All Entries in the "Soft News" Category

Local Rock Star Takes Life

Golden record and Grammy Award winner Newt Guitar Jepson was found dead yesterday backstage in the Imperial Ballroom of the Wimpton Sheridan Love Hotel, apparently a victim of his own hand.

     Jepson, who had recently been dating the 17-year-old daughter of the Hapsacke County coroner Gunther Gunne, had allegedly stabbed himself in the back thirteen times and then shot himself in the head and through the heart, according to Sheriff Howard “Gridiron” Gunne.  The coroner then concluded that Jepson must have disposed of the weapons since none were found at the scene of the “one-car suicide”.

     Jepson’s career epitomized a virtual rocket to stardom after the release of his first recording “You Can Take My Love and Shove It Up Your Heart”. From there it was CD after CD followed by a world tour of Texas and Oklahoma. Just two days before the tragedy he had agreed to appear on Stairway to the Galaxies in downtown Grand Junction.

     It was rumored that Jepson was heavily into the drug scene, but this was never proven. Although he was arrested over 600 times for various narcotic binges, he was never convicted.

     The local newspaper reported that there are currently 2398 suspects in Hapsack County alone, pop 2399 (now 2398) in addition to thousands line up to be paid for everything from sound systems to chocolate bars acquisitioned by Jepson during his brief flirtation with stardom and the big time.

     “All one has to do is listen to the lyrics and it’s clear he liked meth, coke and an assorted entourage of downers,” said an unreliable source perched over a jocular whiskey at the drab Victorian barrel room of the Imperial.

     Newt is survived by his wife Ima and his legitimate son Newt Jr., as well as 87 other alleged offspring, 24 of which are represented in local paternity suits.

– Tommy Middlefinger

Ancient Druids Revered Mistletoe Berries

(Ireland) If you’ve ever wandered the woodlands of Ireland you couldn’t help but trip over the mistletoe. It grows everywhere. Surprisingly when all the other green is in hibernation the mistletoe plant continues to produce berries all winter long.

     The Druid physician-priests held the berries dear for their medicinal benefits and very likely in prevention of conception. The berries contain high concentrations of progesterone (rhymes with testosterone) that stimulates the libido. We will paraphrase what may have happened next as theorized by Dr. John Lee, author of Natural Progesterone – The Multiple Rolls of a Remarkable Hormone.

     Here’s the scenario: For many centuries the Druids sponsored a winter solstice festival that, according to our calendar fell on December 22 or 23. The event, which lasted one week, was meant to keep the sun from disappearing completely from the sky. (The pagans were uptight about things too – especially the sun god taking a powder). The celebration was held so that spring would someday return and the world would not die. Katy, bar the door! Debts were paid, gifts exchanged and feasts presented. In addition a sacred concoction of hot mead laced with mistletoe berries was plentiful. What? No Guinness?

     Once the party got started the influence of the warm alcohol and the progesterone helped everyone get quite relaxed, and get to know each other better.

     Modern medicine recognizes the fact that menstrual shedding is the result of an abrupt fall of progesterone, which no doubt occurred after the week of Celtic carousing had ended. Therefore, any conception that took place during the week of unrestricted sex would be lost in the induced flow. Besides allowing participants access to primitive sexual license, the solstice party reinforced the perception that festive sex without subsequent responsibility was merely another gift from the gods. Simple enough.

     With the start of the new year everything returned to normal. And you thought you’d been to some parties…Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and Happy Solstice. Mistletoe berries and mead…

Christmas 2024 Quiz: Name the sitee (man on the right)

and you could be behind the wheel of a 1966 Mustang as early as tomorrow morning…   (Who’s up there with Declan photos)

 

Shortage of Caves Plagues Hibernating Bear

(Lake City) Burgeoning numbers amid the bear population has resulted in a housing crunch this winter with many bruins unable to find suitable caves. Already in Hinsdale County, the situation has translated into more town visits and a number of bears facing winter on the street, without protection.

     Bear have been observed sleeping under logs and pushing smaller mammals like marmots and skunks from traditional redoubts. Residents have reported more bears prowling around town when they should be sound asleep. The animals need more to eat while awake than while hibernating leading to a crisis.

     Despite the construction of new caves over the summer, many bear have vacated the Lake City region in search of homes in places like Creede and Ouray pressuring services in those locales. Development in bear habitat as well as a rise in the number of needy bears has resulted in the housing shortages there.

     “It’s almost as bad as potential employees searching for housing,” said one merchant. “It seems ridiculous that we face this annual crunch what with all the vacant trophy homes left empty for most of the year,” she said.

     Oddly enough, many bears have taken to squatting in vacant houses making them their winter homes. The problems here is that the bruins are not good housekeepers and often leave a path of destruction in their wake.

     “Imagine summer people returning to their homes in June to find their homes in shambles,” she continued. “What a shock and it might even be worse if the guest is still in residence.”

     Authorities fear that if the situation doesn’t improve before long local bears may blend into the general population of winter weary male residents and be undetectable until the spring thaw. Male residents are asked to shave beards, cut hair and bathe regularly so as not to be confused with the fury foragers.

     “It would be better for everyone if humans stayed indoors and bear stayed outdoors until May,” said our source, “but that might be wishful thinking.”

– Uncle Pahgre

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.

     

Mouth Marbles on the Range

Finally! Adult American history classes now forming. Understand your own history before it gobbles you up. Find out what they didn’t tell you about the US in school and become a real patriot for it. Coursework covers slavery, genocide, labor wars, racial immigration, coffin ships, disappearances of Chinese laborers in the San Juans, causes for the Mexican and Civil Wars, Reconstruction, Robber Barons, Jim Crow and the emergence of political parties (not the kind one wants to attend).

Box 19865, Rifle. Pry your knowledge and comprehension out of the dark ages. Geography tutors on site too. Register at the Multi-Events Center at the Cathedral of the Perennially Stunned today!

 

60,000 ways to win at Jingo Bingo Tuesdays

at The Somme VFW, Gladstone.

Flapjack recipes from the Great Beyond.

Sole fare in heaven is pancakes

and crepes on the holiday weekends.

Believe it!

 

Late scores:

Godiva Society 5    Polar Bear Club 1

Canned Thought 4   Bud Lite 3

Fashionable Fact Check # 611

 1859 was not the first year that saw Americans peeing more inside than outside. It was actually 1869 with the invention of the Henway Pulster Correction Device and Corned Mesh-Halter. The heavily weighted plunger worked fine until the start if the American Civil War when it became apparent that insufficient septic constriction up the line was not easy matter down the line. Four years after the conflict, old data was flushed in lieu of new findings that tipped the scale in favor of those who preferred the indoor facilities. Other important pioneer fetishes listed under pioneer fetishes by another cover.

 Peewits: They are a subfamily of medium-sized wading birds which also includes the plovers and dotterels. The Vanellinae are collectively called lapwings but also contain the ancient red-kneed dotterel. A lapwing can be thought of as a larger plover.

“When was the last time you will felt yourself floating up high in a cloudless sky wearing nothing but a Barbie lampshade and padded knee socks? Never. Almost nothing trickles down, fool. The rich hoard it. Why do you think the sky is so blue? Why do you think their kids are rich?”

– Henny Penny in Trickling Down Your Peewit Femur and Other Poems, Testosterone Brothers, Boston.