All Entries Tagged With: "Lake City"

Camping shot

COCKROACHES REINTRODUCED TO STATE

(Colona) Cockroaches, some the size of small humans have been dropped right out of the sky this summer as part of an attempt to bring Western Colorado in line with the rest of the country. These hard-shelled flat-bodied insects of the family Blattidae develpmentus speculatum hide in dark places (like under septic systems and even historic mining structures) then run for their lives if somebody has the good sense to turn the light on.

Focal points of the drops have been pastoral Colona, the still wild Slate River Valley Floor and pristine Red Mountain Pass where there’s lots to gobble up while the townspeople are tending their flocks or asleep.

The roaches have accumulated more than enough fodder to make it through the winter but are motivated to get even more. Their appetites are incredible, causing many of us to ask: How much is enough? Often they align themselves with other more powerful species/agents, even elected officials, to get what they want.

In addition to the initial infestation, residents should be sure to keep an eye out for the frightening multiplication of this specie mentality in the light of public apathy. The roaches are going to do their thing and there’s nothing we can do about it so we might as well benefit from it…Remember: If you spray, keep a clean house and keep the lights on these pests cannot proliferate. Unfortunately these cockroaches have no conscience and should be squashed at every opportunity. So wear them big old shoes!

(Editor’s note: We respect the rights of private property owners and everyone deserves to make a living here in the good ol’ grab all you can USA, but nobody has the right to create such a negative impact on our countryside.) 

 

WORLD WAR I STARTED ON POOL TABLE

(Strasbourg) Some historians blame all the shooting on the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand by Serbs in Sarajevo. Others point to the Zabern Affair in the Alsace-Lorraine, which infuriated hawks in both France and Germany. Still other social scientists insist that the massacre began due to a longtime feud between royal cousins with massive armies at their disposal. This is all poppycock. World War I was ignited by a simple game of pool.

Although little has been written and even less documented with regards to this fascinating theory, this shall in no way detour us in our quest for the final truth. What we have already found out might put the more stodgy of historians into a tizzy, or worse.

Our flight to Stuttgart was uneventful and the entire entourage felt lightheaded as we deplaned amid yet another month-long harvest festival. We drove to the French frontier, stopping once to check metric tire pressure and once to freshen up.

According to locals interviewed in the German village of Lahr, in the Black Forest, the leaders of nine European countries met here in secret in January of 1914 in an attempt to iron out difficulties and avert a mortal conflict. While most of our sources are only descendants of actual eyewitnesses, they seemed honest enough and we decided to take their recollections to the bank.

After a week of cross examination we found that villagers from Rastatt to Schaffhausen were in agreement as to how that meeting went down. Most have claimed to have at least a shirt-tail relative in attendance at that Strasbourg pool hall on the night in question.

Anyway, it appears that Lloyd George arrived first, ordered a Watneys and sat in the corner, that, being the British thing to do. He was fortuitously joined by Hungarian Premier Count Tisza, who brought along his own cue stick. Soon Prussian boss Otto von Bismark, Austrian Premier Count Carl Sturgkh, Chief-of-Staff Paul von Hindenburg and King Constantine of Greece made their way through the door. Then Bismark bought a round for the house, much to the enjoyment of the curious assemblage.

Georges Clemenceau and Henri Petain were next to show up, fashionably late, yet somewhat miffed that they had missed a rare round purchased by the frugal German clique. Then, with a flair that only the Russian could  muster, Czar Nicholas emerged from his royal Cossack coach, driven by miniature horses and a host of gelded Bolsheviks, captured outside the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg over the holidays. Accompanying him was his wife, Alexandra, who quickly grew bored with the mileau and beat feet for Lahr’s strip of trendy boutiques in search of cuckoo clocks and bittersweet German chocolates.

Soon everyone was seated with the noted exception of President Woodrow “League of Nations” Wilson and his military attache, General John “Black Jack” Pershing. Somehow, during the delay Count Tisza challenged Bismark to a friendly game of pool, which he won handily, running the table before the proud Bismark could even choose a stick. Bismark frowned and sat down, furious at his predicament. Several other players entered the foray at this juncture with Lloyd George soundly whipping Georges Clemenceau and Czar Nicholas destroying a brave eleventh hour bid by King Constantine.

Then, just as the tardy Americans passed through the back door something snapped. Bismark, still peeved over his loss to the Hungarian, claimed that he had put a quarter up on the table immediately following his defeat. Petain insisted that it was his quarter and told Bismark to sit back down and drink his beer. His tone was confrontational at best and Bismark blew up. He charged the smaller Frenchman, punching him about the head and torso. It took three men to pull the two apart.

The Americans, who most locals feel precipitated the fracas by their less than prompt advent, attempted to negotiate a peace but it was not meant to be.

Bismark called Tisza “an upstart, a roturier, a gypsy!” Tisza responded by accusing Bismark of “grandstanding” and added that his King Charles Spaniel was “grossly overweight, even fat!” This brought a chorus of laughter from the French and British contingents who were now ordering Long Island Ice Teas by the pitcher and spoiling for a fight. It appears that it was at this point that the alliances surfaced which would ultimately lead to a world war.

Both Bismark and Tisza glared angrily into the Anglo-Franco peanut gallery hanging onto the bar. Harsh words were exchanged for now it appeared that the Prussian and the Hungarian had buried the hatchet and were more offended by the ridicule now heaped upon them than by the bad blood that had only moments before passed between them.

Another swinging match ensued, this time with Czar Nicholas and von Hindenburg jumping in. Before it was ended Lloyd George was blind sided by a Hupmobile tire iron and most of the decorative glass in the place was shattered. Count Sturgkh suffered a slight concussion after a collision with a brass serving tray while Petain lost a tooth and retreated, as would become his mode of operation, into the nearest broom closet to await the outcome.

The police arrived at about ten and arrested everyone who had the bad judgment to remain on the scene. Most were subsequently bailed out of Lahr Municipal Jail by Alexandra, who had only recently returned from her shopping trip. The combatants were then told to get out of town on the next train. Damages were paid by President Wilson, setting a dangerous precedent which would not be fully understood until the end of the century.

Meanwhile, for most of the civilized world this sad episode dictated what was to come in Europe as the leaders of the world’s greatest nations chose to sacrifice millions of lives rather than swallow their pride over a simple game of pool.

 

 

The Tarzan and Jane Dialogues

Jane: Don’t be such a stuffed shirt, Tarzan. You haven’t seen Ward Cleaver since the war.

Tarzan: Not like Ward. Him know-it-all.

Jane: Ssssh. Here they come now. Hello June. Hello Ward. Hello boys. My the boys are getting bigger everyday.

Wally: A miracle of modern biology.

June: Now Wally that’s no way to speak at the table.

Ward: I always say, the manners learned at the dinner table will dictate the kind of man…

Wally: Shut up, Ward.

Tarzan: This wildebeast tough, June. How long dead?

Jane: Tarzan! I’m surprised at you. It’s not wildebeest. It’s fried lion.

June: Oh, that’s OK, Jane. I may have mixed up the zip-lock packages from the freezer. It does have that wildebeest texture…Hmmm, but the package clearly said cat…

Beaver: Someday I hope to be the curator of paleontology here at the community college.

Ward: Good boy, Beaver. That’s the stuff! I always say, dinner etiquette formulates later behavior patters. Why, even if a young man eats nothing but humus he can still open a can of tuna or grill a biscuit.

Wally: Kiss off, Ward.

June: Wally…

Tarzan: Wally OK, June. I used to have same problem with Cheetah until I borrow cattle prod from Ubangis.

Ward: Beaver! Get a shirt on! What’s the matter with you!

Beaver: Tarzan’s not wearing a shirt.

June: But, dear that’s part of his costume.

Wally: Yeah, Beave, like Donald Duck not wearing pants.

Ward: So, Tarzan, are you on line yet?

Tarzan: On lion?

June: Oh, Ward, don’t be silly. We’ve seen all of your films, Trazan. I particularly liked the one where the locals were chasing Jane and you called out the elephants. All that testosterone! Do apes really ride ostriches?

Wally: What a geek. Ask her about her two-piece loincloth. Pretty risqué for the Forties, wouldn’t you say?

Beaver: Thanks for dinner, mom. Can I go over to Whitey’s and read dirty magazines?

June: Yes, dear, just so long as you’ve finished your homework.

Ward: Excuse yourself, son.

Wally: He’s trying to, dad.

June: Now Wally…remember your manners.

Ward: Yes, Wally, table manners have everything to do with…

Wally: Shove it, Ward.

Ward: Well, Tarzan, let’s retire to my study and smoke cigars.

Tarzan: Not politically correct to smoke. Not politically correct to depict women as servants and domestic support entities…

Ward: Say what? This is the Fifties. It’s OK. It’s even expected.

Wally: Great humus, mom. I’m going over to Lumpy’s and shoot heroin.

June: Be home early, Wally. It’s a school night.

THE END

 

PEBBLE SOUP

IN A FUNK THIS TIME OF THE YEAR? Here’s some advice to chase away the blues: 1.) Eat breakfast naked 2.) push a junk car off a 200-foot cliff 3.) Climb to the top of a cottonwood tree and make banana sounds. 4.) Eat a screen door 5.) Seduce someone at the feedlot. 6.) Wear sexy underwear in mixed company. Like these gems? Send for a complete Funk Fighter’s Guide available from Testosterone Brothers, Boston. We’re in the Jello Pages.

 

Leaving town for  bit? We will visquine and duct tape your house in case of terrorist attack. Reasonable, bonded. Ed’s Duct Tape and Visquine Ltd., Wimpton, Colorado.

 

Get your Honorary Law Degree from Bland Valley Sand and Gavel without leaving home. Computer correspondence programs to tapered for your budget and agenda. Classes now forming for spring semester. Applicants must have suit and brief case. Car helpful.

 

Read the small print: Colorado Hunting and Fishing Licenses carry with them a two-year military commitment. Now you can put your ass on the line just like the elk and the kokanee – Your friends at the Colorado Division of Wildlife, “Surveillance in the deep woods”.

 

Desperately need official lyrics to Little Latin Loupe Lou by Friday. Reward. Blind Box 399, Horseshoe.

 

Earn your auto mechanics certificate while working toward a PhD. in clinical psychology. Too easy? Call Shrinks and Manifolds for a catalogue today.

 

We need between seven and thirty-six persons capable of giving themselves a common cold. Extensive tests. Cash paid daily. Medical insurance possible. Retirement benefits if the ledger sheet balances. DR. Simon Lackluster, St Roscoe’s Memorial Hospital, All American City Roundabout.

 

Wanted: Men to lie to me about how beautiful I am and will become. Sarah, Littleton.

 

FOR SALE/TRADE: My pride. Was caught with my hands in the cookie jar and boy is my face red. See B. Lonie Sausage in Canon City. Visiting hours are posted on the website. Send more cookies.

 

Ed’s Liver and Onion Wagon will be in your locale sooner than you may think unless the wheels freeze up. It’s cholesterol free!

 

Cleaning lady needed for local slaughterhouse. Must have good sense of humor. No vegetarians or communists please. Mel’s Meat Mall in Gunnison.

 

Wanted: Man or woman to keep an eye on our town during AA meetings through the rainy season. Room and board plus small stipend, whatever that is. Box ARE, Horseshoe.

 

Help Wanted: Scout for wagon train headed west. Must be willing to travel back in time one hundred and fifty-five years or so. Risks include Indian attacks, flash floods, chronic drought, prairie fever, mountain passes and bad food. Great pay at 1880 standards. Ward Bond look-alike preferred. Drop us a note as phones don’t exist in this fantasy. Time Warp, Nevada (no zip codes yet either).

 

Why fight rush hour traffic daily when there are innovative ways to get to work on time? Call Enselmo’s Industrial Bunjy Cord for the recreational experience of a lifetime. Cures lisps and stuttering on contact. Custom work our specialty. Mexican Gulch.

 

Bike for sale: Boy’s 114 inch, 37-speed mountain variety. Too big and mathematically challenging for junior. Will consider trade for jumping beans or anything coated with Naugahyde. Sally Spokes, Almont.

 

Grow hair for major rug company and never work again. Dial 6.

 

Bagpiping enthusiast seeks potential mate familiar with a cappella performances sans kilt. Mac at the Horseshoe.

 

Don’t forget: November 4 is the final deadline for refunds from the 2012-2013 Unused Firewood Tax Credit Act. Stop by anytime.

 

Brain irrigation wanted: For small Western Slope town. Commission only but great working conditions. Some experience helpful but will train the right person. Send resume and references to Cahone Town Hall before March 31.

 

Cut up to three strokes per hole off your handicap with Dr. Bowen’s orthopedic spikes. Available everywhere sensible shoes are sold.

 

The enchanted hammock

Dawn broke one more time. Roosters and howler monkeys told the tale. Across the peninsula campesinos sang their way to work perched happily on rickety bicycles, their machetes held tightly in leather sheaths against the handlebars or strung over their shoulders like prison chains. Accompanying them were small helpings of gallo pinto and tepid tea which would serve as the daily luncheon special. Memories of an early breakfast among the mango trees consoled them, and thoughts of dinner…more beans and rice and maybe a can of Imperial Beer. On Sunday there would be chicken. They could still live off the land, at least for the time being.

Why be sad? Why worry? Nothing was going to change and besides, each had his family to hold onto, his village and at least a small garden to tend while the evening sun dipped over the Golfo Dulce.

Marcelo Ramirez woke up early too. At 89 he still had chores to do. His lazy son Juan refused to help with the farm preferring to lounge in his hammock all day. After feeding his livestock and raking his front yard the old man washed, drank coffee and saddled up his aging bay mare, Carmen. It was now time for his daily pilgrimage to the village of Amarantha, three miles down the dirt road that connected LaPalma to Puerto Jimenez. There he would visit with the friends he had known for almost a century.

Passing children in navy and white school uniforms, sweating palm oil workers, a stray horse, a few citrus farmers and an occasional air-conditioned Gringo chariot on the way to the eco-jungle lodges of Corcovado, he choked from the dust. Dry season was hell on the lungs but at least the Corps of Engineer bridges would not be flooded as they were in rainy season. Marcelo waved and chatted, as he and Carmen surveyed the edges of his farm. He reflected on his good luck since in all of his years he had not been forced into the dirty, dangerous work of palm oil extraction.

Today many of his neighbors spent the day in the palm forests, engaged in back-breaking labor. The fortunes they had been paid for their homes had quickly disappeared and they were once again destitute only this time landless as well. Now Nortes perched on their former property, building large houses, driving SUVs and cultivating gentlemanly orchards.

As Marcelo wandered into town on the back of Carmen he was quite the sight to behold. Carmen, his mare of almost two decades was definitely slowing down but the slow stroll seemed to perk her up this morning. The pair had become as familiar a sight as banana trucks, scarlet macaws and the tour buses that had just began to reach to Osa Peninsula, bringing with them monetary salvation as perceived by the impoverished locals.

He was a tough old vaquero with a heart of gold and a smile for everyone…except perhaps his off-spring. Juan, was a worthless bum and his daughter-in-law was no better. He saw himself as the local ladies’ man while Penelope regarded herself as a definite femme fatale, despite her extra 40 pounds.

Some thought Marcelo better off for having even questionable company out on his place, but he would have preferred solitude. His two grandsons, Mario and Alberto, still had potential but that diminished as they watched their parents sleep away the afternoons while Marcelo did all the work. They might have become closer but the parents discouraged it. Some day their grandfather would be dead and they would inherit the land. That’s what Juan had told them.

Across the washboard road the local brujo, Bernardo Espinozo, watched the daily parade. Hidden from view by thick fig trees, banana leaves and bougainvillea he peered out at the world crowded with inferior mortals.

Espinozo desperately sought respect from those around him. His continued witch status required displays of dark power and the casting of mighty spells. He could not comprehend how or why Marcelo would allow these parasite relatives to live off him. Clearly, after having served six months in prison for polygamy and car theft, Espinozo had many unresolved issues with mankind.

When Marcelo returned from the village he saw his son asleep in his hammock. The dishes from breakfast were piled high in the sink while his daughter-in-law, cracked open her first beer of the day. The two grandchildren were playing in an derelict pickup parked in the driveway. His son had promised to repair the old truck’s transmission three years ago. He passed the snoring Juan and the sipping Penelope without comment. He went out to the garden intent on doing battle with tropical weeds and grasshoppers. Soon he was on the patio napping away the humid January afternoon.

That’s when Carmen died.

The grandsons found her and ran to tell Marcelo who rushed to the side of his longtime companion. Old age had taken its toll. Marcelo loved the horse. He stared down at her, a tear rolling down his tan, weathered cheek. Now she must be buried. The hired hand from the next farm got wind of the situation and showed up with a shovel, as did the neighbor and the owner of a small pulperia nearby. Juan lingered on the hammock refusing to lift a finger to help his father. He mocked the grave diggers, suggesting they join the animal in the hole.

The brujo, eager to regain his tenure and rejoin the celebrated ranks of sorcery watched from across the road as the drama played out. Marcelo ignored his son while the neighbors openly glared at him swinging on the hammock. The story would be told in town that very afternoon of an evil son too lazy to help his father bury his beloved, dead horse.

Espinozo conjured up a plot to rid Amarantha of Juan and his wife for good. He would need a charm, a hex, a pinch of voodoo and a vehicle through which to channel his power. He must have an instrument, something linked to Juan. He’s in that hammock almost all the time. It’s almost like a spider web but first he must lure the lazy couple away while he applied  the finishing touches. This called for serious incantation, witchery of the highest degree.

Chanting ancient words, he mixed the bellies of kinkajous with the eyebrows of a bulldog bat and the tongue of a tayra. He added the dust of a moonless night with the course fur of a peccary and the toxins from a poison-arrow frog. He concentrated some more, adding Tamarind seed and volcano ash, adjusting his brew, when, as if on call, along came the bait, the beautiful Maria Mendoza.

Every man in town had yearnings for Maria. She was 23 years old and a lovely creature. About a year ago her husband Hector had been crushed by a palm oil press and she was left alone with three children. She survived on money from her family in Cartago and gifts from her gringo dates. Her mere arrival in LaPalma at the Friendly Bar on the Corner caused guaro-chugging patrons to go mad. Fist fights and even a knifing or two were chalked up to her account.

Now she was swinging down the road within view of Juan’s hammock. He opened one eye and saw her. Peering around for his wife, Penelope, Juan slid out of the hammock and sneaked outside. Maria had already passed the farm and was headed toward one of the newly built tourist restaurants above the river. He followed her unaware that he was shadowed by Penelope.

The brujo watched the three figures disappear into the jungle. He saw that Marcelo was still asleep and that the two boys had gone to swim in the Rio Rincon. Bernardo Espinozo let himself in.

The first order of business was to employ personal articles, possibly articles of clothing, belonging to his potential victims in the spell casting. Then he knew he must touch the hammock with a pinch of his concoction so as to give it life. He found one of Juan’s many combs and stared at the hammock waving the comb back and forth, whispering the simple words “eat him-eat every bit of him” over and over. He did the same thing with one of Penelope’s sandals and the scarf, encouraging what he hoped was now an enchanted hammock’s appetite. Then he scurried back to his shack to await the return of his prey.

Maria had reached a group of customers at the restaurant before Juan could catch up to her. Penelope, however, had caught up to him. By the time the two returned to the farm they were in a heated argument but Juan, enticed by the thought of Maria, was in the mood for love. In less than an hour he had apologized for his conduct and had invited his wife to join him in the hammock. He kept inviting. What else was there to do that evening? He persisted and she resisted. Then a smile crossed her fleshy face. They were both in the little cottage alone for a change. After all, he was her husband. The hammock looked inviting.  Unaware of the danger she joined him.

That’s when the enchanted hammock took over, quickly swallowing both of them without further adieu. It was business as usual at first but then Juan noticed his arms had turned to noodles. Then his neck seemed limp. Penelope’s smile had turned to fear as gravity came to play. Juan’s hair stood on end. His very veins became a target to the hammock’s aggression. His brain turned to mush. Penelope screamed as her ankles became embroiled with the netting. Soon Juan could not move. His entire torso glued to the lowest points of bodily contact with the web. He was gasping for breath as Penelope looked to him for some ungodly answer. Moments before death they both made a sort of contrition, hoping that this was not really the end.

“We have so much to live for,” they both wailed. “The children…Marcelo…If only we could be given a second chance…We could make good…”

It was all very clean, very complete. There was no blood, no broken bones, no residue of a struggle. The brujo had done his homework and the mission was accomplished in just short of five minutes.

 

Espinozo watched proudly while the hammock sucked them both into the abode of the condemned. The hungry hammock performed beautifully, leaving not so much as a crumb. As the short struggle subsided the brujo thought for sure he heard the smacking of hammock lips and even a slight burp.

“Good,” he said.

Hours later when the boys returned from the river and Marcelo had awakened from his nap there was no sign of Juan or Penelope. The hammock, however, swung back and forth contentedly, as if still occupied. Later that day a neighbor told Marcelo that he had seen the two walking in the jungle near where a prowling jaguars had been spotted only the night before. Somebody else claimed to have smelled a witches’ brew. No one went out to look for them. No one, even the family, cared. After week Marcelo discarded Juan’s  hammock and bought a three horses in LaPalma. The grandchildren, who had miraculously taken to working the farm, had accompanied him on the trek. His neighbors smiled as they approached. They were quite the sight to behold.

Espinozo, who openly claimed responsibility for the disappearance of Juan and Penelope, was soon after arrested for transporting a stolen vehicle across the Panamanian border at Rio Sereno. After countless escape attempts he remains incarcerated at a maximum security prison near David where he enjoys telling this story.

Meanwhile Marcelo’s farm has flourished. With the help of his two grandsons it now boasts dairy cattle, sugar cane, corn, beans, rice, abaca, hemp and tobacco. It was now a peaceful, thriving farm and Marcelo does little of the work. The neighbors say they have never seen him looking better and that he will be sure to reach 100. His grandsons and he named two of the horses after Juan and Penelope and they named the third one Bernardo.