All Entries in the "Soft News" Category

SPIRIT ABUSE BILL PICKS UP STEAM IN HOUSE

A shaky proposition sponsored by secular congressmen seeks to terminate the rampant exploitation of metaphysical fears and unexplained phenomenon forwarded by “unclean, soulless predators preying on the human predicament since before fabricated gods were cooked up in  Mesopotamia, Switzerland or Boston.”

One popular creed, Fiscal Puritan, disguised as a ragged holy man screaming platitudes from the desert, where transparent spirits abound, claims to have the ear of the All-Knowing.

A popular strip mall preacher has gone so far as to suggest that book banning is akin to, and often as effective as, witch burning and lynchings. “Communists!”, he shouted peering into the opaque ceiling and beyond. He used this word 37 times in a 2-minute rant, even as his well buffed knuckles exposed the strain of regular contact with the pavement.

“They have successfully tapped the anger cask, the hate keg,” said a competing transcendent mystic from across the path of corpulence. “Charlatans in our own barnyard bringing in the sheep? That won’t do,” he gasped.

“The self-divined often resent losing half of their flock to the new guy on the block,” ripped the book igniter. “He should have spiced up the oatmeal he serves on Sundays.”

The spirit abuse bill, which would require that mail order preachers and the self-proclaimed righteous would have to show a clean soul and honorable intentions before sinking their teeth into the soft underbelly of the fearful flocks.

A prominent church-and-state separatist called for religious to pay taxes if they continue to toy with and wallow in the ongoing political fray.

“Cornucopias, Mumbo-Jumbo and prosperity… There’s big money to be made in religion,” he quacked.

Another fence-sitter suggested sending in legions of archangels to punish these charlatans.

“They spend their lives worrying about the afterlife without having considered that this world may well be it. It’s no wonder with these lies and convoluted explanations that we see so many unhappy people wandering around not knowing how to enjoy this beautiful garden,” she clucked.

See related references to metaphysical fraud, “faith fraud”, divinity detachment,

and fear-based pablum, olfactory soul abuse

“Gosh there sure have been a lot of Palestinians killed in Gaza. Somebody should do something.” – Anthony Blinken, US Secretary of State.

Escobar’s Hippos won’t fit in one’s Christmas stocking

As the holidays rage on here in Antioquia we cast our one good eye to the east near the Magdalena River where wild, invasive hippos roam at will.

The herd has grown exponentially since the demise of infamous drug lord, Pablo Escobar (who smuggled four hippos out of a Texas zoo in 1980) and his short-lived exotic zoo in the midst of Colombia’s thriving waterways.

The often dangerous hippos had become a popular attraction, part of his massive 2,000-hectare Hacienda Napoles ranch in Puerto Triunfo, which featured an ostentatious Spanish colonial house, a landing strip, and a myriad of artificial lakes.

Escobar, flexing his cocaine fortune, wanted a truly exotic wildlife park, so he also brought rhinos, elephants, giraffes, ostriches and many more animals, calling it his “own Noah’s Ark.”

When Escobar was gunned down by the Colombian government the hippos escaped and are now at large with no known predators and an extended mating season due to a comfortable environment, much wetter than their original African home.

Scientists agree that any delay in controlling the burgeoning hippo population could have serious consequences.

“It is the biggest hippo herd outside Africa, just under 200

The animals are spreading across Colombia’s biggest river basin, from which many thousands of people make their living,” said one biologist. “There have been sightings of hippos as far as 370km from Hacienda Napoles.”

And so to meet the threat Colombia has begun sterilizing hippos, which does not sound like a particularly pleasant way to spend the afternoon. It’s either this procedure or euthanasia since the cost of relocation is exorbitant at best, even with dollars hovering from the now defunct War on Drugs.

The dismal failure of self-serving programs like this often contribute to a precarious live and let live attitude toward the territorial and dangerous mammals, which can easily weigh-in at 6500 pounds.*

Surgical darts packed with the drug GonaCon are the easiest way but sometimes the darts don’t penetrate the thick hide of the animals.

“It’s like trying to penetrate the mind of a cocaine user up north or in Europe,” said one veterinarian on the scene.

In chronic cases the animals must be captured, anesthetized, transported by helicopter, and surgically operated upon.

“This is very challenging and can be dangerous for both the people and hippos, an uninvited pet psychologist understated.

*Hippopotamuses kill more people annually than sharks

REINDEER NOT ALWAYS HAPPY ON YULE

It has long been a human trait to take for granted that, although the wheels have fallen off our own wagons, everyone else is doing just fine. If you are a reindeer at Christmas, it’s all but a given that things are looking up. Surely, as one of Santa’s anointed eight, the laborious joys of the solstice would establish peace and harmony. Maybe not. Let’s eavesdrop on a little soul searching, compliments of Blitzen, a veteran point man in Santa’s annual entourage. Nobody knows the trouble he’s seen.

     Damn. Another cold night out here fooling with these reins. I wish the fat boy would spring for new tack this Christmas but he’ll probably settle for carrots and green apples like last year. Where in all of creation did he read that reindeer like that sort of thing. What we need out there in the dark is a cup of rum and eggnog. Where’s Donner? She was supposed to be back from the hardware store an hour ago.

     Legend tells it that we beasts of burden are happy pursuing a life of service to this obsessed elf in a red suit. That’s history for you. The winners write it down and the losers suffer from cold feet. I’m so tired of little kids with dreamy eyes waiting by the chimney while we’re up on the roof freezing, our hooves slipping. How many people still use fireplaces? Don’t they know wood smoke pollutes the ozone? Why can’t they hold Christmas in July like all those greedy furniture stores?

     Damn. If I hear that carol one more time I’m gonna puke. Can’t someone play something a little more progressive. Hell, I’ll even take Elvis or Brenda Lee over this syrupy saga that Santa pumps out over the loud speakers. Maybe he’d lighten up if we could get the internet at the North Pole. WiFi works in the snow.  I think they can’t make any money up here what with polar bears, codfish and crazy elves with those pointy red noses.

     And speaking or red noses the old lady, Mrs. Claus, has been flown down to Canada for another round of rehab. I can’t blame the woman for hitting the bottle. You try living with a benevolent elf that can’t afford a second suit of clothes but insists on giving away the farm every December 24. I don’t mean to be bitter but everyone has his limit.

     And then there’s the favorite son, Rudolph. Before some flatlander came up with the song, you know, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, there was parity, solidarity in this job. Now we have the privileged one and a host of extras. It’s not like we’re in it for the notoriety, or that most of us care. We just want to finish our jobs and get back down to Greenland for winter carnival. It’s tough enough to find a suitable mate in the Arctic but try it up here where we’re up to our butts in blizzards and sleigh bells.

     He hates to be called Rudy. Rudy…Rudy…more Rudy. Hey, you don’t sign my pay check, you pompous flit. Where did you get that red nose from anyway? At least Mrs. Claus drinks out in the open.

     After all these years I’m still fifth man on a string of idiots. When I first started this gig I figured I’d be into management by now. In fact I was promised a promotion following the Christmas of ’82, or was it ’92? The years all blend together when you’re working on the chain gang here in the Great North. Maybe this year Prancer and Cupid will brush their teeth before we go out on our journey. Maybe Dasher will bring a map and Vixen will wear those red tights again. I still think Dancer swiped my flask somewhere over Scotland in 2010..

     Sure, we could have joined the herd union but then we’d have to go to all those smoky meetings with burned-out antelopes, arrogant zebras and yoked oxen. I’d rather sit through one of the fat boy’s sermons. At least he provides health insurance. Oh, here comes Donner, back from the hardware store. I hope she got the right…what? A package in gold with red ribbon? Under the tree in the stable? My name on it? Who…are you pulling my leg. If you are I’ll…we all got presents?

     I’ll bet it’s a new collar, or some dry boots or maybe some decoration for my antlers. And a present from Comet? Another from Prancer? A card from Vixen? They shouldn’t have. I thought we agreed not to buy presents anymore. I thought I’d been forgotten.

     Even Donner got a pile of presents and she’s only been with us for a little over a century. Christmas morning will be quite the festive occasion this year but I’d better get busy. Maybe I’ll buy us all Christmas dinner or a spring trip to Antarctica for the penguin races. Maybe I’d better go to town. I know what all the reindeer want. I’ve heard them talking and it is far better to give than receive but combined the action is dynamite. Dasher wants a basketball and Cupid a cell phone. I’ll get Santa new underwear and Donner a nightcap. And, speaking of nightcaps I know what I’ll buy Mrs. Claus too. What the hell she deserves to make merry before her coming brush with temperance. Hospitals can be so dreary in January. It’s only a few days away. I love this time of the year.

Santa Claus Canadian

Ottowa) The red-clad warrior of Christmas has admitted his Canadian ancestry today much to the dismay of millions of fans south of the border in the United States. Humbug.

     “We are stunned,” said a spokesman for retailers here. “Why would he mislead us? Why would he impersonate himself in such a cruel way? He should be punished!”

     For centuries Santa Claus was considered to be a product of the U.S. since his trademark image was created by people like Thomas Nast, Clarence Horning, Frank Leslie and Winslow Homer. Despite these presumptions the elf’s continued insistence that he reside at the brutal North Pole and his long association with Canada should have indicated a rat.

     “People would prefer to gloss over the reality of a situation rather than consider all the possibilities,” said social scientist Margaret Swede of Cal Polygamy, a visiting schoolmarm  here. “Why do they think the Canadian kids always got their presents first? He’s been a rabid fan of the Maple Leafs since the first power play. He even goes to Bluejays’ games. That in itself shows substantial instability.”

     What this disclosure will do to Christmas down in the colonies is not known but former Vice President, Mike Pence, has bravely offered to fill in until a new Santa is appointed, or the old one is exonerated.

     “Santa has mislead us for too long,” continued Swede. “Even liberal academia will be slow to forgive him for this ruthless act.”

     As an acting Canadian, Santa is also a subject of the crown (Britain) which may not go down well in Fenian circles.

     “His mother was a Murphy,” added Swede. “Ahh, but don’t they forget the ould sod when they make a few quid across the sea.”

     After the holidays the United States will consider economic sanctions against the Commonwealth of Canada for harboring the bearded fraud.

– Suzie Compost

AUTUMN RECESS AGENDA

United States Congress

October to December, 2023

The following issues, bills, concerns are slated for the combined floors (walls and ceilings) of the House and Senate unless those legislative bodies vote on an extension of seasonal adjournments, more vacations, further fact finding trips and acceptable absenteeism.

1. If California falls into the ocean would it be the Pacific? Should we send lifeboats or just let survivors swim to the beaches of Nevada?

2. Which are the best French Restaurants in the Virginia and Maryland suburbs?

3. What should we buy each other for Christmas? What are the lobbyists giving? When is the gift exchange? Will it conflict with campaigning?

4. Are there that many of us that are millionaires?

5. What are the merits of a proposed 60-cent stamp? Will the great unwashed be able to afford such luxuries?

6. What’s Hillary doing tonight?

7. Should we allow a Taco Bell to be built on the Capitol steps? Will it help determine serious immigration policies?

8. Should next year’s limos be black or white? What about the drivers?

9. Should we limit terms for Congressional caterers?

10. Is there a market for recreational vehicles in Mainland China? Should we subsidize that industry in hopes of exporting our culture to the less fortunate Yellow Peril?

11. How did all these Irish get elected?

12. Should HMOs be responsible for cleaning up after themselves like we do?

Jericho Bob

by Anna Eichberg King

     Jericho Bob, when he was four years old, hoped that one day he might be allowed to eat just as much turkey as he possibly could. He was eight now, but that hope had not been realized.

     Mrs. Jericho Bob, his mother, kept hens for a living, and she expected  they would lay enough eggs in the course of time to help her son to an independent career as a bootblack.

     They lived in a tumble-down house in a waste of land near the steam cars. Besides her hens Mrs. Bob owned a goat.

     Our story has, however, nothing to do with the goat except to say he was there, and that he was on nibbling terms, not only with Jericho Bob, but with his friend, Julius Caesar Fish, and it was surprising how many old hat brims and other tidbits of clothing he could swallow during a day.

     And Mrs. Bob truly said, it was no earthly use to get something new for Jericho, even if she could afford it; for the goat browsed all over him, and had been known to carry away even a leg of his trousers.

     Jericho Bob was eight years old and his friend, Julius Caesar Fish, was nine. They were so much alike that if it hadn’t been for Jericho’s bow-legs and his turned up nose, you really could not have told them apart.

     A kindred taste for turkey also united them.

     In honor of Thanksgiving Day Mrs. Bob always sacrificed a hen which would, but for such blessed release, have died of old age.  One drumstick was given to Jericho, whose interior remained an unsatisfied void.

     Jericho has heard of turkey as a fowl larger, sweeter and more tender than hen, and about Thanksgiving time he would linger around the provision stores and gaze with open mouth at the array of turkeys hanging head downward over bushels of cranberries, as if even at that uncooked stage, they were destined for one another. And turkey was his dream.

     It was springtime, and the hens were being a credit to themselves. The goat in the yard, tied to a stake, was varying a meal of old shoe and tomato can by a nibble of fresh green grass. Mrs. Bob was laid up with rheumatism.

     “Jericho Bob!” she said to her son, shaking her red and yellow turban at him. “Jericho Bob, you go down and fetch de eggs today. Ef I find yer don’t bring me twenty-three, I’ll…well never mind what I’ll do. but you won’t like it”

     Now Jericho Bob meant to be honest, but the fact was he found twenty-four, and the twenty-fourth was so big, so remarkably big. Twenty-three eggs he brought to Mrs. Bob, but the twenty-fourth he left sinfully in charge of the discreet hen.

     On his return he met Julius Caesar Fish, with his hands in his pockets and his head extinguished by his grandfather’s fur cap. Together they went toward the hen coop and Fish spoke, or rather lisped (he had lost some of his front teeth):

     “Jericho Bob, tha’th a turkey’th egg.”

     “Yer don’t say so.”

     “I think i’th a-goin to hatch.”

     No sooner said that they heard a pick and peck in the shell.

     “Pick!” a tiny beak broke through the shell. “Peck!” more break. “Crack!” a funny little head, a long bare neck, and then “Pick, peck, crack! before them stood the funniest, fluffiest brown ball  resting on two weak little legs.

     “Hooray!” they shouted.

     “Peep!” said the turkeykin.

     “It’s mine!” Jericho Bob shouted excitedly.

     “I’th Marm Pitkin’th turkey’th; she laid it there.”

     “It’s mine, and I’m going to keep it, and next Thanksgiving I’m going ter eat him.”

     “Think yer ma’ll let you feed him up for thath? Julius Caesar asked triumphantly.

     Jericho Bob’s next Thanksgiving dinner seemed destined to be a dream. His face fell.

     “I’ll tell you wath I’ll do,” his friend said, benevolently: “I’ll keep him for you, and Thanksgivin’ we’ll go halvth.”

     Jericho resigned himself to the inevitable, and the infant turkey was borne home by his friend.

     Fish. Jr., lived next door, and the only difference in the premises was a freight-car permanently switched off before the broken down fence of the Fish yard; and in this car turkeykin took up his abode.

     I will not tell you how he grew and more than realized the hopes of his foster-fathers, nor with what impatience and anticipation they saw spring. summer and autumn pass, while they watched their Thanksgiving dinner stalk proudly up the bare yard and even hop across the railroad tracks.

     But alas! the possession of the turkey brought with it strife and discord.

     Quarrels arose between the friends as to the prospective disposal of his remains. We grieve to say that the question of who was to cook him led to blows.

     It was the day before Thanksgiving. There was a coldness between the friends which was not dispelled by the bringing of a pint of cranberries to the common store by Jericho, and the contributing thereto of a couple of cold-boiled sweet potatoes by Julius Caesar Fish.

     The friends sat on an ancient washtub in the backyard, and there was a momentary truce between them. Before them stood the freight-car, and along the track beyond, an occasional train tore down the road, which so far excited their mutual sympathy that they rose and shouted as one man.

     At the open door of the freight-car stood the unsuspecting turkey who looked meditatively out on the landscape and at the two figures on the washtub.

     One had bow-legs, a turned-up nose and a huge straw hat. The other wore a fur cap and a gentleman’s swallow-tail coat, with the tails caught up because they were too long.

     The turkey hopped out of the car and gazed confidently at his protectors. In point of size he was altogether their superior.

     “I think,” said Jericho Bob, “we’d better catch ‘im. Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. Yum!”

     And he looked with great joy at the innocent, the unsuspecting fowl.

     “Butcher  Tham’th goin’ to kill ‘im for ‘uth,” Julius Caesar hastened to say, “And I can cook ‘im.”

     “No you ain’t. I’m goin’ to cook ‘im,” Jericho Bob cried resentfully. “He’s mine.”

     “He ainth; he’s mine.”

     “He was my egg,” and Jericho Bob danced defiantly at his friend.

     The turkey looked with some surprise, and became alarmed when he saw his foster-fathers clasped in an embrace more of anger than of love.

     “I’ll eat ‘im all alone!” Jericho Bob cried

     “No you sha’nt!” the other shouted.

     The turkey shrieked in terror and fled in a circle about the yard.

     “Now look yere,” said Julius Caesar, who had conquered, “we’re going to be squar. He wath your egg, but who brought him up? Me! Who’th got a friend to kill him? Me! Who’th got a fire to cook ‘im? Me! Now you get up and we’ll ketch ‘im. Ef you say another word about your egg I’ll jeth eat ‘im up all mythelf.”

     Jericho Bob was conquered. With mutual understanding they approached the turkey.

     “Come yere; come yere,” Julius Caesar said, coaxing the bird.

     For a moment the bird gazed at both, uncertain what to do.

     “Come yere,” Julius repeated,  and made a dive for him. The turkey spread his tail. Oh, didn’t he run.”

     “Now I’ve got yer!” the wicked Jericho Bob cried, and thought he had captured the fowl, when with a shriek from Jericho Bob, as the turkey knocked him over, the Thanksgiving  dinner spread his wings, rose in the air, and alighted on the roof of the freight-car.

     The turkey looked down over the edge of the car at his enemies, and they gazed up at him. Both parties surveyed the situation.

     “We’ve got ‘im,” Julius Caesar cried out exultantly. “You get on the roof, and if you can’t catch him up there I’ll kitch ‘im down here.”

     And with the help of the washtub, an old chair the older Caesar’s back and much scrambling Jericho Bob was hoisted on top of the car. The turkey now stalked solemnly up and down the roof with wings half spread.

     “I’ve got ‘er now,” Jericho Bob said, creeping slowly after him. “I’ve got yer now, sure, he was softly repeating, when with a deafening roar the express train for New York came tearing down the track.

     For what possible reason it slowed up on approaching the freight-car nobody ever knew, but one fact remains that it did just as Jericho Bob laid one wicked paw on the turkey’s tail.

     The turkey shrieked, spread its wings, shook the small black boy’s grasp from its tail, and with a mighty swoop alighted on the roof of the very last car as it passed, and in a moment more Jericho Bob’s Thanksgiving dinner has vanished, like a beautiful dream down the road.

     Now what became of that Thanksgiving dinner no one ever knew. If you happen to meet a traveling turkey without any luggage, but with a smile on his countenance, kindly send word to Jericho Bob.