All Entries Tagged With: "humor"
Closed for Harvest
Safe in my garden an ancient flower grows. The positive medical attributes of cannabis have been denied for decades so these guys can take your money. DRUGS! (October 31, 2015)
Woman Rescues Moose From Pool
(Miller Mesa — Ridgway Follies — October 30, 2015)
Olivia Tinkleholland was just out for a quick swim in the backyard when she claims she heard cries for help. A storm was brewing and a large Bull Moose was having trouble treading water in her tiny swimming pool.
“He was struggling then he completely disappeared from view. I knew I had to act,” said the reluctant hero.
Despite raging torrents and record waves she dove in and swam to the rescue. Repeatedly diving below the surface and wrapping her exquisite body around the drowning animals’ torso she finally managed to pull the 900-pound to dry land.
Olivia Tinkleholland Consoles New Moose Friend on Dry Land Once More
Adrenaline pumping, she dragged the waterlogged beast out of harm’s way.
“I held his head back out of the water and latched on with my arms around his neck,” she said. Once we were out of the pool he seemed to relax, to trust me,” she sighed. “It’s a good thing I kept up with my moose to moose resuscitation techniques.”
Tinkleholland exhibited her well-documented “wicked kick” in order to bring the animals back to its senses. Exhausted she still maintained the prudence and clear presence of mind to skillfully scan the water for other creatures in peril. Seeing that all was well she returned to the moose and comforted him until authorities arrived.
“It’s funny that the woods are full of hunters looking for a moose and I found a new friend in my own backyard,” she smirked.
A sheriff’s deputy told The Horseshoe that while moose sightings of this kind are rare they do happen and everyone must be on the alert.
“No one should be surprised at what the run-off might bring, even this time of the year.
Meanwhile happy ending henchmen down in town are suggesting that Tinkleholland is a seriously out of touch with reality and that the moose did not need rescuing.
– Uncle Pahgre
Hunting Camp Magic!
- (Uncompahgre Plateau) Here in fading light we experience a rare glimpse into the mystique of the fall ritual. Hunting camp falls silent at exactly the moment when all the deer and elk are hung and all the beer is gone. Moments after this shot life returned to normal as thirsty hunters tore down camp and packed up for a trip to the freezer and later the culinary galaxies of elk steak and venison stew. Persons remaining in the woods are reminded that helicopter beer drops will continue only until November 15. Participating liquor stores are Gunnison Liquors and Ouray Liquors as well as The Liquor Store and Bottle Barn in Montrose. Ask them about the Horseshoe Discount. (October 29, 2015)
Missing Persons Told
The following is a partial list of those declared missing in action during the first rifle season in Sectors RJ4663 and ST2229. Also covered are gated communities and gerrymandered neighborhoods on Skunk Mesa, Pretense Homes at Golf Living, Bill’s Bowl and The Ski Trenches. (October 28, 2015)
Bambi, address listed as Uncompahgre National Forest in Colorado
Yogi Bear, Yellowstoned Park Retirement Acres
Thumper, no address given
Boo Boo Bear, no address given
Mister Ed, Evans Stables, Sand Creek, Colorado
Elsie the Cow, Ski Trenches, Crested Butte, Colorado
Lassie, no address given
Trigger, no address given
Rin Tin Tin, Hollywood, CA
John Deere, The Great Midwest
Lawrence Elk, Bismarck
John Doe, Bismarck
Old Yeller, no address given
Foghorn Leghorn, Hollywood, CA
Donald Duck, Hollywood, CA
Pegasus, no address given
HUNTERS SHOOT HORSE
A Dream Shot of Some Consequence
(A true story with Uncle Pahgre — October 27, 2015)
(Delta) It all seemed to make sense, at first. A friend of ours, who shall remain very nameless, was awakened from his early winter hibernation by a loud pounding on his back door. He threw on a robe and stumbled in the direction of the interruption. When he opened the door he saw two men in blaze orange, heads hung down, shuffling their feet, serious about gaining his immediate attention.
“We done shot your horse, mister,” said the first, “and we come to make reparations.
The second man held out a wad of cash that turned out to be one hundred dollars in the company of four more bills of like currency.
“Well, come in,” yawned my friend. “I guess that was the shot we heard earlier. This time of the year one gets used to guns going off all around. What the hell time is it anyway?”
“Bout eleven,” whispered the first looking around the kitchen in the direction of assorted snores from the hallway.
“You people hit the hay early round these parts, heh?” winked the second man who turned out to be from just outside Dallas.
“We’re up here from Texas hunting and despite what you may have heard we’re responsible, respectable and accountable.”
“Then what’s all this about a horse?” asked my friend.
“Well, you remember the part about responsibility?” offered the first hunter. “That only goes so far, I guess. We’ve been prowling these hills for two weeks and ain’t seen nothing of an elk, unless you count the scat. We were frustrated. We were tired and hungry and headed back to a motel down the road when, just as dusk pulled up her skivvies, we saw movement in the hay field just north of here.”
The first hunter went on.
Jim here decided that it might be our last chance at glory so he took a chance. He sighted in and pulled the trigger. Blam! Then blam again. What a shot! Dropped that elk like a ton of greasy enchiladas on a Saturday night! Cow elk too, you know. No horns. And we each had a million-dollar tag right here in our pocket. Some shootin, Jim.”
The second man just smiled, still embarrassed but yet a little bit proud of his expertise with a rifle.
“We climbed your fence and snuck out to the kill which was dead as an armadillo after arm wrestling a semi on Highway 287. Then the problem emerged. It wasn’t a bull elk. No. It wasn’t a buck or doe, but neither was it a cow elk. It was your horse, mister.”
My friend just stared at the kitchen table.
“The old swayback. She was getting to be an old lady, too slow to ride much less dodge a bullet. Where is she now?”
The two men laid the five hundred dollars on the table and told him the mare was still laying in the spot where she dropped. He sighed.
“How am I going to get around reporting this to the authorities?” he asked.
“We hoped the five hundred would help you make that decision. It ain’t a bribe but it’s a far sight more than that old girl was worth alive. We realize that local cops would put our buts in a sling over this episode but I think you can see that out hearts, if not our brains, are in the right place.”
My friend yawned. He though to himself of a new tractor he needed. He thought of Christmas and his kids. He thought of the good it would do to turn these poor hayseeds into the pencil-pushing cops.
“You boys want a cup of coffee? I gotta think this out. Tell me again, what made you shoot what you thought was game on private property at dusk. Don’t you ever read the back of your hunting license. Cripe, at the cost of the thing I’d think you’d memorize every word just in case you lost it.”
The hunters went through their thinking process one more time dwelling on their fatigue and frustration. They apologized again saying that they wouldn’t blame my friend if he turned them in and pressed charges for trespassing and the whole cheroot.
“OK, but if I ever see you on my land again you’ll be the horsemeat,” he said “Now can you find your way back to your motel or should I drive you?”
They both laughed the laugh of men much relieved. They thanked him again and departed. He watched them as he pulled on his coveralls.
“I hope that backhoe starts. I didn’t plug her in and the weather’s turned cold.”
He stuffed the bills into his desk drawer, told his wife he had to check the cows and wandered into the night. He’d bury the mare before the rest of the family got savvy to what had occurred. He drove through the dark expecting a messy ordeal, then he saw the mound of flesh hugging the ground and approached.
“What the hell?” he barked standing over the kill. “It’s an elk. Those morons shot a cow elk and from the looks of things it was a perfect lung shot. I’ll be dipped!”
Thinking that the meat was still good he proceeded to dress out the elk there on the spot. The cold weather had kept it from going bad right away and the lung shot had insured that the meat wasn’t spoiled by adrenaline and trauma.
“Hell of a shot,” he smiled. “Hell of a shot.”
At dawn he woke up his oldest son who helped him cut up the elk and package it for the freezer. It would feed a lot of people a lot of nights this winter.
“Does this mean we won’t be going hunting, dad?” asked the son on the way to school later that morning.
“What makes you ask a question like that, son,” smiled our friend. “In fact I think we oughta stop by and look at that rifle down at the hardware store. It’s been fired a bit but they might let it go cheap if we flash them some cash, heh?”
“Whatever you say, dad.”
(Editor’s note: The San Juan Horseshoe in no way endorses withholding evidence from the law however until we can safely determine who the responsible parties might be we can tolerate temporary storage of such data. In closing, this paper likewise does not ignore good karma, frontier justice, divine intervention or just dumb luck. In short: We suggest that one never look a gift horse (or elk) in the mouth, a part of the anatomy that should remain shut on a host of occasions.)
