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From the editor’s pen…

As she lowered her slinky babushka I noticed the third eye, the eye of a shortstop right in the center of the infield…Curiously I was drawn to this woman, of Russian peasant stock, and a cannon for a right arm. I tried repeatedly to google her but each time she threw the brushback pitch a little tighter. Her propensity for survival in these lusty times indicates prosperity in the wake of a poor performance by the middle relief corps…

     Oops! I hope you’ll excuse my meanderings into erotic sports literature. Since the demand has surfaced on the Internet I have been trying to squeeze a few more dollars out of this bandy-legged economy. Now let me move over to my editor’s desk. I don my Mr. Rogers cardigan, adjust my spats, have a sip of writer’s juice and light my pipe. Ready to go.

Warm salutations to the survivors of a planet gone completely mad. The saving grace is that the world actually went nuts about a million years ago. We are only the latest episode, our circumstances hurried along by the Big ‘Ol Information Age . I remember when as a kid my grandfather told me to go out in the garden and fill a bucket of potatoes for dinner. Now I’m filling up pages in a newspaper. Pretty much the same to me (but you can eat the spuds). Both have a clear destination in mind although I cannot pinpoint it at this time.   

You don’t want to get carried away with yourself in either case. That awareness alone staves off madness and deer flies too, if you’re lucky.

I’m so relieved and glad that we had this little chat…clear the air and all. Right now the air is smokey with fires raging. We can’t even see Uncompahgre from the Colona Skunkworks! The wind continues to flow with the traffic on Highway 550 Pinball. Maybe if we all just stayed indoors nature could figure herself out.

Brushing off mounting accusations of chronic bemusement and shoddy workmanship, we are delighted to present another thoughtful yet mindless trip into the wonderful window of words. Most of the stories were penned by starving summer interns who are kept in chicken coops and fed weevil-ridden oatmeal and meatball lattes, while working far into the fetching night. Here are a few highlights:

Despite titanic efforts, our story “Giant snails panacea for sprawl in South Florida?” is moving rather slowly and has been replaced by a photo essay entitled “GMOs – They’re not just muscle cars anymore!” which should entice racing fans out there a group that spends an inordinate amount of its expendable income on sunglasses and rubber.

Closer to home, here in Puritania, we document problems encountered when large visitors attempt to get out of their cars in Ouray’s new mini parking spots. Then we follow along on the Strawberry Path arriving at our popular “Tales of the Brave Hempsmen” accented by “Ptarmigan in Trauma” and a short piece about a Montrose man who translates Leo Tolstoy into conversational Zulu for fun.

Here’s an excerpt from the serial portion: “It appeared to many that O’Toole was still off about a half-click off since his free-fall from a hollow bar stool in Balombolo, Antioquia. Blaming the metric system for his descent, the scribe hit the wood, his cell phone going off simultaneously, a little too close to his forehead.” 

What would you expect from the member of a social order prone to jigs and lullabies?  

According to the evangelical professional wrestler who lives upstairs from my office, O’Toole is proof that evolution is a fairy tale. With the failure of his new invention, Snowboarder in a Box, the part-time grappler has threatened to produce a rival humor rag which he intends to call Western Colorado Job Opportunities. Look for it soon.

Now we’d like to welcome Bicycle Bill, Hummingbird Harriet, Bear Bait Betty and I’m in a Hurry Harry to these summer mountains. Tip # 611: If your waitperson has the personality of a dead herd animal why not rough it a little and eat at one of the many chuck-wagon barbecues that pop up every summer. You know the kind where the old grizzle hasn’t washed his apron, his hands or his opinions since 1957.    

 And if that’s not enough to tip your apple cart we have strong indications that the Rapture may have already gone down. If you weren’t taken up maybe your sincerity was deemed lacking. Peruse your options in this month’s feature piece and better luck next time.

 In closing, we would like to thank the lovely angels over at Red’s Gravy Heaven for the kim chi cheese rolls and aged mango cider. Terra incognita, damas!