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LOCAL ANARCHISTS COMMENT ON CENSUS

Second homeowners counted twice?

(Mañana) Most anarchists around here think the National Census is a joke. Joining many other less radical elements of the society these standard bearers claim the figures extracted from the populace in no way indicate anything about who we are or how we live.

Former Cahone grant writer, turned anarchist after one too many town council meetings, says the census is just another money laundering operation on the part of the feds.

“They pay census takers to knock on doors and write down statistics. These people aren’t properly trained. What if grandma’s hiding in the cellar or Uncle Bob is out of town?” he said. “It’s simple. A lot of scribble on an official Census form is not a valid basis for decision-making, funding or any other gov’ment intrusion. Even if it was it would not justify the expense.”

Another anarchist, Mildred Cranmph, of Camp Bird agrees, adding that the census is about on par with employment figures which she says are often distorted to benefit politicians and the party in power.

“We must ask ourselves where the feds could better spend the money which they have illegally collected through rogue taxing policies,” she flinched. “Then take it another step and ask what effect all that money would have on the economy if it were left to the consumer to spend as he or she saw fit.”

Pro-Census sources wrote off the cries of the anarchists saying that they just sought to sabotage the census taking since it provided cohesion and preserved order in the nation. Authorities fear that efforts to disrupt the census could emerge as the actual tabulations begin.

“In some countries census takers have been threatened and roughed up by rebellious rabble and in some cases kidnapped by factions unfriendly to law and order,” said Marco Rasputin, of the Trivial Liberties Union. “These census workers are brave Americans out to make an honest buck,” he stared. “Who knows what dangers lurk in the hearts of our countrymen? There are domestic disputes that may be encountered. There is the threat of the angry recluse or the lonely motor mouth, and that doesn’t even touch on exhibitionists, bad coffee or mean dogs.”

The anarchists are calling for a boycott of the census until the federals come to their senses.

“Considering the history of the past 200 years that could take forever,” said Cranmph, who suggests that an educated guess might do the trick.

“It’s like the football referee who roughly estimates were to down the ball after a play then meticulously measures his often invalid presumption with the exactness of 10-yard chains,” said one anarchist who demanded anonymity. “The whole thing is ludicrous, but what isn’t? Why do you think I’m an anarchist anyway? I’ll tell you…It ain’t for the benefits.”

– Melvin O’Toole

Nationals apologize to moms for “out of town” Series victory

The otherwise highly exalted Washington Nationals, winners of this year’s World Series, have some explaining to do.

After winning 4 of 7 games against the powerful Houston Astros the underdogs won the World Championship. The only problem is that they won all their games in Texas and lost all of their games at home in The District. This has not set well with the players’ mothers who had hoped to see at least one local victory.

“My mom lives in Bethesda and goes to games every week. She watched us lose on October 26 and still held out hope for a last chance win in Washington on October 27, “ said Stephen Strasberg, MVP of the Series. “She’s happy we won but disappointed that she was unable to be there to share in the celebration.”

Other players’ mothers harbored the same mini resentment saying that the local fans deserved at least one live victory at home. Instead they were forced to watch long-distance as their sons never gave up and won the knuckle biting competition against all odds.

“I used to live in Houston,” said Betty Rendon, mother of Nationals’ star Anthony Rendon. “After Anthony signed with the Nationals I moved back east where I sat and watched 2 of 3 games go down the tubes. What happened to the boys in their own park?” she frowned.

“I’m never comfortable when the boys go out on the road,” said Emme Soto, mother of the 21-year-old rookie phenomenon Juan Soto who delivered several knock out punches during the autumn clashes. “I know their coach is watching over them but that will never substitute for their moms. What if they drift to the wrong type of people or get lost on the way to the game?”

Several players have publicly apologized while others promised never to let this kind of imbalance happen again.

“Our fans were perturbed that we didn’t win a single game in DC but in the end it all worked out fine, said Ryan Zimmerman, the patriarch of the team. “Everyone is on board with that.”

One sour fan of undetermined source said he was sick of all the drama.

“Hell, they win The Series all the time…at least every 95 years,” he said. “Are we going to have to listen to all this whining again in 2114?”

WANT TO BE INVISIBLE DURING THE 2020 PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION WITH GOAT MILK YOGURT CREAM. See your grocer for full details.

Paymaster Otter

“Baker’s Park used to be a pretty quiet place with just a handful of summer visitors. All Indians.” – from Mining the Hard Rock in the Silverton San Juans by John Marshal and Zeke Zanoni.

Silverton had been very good to Marvin Otter since first he arrived hell bent to strike it rich during the first gold field circus of 1880. Baker’s Park promised wealth for all back then yet most went home hungry and a little rougher for the wear. Otter had arrived young with maybe a silver dollar in his pocket. He stayed on after the initial gold fever had subsided. He worked hard.

Healthy gold and silver strikes were abundant by the mid-80s and Silverton thrived. After a few short years, Marvin had a steady job, a house on the river, a stake up Minnie Gulch and a promising bank account. He was still poor but in some ledgers he was up-and-coming.

In addition, he was courting the youngest daughter of the richest man in Parrot City.

When it came to loyal employees and stable citizens Otter was beyond fault. Hadn’t he been promoted three times in three years and helped build the town’s first firehouse? Hadn’t he successfully negotiated agreements that allowed for whites to come into the high country in the spring and leave with silver in the fall? Didn’t he show up at the annual Fourth of July festivities with the dazzling Clara Spears, the daughter of the most prosperous trader in the San Juan, radiant on his arm?

Having skirted the sin crimes, fermented by gambling, booze and whores, Otter began his career as a mucker then graduated to hoistman in the Cornwall Mine near Eureka. He hated working underground. but continued to impress, setting policy, pace and work ethic in the accounting sector of Silverton’s Pardon Me Mining Company. It came as no surprise that the mine bosses chose Otter to perform the most trusted chore, carrying the monthly payroll over the mountain to Lake City.

The Pardon Me owned the Land of the Free Mine near White Cross and two other small digs in Cunningham Gulch. It also held paper on the Jingo Mine in Mineral County and the rich Butterfly-Terrible Mine in the San Miguel. Despite millions taken from the ground, miners were paid $6 per day for a 12-hour shift. The United Mine Workers Union was gaining strength, its members labeled as anarchists and socialists by the mine bosses who went to extraordinary lengths to discredit labor movements. Labor troubles were really management troubles but the rich man always dictates the sad history of the poor man.

Otter had saved his money but it was not enough to ask for the hand of the lovely Clara, join the brahmans in Parrot City and hop onboard the train to social mobility. He remained obsessed and beguiled, constantly trying to maneuver his way around financial shortcomings.

There were five of them, the trusted men who carried the payroll. The same man could not consistently carry the money each month due to robbers and highwaymen who freely roamed the mountain passes. Even the cargo was disguised, sometimes in whiskey barrels, other times as feed, still other times tucked under explosives bound for Hinsdale County mines. Often just two men brought it over.

Sometimes, in the interest of security, the payroll was switched over to mule in Howardsville and sent by way of Stony Pass to Creede and then back up over Slumgullion.

The law barely flexed its muscle in the mining camps much less the backcountry. Citizens of both Silverton and Lake City remembered the murder of the whistling postman, Ron Powers, on Bill Williams (Leroux) Pass in 1886 “when the Utes were jumpy” and the near-scalping of “The Red Finn”, Donald Enenga, and his family when they got caught in a snowstorm on Hunchback Pass the next year.

On a brisk October Thursday a well-armed Otter, with a $2500 payroll, would make the journey by horseback upriver to Animas Forks where he would take on a local gunman to ride shotgun with him over Cinnamon Pass to Lake City.

*****

After a dusty ride from Silverton Otter walked into the Frog Saloon (11,580 ft) in Animas Forks searching for Knute Johannsen, his approved hired gun for the trip. It was dusk and a small procession was just returning from the local graveyard.

“You looking for Knute?” laughed one man. “You’ll find those bones up yonder in the cemetery. That good-for-nothin bully finally got his just desserts.”

Shot twice once from the front and once from the back…murdered during a drunken argument over a soiled dove who had just arrived in town to ply her trade and expand her market. Knute was a mean sombitch with few friends. She had worked at Lacey’s Famous Avon Paradise in Eureka and had moved on to Animas Forks since men were said to bathe once a week and pay a working girl in silver.  Shootings were common. Prostitutes came and went. The only other potential guard Jake Mulholland was too drunk to walk, much less tote a shotgun up the Cinnamon.

The local chamber of commerce here played down the violence by ignoring it.. Animas Forks pretty much disappeared in 1891 only a few years before the 1893 Silver Crash tore the heart out of this mining country.

Fearing that the shooter and any number of derelicts in Animas Forks might recognize him from Silverton, Marvin made his way up Cinnamon Pass alone.

If all went well the 28-mile journey could be completed before the autumn darkness set in. The first stage of the pass was the most dangerous with slippery shale, loose rockslides and tight switchbacks. The mule inched and picked its way. The footing was often bad enough that Otter had to dismount and lead his mule in tougher terrain. To the south stood Whitecross Mountain and farther south Handies Peak. He would follow what was then called the Shelf Road to Sherman where he could change from mule to horse for the remainder of the trek to Lake City. He thought of Clara as he climbed toward the 12,600-foot pass. She had agreed to consider his marriage proposal that night when the Dodge City Cowboy Band had performed under the stars. He watched for signs that he was followed. He thought about the money he was carrying.

The alpine terrain unfolded with sharp cliffs, dull, soft dirt and jagged peaks caressing the faraway sky. It was idyllic, a paradise, a hell, a no-man’s land…a wonder to see.

Then without warning the mule stumbled tossing Otter and his cargo into the side of the mountain. He grabbed the saddlebags and the shotgun landing hard on his right ankle, twisting it savagely. Marvin knew he was in trouble when the swelling started. Looking back along the trail, he removed his boot and the ankle throbbed. He took a sip of rum from a bottle stashed in the bags, then a sip of water. If anyone were in pursuit, he would be an easy target. He leaned on the mule to stand and the cargo shifted, sending the mule over the side carrying his food and cold weather gear down into Grizzly Gulch.

Otter sat holding his ankle, the money and saddlebags. If anyone were to come along the trail, he would either rescue him or rob him. He buried the saddle bags somewhere deep in the rocks in a small cave prodded by landslides and scooped out by centuries of snow.

 All around him were precipitous peaks, dinosaur ridges and curious valleys perched in the icy air of October. Otter searched for fuel for a fire but there was not much. Just tiny purple flowers and mountain goats. When he does manage to start a small fire it strains to ashes. He thinks about the money and how he’d like to keep it. He drinks rum and thinks of the money. It’s paper. He laughs. “Hell, I could burn it and be warm for another hour.”

The clouds parted, displaying a myriad of stars. He had another swig of rum and another. His lone provision relieved the pain of the ankle.

“I could burn the money. What else can I do. I’m freezing.”

“What else could I do? I was freezing, said Otter aloud, practicing the words.

Then the temperature began to drop quickly and a light snow fell. He pulled his collar tight and lowered the brim of his hat.

“It’s the perfect explanation if I show up empty.”

More rum. The stars listened to his words. They didn’t go down any better in the heavens than there at the top of the planet. After adjusting the symmetry of the immediate geology, he fell asleep.

Marvin had dream after dream while a madman in the darkness up on the pass. He dreamed he had married Clara and that he was made president of the local bank. He dreamed they were rich. He saw himself as a poker player winning a big pot only to take a bullet and drop to the floor. He saw Clara smiling fondly at another man. He saw this mountain trail open up and suck him into the abyss.

****

When the cold morning light hit the top of the peaks Marvin awoke from his jagged bed possessed with the money he had stashed. He could dig it back up or leave it buried? He went over his story aloud confirming that his employers would believe him. Who would doubt the honorable Marvin Otter?

He burned the satchel that had once been full of bills and then saved it thinking it would make a fine exhibit A in a liar’s defense. He almost died up there on the pass. He had to burn the currency to survive. How could anyone doubt his story? How could anyone prove otherwise?

Marvin’s ankle throbbed. He reached for the painkiller and found the bottle empty, and then he reflected on his strange dreams. A rock rolled down the ledge and he heard someone approaching from the Lake City side. He raised his shotgun and waited to meet his morning company. Around the corner came the mail carrier on horseback making his way to Animas Forks from Sherman, where he had spent the night.

“They were expecting you last night,” said the mailman. “They was worried you fell off a cliff! Where’s your escort?”

Otter told him the story of Knute Johannsen, his decision to make the solo journey, the loss of the mule and the tragedy of broken bones and frigid weather. Then he told him he had burned the money to keep from freezing.

“Makes sense to me.” quipped the mail carrier. “Got plenty cold up here last night. Even a little fire could make a difference, heh.”

The mail carrier watched Otter curiously. Burned the money to stay warm did he? That’s a crock. This boy is hiding something but it ain’t my call. I’ll take him down to Sherman on the way back around. What fool will believe his story in Lake City?”

The carrier made the 10-mile round-trip and returned to the spot where Otter sat waiting. His ankle was turning all sort of colors but he  soon felt better up on the mailman’s horse.

The two men talked non-stop as they meandered down the mountain. They crossed Crazy Dog Creek and waded through last winter’s frozen drifts along Deception Ridge and into light rain that fell on the Hinsdale side, washing the pines and sending aspen leaves scurrying for their lives in the storm’s path.

By evening they were in Sherman where the mine bosses were waiting for the payroll to arrive. Otter was helped off the mail carrier’s horse, his ankle pronounced broken by a doctor from lake City. He told his story to three tongue-tied mine bosses who listened quietly until the ankle was set. While Marvin ate his first meal in over 30 hours, they talked in private.

“He burned the money and my ass chews gum!” said the foreman at the Land of the Free.

“He must be crazy if he thinks we’re buying that story,” agreed another mine official.

“I’m disappointed in Otter,” offered the owner of the Pardon Me, “but a thief is a thief.”

Then the Hinsdale sheriff arrived.

“Our main priority is the return of the payroll,” explained the three. “Then we will see about punishing Otter. First we put him under wraps, then we’ll have to deal with over 100 miners expecting their pay.”

The sheriff then arrested Otter at his dinner and tossed him in the town’s only private jail cell.

When he returned the four men discussed the best approach to recovering the funds.

“I believe there is still meat left on the bone here. We could beat the information out of him,” offered the sheriff. “The irony is that if he doesn’t talk we can’t prove he’s a liar. I think he’ll spill the beans when push comes to shove. I figure when the miners find out what went down his life won’t be worth a Confederate dollar anyway.”

That evening the sheriff and two deputies entered the tiny cell where Otter was confined.

“Otter, where is the money?” demanded one deputy, pushing Marvin across the cell into the rock wall.

“You had better come clean with us, boy. You’ve got no friends here to save you,” said the sheriff. “Was Knute Johannsen part of your scheme? Did you murder him too? Your story is bullshit. You must think we’re really stupid over here,” he added slapping Otter a good one to the side of his head.

“I told you,” whined Marvin, “I burned the money to keep from freezing. I even brought down the singed satchel to prove it! I didn’t steal the payroll!”

A blow to the head from on of the deputies knocked Otter to the ground.

“You’d better start telling the truth, Otter,” said the sheriff. “Once these miners find out they ain’t getting’ paid they’ll tear you to pieces. You ever seen a lynch mob at work? We couldn’t prevent unlawful violence even if we wanted to…”

But Otter stuck to his story, falling asleep in his blood.

*****

When the prisoner came to, he heard voices in the street outside his cell.

“We’ll get a confession out of this bastard. Burned the money my ass. He stole it up there on the Cinnamon. Let’s just hang the bastard and let the mine sort it out.”

Otter sat alone thinking.

“I’ve made it this far and I’m stickin’ to my story. These lawmen might beat me up but they can’t let a mob have me.”

He thought of the beautiful Clara sitting in her parlor in Parrot City. Surely she would hear of all this.

“I’m sticking to my story. They’ll never find the money and they’ll never prove me a liar. In time the money is as good as mine. I just have to keep my head until then, and after a year or so go back and dig it up.”

Early the next morning the officers returned telling Otter that the mob would be larger and angrier before the day was over.

“These people have hungry kids at home and no payday. You won’t last a minute after dark. There’s a proper hanging tree right out your window,” laughed a deputy. “The sheriff will fill out a report saying: An angry mob tonight hanged Marvin Otter of Silverton. My small contingent of peace officers was overwhelmed and could do nothing to prevent this tragic act from precipitating.

The sheriff returned and tried to reason with Otter.

“If you tell us the truth we’ll hide you over in Creede until the miners get paid, then you’ll get a fair trail.”

Otter stood firm with his story.

“I have been a loyal employee of the Pardon me Mine for many years. Why won’t someone believe me!”

“I give up,” said the sheriff.

It was decided that in the interest of recovering the loot Otter must stay alive.

The only answer was to move him to Silverton where the jail is more secure.

The next morning before daybreak three riders left Lake City for Silverton along the same route that Otter had taken several days earlier. Otter, now a prisoner, was tied to his horse. One deputy rode ahead while the other followed up from behind. They made their way through Sherman in the dark then into Grizzly Gulch by first light. Otter examined the cliffs searching for some mad escape route. He imagined getting away, digging up the money and heading for San Francisco where Clara could join him and…

Just at that moment a shot rang out echoing through the alpine valleys, one intrusion in all of the crystal peace that surrounded them. Otter slumped down on his horse with a bullet in the back. When he arrived in Silverton later that afternoon he was processed by the coroner and buried in the local potter’s field.

For years miners and others looked for the money while the Pardon Me Mine search took two months and covered a 3-mile radius of where Otter was rescued. The mule and the money lie covered in a fool’s grave, quietly waiting for another season to come and go, patiently waiting for nothing.

Clara married a banker from Gladstone the next summer.  They say it was quite the affair.

     – Uncle Pahgre       

ROCK SOUP

Needed: Rare adjectives, articles, pronouns and colloquialisms for going newsletter. Cash paid daily. See Mr. White at the Indian Massacre Holiday Inn between 10 am and 2 pm any day but today. Sorry, we are not accepting adverbs. American Word Brokers, Tacoma. No Irishmen.

SOLDIERS NEEDED for invasion of Maryland, Pennsylvania and the North! No experience necessary. Will train. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the Confederacy. Send all correspondence c/o General R.E. Lee, Richmond, VA.

Department store Santas needed for next Christmas. May consider full time employment for right individual. Springs and summers off. Warren’s Coiffures, Wimpton.

Read “I Reached Out For Her and Was Accused of Sexual Harassment” by Joaquin Tool-Guzman, Testosterone Brothers, Boston.

It’s simple: Large intestinal publishing house needs people who look like writers to pose for future book covers. Novels, short stories, annual reports…If you’ve ever been told you look like Ernest Hemingway, Langston Hughes, Edith Wharton or even a teenage Ayn Rand call us today then fax us a picture of your forehead and we’ll set up an interview? Why work at Subway or Taco Bell when you can make the big rockets as a literary model! Talk show appearances likely. Testosterone Brothers, Boston.

Help wanted: Rabbi for extended kosher Martian voyage. Box 44, Horseshoe.

Needed: Someone to buy me shots during January and February so as to ward off light seasonal depression. Application deadline December 5. Bilingual septuagenarian with bus tokens. Non smoker. Grass clippings on request. Prefer older lady with marijuana plants and functioning hot tub. Groppo the Elf.

Want to go all the way with a man-child? Herb, Gunnison Monikers.

Blind retired night auditor seeks Tin Lizzie, RV companion for treks into coastal North Dakota. No surfers, No Irish. Must love jig-saw, scrimshaw, in-laws, mushroom soups, crisp bath towels, nights alone on the Sea of Tranquility. Box 399.

SW control freak seeks partner. Wants to have kids next week, prairie doggin OK. LSMFT.

Proof reader needed. Must be able to tango in snow shoes, cook barbecued horse mackerel, bum cigarettes and pretend to iron underwear of night staff while they pretend to work. Could work into winter bath house management position at Mirror Lake.

Death row pen pal seeks full figured woman for bridge partner. My mom says I’m just misunderstood. Ahoy in Anacortes. Oh, yeah…I’m innocent too.

Suburban mountain man/weekend warrior with big ol’ knife seeks squaw to cook and put up tee-pee. Must be naive with braided hair. Bad whiskey, tall tales and jerky dinners by fire light. Mornings poring over buckskin fashions, hallucinations in the afternoons. Slim, Delta.

Drugstore cowboy seeks lover with access to pharmaceuticals. No buckaroos. Possible romance with right prescription. Box 400, Colona Prison Complex.

Born Again proctologist seeks weekend rendezvous with person holding a British passport. No questions asked. I love palm trees, sea breezes, hot salsa and truck driving songs. Heather, Mack. No fems.

Drifter seeks meaningless sexual experiences, light lunches. Could work into long term mundane relationship for the right person.

Could you sell refrigerators to Eskimos? What about coming aboard with us? Mel’s Underwear Tighteners Ltd.. Manufacturer’s Rep needed for Montrose-Delta counties. If you have to start at the bottom start with the right one! Call us today.

MASKED MAN SEEKS submissive Indian companion. Nothing kinky. Must be able to follow orders and shoot straight. Lone Ranger Ranchettes, Placerville.

Erotic baseball and football cards. Also lewd kites, off-color phone books and perverted butterfly collections. No real estate salesman please. Bert, Box 3, Horseshoe.

Will the driver of the white Cadillac limbo please return my spiked heeled shoes before my Russell Stover shift on Monday. This is no Cinderella hustle, Mac, just send the shoes. You know who you are and I’m pretty sure I know who I am. Louella Smelt, Karmaville.

Lewd, lascivious, luscious lady looking to locate with lovable lustful, liquid lad for long-term living. No lowlifes. Let’s lunch. Blind Box L. Crested Butte.

SWM Ivy Leaguer seeks submissive trellis. Leave message where you purchase lawn food.

Best strippers! Playgirl knockouts! Muslim holy men! Darkroom technicians! John Madden impersonators! Red’s Hollywood Showbar, Gunnison and opening soon in downtown Saguache.

Looking for unusual rock formations and mineral samples for new ADULT ROCK SHOP in Ouray. Do you have anything like this? If you look at it and it makes you giggle, I’ll probably buy it! Bring in your specimens, in a plain brown bag to the phone booth near Rose’s Market. I will approach you at that time with a reasonable offer.

Must move 1965 Victorian toaster. Two-door. Automatic transmission, R & H. See Wanda in accounting department before Friday.

Wooden teeth, pornographic jello molds, plutonium money clips, aluminum palm trees, cloth birds, personalized pine cones. Will not break up sets. Great gifts. Pat Rat’s Emporium, Manana.

Will trade exercise bike for large pepperoni pizza. Melvin Toole in the darkroom Tuesdays.

Oral Roberts was a cheerleader before he underwent a sect change operation! Get it? Thousands of great jokes like this one can be right on the tip of your lips. Preachers, teachers, politicians, speech writers, college professors, salesmen, barbers…anyone with a mouth can benefit tomorrow! Cheap. Cole D. Sack Press, Sand Creek, CO.

Burly man needed to break up fights in church parking lot. Rev Phil Pharisee, Colorado Springs.

Willing to trade lucrative chicken trimming operation (going concern) for poorly constructed condo at Mt. Crested Butte. Reply before lunch. Henny Penny, Colona.

Spend the night in Balmoral Castle. No commoners please. Call Queen Elizabeth on her cell phone mornings only.

Lost: Rolex and keys to Saab at sweat lodge night. Troy, Crested Butte Newcomers.

Substitute Preachers needed for academic year. Must be aware of secular humanist theories and conceptual tithing. Degree in collection basketry helpful. Punitive Leap Council, Malfunction, CO.

Odor Eaters Anonymous will not meet during the week of September 17 due to a conflict in scheduling. Please perform ritual alone. Zorro Skiboote, Executive Podiatrist.

Hunting camp seeks qualified potato peeler with political science degree to entertain armed men throughout October. Good pay and grub. Mother’s Guide and Outfitting, Lake City. Also hiring zero altitude dancers and escorts for weekends. No Irish.

Woodsy nurse needed to assist amorous tree surgeon. Dr. Bark, Pitkin, CO

Will trade magic beans and bothersome trespasser for functioning milk cow – The Giant. Also need someone with tools to rewire my castle. Beanstalk Ventures, Wimpton.

Industrial windmills guaranteed to break wind every time or your money back! Donald Quicksote, Montrose.

Free to good home: Straw dogs. Ready for winter. See Alfalfa any afternoon at Stymie’s Bar and Grill.

For sale: 1982 Buick Skylark. Once owned by George Foreman. $300 firm. Red’s Box Springs and Mindless Country Music Emporium. Manana Mall.

For sale: Cardboard Starter Home with flat roof and pitched walls above semi-finished basement adjacent to lawn and potential garden. Lots of native rocks and views of loading docks. Growing season questionable. Doors and windows excluded. Many perfect sites on which to park junk cars. On garbage route. Neighbors are loud drunks who dress poorly. Nearby pasture once productive cotton field but now off limits. May part out to right person. Canine fertilization ongoing. Pirate entrance on alley. $450,000. I am a licensed Colorado Real Estate Broker.

Free to a good home: Lazy teenagers. Some already in baggy pants. October Special: Take two and the third one is on us! Parents Anonymous, Montrose and Delta.

For sale: Humor publication centered in Western Colorado. Current publisher seeks to pursue leisure time engaged in outdoor activities, indoor festivities, childhood fantasies, adult conversation and afternoon cocktail experiments. $200,000. Includes fixtures (human and otherwise) designer office furniture, water cooler, life-size Porky Pig savings bank, picture of Slim Pickens, filing cabinet with reconditioned outboard engine, week’s supply of air freshener and cigar box full of plutonium Disney figurines. Will trade for small island nation and $100 cash. Serious buyers should respond with earnest money at market price.

For lease Liver and Onion Delivery/Display Wagon. Used only once during the storming of the Bastille in 1789. Turn key operation. Contact Ed, dba Ed’s Liver and Onion Wagon, behind the Ouray Variety Store.

200 retired persons needed to plant rice on Simms Mesa. Time is running short and the best water buffalo are going fast. Area has been mined over the years and protective foot and eyewear is suggested. People’s Republic of Ridgway.

Agricultor local explota viña con pasta de chile

(California Mesa) La salsa de temporada de un productor local de uvas realmente dio en el clavo llevando consigo tres acres de vides, un pequeño cobertizo de metal y algunos electrodomésticos abandonados. El personal policial local se unió a vecinos asustados esta mañana para resolver las cosas.

La explosión, en la granja de visones operada por Earl Bloodcell, se escuchó hasta Haley Draw, sacudiendo la colección de vidrio de más de 4000 piezas en una destartalada, pero reverenciada choza de barro que bordea Wingfield National Rocket Test Range. No se reportaron heridos, aunque un unicornio se lastimó ligeramente la nariz.

Tal vez solo una pizca menos de la pasta de pólvora Serrano y un poco más de cilantro, ¿eh Earl?

“Esa salsa tiene una gran patada. Se voló la parte superior de mi cobertizo de metal. Mi esposa me dijo que usara el aparato de medición, pero mi vecino dijo que podía mirar el brebaje para evitar limpiar más platos después de cocinar. ¡Eran las malditas habaneras!

Las autoridades locales culpan a los pimientos inactivos de Carolina Reaper por la explosión. Ambos son ilegales en Colorado y Utah. La cepa generalmente se tritura y se mezcla con otras verduras menos nocivas. Es ampliamente empleado como afrodisíaco tópico por las tribus espartanas en Nueva Guinea.

“No tenía la intención de violar la ley”, dijo Bloodcell. Solo usé un poco del sombrero escocés para mantener a los leones de montaña fuera de mis petunias. El resto lo alimenté con el oso para evitar que asaltaran mi alambique.

Preparado y cocinado en un nuevo ganado a través de la mezcla picante debe clasificarse como un arma.

“Técnicamente, sus salsas picantes deben clasificarse como explosivos y clasificadas en la familia de la pólvora”, dijo un caballero que llama, un agente retirado de la ATF que vive en el hueco de Bloodcell.

“Estábamos experimentando con la dilución cuando todo el lugar perdió la calma”, dijo Bloodcell. “De ahora en adelante es medio gotero a un galón de agua”.

Según SF Gate: “El grupo de chile verde incluye todos los pimientos verdes que están picantes, incluidos” Anaheim “(Capsicum annuum” Anaheim “),” Jalapeno “(Capsicum annuum” Jalapeno “) y” Cayenne “(Capsicum annuum” Cayenne ” ) Técnicamente, no hay diferencia entre un chile verde y un jalapeño. Sin embargo, muchos fanáticos del chile se están refiriendo a los pimientos grandes y suaves de Nuevo México, como “Anaheim” cuando usan el término chile verde. Estos chiles se usan para hacer chile verde y chiles enlatados. Debido a que estos chiles son tan suaves, se pueden usar en grandes cantidades en las recetas. Los jalapeños tienen más calor y a menudo se usan como condimento, en lugar de como ingrediente principal “.

A PUNCTUAL EAVESDROPPING

(The following is an opportunity to listen in on grammar where it lives, in the sentences and paragraphs of the English language. Herein you will be privy to the insider’s access as punctuation marks discuss another day on the job. Caution: Please be quiet so as not to frighten the commas or startle the semicolons.)

Comma: Crap. Can’t these people get it straight? What with these run on sentences I can’t get caught up. Don’t they know when to use a period? Back when I was in school they taught you how to construct a sentence and determine who was doing what to whom by the placement of the predicate and the action verb without concern for a lot of fluffy adjectives and dangling participles that had to be diagrammed up at the chalk board while the teacher looked on with that dangerous pointer in her hand and…

Question mark: What?

Period: Hey, comma, don’t bring periods into this. Sure, I’m on call but I don’t even put my pants on until the sentence is completed. There’s a sense of finality. At the end of the day I can see that my work has been finished.

Parenthesis: Socrates, Pericles, Xerxes…Aristophanes, Sophocles,

Oracles…Parentheses. Pretty good company, heh?

Comma: Ego…eeeze. All she does is enclose part of the sentence which might easily have been omitted. It’s not like she’s really making a difference, creating anything…but she’s attractive all right. Just look at those curves.

Period: Mindless. It could be worse. There could be two of her. Then we’re dealing with interpolation independent of the surrounding syntactical structure.

Semicolon: That sounds like a clause for alarm. Get it…clause?

Hyphen: Move out of the way. Move out of the way! I’ve got to get to the end of this line. We’ve got broken words down there. Quite a mess, you know. Move aside, gang way…

Question mark: Where?

Comma: I used to be a hyphen, before I went back to night school. I just couldn’t imagine a lifelong career linking compound words.

Period: Bush league at best.

Comma: Tedious. All that running from one line to the other just to link words that have expressed a desire to remain independent. The language is forever emerging, changing. You savvy?

Semicolon: Yes, I’ve had graduate study…How do you think that top dot got there?

Question mark: How?

Period: I thought it was a typo.

Apostrophe: Cut the proprietary whining. You guys carry far to much baggage but no real weight. I’m the one who substitutes for omitted letters and shows possessive case in nouns. One little mark in the wrong place changes everything.

Comma: Nouns…They are so self-centered, so predicated.

Semicolon: I once knew a verb who could twist herself into an adjective, then back to an adverb, before returning to her original status. Talk about tense! I could tell she was a bit irregular but when I found out she was intransitive I knew it would never work.

Period: Was she copulative?

Question mark: Who?

Semicolon: None of your business. She was in limited contexts, but finite was not in her vocabulary. I don’t know if I was in love or just eager to conjugate.

Dash: Sudden breaks! Sudden breaks? I used to be in demand. Now I’ve got to hustle work. What is this English language coming to anyway? It’s bad enough most of them can’t speak in the proper verb tense and often use the wrong word in speech. It’s downright embarrassing to watch them spell phonetically, never mind mastering another tongue…

Comma: There will always be brackets and principle clauses to take care of these kinds of people. Just be glad you’re a punctuation mark and you’re ruled by very distinct circumstances. These people who use us are still trying to figure out where to put the period…in the case of quotation marks…”

Quotation mark: “Did someone call me?”

Apostrophe: Pompous ass, talking in quotes. Before long he’ll be speaking in italic.

Parentheses: You mean like this?

Quotation mark: I just don’t get the attraction, or the slant as it were.

Exclamation point: Sentence construction at eleven o’clock! All hands on deck!

Question mark: When?

Period: Is that an indirect question? Don’t just stand there: It’s probably one of us that they want at the end of the sentence. Grab a couple of commas and a semicolon and follow me!

FULL STOP