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Satan Apologizes

(Up there) After an eternity of hostility toward Heaven, Satan, dba Lucifer the Archangel, has offered a formal apology for sins chronicled since he was cast out of paradise eras ago. In what is being called the most important metaphysical breakthrough since the Mormons discovered America, Satan’s apology was brief, calling for an immediate truce between the celestial super powers.

“Many people don’t believe that this fellow Satan actually exists,” said Rev Phil Pharisee of the Temple of Divine Panacea in Manana. “He does. It is fundamental to our quest that this fallen angel be brought back into the fold. Forgiveness is powerful and once the Evil one makes restitution he will be exonerated. Imagine the impact on church attendance when we announce our special guest for a future Sunday. We may not like him but he is definitely an expert when it comes to eternal damnation and fire starting.”

Despite the magnitude of the gesture there has been no word as yet from the Creator. Sources nearby say all were taken by surprise and need a little time to create a proper response. Whether or not burying the hatchet with Lucifer will generate a blanket amnesty for all sinners was unclear at press time.

“They (the good angels) talked to the Vatican yesterday as well as to Buddhist, Muslim and Hindu elements. A meeting with various Protestant sects is slated for the weekend,” said Pharisee. “What they will talk about is anyone’s guess but the final agreement must contain an olive leaf so that serious differences can be undressed.”

Significant concerns at press time include what to do with all the estimated millions of pour souls currently in Lucifer’s camp and how to restructure ideologies which have labeled Satan the ultimate bad guy. It was not clear how the powers intend to reclaim hell or rehabilitate less influential skeeziks loyal to Beelzebub.

“He (Satan) has a definite public relations problem with many,” said Pharisee, “and it’s up to him to convince people he is sincere about his salvation. However, due to his incredible wealth he will no doubt be resettled comfortably and ascend as an asset to any congregation.”

Satan, then Lucifer, the right-hand Archangel was thrown out of heaven over a power struggle with the Creator. Sins of pride are said to have been at the root of the disagreement. Although it happened a long time ago, smoldering feelings of resentment and outright distrust are expected to dominate the first discussions between representatives from heaven and hell.

“Right now we’re somewhere between the devil and the deep blue sea on matters of religious dogma,” continued Pharisee. “Can Satan be reinstated? What about the other Archangels who have been loyal all of this time? What about the lesser angels that left with Lucifer so many years ago? Will the Raiders win the AFC West with their benefactor back upstairs?

Theologists all over the planet suggest that a serious power void may now exist with the capitulation of the forces of evil. They ask who will be blamed for the evil in the world now that the devil is walking the line. Who will paint the town red? What about pitchfork sales?

Let’s face it,” quipped Pharisee, “we need a common enemy so as to cement together our holy coalition. Who will step up? Not the Russians, not even the terrorists, but maybe those nasty aliens who have been hovering around, just out of shotgun range, waiting for a breakdown in the earth’s mythological fortitude.”

Pharisee promised that despite the development he would continue to preach fire and brimstone, the literal translation of the Bible and fear coupled with a pinch of guilt.

“We just have to find new evils with which to do battle,” he explained. “That shouldn’t be too hard. They’re everywhere.”

– Kashmir Horseshoe

 

PLAY BALL

(This afternoon we pay a visit to the popular Gasbag Tavern in nicely landscaped downtown Manana and listen in on a stimulating conversation in progress)

First patron:  Why, hell, I played pro ball back before the war.  I oughta know what I’m talking about!

Second patron:  You oughta know a lot of things.

Third patron:  Hey, he’s right.  The players today are a bunch of hot-headed prima donnas.  Between player salaries, greedy agents and brahman owners the game is on the rocks.

Second:  Well, I’m not arguing that.  I’ve studied baseball since it’s beginnings during the War Between the States. I’ve read about the greats like Honus Wagner and Jimmy Foxx.  You’re not talking to some novice here.

First:  Well, you said them short pants was alright with…

Third:  …I said them short pants and white shoes were not the issue.  The meat of what’s wrong with baseball has nothing to do with fashion.  It’s all in the psyche.

Second:  Like designating hitters and charging for autographs…

Third:  Right.  And arbitration and astro turf and batting gloves.

First:  It is rather upsetting ain’t it.  In my day the pitcher damn well better bat and he better put the ball in play or he won’t be around for the next game.

(At this point my recorder shuts off rather loudly and all three look over in my direction)

First:  What are you lookin’ at, kid?

Horseshoe:  Nothin’.  I’m just sipping my beer.

Second:  Well, see to it that you do.  What’s that gizmo in your pocket?

Horseshoe:  It’s just my pager. I’m a brain surgeon and I am often on call…

Third:  …you can start by operating on a friend of mine right now!

First:  It ain’t me that needs tending to.  You don’t know baseball.  Besides, you never played the game like I did.

Second:  Where did you play anyway?

First:  I pitched for the Moline Cardinals in 1934 and then came up with the Browns at the end of the 1935 season.  That’s when my arm went sour.  I think I got a virus from an open window on the train or maybe it was the twelve games in a row that I pitched against both the Athletics and the Yankees when our other pitcher was in jail.  I don’t recall…

Third:  A pitcher, heh?  You ever throw at a batter?

First:  What do you think?  Back in those days the brushback was as much a part of the game as chewing tobacco.

Second:  And now I hear the league wants to ban chew.  They say it’s bad for the kids to see that kind of thing.

Third:  They’re ruining the game.

First:  We didn’t usually see some batter charge the mound after a bean ball like you have today.  Oh, it happened, but not often.  I think the television announcers are to blame for a lot of the hype.  Baseball is supposed to be a clean, relaxed tradition and a lot of the so-called experts don’t really understand the complexities or appreciate the subtleties of the game.

Third:  Yeah.  Isn’t it supposed to be bad luck to even mention the status of a no-hitter while it’s still in progress?  Hell, today’s sportscasters blab it all over the air waves once it goes five innings.  The game’s just not worth watching anymore with all the pay-per-view and cable crap. Remember Jane Fonda’s boyfriend, Ted Turner what-his-name, trying to shove “America’s team” down our throats.  I want to throw up.  They may have had a good season but how many of them came up through the Atlanta organization?  They just don’t have what it takes.

Second:  Yeah, like Mantle and Mays…and Clements and the Babe…

Third:  And Lou Gehrig.  Hell, none of today’s players will ever approach his iron man record for most games played in a row.  Look what Pete Rose did for the game and they kicked him out while they let that Dodger pitcher come back after he flunked his drug test time and again.  I hear they even gave him a free tutor and he still flunked!  I don’t know why we even follow the sport anymore.

First:  It’s just a reflection of society. Baseball is what we once were and football is what we have become.

Third:  What? Is that an original?

First: Original enough for these digs.

Second:  A reflection of sobriety?  Let’s have another…

First:  Some second-string shortstop who can’t hit .200 gets paid 50 times more than a teacher.  A washed up pitcher with a history of injuries signs for two million while half the population labors for minimum wage!  Hell, I’ll bet even the batboy has a pretty impressive stock portfolio.

Third:  Yeah…

Second:  It’s really too bad you know if…

First:  …Wait a minute!  What time is it?  Damn, the ball game is on.  It’s the World Series!  It’s on at 6 pm!  We almost missed the first pitch!  Bartender!  Get that game on will you!  What kind of bar is this anyway!

Second:  Yeah…this is America, boy!

Second:  Sure thing.  Who you betting on?

First:  Quiet!  I can’t hear the stadium announcer.  He’s giving the line-up.

Second:  Give us another round…on me…

(He looks back over in my direction)

Second:  You want a beer sonny?

Horseshoe:  No thanks, I’ve got to go.  (I drink my beer and start for the door).

First:  Guess he don’t like baseball, huh?

Second:  Some kinda communist…

Third:  That generation never did have it all tucked in.

– Rocky Flats

 

The Last Year of My Life

compiled from the journals of Patrick McGinty, 1919

Travel this spring is different. I am not long for this world. That old sawbones in Denver should be able to tell me something next week. At least he’s honest, not like that croaker in Lamar. Sure, I’ll just get lots of rest and stay away from whiskey. Yeah, that’s a good idea. Did he have to go to medical school back east for two years to figure out that remedy. I think all these doctors should go off somewhere together and search for a cure for stupidity. They could start within their own ranks.

In just about an hour we’ll reach Gunnison and I can stretch my legs. This train is hell on my back and my kidneys. Maybe I’ve got that Chrone’s disease. It sure did a job on Harry Selig and he was no older than I am. He could have managed in the Majors but for his health. I can see Tomichi Creek. There’s agreat hotel in this town called the LaVeta but one doersn’t stay there overnight on a baseball man’s salary. They say there are even tunnels right from the hotel to the houses of delight. Maybe someday, when one of my teams goes all the way, I’ll go all the way. I’ve always had a great time in Gunnison but I do miss my old third baseman Chuck Morganthau who caught a bullet at the Marne. He had a pretty wife and a lot of ability but something tells me he’d never be able to support a family scooping up grounders and hiting line drives.

The train has finally stopped. My back feels better. I wonder if there’s a pharmacy in this town anymore. What with all the federal interference it’s hard for a fellow to get anything that works on pain. I hear there are a couple of fine pitching prospects working the mines in Crested Butte. Of course if they decide to give baseball a shot they could put their futures in jeapordy. The mines, although dangerous, pay a decent wage and one’s career can last longer. Nobody wants to pay for entertainment these days unless it’s Ziegfeld’s or neighborhood cock fights. Why that Rosenkrantz kid might have gone all the way to the big leagues if his father didn’t insist on his going to the noraml school. I suppose he’s teaching scholl somewhere in these mountains. At least he makes a decent salary. The Jews aren’t stupid. It’s the Irish like me that fall in love with the game and just can’t quit.

The two boys that I heard about in Crested Butte can throw hard but one is married with three kids and the other can’t speak a lick of English. Maybe next year? It’s back on the damn train for me after a night of sleeplesness at Molly Duran’s Boarding House and a breakfast of biscuits and gravy at the Sodd House. Elmer Sodd told me he’s help sponsor a Fourth of July double-header between the Gunnison team and whatever heap of scrap I manage to put on the field. I say I’ll get back to him. What a pompous bastard he is sitting back in his kitchen but he was quite a prize fighter in his day, even fought Dempsey down in Romeo. He’d have whipped him too, from what I hear, but the ref called the fight due to Sodd’s broken ribs and an eye that refuses to go back into its socket, even to this day. The joke around here is that the thing will end up in someone’s pancake batter before it’s all said and done with.

The train pulls out of Gunnison and we’re already in Montrose. I must have nodded off despite this damn gout. I wonder if that’s the trouble. Can somebody’s gout creep all the way up the legs and make mush out of the back. I wonder if I ruptured something last season and it’s just waiting around to line one past me when I’m not looking? Montrose has fielded some fine teams over the decade although the war took its toll. I was too old for that dance but I did spend a few feverish nights in Cuba at the turn-of-the-century. According to the morning paper Babe Ruth hit a 587-foot homer against the Giants down in Florida. That boy has all the tools and he’s making a living. Other than the White Sox, and Joe Jackson, the Yankees seem to have an inside track on the pennant. The Reds look good in the National League. The rest of the paper is full of careful debates on Prohibition and updates on the peace conference at Versailles. It should be fun checking out the whiskey operations in the San Juans. I’ve got three kids signed from this part of the valley and all of them should show up at least until the sugar beets are ripe.

Is this a rash I see? Good lord I’ve got the pox! Maybe that’s the problem. One would think the doc could have diagnosed something so obvious. The train conductor tells me of a brother who dies of ulcerative colitus. That sounds important. If I’m going to drop dead I’d just as soon it be from something with an important sounding name or maybe it would be better to get run over by this train. It’s quicker. The conductor shakes me. We’re in Ridgway. He says I passed out and was mumbling about covering home with the bases loaded. The pain is bad today. There’s a McGinty family living somewhere in Ouray County. They might be relatives although they’ve never produced any ball players, so I doubt it. Prospects here are slim since everyone is working for the railroad or in the gold mines. Who can blame them for wanting to get ahead. Damn the pain! I hope if this is it they bury me with my spikes on. I’ll have to dig them out of my locker back in Denver. It’s been 10 years since I’ve played ball. What torture sitting there on the bench watching our boys take a pasting.

The train creeps over Dallas and makes a stop at Sams. Two young boys are playing catch along the tracks. One says he lost his only pair of shoes in Leopard Creek and is hoping for an early summer. That one kid has a cannon for an arm. I leave him my calling card. A prune-faced woman approaches as a reboard. She scolds the boy, and tears up the card while letting loose a scowl in my direction. They never said it would be easy. The pain in my back is getting worse. I wonder if it’s the altitude? I think I’m developing puritis ani…or something like that. Dr. Turlo prescribed a furlough from whiskey then he headed off to the local bar for lunch. I wonder if there’s a hospital in Telluride these days and, for that matter, if I’ll make it that far.

It’s snowing as we climb the last pass to Telluride and it’s only a few months till the dog days arrive back in the Midwest. There’s a rancher’s kid here by the name of Collins that I came to see play but the weather could be a problem. His dad was shot during the labor dispute in 1902 and I think he wants out of Telluride. Too many bad memories. All this way for another snowstorm. Maybe I should seek honest work like preaching or gallivanting around the countryside with a medicine wagon. I’m too old to find a rich woman to marry and too young to reteat to the rocking chair. Mining and baseball have a lot in common. The workers and players do the sweating and the owners make the money. But at least we play ball above ground in the sun. I sign up Eddie Dougherty, Mike Finnegan and two Italian kids named Petresko. One looks like a catcher and the other throws funny. Who knows. Telluride’s really hopping tonight. The miners must have just got paid. There’s not much point in getting back to the room since I can’t sleep anyway. I think I’ll take a walk.

I wake up in a room filled with the smell of ammonium. There’s a nurse standing nearby. Did I die? Isthis some kind of celestial emergency room? She brings me water as a young man walks into the room. He asked how I’m feeling. I say it’s too early to tell. He tells me how he found me passed out in an alley in Finntown. Thought I was drunk but then thought better when he checked me. Says I was screaming like bloody murder. Says he brought me here. It’s all foggy to me. Says he’s a basbeball player and was the youngest member ofthe state championship team in 1913. Then the doctor comes in and we go through all the pleasantries again. Hey, the pain is gone. Upon consultation with the doc I find that I have passed a kidney stone. He says I acomplished this feat at about three o’clock in the morning on the way to his office. Says I kept the whole town up half the night. Asks if I want to see the little devil and I decline. Damn, I feel better. He brings soup as the nurse encourages me to get up and walk around. The kid wants to talk baseball. Says he remebers me when I played for the Tigers in 1908 but that he won a few dollars betting on the Cubs in the World Series. We lost it four games to one.

The doctor comes back into the room and says I should be fine in a day or two. He adds that he can’t do much for my gout. Iask about my strangulated hernia and he just shakes his head. What about that pain? I thought I had turberculosis or something. He laughs and says a kidney stone is no walk in the park. That’s a great way to put it, doc. He says I’m as healthy as a horse but should slow down on the drinking. I wire the doctor in Denver that I will not be keeping my appointment. I hear there are a couple of prospects down in Dolores. I’m on my way.

 

Baseball to Expand to Eleven Players

(New York) Major League Baseball has announced that it will expand on-field rosters in April so as to make the game more interesting. The decision to go from the traditional nine players to a bulked up eleven was received with mixed reviews by baseball’s loyal followers.

“A lot of us are still getting over the designated hitter clause in the American League,” said Melvin O’Toole, a Baltimore Oriole fan who lives in Washington DC. “Now they want to augment the current rosters by going to eleven players on the field.”

O’Toole said the move would further dilute the already dwindling pool of talent that now exists.

“Just so long as they don’t increase the number of pitchers used at one time,” suggested ” O’Toole. “It’s important to keep the 150-year legacy intact but with the price of a hot dog at the ball park who’s going to notice another outfielder or two?”

Actually the specific expansion will affect two newly created positions on the diamond. The first will be a logical fourth fielder who will play short center field or be pulled in to the infield to cut off the run at the plate. The second will be a super-utility player who might find himself filling the hole between first and second or backing up the catcher.

“We feel that the addition of two new positions will make the game more competitive,” said Jeb Bush, newly appointed Commissioner of Baseball. “There was far too much offense last year and the serious fan wants a return to the pitcher’s duel and the one run difference.”

Bush added that football has eleven men on the field at once and baseball has nothing to fear in embracing that numerical relationship.

Republicans in Congress are skeptical as to the move. Some say it is nothing more than another poorly disguised jobs bill aimed at employing more people on at least a seasonal basis.

“Presumably the size of the entire roster will increase” said Oral Noise (Unitarian-CA). Teams will be forced to add four players to play the two extra ones. This reeks of monopoly and we will consider anti-trust legislation to protect the integrity of professional sports.”

Television contracts and product endorsements should not be affected. – Rocky Flats

 

AMERICAN CABBIES FLOCKING TO MIDEAST

(Karachi, Pakistan) U.S. cab drivers are moving to the Mideast in droves according to sources here. The phenomenon, which has drastically flip-flopped the cabbie trade balance between North America and the Arab world, has yet to be explained.

Surviving social scientists in Syria and in Afghanistan say the shift comes as a result of lucrative job prospects in the oil-rich Mideast combined with the desire to experience adventure. Cynics in places as distinct as Iran and Oman say the Americans have arrived so as to avoid the growing violence in U.S. urban centers.

“There are few robberies or other acts of violence aimed at cab drivers here,” said a police chief in Tehran. “That is because we punish offenders in ways which are quick and final. Imagine a society where a thief loses a hand and a rapist loses…well…he loses too. In the United States violent criminals know they can get away easy and people like cab drivers are prime targets.”

One problem, the language barrier, does not seem too serious as stumbling block since American cab drivers have worked with Mideast drivers for decades.

“Some of the rudest drivers in New York City aren’t from the Bronx or Brooklyn. They’re from garden spots like Mecca and Alexandria. They had to learn to be rude by impersonating their Yankee counterparts. It didn’t take long. Most of our people are capable of assimilation.”

A majority of ex-patriot cabbies have some command of various Mideastern dialects from listening to co-workers in places like Philadelphia and Chicago.

“I picked up a few choice phrases and some invaluable glaring techniques working with cabbies from Istanbul to Calcutta,” said one San Francisco trained cabbie who now makes his home in Ankara, Turkey. “It’s all a matter of presence. After this experience I could probably sell real estate in Tel Aviv.”

Although pay is high, by U.S. standards, tips are all but nonexistent. Cabbies must learn to negotiate often steaming traffic peppered with livestock and carts of all description. After work most look forward to tea rather than alcoholic beverages.

“They’ve all got radios which are, by design, cranked up to an infinite decibel level,” said one Turkish sociologist conducting a study of alien work habits for a Gallipoli truck driving academy. “They all yell at each other for entertainment just like we do. It’s a simple matter of a world economy coming full circle.”– Suzie Compost   

 

IRS Seizes Horseshoe, Gives It Back

(Mañana) The Internal Revenue Service seized the San Juan Horseshoe newspaper and its assets accusing the publication of tax evasion. In an early morning raid the illegal government taxing agency forced the paper to cease production and dismissed its employees including a blind proof-reader and two bookies employed in the sports department.

“We attempted to place our trademark heavy chain and padlock on the front door,” explained one agent, “but the weight of our pronouncement caved in a fragile bamboo wall rendering the door dysfunctional, trapping night editor and his entourage inside the building until the day shift arrived at noon.”

By then the IRS had returned the paper in tact saying the whole episode was a unfortunate misunderstanding. Insiders say the tax people were looking for illegal farriers and were misled by newspaper’s neon shingle, installed in 1978 to irritate neighbors.

In what insiders say is an unprecedented move the IRS apologized for the intrusion after determining that the paper’s visible assets were confined to an aging RG Dunn cigar box which, in better days, had served as a petty cash capsule and now held only dust

After a lengthy breakfast with several agents masquerading as Mormon missionaries, publisher General Kashmir Horseshoe gingerly raised his frosty mimosa in solidarity with the Magna Carta, The United States Constitution and the Paris Commune of 1871.

“The IRS is returning the newspaper to its rightful owners because enlightened elements there realize that the operators are but impoverished peasants struggling to fashion a narcissistic Walden from designer sagebrush and the ashes of new age procrastination while forcibly implementing Third World morality on the half shell.”

No one in attendance appears to have understood the statement either. Eye witnesses agree that the IRS blinked when the retired military officer handed over personal income tax receipts dating back to the Spanish-American War.

– Fred Zeppelin