All Entries in the "Soft News" Category

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.

 

 

Deer and elk not in compliance

(Ouray) Wild herd animals residing in the mountains near here continue to be uncooperative in the efforts to keep the local park free of debris, especially of the fecal nature. Currently dog owners appear willing to pick up after their pets, whose numbers, compared to the those of deer and elk that use the facility, are paltry.

The city has posted popper units and paper pickup supplies at the park’s scoop stations. They have even posted the familiar: “It’s the Law” threat but the response has lingered well behind since the hoofed perpetrators have no money.

“If I wanted to step in herd droppings I’d climb a mountain, not take a walk in the park,” said one resident. “There’s poop everywhere. Don’t these animals have any pride, any restraint?”

DOW officials, consulted on how to solve these pressing problems, confirmed reports that they had no specific fix in mind.

“We have the same trouble up above timber line with the fragile tundra at risk,” said one ranger. “Our little signs keep 200-pound people honest but have little if any effect on 2000-pound elk. We’ve tried everything. Attempts to cork the animals have failed and brought on the ire of animal rights people and hunters.”

A March study is on the docket to determine exactly how much of the problem is being created by the elk and deer and what to write off as human error. If the crisis continues the wild animals may be banned from the park in 2025.

– Pepper Salte

“It’s like asking the tired old question: Why do these churches, theoretically based on the teachings of an impoverished prophet, have such burgeoning vaults?”  – Saint Roscoe of Pronghorn

Toole claims Tarzan ascendency

Globe-scorching journalist Melvin Bedwetter Toole claims to be a direct descendent of Tarzan the Ape Man (aka Tarzan of the Apes). The skinny Toole, weighing in at 97 pounds says he learned to fly through the trees and call to the elephants while visiting Tarzan at family get togethers in equatorial Africa after the war.

How well these statements gel with recent history remains unclear but we do know that on the sixth day God created Tarzan and Jane, then He rested. Toole showed up some years later under a mushroom, with no welcoming parental guardians, a bastard in the dark. That’s all there is for proof.

Jane, whose scantily clad outfits predated puritanical movie restrictions on the silver screen, recounted the day the treehouse lovers met. He took me swimming and explained that his ape family “lives up here in the trees because lions eat lunch on the ground.” That made enough sense for me to blow off my autonomous waitress job in Britain and move in. My years as an exotic dancer didn’t hurt either and kept us both entertained during the rainy season.”

Jane added that the young Toole never perfected the infamous and primitive Tarzan elephant call or climb trees barefoot.   

“His loin cloth was always falling down so I bought him a set of fire engine red suspenders at the bazaar but he almost hung himself on a limb tree the first day out. Fortunately his monkey friends stole the elastic braces (Br.) and the loin cloth averting a tragedy of epic proportions.

After ample consideration Toole had gone on the record as questioning the taste and versatility of donning suspenders in the jungle uttering his famous words, “We’re looking for realism not comfort here.”

Back to the genealogy: The twisted lineage is quite clear up to the point when the original Tarzan (the aristocrat) disappears in Equatorial Africa, swinging in the trees like his Black and Tan cousins at the hands of the IRA in 1921

Things continued to fall apart here after the Earl of Cheshire married Betty, a lady in waiting to the Cliffside Cod Club, related by unfortunate challenge to Guy Fawkes and Squire Mary Beth Lance, of Nugge-thyme.

That makes Toole the great or great great grandson of Tarzan according to the family that has survived civil and military strife in Africa. Even after many decades no one has contested his tree house architecture or a hefty inheritance of bananas and mangoes.