks. They order Victorias and quesillos (braided Mozzarella cheese served in a warm tortillas swimming in onions and cream) and sit back innocently while noisy hookers come out for a stroll. Hunched behind them is our beer thief himself, who is now spouting on about the glories of Sandino right there in ultra-conservative downtown Granada, trampling on nostalgia, and interrupting the colonial ambience of it all. I order another beer, ignoring his gaze but watchful, digging in for the rest of the performance.

    The curtain reopens with the same sly grin, the slithered walk, the thirsty demeanor. He promenades by the terrace once more, this dirty and demented hops high jacker. He grabs a beer off the Norte table and drains it with the refined movements of a jaguar. The backpackers are stunned and in the momentary chaos he takes anarchistic license to drink another, without spilling so much as a drop. Then its the same delicate trademark return of the bottles to the table where they had been.

     “Down with capitalism!” he cries as the cook and several bouncers grab him and roughly toss him into the street oblivious to freebooter traffic, jagged cobblestones and road apples. One of the burly men then punches him lightly, exhorting a muffled threat. He is gone.

     Stunned, the Brits and one of the local businessmen join me at my redoubt by the kitchen. We are all now completely regaled by the heists. The tourists from Managua call it a night and the backpackers sit clutching their beers. I quietly indulge in my good fortune. I have yet to fall to these pranks. I feel cocky and worldly, bullet-proof and quite sophisticated. We order food, paella, avocado salad and fried plantains. The talk turns to the country’s turbulent past and hopeful future.

     The British couple applaud me for my attentive vigil in the face of dangerous beer snatchers. The merchant does too inviting me to her shop the next day.

     A traveler such as you who pays attention has nothing to worry about when visiting Nicaragua,” she smiled.

     “When I am in unfamiliar terrain I try to remain alert,” I smiled back, showcasing my lunchroom Spanish and my alleged survival instincts.

     “You have to appreciate the man’s persistence. There is a man who knows what he wants and how to get it,” I jive.

     The conversation stopped upon further commotion in the kitchen. Moments later our beer man was hurled through the swinging doors to the floor chased by the owner and the bouncers. They were sweating and did not appear amused. He had apparently been hiding in the freezer gnawing on a side of beef and breaking eggs against the side of its icy walls. Despite his near strangling and his bouncing off the concrete floor he was still moving.

     He looked up at me pathetically. I didn’t know what to do or think. Here’s this poor thirsty creature about to get his ass kicked who couldn’t give a damn either way. Sad. A tragic world…Just another day in the life…

     Then with one desperate grasp he laughs and grabs my beer from the table and, despite his disadvantaged  horizontal posture sucks it dry.

     “My beer!” I cried, as our ardent guest of dishonor was then most indignantly escorted out the front to punitive festivities unknown to a relieved clientele. Laughter subsides and smiles emerge as our dinner arrives.

– Kevin Haley