All Entries in the "Reflections on Disorder" Category
BIG BOX FASHION SHOW SLATED FOR MONTROSE
(Spring Creek) The first ever fashion show completely devoted to Big Box figures will be held at the Montrose Fairgrounds February 5-9. Presentations will focus on large sizes and the impact of overloading in the closet as well as on the street or avenue. In addition to the fashion review the program features information kiosks dubbed Why Lose Weight? and “The More the Merrier.”. Issues such as justice in plane overcrowding, park bench maintenance, increased undertaker/casket fees for the opulent and satellite industries emerging from a chubby population are expected to be well represented. Health issues will not to be addressed. Every fast food interest known to man will be represented with grease booths and plenty of free samples.
“We are tired of the fashion world obsessing with skinny models when most of the consumers in these United States are obese or at least overweight,” said Hector Delgado, organizer of the event which will be televised by stations all over Grand Junction. Radio coverage will converge on the scene on the runway and is expected to emphasize locally manufactured clothing and accessories for the modern man and woman.
Since the clearly overweight and obese now make up the majority of Americans the response has been overwhelming and a large turnout is anticipated.
This initial display of Big Box fashion carries with it a dangerous message that “It’s OK To Be Fat”.
Several groups have threatened to boycott the show saying that it has no place in Colorado – The Skinniest of the 50 States. Some more militant advocates say they will disrupt the proceedings so as to send a clear message that this state of affairs is not acceptable or beneficial to a healthy social order.
Entertainment will be provided by the legendary Bad Tuna Boys featuring the virtuoso yodeling of Big Steppe. Psychiatric testing for corpulent participants will be provided by the local pork growers.
“Obesity is a sad slice of life,” said one activist. “End of story.”
– Kashmir Horseshoe
BINGO PARLORS – INNOCENT PASTIME?
(Montrose) Every night hundreds of people play bingo here in this Western Colorado hub. It’s fun and it gives many of them a chance to socialize without spending a fortune on other forms of entertainment. Of late, zealots in the community (fresh from knightly jousts with evil gargoyles) have decided that bingo is a sin, due to associations with numerology.
“We knew it was gambling, in a sense,” said Margot Rotweiller, executive director of the Central Rockies Recreational Bingo Coalition, “but we didn’t really think we were committing immoral acts here at the hall. Sure, cigarette smoking used to be permitted and coffee is served, but the only drinking done is off the premises.”
Many neighbors insist that not only the bingo callers but the board itself are in league with the devil.
“Haven’t you heard about numerology and the application of negative powers?” asked a frightened looking, self-admitted former drug addict turned righteous last night or the night before. “Don’t you even watch the television evangelists? They need your money more than this bawdy bingo parlor.”
At present no one has come forth to be saved or to respond to the accusations of this vocal minority. It is not know whether people take their pleas seriously or if they are simply asleep.
“We’re functioning completely within the law,” said Rotweiller, who added that over 200,000 people have passed through the doors of the her bingo emporium since it opened in 1994. “In Salem they burned witches, in Nazi Germany they burned books, today they bomb abortion clinics. I suppose it was naive of us bingo fans to think we’d be exempt from the terrible swift sword.”
– Kashmir Horseshoe
HEROES AND BEARS AT 14,000 FEET
My midlife crisis can lick your midlife crisis. Whenever I get down I go up, and there was Red Cloud Peak reaching toward the sky at the end of the Silver Creek Basin. I had decided to climb the mountain solo so as to have time to slow down that 21st Century noise and clear out the cobwebs that engulf my brain from time to time. In addition I had made the mistake of mentioning my plans to a friend named Popcorn who had recently lost a close family member, a 16-year-old cat named “Dad”, to a dog attack. Popcorn, who conveniently enough owned a liquor store in Crested Butte at the time, handed me a miniature vodka concoction and asked me to drink a toast to Dad on top of the mountain. No more excuses. I now had a holy mission.
Heading up an abandoned jeep road into the forest I began thinking, with the wisdom of humans, how politically correct even the wilderness had become. No jeeps humming, no dirt bikes screaming, lots of little check-in posts for hikers, plenty of bear tagging, controlled burns, stocked lakes, and lots of signs prohibiting litter. It’s the Information Age in the pines.
That’s all very nice on a sunny Sunday morning, but I remember the days prior to all the obsession with political correctness, you know, when people simply respected each other for the hell of it. The first part of the hike is taxing and I push myself up the trail hoping it will level off long enough for me to catch my breath.
Soon I enter dark timber and catch a glimpse of Handies Peak just waking up for the day. My mind wanders as my legs do the work. The other day I was shocked to hear a classic Motown tune backing up a sales pitch for some animated stick of margarine on television. Copyright limitations be damned! Don’t these propagandists have any respect for what’s left of our culture? I think what really bothers me is that most of the beaten down people don’t even notice anymore. I’m moving back to Uruguay tomorrow. Damn.
I can hear Silver Creek crashing down through the rocks. I wonder what ever happened to my college girlfriend or to that bastard in the Saab that cut me off on Highway 135 last week. I wonder how many loyal patrons are attending Sunday morning services at Restless Spirits down in Lake City.
As I cross the first of three wide snowfields I can see Sunlight Peak in the distance. Realizing that I have been talking out loud I’m relieved that there is no one else in earshot. There seems to be no distinct origin for, or welcome end to the involuntary thoughts that, like blind, charging snowmelt, are running through me.
Is it just that I’ve been around too long? Have I seen the same movie one too many times? At 46 am I sentenced simply to growing old? Will I reach mild euphoria knowing that it’s ten o’clock and time for the news? At my age most of the former custodians of this place, the Utes, walked out into the mountains alone to meet their creator. Honor.
Back when I was in my twenties I was certain that by the time I reached this point I would not only be wise and affluent but that I’d have my emotions in tow. Good luck, sailor. That was in the Sixties. Maybe we all missed something during that time but it’s too late to run the whole decade by again. All we have succeeded in preserving is tie-dyed shirts, lava lamps and gender confusion. It’s not the shock of waking up to find that one has waltzed through 20 years without realizing his goals. The difficulty comes in accounting for the wasted time. I’m talking out loud again.
The thought that Mick Jagger is a grandfather weighs heavy on my mind. I remember a conversation the other day where my friend Terry Starr told me that the only true escape from midlife crisis is to become just that, a grandfather. Another friend bought a bright red Corvette and he’s only 43. What will he do for an encore if this approach falls short? What would Sigmund Freud say, or Carl Gustav Jung for that matter?
Climbing out of the creek bed I am surrounded by wildflowers. The wet spring did its work well and…Wait! What’s that large black, fury thing coming over the ridge? I scope it out with my zoom lens. My God, it’s a black bear. Does he see me? He’s heading in this direction. Now, I’ve read where these bear are quite docile but I’ll bet this one weighs in at 400 pounds!
As the animal methodically approaches I instinctively go into an emergency bear response like the one outlined in the four-color government brochure, produced, of all places, in Denver. He sees me now alright. I wave my arms, so as to appear larger than life and make noises to give him every reason to retreat. He meanders down the slope in my direction. Careful not to look him in the eye I begin to back up but it’s at least three miles to my truck. He comes close. He doesn’t look that frightening but…
“Excuse me,” says the bear, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with yourself, and what’s all the mumbo jumbo about? Do you realize how silly you look waving your arms around and screaming?”
My God, I’ve finally lost it. Senility has arrived. Hallucinations. Flashbacks. A talking bear.
“I know I look like a bear but in reality I am the reincarnation of Chief Colorow, of the Utes. While I normally avoid humans, especially white ones, I couldn’t resist talking to you.”
“Oh,” I responded.
“I’m not a mind reader, or anything, but your voice really carries in this basin,” said the bear. You are engaged in climbing a mountain. What is the source of your frustration? When I was your age we had to contend with white folks plowing up our race tracks and gold miners plugging up our hot springs. Look at these wildflowers all around you. They have a life expectancy of about two months and you don’t hear them whining, do you?”
“No,” I responded quietly. “Are you really who you say you are?”
“You don’t believe me?” said the bear. Ask any marmot. Do you want me to perform a war dance or something? That’s the trouble with you people today, you don’t trust anyone. You people live right here in the Garden and yet you can’t get out of first gear.”
“How did people in your day deal with aging?” I ask. “I don’t recall ever reading about early evening bingo and tubs of jello salad in your lodges.”
“First of all,” he answers, “there weren’t so many of us. We didn’t live as long. While modern medicine pats itself on the back for stretching out the average lifetime, we saw life as a challenging puzzle with an defined end. That end came alone in the mountains. Secondly, we had heroes and you don’t.”
“What do you mean? We have heroes,” I protested, becoming a bit antagonized by the pompous nature of this large bruin.
“Name one,” said the bear arrogantly.
Well,” I began there’s…Uh…there’s…Give me a minute…”
I realized the bear was right. I could not think of a real hero. Everyone from Bill Clinton to Duke Snider had fallen from grace. Even Connie Chung wasn’t what she seemed.
“See,” said the bear. “That’s what’s the matter. You have no heroes. It’s so simple yet so very complicated. Without heroes one cannot break out of the stark, familiar rhythm of life and let his desperate soul go out for a full moon stroll.”
I listened as the he went on thinking to myself that this sounds like a motivational seminar and that this is one receptive, if a bit corporate bear.
“What about you?” I counter. “Who are your heroes?”
“Well there’s Dick Butkus, for strarters. Now there was one fine Bear. There’s Geronimo,” frowned the bear, “who fought on when he knew he was whipped and Bella Abzug…”
“Bella Abzug?”
“Hey, growled the bear, “everyone has the choice of who they choose as a hero. That’s the beauty of it all. You choose and no explanation is necessary.”
“Oh,” I say, “so picking a hero isn’t really so hard.”
“No, he reponds, “but emulating one is something altogether different.”
At his suggestion I resumed my climb reaching a ridge full of shale that it a bit more difficult to negotiate.
“You are someone’s hero,” said the bear, “or could be with the right moxie. That’s our roll and if it is embraced we have no time to worry about our own problems. Soon they blow away like ashes and we are one with our surroundings, a complete person.”
“What about you,” I retorted. “From what I read that as Colorow you were an overweight bully who drank too much and never accomplished anything during your entire life.”
“Cruel, but true,” said the bear, “and that is precisely why I’m talking to you now. Once I was a Ute chief and now I’m a smelly, old bear who sleeps in a cave. It could happen to anyone. Accept your potential roll as a hero to someone else and you will quickly overcome all the insecurities and the confusion that plagues you. Inspire someone else and you create more and more heroes as you go. The whole thing is contagious,” he said.
The bear then said goodbye and disappeared into a muddy stream before I could ask him anything else. I guess he figured that sooner or later I’ll be coming back down and, if further conversation is necessary, that he can catch me on the descent. I continued my trek up the side of Red Cloud, crossed yet another windy ridge and finally plopped down at the summit. I signed the Colorado Mountain register which was filled with the names of an assortment of heroes. Tomorrow there would be one more everyday hero, or at least someone attempting to experience that quiet distinction.
Kevin Haley, a self-described sensitive male for the ages, lives in Colona where he collects Citrons and publishes the San Juan Horseshoe. He is a former lead singer for The Tattooed Shoelaces.
Brawl-Marts closing over terrorist threats
(Banditville AR) Most of the nation’s Brawl-Mart stores will close today in response to what security forces there are calling serious calculated threats against the discount chain. The danger was apparently detected through wire-tapping and a worldwide spy network created to discover and ferret out plans of violent dimensions before they are enacted.
Despite all the hoopla nobody really knows who the terrorists might be since the Brawl-Mart empire has made countless enemies due to greedy business practices and a clear desire to dominate world retail markets. Islamic radicals, free market advocates, consumer watchdogs, sociologists, mental health professionals, persons of good taste and many small business concerns are all suspect as the investigation widens.
“Most of the people who shop at Brawl-Mart haven’t a clue as to what their consumption does to the economy,” said a class action suit filed against the retail giant last week. What we need in this country is pride in our culture not adherence to hypnotic consumerism and the chronic willingness to accept the mundane.”
Brawl-Mart is expected to lose millions per day in the shutdowns, which could easily stretch into the holidays. Think of it – – Christmas without Brawl Mart. People might actually stay within their means and secure thoughtful, personal gifts given in the proper spirit, rather than mass-produced junk that no one really needs anyway. They might buy gifts because they love people rather than because society tells them to do so. They might enjoy shopping in an environment that is pleasant and nurturing, not plastic and mindless.
“Imagine a household of an addicted consumer, armed with a credit card headed to buy anything in arm’s reach,” said one behavior analyst. This kind of activity can ruin a family, a marriage, and a bank account. Maybe with the temporary demise of Brawl-Mart these kinds of sick people can regain their sense of priority and break the mold, kick the habit and go on to lead more meaningful lives as a result.”
Conversations among known terrorist organizations have pinpointed attacks on many giant corporate chains, seeing them as the flower of god-less consumerism and disregard for the needs of those impoverished in the world. Authorities have intercepted blueprints for a series of excursions into the heart of mainstream America.
“How long do you think the bombings will be restricted to Baghdad and Beirut?” said the behaviorist.
“The Yemenis are full of shit,” said one Homeland Security bigwig, who used to sell tires before 9/11. “They didn’t thwart, prevent or foil any terrorist activity back during last month’s embassy closing scare. We’re not counting on them to do anything but cash our checks. That way we can aim our clones at whomever we like. We just hope they don’t get clones too.”
In a related development the Pentagon and the Department of Education have released a combined statement saying essentially that the two had conspired to bomb Brawl-Marts in 2009 and 2011: The educators would give its blessing and the military would lower the boom.
Extensive studies carried out at major research institutions have concluded that the bombing strikes could raise the national IQ by 35 points in some more destructive target areas. Sadly, the plan was scrapped due to moral blowback, which landed on the joint chiefs and threatened the daily operations of the war colleges nearby.
– Susie Compost
FACEBOOK FACED WITH COPYRIGHT VIOLATIONS
(El Lay) Facebook, the popular social media mogul, is facing a series of lawsuits over copyright violations centering around the word friend. For years the computer-driven communications power has employed the word friend to categorize and define certain status on its pages. But now citizen and government groups are protesting.
“The concept of friend should not be tarnished by generic use in this manner,” said an attorney for one group calling itself Friends of Friends. A real friendship is not something one can gain by jerking around with a computer. It is real and from the heart.”
Another group, angry at what it says is “just another impersonal corporate scheme” plans to boycott Facebook, which it says is stupid to begin with, and offers no real social exchange or productive results.
“Do people sit around all day making love to their laptops? asked Slim Tinkleholland, a recovering Facebook junkie. “Friendship is sacred and we should not allow these companies to intrude in the very fiber of our existence, our very humanness. It’s all we have to separate us from the mess that goes on at knee level all around us. Before you know it these haughty cyber coyotes will be in bed with us all, for a price mind you.
“We must learn to stop being sheep and stand up for what is good and honest. Abuses of this type cannot be tolerated in a free society,” said Tinkleholland.
Leading antagonists seek to force Facebook to use terms such as acquaintance or congenial or significant other instead of friend in their cordial regimentation. – Fred Zeppelin
Dickel Perfect – Let’s Run With it
(Washington) The swift and unanimous approval of George Dickel as Director of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms should come as no surprise to Americans who stay alert and pay attention.
After years of infighting and aggravated partisanship, both the House and Senate have come together to surprise some and alarm others. Dickel is perfect (on the rocks or neat, chased down the throat with a nice cold beer).
The new ATF boss is an amazing fit. He not only drinks excessive amounts of alcohol daily but smokes like a branding fire that even the cows can’t stomp out.
His credentials improve as we look at his relationship with weaponry. According to family members he has over 40 assault rifles and as many handguns stored at his bunker (address shielded). In addition it is common knowledge that Dickel has access to tanks, missiles and artillery in case there’s an upheaval.
When the poop hits the air circulation device try calling a liberal. That’s what George always says.
Despite these indiscretions, Dickel has never been stopped for drunk driving, died of lung cancer or committed a felony associated with his arsenal.
All real patriots should stand up and cheer that the congress has finally confirmed, in not sanctioned, a man with the tools to lead.
