All Entries Tagged With: "Lake City"

Imaginary Friend Population on the Rise

(Denver) The number of imaginary friends claimed by residents of the Confront Range has almost doubled since this time last year. Experts say the jump is the result of growing disenchantment and constant stress experienced in higher population areas.

Imaginary friends, defined as anyone from a fantasy pal to an invisible advisor, tend to surface when real people just don’t cut the mustard. They are, in turn, attracted to lonely people who find themselves the victim of the 21st Century—People who constantly breathe bad air, people who spend their lives stuck in traffic or crammed into the cheery suburbs.

“These are not to be confused with guardian angels,” explains Dr. Efram Pennywhistle of the Lookout Mountain Helicopter Traffic Brown Cloud Symposium. “They cannot be claimed as dependents on tax returns and are not recorded on the national census.”

Pennywhistle says guardian angels are good spirits while imaginary friends run the gamut from helpful to destructive. He adds that a pretend passenger can be of great worth while negotiating I-25 at rush hour or on the ol’ riding mower at dusk.

“We had one joker up here in Golden who claimed his imaginary friend bought him cheap vodka and made him drink it while driving up Clear Creek to the Central City casinos. Upon arrival the imaginary friend allegedly made him gamble away his paycheck and later threaten security personnel. When police arrived, and arrested the man,” quipped Pennywhistle, “the imaginary friend was nowhere to be seen.”

Up till now most urban planners and social scientists have chosen to ignore the existence of these others preferring to focus on logistical problems having to do with physical matter and space.

“It was bad enough trying to create housing for the first string (living, breathing humans) without worrying about these imagined individuals,” said one planner. “Now we have to build imaginary interstate highways, locate imaginary low income housing, develop imaginary neighborhoods and even maintain imaginary schools for their children. The impact on social services is astounding. We still haven’t figured out how to tax them and sell them licenses but that day is coming.”

In private, many sociologists resent the imaginary friends whom they say are parasites at best out only for a good time. Most feel humans would be better dealing directly with trauma rather than creating beefed-up linemen to do their blocking for them.

“Any way that modern man can deal with the bombardment of stimuli is acceptable,” explained Jorge Thorwell, a professor of Latter Day Metaphysics at Cal Amari University (Compton Fire Base). “These poor unfortunates in washed cars live life at a blow by blow pace traveling the robot highway in a world turned to bad science fiction. The road noise alone drives most slowly insane.”

At press time the number of imaginary friends living between Ft. Collins and Trinidad is estimated at about 500,000. While most have assimilated into ancient Colorado culture (they are Bronco fans) their presence is a constant threat to the fragile peace and harmony along that stretch of Colorful Colorado. – Fred Zeppelin

 

Quiet Observations

Martian Travel Benefit: Apollo National Park on the Moon

With the establishment of the new Apollo National Park on the Moon it should be easier to travel to Mars according to Jetpack Carriers, a pioneer transport service specializing in all-inclusive cosmic ventures into the great beyond. Jetpack, which will begin full service flights to Mars in November, says the preliminary taming of the lunar orbit satellite, will give travelers a host of options when cruising outer space.

“The trip to Mars can be exhausting and tremendously tedious if a person is not prepared for the experience. The opening of a National Park on the moon offers a safety net or failsafe where people can get out of the shuttle, stretch their legs and have a look around.”

The round-trip cost for the journey starts at $1.3 million, which includes chemical meals in clever packaging and in-flight films. Interest in one-way trips has spiked recently with many potential passengers eager to “get off the grid and rid themselves of the stress of earth-bound routines” according to Jetpack.

 

Kim Jong-un Having Trouble Getting Dates

(Pyongyang) Korean news sources intimate that Dear Leader, Kim Jong-un has been experiencing a downturn in his social life after ordering the execution of a former girlfriend, Hyon Song-wol, a well-known Korean performer with the Unhasu Orchestra. Hyon, who was accused of breaking domestic pornography laws, was the victim of a firing squad that took an estimated dozen lives. Most of the others killed were members of the Wanghaesan Light Music Band.

Whether Kim will rebound from his social snafu was not discussed however many here say he will be back on the dating trail by the weekend. Many potential partners are afraid to say no to the Korean dictator and don’t dare answer the phone. Others reportedly dream of a date so as to get a decent meal in the starving country. The sources did not dwell on the leader’s charms, calling him “quite a catch” even though he is currently married to Ri Sol-ju, who had objected to the high profile of the ex-girlfriend.

“It is not known if these murders will undermine the dapper god-king’s efforts to woo the women of North Korea,” said one South Korean mouthpiece, “but it certainly can’t help come Saturday night.”

 

Many Zombies Sticking Around After Film

(Montrose) An alarming number of zombies and assorted extras say they are planning to relocate to Montrose after a positive experience filming the movie “I Am Alone” in the Western Colorado city. Of the 50 or so zombies taking part in the filming most told The Horseshoe that they hope to stay here.

“It all comes down to jobs and there aren’t all that many good ones to be had,” said one of the Walking Dead, sipping a zombie downtown yesterday. “Sometimes quality of life is more important than money and we have a powerful support group quickly forming in these environs.

Zombies, thought to be corpses brought back to life by witchcraft, generally led productive lives and often blend in with the local population. Many are attracted to the shadows of the urban arena yet others prefer the wide-open spaces.

The city of Montrose, in keeping with bullying practices toward small business within its confines, has announced that it will hire 200 more police officers to head-off disturbances. Readers may recall an upsurge in the zombie population in Delta after Attack of the Vegan Zombies was shot there in 1997. After marked concern on the part of authorities there it became apparent that zombies and regular humans could co-exist even though compatibility was in question when the days grew shorter.

– Jack Spratt 

 

Starter Colonies Anticipated in Cyberspace

(Hotchkiss) Scientists attached to the Roger’s Mesa Alien Study Institute at Lazear say they expect starter colonies in cyberspace by 2010. Crowded conditions and the lack of farmland on earth were cited as the major reason for human relocation to the otherwise uncharted terrain.

At present, research indicates that cyberspace is ready to support inhabitants and sustain life forms such as animals and plants.

“Most of us fall into one of those categories,” laughed Dr. Laura Borealis, Director of the Institute that was established to counsel dogs and monkeys sent into outer space in the 50s.

According to a host of filed reports cyberspace is endless enough since asphalt, tacky subdivisions and mindless sprawl, are still illegal within those environs. Although oxygen levels fluctuate and gravitational concerns have yet to be undressed, the scientists have given a firm thumbs up to the more than 200 potential homesteaders who have applied for high speed trip permits and thousands of dotcom caches up to 80 acres.

“Cyberspace pioneers may feel like a one-eyed cat in a henhouse or even a dog on three legs right now,” said Borealis, “but they are a resilient group in search of a better life for their children where clean air and water are the rule and all is in sync with nature. Sure, things are mellow around here but that is not the case on most of the planet.”

Conflicts with the Hotchkiss National Fish Hatchery have been blown out of proportion, according to the director who emphasized that there is a place for trout, as well as kokanee salmon in cyberspace. Principles at the hatchery have repeatedly accused the alien study institute of mollycoddling recovering space travelers and secretly housing refugees from Aspen.

“I’ve pretty much had it up to the gills with these fishwits,” winked Borealis. We have always been careful not to muddy the water or observe the trout during intimate spawning moments. Any moron can tell you that mixing trout with the aliens, galaxy-challenged chimps, stressed out doggie astronauts and even our technicians is bad medicine.”

Borealis added that the fish hatchery people were simply jealous in that they are not allowed to send clients into space.

In a related development, NASA is calling agricultural experiments on the Martian surface “a dismal failure” in that tomatoes grown and picked green there before shipment to markets on earth taste like plastic.

“Even though they are all shined up and look exactly like tomatoes they taste like cardboard,” said one genetically altered NASA investigator. “They just ain’t maters.”

– Suzie Compost  

 

HEROES AND BEARS AT 14,000 FEET

My midlife crisis can lick your midlife crisis. Whenever I get down I go up, and there was Red Cloud Peak reaching toward the sky at the end of the Silver Creek Basin. I had decided to climb the mountain solo so as to have time to slow down that 21st Century noise and clear out the cobwebs that engulf my brain from time to time. In addition I had made the mistake of mentioning my plans to a friend named Popcorn who had recently lost a close family member, a 16-year-old cat named “Dad”, to a dog attack. Popcorn, who conveniently enough owned a liquor store in Crested Butte at the time, handed me a miniature vodka concoction and asked me to drink a toast to Dad on top of the mountain. No more excuses. I now had a holy mission.

Heading up an abandoned jeep road into the forest I began thinking, with the wisdom of humans, how politically correct even the wilderness had become. No jeeps humming, no dirt bikes screaming, lots of little check-in posts for hikers, plenty of bear tagging, controlled burns, stocked lakes, and lots of signs prohibiting litter. It’s the Information Age in the pines.

That’s all very nice on a sunny Sunday morning, but I remember the days prior to all the obsession with political correctness, you know, when people simply respected each other for the hell of it. The first part of the hike is taxing and I push myself up the trail hoping it will level off long enough for me to catch my breath.

Soon I enter dark timber and catch a glimpse of Handies Peak just waking up for the day. My mind wanders as my legs do the work. The other day I was shocked to hear a classic Motown tune backing up a sales pitch for some animated stick of margarine on television. Copyright limitations be damned! Don’t these propagandists have any respect for what’s left of our culture? I think what really bothers me is that most of the beaten down people don’t even notice anymore. I’m moving back to Uruguay tomorrow. Damn.

I can hear Silver Creek crashing down through the rocks. I wonder what ever happened to my college girlfriend or to that bastard in the Saab that cut me off on Highway 135 last week. I wonder how many loyal patrons are attending Sunday morning services at Restless Spirits down in Lake City.

As I cross the first of three wide snowfields I can see Sunlight Peak in the distance. Realizing that I have been talking out loud I’m relieved that there is no one else in earshot. There seems to be no distinct origin for, or welcome end to the involuntary thoughts that, like blind, charging snowmelt, are running through me.

Is it just that I’ve been around too long? Have I seen the same movie one too many times? At 46 am I sentenced simply to growing old? Will I reach mild euphoria knowing that it’s ten o’clock and time for the news? At my age most of the former custodians of this place, the Utes, walked out into the mountains alone to meet their creator. Honor.

Back when I was in my twenties I was certain that by the time I reached this point I would not only be wise and affluent but that I’d have my emotions in tow. Good luck, sailor. That was in the Sixties. Maybe we all missed something during that time but it’s too late to run the whole decade by again. All we have succeeded in preserving is tie-dyed shirts, lava lamps and gender confusion. It’s not the shock of waking up to find that one has waltzed through 20 years without realizing his goals. The difficulty comes in accounting for the wasted time. I’m talking out loud again.

The thought that Mick Jagger is a grandfather weighs heavy on my mind. I remember a conversation the other day where my friend Terry Starr told me that the only true escape from midlife crisis is to become just that, a grandfather. Another friend bought a bright red Corvette and he’s only 43. What will he do for an encore if this approach falls short? What would Sigmund Freud say, or Carl Gustav Jung for that matter?

Climbing out of the creek bed I am surrounded by wildflowers. The wet spring did its work well and…Wait! What’s that large black, fury  thing coming over the ridge? I scope it out with my zoom lens. My God, it’s a black bear. Does he see me? He’s heading in this direction. Now, I’ve read where these bear are quite docile but I’ll bet this one weighs in at 400 pounds!

As the animal methodically approaches I instinctively go into an emergency bear response like the one outlined in the four-color government brochure, produced, of all places, in Denver. He sees me now alright. I wave my arms, so as to appear larger than life and make noises to give him every reason to retreat. He meanders down the slope in my direction. Careful not to look him in the eye I begin to back up but it’s at least three miles to my truck. He comes close. He doesn’t look that frightening but…

“Excuse me,” says the bear, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with yourself, and what’s all the mumbo jumbo about? Do you realize how silly you look waving your arms around and screaming?”

My God, I’ve finally lost it. Senility has arrived. Hallucinations. Flashbacks. A talking bear.

“I know I look like a bear but in reality I am the reincarnation of Chief Colorow, of the Utes. While I normally avoid humans, especially white ones, I couldn’t resist talking to you.”

“Oh,” I responded.

“I’m not a mind reader, or anything, but your voice really carries in this basin,” said the bear. You are engaged in climbing a mountain. What  is the source of your frustration? When I was your age we had to contend with white folks plowing up our race tracks and gold miners plugging up our hot springs. Look at these wildflowers all around you. They have a life expectancy of about two months and you don’t hear them whining, do you?”

“No,” I responded quietly. “Are you really who you say you are?”

“You don’t believe me?” said the bear.  Ask any marmot. Do you want me to perform a war dance or something? That’s the trouble with you people today, you don’t trust anyone. You people live right here in the Garden and yet you can’t get out of first gear.”

“How did people in your day deal with aging?” I ask. “I don’t recall ever reading about early evening bingo and tubs of jello salad in your lodges.”

“First of all,” he answers, “there weren’t so many of us. We didn’t live as long. While modern medicine pats itself on the back for stretching out the average lifetime, we saw life as a challenging puzzle with an defined end. That end came alone in the mountains. Secondly, we had heroes and you don’t.”

“What do you mean? We have heroes,” I protested, becoming a bit antagonized by the pompous nature of this large bruin.

“Name one,” said the bear arrogantly.

Well,” I began there’s…Uh…there’s…Give me a minute…”

I realized the bear was right. I could not think of a real hero. Everyone from Bill Clinton to Duke Snider had fallen from grace. Even Connie Chung wasn’t what she seemed.

“See,” said the bear. “That’s what’s the matter. You have no heroes. It’s so simple yet so very complicated. Without heroes one cannot break out of the stark, familiar rhythm of life and let his desperate soul go out for a full moon stroll.”

I listened as the he went on thinking to myself that this sounds like a motivational seminar and that this is one receptive, if a bit corporate bear.

“What about you?” I counter. “Who are your heroes?”

“Well there’s Dick Butkus, for strarters. Now there was one fine Bear. There’s Geronimo,” frowned the bear, “who fought on when he knew he was whipped and Bella Abzug…”

“Bella Abzug?”

“Hey, growled the bear, “everyone has the choice of who they choose as a hero. That’s the beauty of it all. You choose and no explanation is necessary.”

“Oh,” I say, “so picking a hero isn’t really so hard.”

“No, he reponds, “but emulating one is something altogether different.”

At his suggestion I resumed my climb reaching a ridge full of shale that it a bit more difficult to negotiate.

“You are someone’s hero,” said the bear, “or could be with the right moxie. That’s our roll and if it is embraced we have no time to worry about our own problems. Soon they blow away like ashes and we are one with our surroundings, a complete person.”

“What about you,” I retorted. “From what I read that as Colorow you were an overweight bully who drank too much and  never accomplished anything during your entire life.”

“Cruel, but true,” said the bear, “and that is precisely why I’m talking to you now. Once I was a Ute chief and now I’m a smelly, old bear who sleeps in a cave. It could happen to anyone. Accept your potential roll as a hero to someone else and you will quickly overcome all the insecurities and the confusion that plagues you. Inspire someone else and you create more and more heroes as you go. The whole thing is contagious,” he said.

The bear then said goodbye and disappeared into a muddy stream before I could ask him anything else. I guess he figured that sooner or later I’ll be coming back down and, if further conversation is necessary, that he can catch me on the descent. I continued my trek up the side of Red Cloud, crossed yet another windy ridge and finally plopped down at the summit. I signed the Colorado Mountain register which was filled with the names of an assortment of heroes. Tomorrow there would be one more everyday hero, or at least someone attempting to experience that quiet distinction.

Kevin Haley, a self-described sensitive male for the ages, lives in Colona where he collects Citrons and publishes the San Juan Horseshoe. He is a former lead singer for The Tattooed Shoelaces.

 

The Jumpers

   A feeble, forlorn figure sits in a rocking chair near a severe drop-off into a massive canyon. He has trouble moving due to the flock of medals pinned to his worn out government issue, camouflage bathrobe. He carries the rank of four-star general. He has a large, large archduke mustache — one that would make Pancho Villa proud, and is wearing a shiny, spiked helmet fashioned from a Prussian staff bedpan with a cavalry chinstrap reminiscent of the Light Brigade tightly latched.

     Next to him is a burned out tree like the ones that once dotted the meadows of Flanders and the woodlands of Tarawa. Adjacent is a rusty cannon and a pyramid of cannonballs. The wind is blowing hard like a death chant during burial duty. There is a red-stained sun and a dark moon hanging above.

 

ACT I

General: I long for the day…of the cavalry charge, sabers held high, cutting our way through the flesh of men and horses, our mustaches waxed, our black mounts — no quit in them, their nostrils flared, their hooves like razorblades in the dust. Bullets whiz by from the trenches, squeezed off by expendable men who are about to die.

(Enter Maude, pushing a baby carriage)

Maude: Oh I didn’t see you sitting there so close to the edge. Doesn’t this wind make you crazy?

General: The wind is not the culprit, wench. After all the years and all the glory looking death in the teeth I can only sit here in this chair, unable to move under the weight of all these medals, unable even to even rock back and forth after charging across continents. My wooden chair. My wooden prison. My only future is the wind’s cold chant.

Maude: I know the feeling. I can’t move much either in a metaphoric sense. My life is without highs and lows, just the same every day. Mundane, fruitless, quietly desperate and alone, terribly alone.

General: If you are so fruitless tell me who is in the stroller?

Maude: Oh him. It’s my son Lemmings, named after his absent father, a man I never knew but have soon forgotten.

(She wheels the carriage over to an angle where the general can look inside).

General: But. Maude, the carriage is empty.

Maude: What! How do you know my name? What has happened to my boy?

General: Could have been Shiloh, could have been the Somme. You yourself sent him off. Tell me. Are you alone in the world?

Maude: I already told you that I was alone, terribly alone.

General: Solitude in birth and again in death. It’s all that we know. Where we came from and where we go has not been addressed by the enlightened and the level-headed.

Maude: My life is shit. I never have enough to eat. My lovers have all been killed in the wars to end all wars. If I had any direction in my life I would still not have the shoes for it.

General: Then what will you do?

Maude: I shall maintain. All of us on earth must maintain.

General: And why must we all maintain?

Maude: For future generations if for nothing else.

General: (Laughing) For future generations? Ha! They don’t care about you, about how you are today. They would not blink if you died and blew away.

Maude: I am lost. My soul is lost! (lamenting)

General: A lot more than your soul has been lost. If I could move under all this weight I’d jump right now and find all of the answers that have eluded me. I used to love being a general…the nice warm bed in the rear, the pretty maps, the firefights far away brought close to home in my binoculars, the power…All nice and orderly. No blood. All nice and clean. But it’s all gone. All I have left are these medals.

Maude: And your bathrobe. Don’t forget your bathrobe and pajamas. Without them you’d have to carry your medals around in a basket and nobody would ever see them.

General: The planet is exploding. People eat rats.The wars rage and there are still soldiers left standing. You’d think someone would run short of bullets.

(He tries to scoot his rocking chair closer to the cliff).

Maude: Life is defined not by the feast but by the famine.

General: It’s worse. Your life will never mean a thing, even to you. Walking around with an empty baby carriage will bring no peace. The only way to pace is over the cliff, Maude.

(He gazes over the cliff dramatically. She begins to cry.)

Maude: My life will not improve? I always thought my life would improve. I seek the light of heaven but only find the shadows of hell.

General: There is no devil below. I have seen him on the battlefield.

Maude: Darkness?

General: Who told you there was light?

Maude: God

General: God who?

Maude: You’re a sick old man with medals on his bathrobe. I’m leaving. Sit in your wooden chair alone.

(Maude wheels her carriage around, throws back her head as if to rid herself of the general and exits).

General: Now there, my friends, is a prime recruit for the jump. She’ll be back. Weak and brittle like the little boy soldiers at Argonne. They never knew what hit them. All those pretty uniforms soaked in blood and black trench mud. I understand them and salute them for their courage in the face of the German guns. Flesh against hot metal fired into the sky.

(He begins to sing).

General (singing): Oh look on the Assyrian armies, the Romans and the hordes of Tamerlaine. Survivors of the battle marching backward, then forward to ordain. Boom!

Angel: Who is that singing?

General: Who is that not singing?

Angel: My wings, my wings are broken and I will soon fall. I have come to view, to examine the abyss.

General: (scooting frantically closer to the edge of the cliff but smiling as if nothing is out of character): You have come to the right place my angel friend. Perhaps you can no longer fly with the birds or the bombers, but you can still descend gracefully.What’s it like being an angel? Is it all it’s cracked up to be?

Angel; I’m not just an angel, I’m a fucking archangel you wrinkled, rocking decoration of death. Can’t you see my brilliance, my aura?

General: Can’t say that I do…A navigational streak of light in a sea of wind and darkness. Righteousness has gone for a walk. Your wings are all saggy. Have you ever been in the army?

Angel: I said I was an archangel. What do you think archangels do for a living, sell bathrobes? I was the point man in the pre-ancient showdown with Lucifer and his boys. We kicked their asses but they never were defeated. They never really went away.

General: No one ever really goes away. No one really ever stays either. No soldier eagerly vacates his line to charge the enemy in the morning.

Angel: Could you move away from the cliff. I’d like to make a clean jump and the last thing I need to remember is the face of a madman in a rocking chair.

General: An archangel jumping to his death? Interesting.

Angel: Move or I’ll take you with me.

General: Please do.

Angel: Stop! You just don’t realize what I’ve been through, what I have seen since Beelzebub started running his mouth and pissed off the Big Three. Did we cast out the wrong angels?

General: All the more reason to jump.

Angel: An angel without wings is like a morning without light, a champion without victory, a dog without a tail.

General: You’re right. You’re hopeless. Why not just jump? Things are not going to get better. What is your name, angel friend?

Angel: Estragon sometimes.

General: The spacemen are arriving any day now. All the more reason to hurl oneself from the heights!

Angel: I have no future and I am tormented by my past. The present gives me no peace. No one cares. There are no answers. I have no options.

General: On the contrary you do. It’s just a few steps and down.

Angel: There’s no soul left in you is there? You sit there in your rocker with your medals, waiting for some god or the other to apologize.

General: I have no need for apologies, only recognition. I am a soldier. I have no need of a soul, just a good saddle. I was cavalry you know.

Angel: You are raving mad but you will be gone soon. I must find my way away from here. The cliff answers nothing and I don’t like the sound of splat. I have no quarrel with mortal man or gods or even Lucifer anymore.

(As he leaves the general furiously tries to scoot his rocking chair closer to the cliff without success).

 

ACT II

General: Freud jumped. Marx jumped. Caesar jumped. Joan of Arc in flames! Robspierre watched as his head fell downward into a pretty whicker basket. A breakfast of figs and a dinner of loaves and fishes. Where is the real prophet? Wait…who’s there?

Young Soldier in baggy uniform: It’s only me, your Excellency. Jimmy from Iowa. Do you like my uniform? It’s just like the one my grandfather wore when he got hit in Korea. I never knew him. I think I’ll grow into it over the next few wars.

General: I was in Korea but I didn’t die there.

Soldier: I will be a hero. I know it. Just give me the chance. All of my family were heroes. I know all the patriotic songs and battle slogans by heart.

General: For the glory of it all. For the glory of the jump. Are you here to leap?

Soldier: If ordered, sir.

General: We jumped out of airplanes flying higher than this little cliff. (He manages to scoot closer to cliff this time). You can’t even see the bottom. What’s the big deal? Let’s jump together, tandem, for the glory of the nation! He tosses one of his medals over the side.

Soldier: I didn’t hear it hit.

General: Nor will I hear you.

Soldier: I’m not here to jump. I have my whole life to jump. Sure, things could be better but I don’t think jumping will fix anything.

General: Don’t be so sure. Put the cork back in the bottle and get a running start. It will be over in no time.

Soldier: Throw another medal you bitter fool. I’ve got to go before I’m late for the next war. Adieu.

(He warmly greets the Arc Builder on the way off stage)

Arc Builder: Greetings General. I am here to build an arc and I’ll be needing your rocker. Do you want some help jumping?

General: An arc builder? Why? There is no flood up here. Salute the Centurion! Throw your grenade.

(He tosses another medal off the cliff)

Arc builder: The flood is down there. Here, let me help you scoot…

General: Wait a minute. Why are you here? Who are you? Are you a spy?

Arc builder: I am the arc builder. Don’t you recognize my arc builder’s hat? I have come to help you jump.

General: Discarded puppets with broken strings.

Arc builder: What? What’s that you say? All the puppets have broken their strings?

General: I was cavalry. I was looking through my field glasses. All I saw was smoke. The whole world wakes top hungry. Everyone is a meal in the jungle.

(He starts to scoot toward the cliff again and the arc builder breaks into a wide grin)

Arc builder: Let me help you, general. Let go of the chair. We’ll just pour you out like molasses from the jar. Let go of the chair…But first let me wash my hands.

(He washes methodically, sharing his smile with the audience, then throws the wash cloth over the cliff).

Arc builder: Are you ready for your solo flight? I’ll bet they didn’t teach you this dance move in the cavalry.

General: Why don’t you jump if it’s such salvation?

Arc builder: Oh, I have already jumped. So have all the others. You are the last one to leap. Go on…just a little further. There is no devil below only restful darkness. No black, no white. No good, no bad.

(The arc builder begins hammering planks of wood together).

Arc builder: I’ll wait. You’ll jump before long.

(Enter nurse from the nearby rest home)

Nurse: Oh there you are general, talking to the clouds again. You shouldn’t sit so close to the pond. I know you like the ducks but you could fall in, besides it’s time for your medication. – Kevin Haley

 

DOW Wants in on Drone License Fees

(Deer Trail, CO) Threatening to sell drone licenses to this year’s hunters may or may not be legitimate. Either way it has caused quite an uproar at the Colorado Division of Wildlife, who want a piece of the local action if there is any.

According to town fathers and mothers in Deer Trail, the announcement that the municipality would begin selling drone licenses this fall was meant as a political statement and never as an actuality. Several say they wanted to protest the country’s policies with regard to unmanned rockets, spying and assassinations of suspected terrorists, including US citizens. Others say our government has lost its sense of right and wrong and is engaged in deplorable acts on our behalf.

“The fact that the national media picked up on our tongue and cheek plan further indicates that there are a lot of people out there highly concerned about the clandestine nature of our government these days,” said councilperson Bettie Clonne of Deer Trail. “And now it appears that another parasitic gov’ment agency wants in on the spoils.”

Clonne, which rhymes with drone, went on to suggest that it would be impossible to sell drone licenses since those unmanned weapons are not all that prevalent in Colorado skies and because drones are not wards of the state like deer and elk. In addition they remind us that one cannot eat a drone which creates other problems with morality of hunting in general.

“We realize it is a federal offense to mess with federal property, even though in essence it belongs to the people, doesn’t it?” she asked.

The government has expanded its drone programs to include domestic surveillance which worries civil liberty proponents as to the future of robot war and intrusive technology.

“Don’t shoot it unless you’re going to eat it has always been my mantra,” continued the source. “I haven’t seen any trophy drones up there and the drone is not calculated on the basis of points on the antler since there are no horns, just a ball of metal.”

Meanwhile the DOW, who used to offer hunting licenses at a reasonable fee for instate and out of state sportsmen, has continued its greedy march to the destruction of hunting in Colorado. Years ago everyone shared in the profits, – merchants, outfitters, communities – now most of the money ends up going to the DOW. Today’s  average hunter is now urban, unskilled and rich with expensive gear and no soul for the hunt. This is what happens when fees are not in keeping with reality. Less hunters mean less money spent on dinners, hotel rooms and services.

Still the thought of bringing down an unmanned drone is tempting to some. The possibility of actually hitting one with an elk rifle is all but impossible anyway. They travel fast.

Most people in Deer Trail agree that all the hoopla over shooting down drones will blow over after the season is concluded. However the feds and the state will still be here helping us to become more robotic and less human.

What tales will they tell around the campfire in the years to come?

“I was so busy field dressing the first clone that I din’t see the second one coming right at me. Thankfully my old buddy Earl had a bead on it and blasted it out of the sky. I don’t know if the meat can be recovered but it was a damn fine shot. Things sure are different out in the woods then they were when I was a boy.”

– Rocky Flats