All Entries in the "Soft News" Category
A finca in the sky
The wonders of Antioquia continue to unfold at a coffee finca at 7,000 feet. Looking down on flocks of birds and absorbing the rich greens as enhanced by the best coffee on the planet. Photo by Delinda Austin
Health and Stealth
with Melvin Toolstoy
Broken hearts not considered a pre-existing condition
In a blow to rejected lovers the House today voted in favor of the insurance cartel saying that lost love does not constitute a threat to life and therefore is not automatically included in basic medical or surgical treatment on most policies.
In addition, broken hearts could not be classified as a pre-existing condition but that persons with multiple love calamities and worn track records could still be denied coverage.
“This decision heavily favors those who embrace monogamy or who have not yet met the right person,” said Doctor Simon Lackluster of the Mao Clinic. “People who are not in touch with their libidos should not have to worry about emergency room etiquette and are free to seek treatment in more progressive cultures where medicine does not have a steep price tag.”
The announcement said nothing of exorbitant prescription costs and the absence of the Hippocratic Oath on medical balance sheets in the United States.
Any procedures compliant with freethinking and alternative care are not covered under Medifaire. Instead white tipped canes will be handed out to those blinded by emotion.
Executive insurance policies still promise “You can take it with you even though that has yet to be confirmed by anyone in a position of authority.
Trump Declares Every Night is Taco Night
(Key Lardass) In apparent celebration of his bogus acquittal in an iniquitous Senate, Donald Trump has proclaimed Every Night Is Taco Night. The announcement came at a no expenses paid MAGA rally where hired supporters donned hats and waved flags behind the president so as to stimulate television factions at home.
A follow-up book burning was then held on the White House lawn even though it is clearly prohibited by the First Amendment. Sadly, some 300,000 copies of Triggered by Donald Trump Jr. were mistakenly burned in the melee that (according to the White House) drew some 7 million devotees.
Sales of Triggered have been less than pathetic. Critics link the poor performance to the right-wing’s discomfort with the printed word. The smoldering copies (chronicling the life and times of singing cowboy Roy’s Rogers horse named Trigger) will be categorized as sold, bumping overall sales upwards toward 300,666.
“We should have read the book to them over the radio,” said one now banished publisher, who added that his company has suspended the printing of three-dollar bills with two faces of vice-president Mike Pence on each.
Clerics who support the president drove home a GOP claim that Jesus supports fracking.
“It’s right there in the Bible,” squeaked one.
Meanwhile Americans from Iraq to Indiana can enjoy a bag of cut-rate tacos and then go back to sleep.
– Kashmir Horseshoe
After Hours Party Poised for Primaries
The newly extracted After Hours Party is expected to make an immediate dent in the ancient and exhausted partisan system of yore. Following the premise that nobody really agrees with anyone else ever, the constituted group plans to present a transparent platform full of trap doors, false fronts and vaulted ceilings.
“It’s politics without a net,” said Evelyn Marmotbreath, who along with everyone else in the fringe group is a frontrunner for the Presidential nomination. The kickoff convention, (slated to take place in Puerto Rico during hurricane season), will find it difficult to come to any viable decision in time for the November election, but we’ll have straw hats, signs, uncomfortable metal chairs and a bit of drunkenness anyway.”
It is feared that radical factions herein will attempt to take over the gov’ment since no one else knows how to feed and water it.
“We should to do well in swing states,” said Marmotbreath, candidate for parks and recreation director on the Caribbean island. “Sure there will be slides, teeter-tottering and merry-go-rounds but in the final accounting we should find ourselves firmly entrenched in the sandbox.”
When asked about rumors that Ward Cleaver was poised for a comeback Marmotbreath spat.
“His message is too conservative and most of the younger voters know him only from Nick at Night,” she said. “Besides his misogynous base is peppered with questionable input from people named Wally, Lumpy, Eddie and Beaver. June barely counts. What does she do all day anyway? Is Ward a Roosevelt Democrat or a Harding Republican? There are a plethora of unanswered question here.”
Many in he After Hours Party have loudly rejected Cleaver as a potential running mate for everyone else, fearing that his tie-to-dinner manifesto will petrify the pierced and terrify the tattooed. In addition most fear that, in a close election, he will undoubtedly rely on his own unsolicited advice.
“If, as a nation, we would start spending money helping people instead of hurting them, our international conflicts would begin to evaporate. Of course, positive results would not occur overnight so our electorate would not be inclined to support policies that would come to fruition only after their reign and thus not benefit their political careers at the present time.”
– Gabby Haze, political analyst and slave to the barometer.
January Duels #449
“Sir! You offend the feminine gender of the state of South Carolina with your crude and careless talk of hoop skirts! I challenge you to a duel!”
And with the slap of a riding glove in Charleston, Count Marcourte set into motion a series of January duels unprecedented in American history. His opponent, a rank industrialist from Boston, was shot squarely through the forehead the next morning as seconds and a sellout crowd observed from a nearby hill.
The victim’s name was never clear. It was either Hazelrod or Hazelbloom, or something designating yellowish brown. Count Marcourte had won the day and he reveled in his lopsided victory, as winter turned to spring in this coastal redoubt.
“No Yankee can hold a candle to a Southerner when it comes to combat,” said Marcourte. It was early June 1860.
The victorious count fought three more duels that year, winning all of them in the fine fashion displayed on that Charleston morning. In 1861, with the attack on Fort Sumter, Marcourte joined the Confederate Army and soon after lost an arm at Fredericksburg. After the war, he returned to the sport he loved so well and became a local legend as the finest one-armed dueler east of the Mississippi.
Finally, on Christmas Day 1879, Marcourte was struck between the eyes by an insubordinate arrow of unknown origin. He lasted only moments.
WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, WHY?
A short quiz that allows our reader to stretch his/her literary legs before leaping into mounds of stimulating text. Please answer the questions honestly and to the best of your knowledge.
1.) WHO won World War II, you so smart? (Stolen from Firesign Theater)
2.) WHAT exactly do sociologists mean when they refer to the “ski culture”? Where is the bubble? Is it in tune with the Protestant ethic?
a.) The term refers to a popular brand of Yogurt produced by Mormons in Park City. I can’t read music.
b.) A feudalistic system that demands daily worship of Moguls. I can’t read music.
c.) What about the Catholics?
3.) WHEN was the last World Series played?
a.) 1893
b.) 1993
c.) 2019
4.) WHERE did the term “Deep in the Rockies” originate?
5.) WHY can’t penguins fly?
a.) They don’t have insurance.
b.) Where would they go?
c.) Small wings, big butts.
– Dolores Alegria
The Dog Bar
The surfers had enough trouble honing their skills on the less than crashing waves without their dogs tagging along to Ditch Plains. So they’d just leave them, incrementally at first, at Jimmy’s bar “just for a few minutes” in the morning.
Jimmy O’Dea, the proprietor was a good guy and not stupid. He knew that some of the surfers were taking vantage of his kindness but that most were loyal customers and spent a good deal of money in his establishment. In addition, unlike a few of the hodads from down the island, they never started trouble and tipped his employees most of the time.
It could be quite the scene some days when there was an offshore wind and healthy beachbreaks. The concrete floor of Jimmy’s bar looked like a canine Penn Station with labs and collies and shepherds and retrievers scattered about making it difficult to walk from the bar to the pool table. When nobody was looking Jimmy would bring them water and treats. He was their favorite, like an eccentric uncle who let you get away with things that your parents would never allow.
He warned the surfers that he ran a tight ship but the dogs already knew that. They loved the place and their manners reflected that affection. They also knew that good behavior was imperative and that Jimmy was a soft touch. All they had to do is conduct themselves as “ladies and gentlemen” and they’d never spend the day out in the rain or snow. On hot days the concrete was cool and on cold days there was the little potbelly in the corner.
But what was the most amazing is that there were never dogfights. Almost never. It was if the mongrels understood the perplexities and nuances of Jimmy’s tavern. Tact and refinement was the order of the day. Dogs, although they may not exhibit much logic, are quick to learn with a nose for reality and instincts that people don’t possess.
Most days in winter one could pass by and look through the window at Jimmy and his patrons. Lots of tails wagging. Lots of sniffing. Lots of hanging out waiting for their owners to show back up, thank Jimmy and slam a beer or two before going home. Doggie Day Care at it’s finest.
No growling would be permitted. No accidents on the floor or leg lifting, a very impressive display of excellent manners. Share the water. Share the treats. No aggressive behavior would be tolerated at Jimmy’s.
Then one day a spacey surfer, who looked worse than the mangiest of breeds, left his dog Max at the bar. Poor Max was a mess just like his owner. Max was smaller than most of the other hounds and one uptight asshole. The first day he tangled with Mona, a no-nonsense Rottweiler. He got pinned to the floor and nipped on the nose before retreating to a neutral corner, ostracized by the rest of the day’s pack.
“Don’t be sniffing Mona,” said Jimmy to Max, who would not listen worth a hoot.
Jimmy later warned the surfer who brought Max to the bar telling him his dog was disrupting the peace and interrupting the cosmic flow. He would give the dog one more chance but if he misbehaved he would be 86ed (That’s 602ed in dog years). The surfer nodded and stumbled out of the place, an oaf with Max on a leash when maybe it should have been the other way around.
The next day was a Saturday when Jimmy often hosted a full house until he threw the mutts out in the late afternoon. He would never really throw them out but you had to pick up your dog in the early afternoon of risk losing preferential status. There were tourists from The City in town and the cash register would be humming. These folks didn’t appreciate slobber on their designer footwear or climbing over dogs to use the facilities. Some were even afraid of the dogs when these teapot refugees probably should have been afraid of each other.
It was on a Saturday that Max blew it. Moments after his dippy owner dropped him off he started it with a German Shepherd named Alfonso who was not about to take any guff from the insolent Max. The smaller dog circled and Alfonso nailed him. That was it. Max was banned.
No matter how much the oafish surfer whined Jimmy would not budge.
The Dog That Smokes Saloon in Montevideo, Uruguay
“Rules are rules,” said Jimmy.
The canine congregation seemed to nod their heads in approval. Max was history. And still to this day Max sits across the street under a salty sun waiting to be reinstated and trying to figure out what went wrong.
This was some years ago and Max is no doubt six feet under. But the story still circulates in Montauk warning bad dogs and bad owners that the spoils of comfort and joy are earned not handed out like kibble.
As the years went by Jimmy got old just like the dogs. He retired and left the place to his daughter, Fiona, who carried on the tradition until the bar began serving food and all dogs were kicked out. On his retirement day Jimmy received a remarkable gift from the surfers who had enjoyed his kindness and hospitality for a good many years. It was a felt painting: not of Jesus or Elvis but from a long-closed bar in Montevideo, Uruguay called El Perro Que Fuma. The painting (above) now hangs in a place of distinction in a small cabin on Jimmy’s Boston Whaler.
– Connor Sturgeon
