All Entries in the "Reflections on Disorder" Category

BATS, BEARS AND BUTTERFLIES

It’s Getting Crowded in the Great Outdoors

(Oh-Be-Joyful) The place is overrun. Just the other night while camping out under a newly installed municipal street light up the Slate we watched in horror as thousands, well hundreds, of fruit bats circled our tent with lord knows what intent. They are nothing more than little rats with wings. I don’t care if they are blind and operate on radar. They don’t bathe regularly and can carry rabies (in their back pockets?)

     Then it was the bears. Damn, the bats finally got tired of their mindless orbit and the fury beasts emerge. Damn, I strung all the Spam up in the tree like Mr. Ranger said to do, but bears can climb trees! I banked the fire and now they want marshmallows. Wow, that bruin just ripped the lid off my cooler and he doesn’t appear to have thumbs! I hope he doesn’t come into the tent — that’s where I’ve hidden the rum. I’ve been informed that the animals are most active at dawn and at dusk so I guess we should just sleep in the daytime and hike at night. Are flashlights legal in a pristine, wilderness area? I’ll have to consult my Nashville Forest brochure written by uniformed men over in Denver. They manage the land, you know.

     Hey, the reason we are out in the forest in the first place is to observe butterflies in their natural habitat but I think the bats and bears have scared them off. We wait all year for the weather to turn warm so we can drink a glass of wine and munch on some overpriced exotic cheese and we have to share this time warp with pests. Wait. There’s a butterfly now. Where’s my net?

     Do people collect butterflies due to some sadistic flaw or because they can’t stand to see a being so very colorful cruising the skies at peace all day? What eats butterflies and how did they get tagged with such a dreadful label?

     At least they aren’t like bats. Despite the fact that bats eat mosquitoes they still swoop. That’s it. That’s what gets under my skin. It’s the swooping. In Mexico bats don’t tend to swoop as much as the peso. In Costa Rica someone left the bats out all night and they were stolen. In the jungles of South America they have vampire bats which is one reason travelers are subjected to all those barely pubescent soldiers standing around with machine guns. It’s bat control. That’s all. If you have a problem just call the American Embassy.

     If one comes in contact with a bat, waving at it does little good. They just wave back. Flies, oh thou little bat of snot, will go away for a while. Bats, on the other hand, seem to think that if you are so intent on driving them away there must be something you are attempting to protect, like mosquitoes, rum, mosquitoes or some other treasure. They don’t know. They are like the IRS with wings.

     The best way to handle a bat is to grip the bat at the bottom with both hands, spread you feet, don’t crowd the plate and keep your eye on the ball. Take a few practice swings in the on-deck circle. At the last moment of contact squeeze and swing through the ball. When reaching first base you are on your own.

     I had a friend once who fashioned himself quite the mountain man. He tried this conventional approach to handling a bear, grabbing low and squeezing. He is buried in our backyard under a Russian olive tree.

     Long before the native cape buffalo were run off by the high winds the butterfly and the bear were compatible. Most likely this mutual toleration resulted from the primary reality that neither had anything the other needed. Instinctually any bear will tell you that butterflies don’t generate honey. Likewise butterflies aren’t hot on eating parasites (even with béarnaise sauce) off their shaggy counterparts nor do they enjoy munching on a rotten cow that has been buried by a member of the Ursidae clan so as to create the ultimate gourmet treat. Both are generally omnivorous but, like the Epicureans of the Pacific Rim, will consume an assortment of canned meats if they have access to a can opener. Bats hate Spam, often picking at it, then feeding it to the family dog when no one is looking.

     If you encounter a bat in the wilds you probably won’t notice the intrusion since they are nocturnal and hard to see in the dark. Bears on the other hand are up all the time due to their fascinating habit of sleeping all winter. In truth, bears can do without folks and usually retreat unless food, cubs, or harsh political differences are apparent.

     Responding to a bear encounter is simple enough, unless it doesn’t work well. First of all, stay calm. This may be difficult considering the fact that a 300-pound prowler has just entered your domain. Make noise so that the bear knows you are around. Pretend you haven’t seen the beast and he/she may retreat. If you are wearing aftershave or perfume that smells like honey or dead cows, dispense with all logical thought and make a run for the truck. There is little truth to the rumor that bears eat Californians and Texans on sight. Statistics lie.

     If you find yourself toe-to-toe with a bear back away slowly and avoid direct eye contact as the animal may perceive your stare as a threat. Give the animal an escape route, like the state of Montana. Don’t run. That bear may look chubby but he ran track in college. You can’t outrun a bear. Sudden movements (even those associated with the bowels) can provoke an attack. Speak softly. Reassure the bruin that no harm is meant. Most bears speak American. Just flip out a couple of fifties and, miraculously, most will understand you.

     Try not to show fear. That’s what it says in the brochure. Fight back. If you are attacked hit the bear with a rock or a stick. Chainsaws are effective and so are child-proof cigarette lighters, Swiss Army knives, political opinions and last night’s pot of beans. Most likely the bear will tire of the struggle and go back into the woods where he belongs. If not there’s a plot next to our mountain man friend. Biting, kicking and grabbing the bear by his privates is considered dirty fighting by most animals of the forest.

     If you are attacked by bats you are probably dreaming or drinking too much cheap gin. If you are attacked by a butterfly you should probably spend your next outing at the dog track, the bowling alley or the local mall.

     The outdoors isn’t for everyone although this time of the year it sure seems like it.

– Uncle Pahgre

Correction – Was it really semantics?

We mistakenly blamed sarcasm in our recent story about the annoying, even toxic seaweed invasion of Mexico’s Caribbean beaches. Sargassum, the name of the offending macroalgae, is the culprit here, and certainly not sarcasm, defined as verbal irony often aimed at mocking or insulting another. Sarcasm relies on dry and bitter sharpness in its delivery. It is often accompanied with smirking and eye rolling, Satire is usually a more perennial, extensive effort, such as a novel or news story penned to make fun of society.

Meanwhile, this unwanted sargassum continues to pile up, encroaching on Cancun-like beaches threatening the tourist industry.

“Even the inmates of the cruise ships don’t like to look at it,” said one local guide. “We tell them it’s just stinky sand that has not yet been pounded into fine particles yet like the rest of the beach. We even tell them in English. Clutching their credit cards, sunscreen and insect repellent, many believe us.”

A major effort on the part of the Mexican gov’ment is underway.

“The seaweed was washed and blown down here from the north where it has been brine fodder for an assortment of marine animals that don’t instinctually congregate in the warmer water of the Caribbean Sea,” said one marine biologist. “It’s clear we need to ship the stuff back for their dinner or invite them down here for an epic nautical barbecue.”

A spokesman for the government would not comment on rumors that local mermaids have become entangled in the sargassum and that leviathans and sperm whales had vacated the premises.

The website has promised to take responsibility for this serious gramatical mismomer just as soon as the beaches return to normal and the cash registers sing again. Readers should take not that the sargassum is nothing like the algae that discolored the botched upgrade of the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool. That is called orange algae, even though it apears in a green shade and was supposed to be American flaf blue in honor to the nation’s 250-year birthday. It is clearly the result of incompetent workmanship and the spoils system awarding of a multi-millions dollar contract to Atlantic Industrial Coatings (AIC), a MAGA-loving a company that contributed heavily to the trump campaign in 2024. Massive peeling accompanied the algae growth from the beginning of the project.

Claims of communist vandalism by the White House, a desperate attempt at covering up the highly embarrassing performance on all fronts, was debunked by the Justice Department. The answer to why that branch does little to debunk other lies and blatant distractions upchucked by retches posing as standard bearers for freedom and well being is not yet back from the laundry.

–Small Mouth Bess

Livro sobre o Ego com Vendas Fracas

(Nova York) A Testosterone Brothers Press, editora de “Como Controlar Seu Ego” (*How To Control Your Ego*), divulgou números decepcionantes referentes ao primeiro trimestre, registrando zero vendas desde que a obra chegou às livrarias em fevereiro.

A obra, que mergulha na psicanálise, foi escrita com o intuito de promover a autoestima aliada a uma dose saudável de realidade, ao mesmo tempo em que busca atenuar o egocentrismo.

“Ou as pessoas finalmente enxergaram através da névoa que cerca a infinidade de livros de autoajuda, ou o título as assusta”, disse Edwin Whom, editor da Testosterone Brothers. “Pessoalmente, acho que a maioria das pessoas não quer um ego maduro. É mais divertido ter um ego que age sem freios.”

A gigante editora de Boston apostou no título após o enorme sucesso de vendas de clássicos como “Narciso Desmascarado” (*Narcissus Exposed*), “Edward Inflado” (*Edward Swelled*) e “Como Controlar Seu Cachorro” (*How To Control Your Dog*).

Fontes locais informam que o livro será retirado das prateleiras na segunda-feira. Os planos para lançar uma edição de bolso estão suspensos até o Natal.                                         – Rocky Flats

Forest Service Selling Signs

(Montrose) The United States Forest Service is holding its annual firewood sale now that summer is here. The agency is slated to replace over 1.3 million signs, prohibiting an assortment of actions within the confines of national forests. The well-cured signs come only from Western Colorado trees and have been designated as pine beetle divested.

Interested parties can purchase the signs/lumber on Saturdays throughout the spring. A full pickup load will cost approximately three ration coupons.

“This is some excellent fire starter,” said Cheery D. Spare of the USFS. “It’s nice and dry from sitting in the sun and splits quite easily. Buyers are urged not to use the signs for summer barbecues since the oil based paint may taint foods.”

It is estimated that the federal agency owns some 60 million signs that are often displayed everywhere from toilets to wilderness areas. It is not known how many signs the wilderness needs, but more than 90% of them contain the word No clearly emblazoned on their surface.

“The signs are meant for human direction since it has become clear to us that wild animals cannot or will not learn to read,” said Spare.

For further information, please text the USFS.

– Uncle Pahgre

Tommyknocker Tales

The following could be the first in a series of four or may be the last in a series of one.

     It was 1975. I was camped up Marshall Basin near the Bullion Tunnel in the heart and bones of what was once one of the richest, silver producing mines in North America, the Smuggler-Union. Even upon my arrival, which occurred at pale light on an angelic summer evening, I felt that I had company. When darkness fell I attempted to start a campfire but the damn thing kept going out due to a persistent breeze that only seemed to come up when I lit the scant pieces of quakey that I had hauled up the hill in my pack.

     It was getting colder as I reached for my ax which I had leaned against a volunteer ponderosa which, at this snarled elevation, looked like it missed the last ore cart off the mountain a long time ago. The ax was gone, moved rather, across a tiny gulch, propped up against a pile of rocks that led to the delapidated tunnel. I went to retrieve the tool and get on with dinner.

     Grabbing the implement I shot a glance in the direction of the old boarding house. It was then that I heard voices, laughter, but it wasn’t coming from the skeleton of lumber and rock. It was coming from behind me. I turned quickly and was amazed to see a small man with a mule standing next to my once insolent fire which was now blazing away like hell’s own combustion furnace. The small figure beckened me to join them at the hearth and I’d swear to this day on a stack of mining claims that the mule winked at me.

     As I pendulously meandered in the direction of what had been the core of my evening’s festivities I heard the little man talking to the mule. This was not their virgin conversation and she jadedly hung on every word.

     “Looks like we got a dinner invite,” said the man clanking along, searching through a conglomeration of rusty gear piled high atop the back of his four-legged companion. “Oh, put your ears down, Becky, I’m just looking for that caste iron fry pan. What did you do with it, you stringy beast?”

     The mule responded, much like her kind do, with as grunt. She stomped her feet and eyeballed the familiar intruder, her blinkers set way back in her fickle noggin.

     “There it is,” whispered to the sky. Then he shot a glance in my direction.

     “You’re on my land, boy. I filed on this piece in 1889 a few years before the Smuggler-Union started producing. What are you doing up here anyway, and at night to boot.”

     His voice seemed distant. Both he and his mule patiently waited for my reply.

     “Just camping, sir,” I spouted, quickly aware that I may have been too formal. It was my paroachial education coming back to bite me on the posterior once again.

     “Camping? What kind of nonsense is camping? Hell, son, when you live in these mountains the only camping worth a toot is in the bath tub at the Brown Palace over across the hill. You nuts kid?”

     He then surgically extratced my entire life in a matter of moments and, after listening intently, told me point blank that none of my kind had any respect for what our forerunners had done to tame these mountains.

     “Bunch of damn tinhorns in funny shoes,” he said peering down at my Italian hiking boots that cost even more than a light lunch in the Mountain Village.     

     “Now just a minute, sir,” I started. “First you tell me I’m tresspassing, then you ask me a lot of personal questions, now you tell me I don’t have any respect. If I was one of those people you’re gabbing about I’d still be back in Denver married to some perfume clerk, selling BMWs. Sure, I’m a bit green but I’ll bet you were too when you first crossed the Divide.”

     The man stared at me and said, “What’s for dinner, sonny?”

     I said “Stew. I made it last night, then froze it in these zip-lock bags…”

     “Kind of like an old bear burrying his dinner for a few days before eating.”

     Despite his initial hessitancy with the packaging methods he scarfed down the stew. It was like he hadn’t eaten in years. Even the mule had a go at the stuff, eagerly licking the pan at the end of the meal.

     “So, what do you intend to do for work in these parts?” he shot out of nowhere. “The mines are all but closed and there’s never been any money in ranching, unless you got cows full of gold.

     “Of course, come to think of it most of the miners were working for $2.50 a day back at the turn-of-the-century, and that was 10 hours, boy, with no coffee breaks in a dark, dangerous hole in the ground. We always said it was like digging your way to hell, an hour at a time. But from some of the things I’ve seen hell could be no worse. If not for the union it would have been impossible. Did I mention that I was a union man?”

     It was then that he embarked on the epic, though unsolicited history lesson of the day. He talked of snowslides that wiped out mining camps in minutes and rousing dance hall interludes. He told me about William Jennings Bryan and his Cross of Gold “conspiracy” as he called it. I heard about Jack Dempsey and Lillian Gish then more about Bulkeley Wells and Sarah Bernhardt. He talked about a Christmas fire at a Colorado mining hall years ago. His attention to detail was quite impressive considering his years. He acted as if he had known them all.

    “On a Saturday night you could drink with miners from all over the world. Finns, Cornish, Swedes, Italians, Germans, Serbs and even a few Chinese thrown in for spice,” he smiled. “Then there were the Irish, like me. Most were in the union.”

     “Were you born in Ireland?”

     “Of course, boy. Where else? Came over on a clipper.

     I asked him his name.

     “Patrick McGinty…and yours?”

     We talked all night. Becky seemed to be taking shorthand in the lichen. I invited him to share my fire till dawn and was soundly scolded since, after all I was tresspassing in the first place.

     “No, we’ve got to be going. Tomorrow I’ve got to go down to Ames and visit the doctor. Mercury poisoning you know. But if you’ll come back here next Friday night we’ll meet up with you,” he said. “There’s a mound of history that we need to drill into your head.”

     I promised to return, feeling rather flattered that he sought the company of newcomer like me.

     Patrick McGinty. Now there’s a name with character. When I landed back in Telluride on Monday I stopped by the courthouse to check on his stimulating credentials. After about a half hour of searching farther and farther back into the dusty records I found a McGinty,  a bachelor named Patrick who had come to Telluride in 1884 from County Clare. It read: Patrick McGinty: Born March 20,1865, died July 3, 1901, during the labor trouble at the Smuggler-Union. A union man.

Next time: “A Visit With a Dead Man at 12,000 Feet”

Congress Pledges to Fight Cannibalism in Chambers

(Warshington) Lawmakers on both sides of the political football have pledged to confront the growing problem of cannibalism in the House and Senate. In a joint statement both Democrats and Republicans called for an end to the primitive ritual which has plagued the governing bodies since the 2024 elections.

     “We cannot conduct business in the shadow of this menace,” said one Republican who accused Democrats of head hunting and bad table manners. “This time these liberals have bitten off more than they can chew.”

     Watchdog groups here have investigated over 40 cases of alleged cannibalism in the past two months. Despite ridiculous pensions, royal health care and bribes from lobbyists these elected officials appear to be hungry for more.

     “This was never a problem until the evangelicals and the Tea Party people took their seats,” said a high-ranking Democrat who claims that Congressional cannibalism can no longer be hidden from the American people.

     “Cannibalism has no place in a clean, well operated and transparent government and it won’t fly in these chambers either,” added the high Democrat.

     Cannibalism, which is not mentioned in the Constitution, the Bill of Rights or the New Testament has been defined as the willful consumption of one’s fellow species. It is seen as a power play by those who would break bread with the devil himself to further their selfish agendas.

     “We have a morality problem in the Congress,” said one monitoring source. “There is none.       

– Fred Zeppelin