All Entries Tagged With: "miners"
INSIDE YOUR ISSUE
VATICAN EXILES SEEK SAY
IN NEW GOVERNMENT
Nuclear Testing, Cardinal Sins
Subject of Grave Concern
In World Beet
HOOTERS PLEADS CASE FOR
PART OF IRAQI PIE
Buxom Approach to Eating Out
May Offend Conservative Shiite Faction
In Culinary Distractions
HUMMUS COOK-OFF HIGHLIGHTS
GUANTANAMO DAYS
American Gulag relaxes security
in post-Iraq humanitarian gesture
In Latin American Watch
DEATH ROW INMATES QUALIFY
FOR GROUP LIFE INSURANCE
Low Premiums, No Medical Check
Net Optimum Participation
in Don’t Call Us – We’ll Call You
VOTE FOR YOUR FAVORITE
BUSH BROTHER ON LINE AND WIN $$$
Don’t forget Neil
in Blind Leading Comics
Plus a grand array of items to eat,
drink, roll in and fall from.
Pick up your copy where you buy fresh bait!
Fun Menu Ideas for the Welfare State
by Evelyn P. Throcmorton
If things are getting tight around your abode why not look around the room and discover potential culinary treasures that will bring back the joy to your dinner table. Get the whole family into the act. Mon, dad, junior, sis and even grandma can use their very own common sense to help develop a gracious dining pattern even when the wheels are falling off. Here is a sample menu made exclusively of household items that is sure to get you started on the road to good eating!
First, let’s try a sample question: What’s noisy and expensive and gets people in to trouble more than not? Right…the instrument of chaotic intrusion…the cell phone. Why not “snip the wires” on yours today and eat it for lunch. Good idea, you say…why didn’t I think of that.
However, it’s not very easy. How does one prepare a cell phone for consumption? All you need is a little old-fashioned confidence and a can of lard. (Refer to The Five Chinese Plastic Food Groups for more). Cooking techniques vary with the individual whether in a five star kitchen or crouched in the hallway, knee deep in fortune cookies.
You can bake a cell phone or roast one. Frying it doesn’t work since the phone absorbs grease much like rumors and gossip. While steaming takes the wild taste out of the thing. it often leaves the meat rather tough and stringy. The best way to serve cell phone is boiled. I know it sounds boring but trust me it works out best in the end. Just put it in a saucepan with some sautéed teddy bears and an alarm clock or two (salt to taste). Kitchen match fondue recipe fits like a glove when we’re talking mind-altering tapas or simple criss-cut toilet paper sandwiches.
Some of these dust collector stews are featured in my first book The Pickled Welfare Worker. But now it’s time for our weekly card…our daily soft shoe.
MONDAY: Since Mondays are always a pain in the ass and all the family are going in wild tangents why not bench your culinary talents and serve something light but nutritious. My family jumps for joy when they smell bowling bag au Gratin in the oven. Serve with heaping bowls of mother-in-law soup, goose down dinner rolls and then surprise ‘em with Atari jello for dessert.
TUESDAY: For lunch while dad’s at the office spoil the kids and grandma with telephone books in a blanket, tuna cans on a stick and shoe polish sundaes. They’ll love you for it. If it’s a school day be sure to prepare extra portions since the kids will undoubtedly want to bring their friends home to sample this treat!
WEDNESDAY: Dad’s come home drunk again and probably won’t be hungry until 2 am but the rest of the crew will drool in apprehension when you mention stick deodorant on a bed of wild, spliced shower curtain. For diversity pour over junk mail broth and garnish with blackened trash bag filets with a pinch/splash of worn out underwear syrup. Too bad, dad.
THURSDAY: Everyone needs high fiber foods in their diet. Start with slightly shredded coat hangers on wheat toast (hot wire on a shingle for you diner sloths) with seaweed livers and ostrich lampshade sparkles and discarded lobbyist heart. Follow it up with flaming garage door openers and candied ant traps. Serve only with pictures of exotic desserts cut out of survival manuals.
FRIDAY: Toothpaste burritos and crème-de-la-cara make Mexican night fun for everyone. Even people who don’t like Mexicans have a good time. It’s south of the border night in Winnipeg! For a snappy go-along try rolling up the carpet and dipping in sweet and sour unpaid bills.
SATURDAY: THE ENTIRE FAMILY will flip over our Saturday Night Special of the late Chef Musick’s chicken lips in vacuum bags smothered in foot powder and linoleum crisps. For dessert, you’ll be having razor blade pie with all the trimmings!
SUNDAY: It’s high time to relax after church with dog hair sandwiches and barbecued garden tools (and don’t forget the kitty litter grits!). It’s easier than eating out!
For a multitude of culinary diversion, see us on the web at www.eatyourbelongings.com
Breathing Computer Sends Office Workers Scurrying
(Montrose) A thought-to-be peaceful desktop computer chased office workers from their desks Monday when it began breathing loudly. The abrasive inhales and exhales were noticed almost immediately by persons accustomed to a cooperative, supportive Power Macintosh at the central office of Catastrophe Realty on South Townsend Avenue.
According to a police report, corroborated by eye-witnesses prior to their retreat the monitor began its respiratory intrusions at about 10 am following a staff meeting regarding equipment updates and new technology. Within moments the zip drive, scanner and laser printer had closed ranks and joined in the melee driving frightened workers into the street.
“It was not normal breathing either,” said one broker at Catastrophe. “It was a diabolical, loathsome sound that most of us associate with hungover cooks at Denny’s. I’m a little hesitant to say this, but…I could swear I heard the thing say, Get out in between rancid breaths. We did.”
When police arrived they found desks turned over and pictures pulled from walls. The temperature in the office had dropped to 12 degrees F. despite Ninety degree readings outside. No computers appeared to be breathing but one allegedly threatened officers and was subsequently shot seventy-three times before crashing.
“We don’t know what put such a scare in these people,” said one officer. It’s not like a little computer is gonna megabyte you or something…”
Principles at Catastrophe would not discuss the matter. Concerns about negative publicity at the beginning of the busy summer season were expressed and support personnel have been summoned. Rumors that Catastrophe had solicited the expertise of weekend exorcist, Philip Pharisee were still being denied at press time.
When contacted at his Temple For Me on Spring Creek Mesa, Pharisee, a failed sugar beet farmer, would not comment on any whispered exchange, however he did say the incident bore the signature of the Beast or possibly socialist hackers set on undermining the laws of private property and the eternal flow of meaningless paperwork that keeps our system in place.
– Small Mouth Bess
“Every time I go through customs and security at the airport I feel just a little safer.”
– Melvin O’Toole, May 31, 2018
The Beer Pilcher of Granada
The Hotel Alhambra occupies almost a block right in the middle of the Granada, across from Parque Central. The terrace potential here is high even if the service is the slowest in all of Nicaragua. After a day roaming dusty streets, followed by a swim with the sharks along the Las Isletas del Mar Dulce (Lake Nicaragua), a cold Victoria beer sounds like heaven.
The hotel terrace offers shade, well-worn comfort, cheap drinks, great local cuisine and an engaging (May I practice my bad English on you?) staff. It is the ultimate perch from which to observe the nightly neotropical parade in a fascinating city bent on forgetting decades of economic and civil strife, compounded the policies of my country.
The brightly painted walls of yellow and blue are accentuated by hordes of ancient vines, orchids, and vivid hanging flower baskets. The high ceilings, abstract art in chipped paint, create a subtle vertigo while the ceramic acoustics of the tiled palace chime the melodious Guardabarranco and Carlos Mejia Godoy.
The entire patio is one step up from the street and is encompassed by an imposing rail to keep the great unwashed from bothering the paying customers. Expanding the radius are struggling palm trees, the nearby lake, horse and carriage operatives, the aroma of frying fish, loud music, walled stucco houses, skinny dogs, pleasant people and crowded passageways wrapped around 16th Century cathedrals.
Delirious traffic in dilapidated chariots circles around and around the park acting out some mad petroleum mating ritual, horns keeping time with an torrid, indistinguishable beat. Across the avenue enterprising venders sell anything from hash pipes to baby alligators. They have long ceased daily commerce and have headed home for the night. I have been warned to avoid the park after these hawkers have gone. Already a seedy element has emerged, preparing to propagate business after dark, intent on another crap shoot of drug sales, petty theft, outright robbery, muggings and drunkenness.
Poverty and tourism have never melded to anyone’s satisfaction.
But I’m on the proverbial sunny side of the street or so it seems with the combo-neon and florescent patio lights turned up to fine print levels. A world away from the park, I enjoy another Victoria with a snifter of 12-year-old Flor de Cana rum, arguably the best rum in the Free World (which of course does not include bad ol’ Cuba). The British couple sitting to my left is much impressed with the pungent black bean and garlic soup (another treat from Cuba) while three local merchants smoke trophy puros (cigars), offering me one which I accept with a short referendum on my provenance. At the far end of the terrace banister are thee laughing tourists from Managua, who have accumulated at least 15 bottles under their table, an effective method for calculating beer purchases here.
That’s when I spot him. He stands out from the others. This guy looks the rough, crude menace but somehow less threatening from afar. He’s big for a Niacaraguan. He meticulously picks through the treasures in the park’s austere trash bins, discarding pieces then angrily kicking over the can. Underprivileged garbage, dissipated fruits of the poor displayed in skeletal wire and grungy bins. I saw him sitting on a bench at the plaza talking to himself earlier. On second examination he appears almost harmless compared to some of the other toughs that circulated here. Just another shabby street man eyeballing the hotel porch. I look away yawning, stretching, looking for another beer.
He crosses the street but fades into the shadows only to surface at the far end of the block. Passing slowly by the terrace after several reconnaissance missions he suddenly swoops down like a parched falcon grabbing a glass of beer off the British table and drinking it in a gulp, setting the glass carefully down afterwards. He sets his sights on another beer, from the merchants table this time, and slams it down as well, gently replacing the bottle on their table. He then runs off happily between the alley notels, the abandoned language institute and the designated pickpocket staging zone.
I laugh to myself not wanting to appear entertained by the intrusions. The merchants do not appear particularly perplexed peering over at me with that only in Granada look, sans surprise. They shake their heads. The Brits are at first amused, then irritated, then amused again. Their eyes wander the terrace searching for some logical explanation, finding none. Is he part of the all-inclusive experience?
Moments later I catch his movements back along the rail. This time he grabs a bottle of Victoria off the Managua tourists’ table and drains it. The tipsy table is not quite sure who drank what. They call the waiter who comes running with one of his fellows and they throw the beer thief to the ground with the fury of Volcan Mombacho. Nothing personal…but he is fouling up the sacred serve and volley of gratuity. He escapes and returns to the badlands of the park and looks at us yelling, “Beer belongs to the people!”
I have to admit I am enjoying his antics with every cold Victorian that goes down. The waiters apologize to the victims and replace their beers. They even brought me a free beer after I expressed outrage and threatened to write a bad review on the place in The San Juan Horseshoe en los Estados Unidos. No one seems all that ruffled.
But this beer guerrilla is the real deal. This stalwart boozehound, this dry debunker, this macquerau guzleir may be more than what meets the eye. He’s a force. His clownish persistence cries out to be recognized. The man is a talent. The cat burglar of cold beer. He will not be denied!
He doesn’t try to steal beer from me. Perhaps I could be trouble. Perhaps there are easier marks. Considering my sense of fashion and attention to hygiene that particular evening the man probably figured I stole what I have and was intent on drinking it. I have actually had street people come up to me in South America and offer me their coats on a cold night. Maybe we are kin or at least kindred…
I finish another beer and move to the relative safety of a table next to the kitchen door where I can chronicle the action while avoiding future larceny. The bullish boob won’t get my beer.
“He won’t be back,” a waiter announces brushing his hands of the incident. “He won’t dare pull that stunt again.”
Yes he will.
I watch as the conversation returns and beer disappear down appropriate throats. The table I vacated is now occupied by three Nortes with backpacks. They order Victorias and quesillos (braided Mozzarella cheese served in a warm tortillas swimming in onions and cream) and sit back innocently while noisy hookers come out for a stroll. Hunched behind them is our beer thief himself, who is now spouting on about the glories of Sandino right there in ultra-conservative downtown Granada, trampling on nostalgia, and interrupting the colonial ambience of it all. I order another beer, ignoring his gaze but watchful, digging in for the rest of the performance.
The curtain reopens with the same sly grin, the slithered walk, the thirsty demeanor. He promenades by the terrace once more, the dirty and demented hops high jacker. He grabs a beer off the Norte table and drains it with the refined movements of a jaguar. The backpackers are stunned and in the momentary chaos he takes anarchistic license to drink another, without spilling so much as a drop. Then its the same delicate trademark return of the bottles to the table where they had been.
“Down with capitalism!” he cries as the cook and several bouncers grab him and roughly toss him into the street oblivious to freebooter traffic, jagged cobblestones and road apples. One of the burly men then punches him lightly, exhorting a muffled threat. He is gone.
Stunned, the Brits and one of the local businessmen join me at my redoubt by the kitchen. We are all now completely regaled by the heists. The tourists from Managua call it a night and the backpackers sit clutching their beers. I quietly indulge in my good fortune. I have yet to fall to these pranks. I feel cocky and worldly, bullet-proof and quite sophisticated. We order food, paella, avocado salad and fried plantains. The talk turns to the country’s turbulent past and hopeful future.
The British couple applaud me for my attentive vigil in the face of dangerous beer snatchers. The merchant does too inviting me to her shop the next day.
A traveler such as you who pays attention has nothing to worry about when visiting Nicaragua,” she smiled.
“When I am in unfamiliar terrain I try to remain alert,” I smiled back, showcasing my lunchroom Spanish and my alleged survival instincts.
“You have to appreciate the man’s persistence. There is a man who knows what he wants and how to get it,” I jive.
The conversation stopped upon further commotion in the kitchen. Moments later our beer man was hurled through the swinging doors to the floor chased by the owner and the bouncers. They were sweating and did not appear amused. He had apparently been hiding in the freezer knawing on a side of beef and breaking eggs against the side of the cooler. Despite his near strangling and his bouncing off the concrete floor he was still moving.
He looked up at me pathetically. I didn’t know what to do or think. Here’s this poor thirsty creature about to get his ass kicked who couldn’t give a damn eitherway. Sad. A tragic world…Just another day in the life…
Then with one desperate grasp he laughs and grabs my beer from the table and, despite his unfortunate horizontal posture sucked it dry.
“My beer!” I cried, as our ardent guest of dishonor was then most indignantly escorted out the front to destinations unknown. Smiles emerged as our dinner arrived.
– Kevin Haley
Everything “Hunky Dory”
LOOKING BACK TO PRE-TRUMP AMERICA
(Capital Hill Express — Warshington DC – September 25, 2015)
The state of the country is on the upswing if you listen to a recent White House appraisal. In a speech before the Unwed Mothers of the American Revolution President Barack Obama stressed that there is no need for worry and that the nation will claim its own at the end of the world.
“It’s kind of like mixing Judgment Day and Election Day,” said Obama. “Even though the majority of people prepare for the events in a similar fashion the end results are still a bit murky.”
Most Americans have no clue either in the voting booth or with regards to the hereafter. Most have no positive relationship with death, substituting the death industry chants for an embrace of the soul at the time of departure from this place. Most think the elections are valid.
Despite its serious dysfunction, our leaders have lauded the democratic process since 1789. Common philosophies that might lubricate our mystical hopes and desires are no further along than in the days when we chased the herds.
Detractors call these intrinsic practices “tragic charades” since they only scratch the surface as to politics and metaphysics, expending valuable energy in what may well be a spurious arena.
Concentrating on domestic issues, Obama promised that the quality of education would improve by next week. He offered no further details. His plan to offer free community college classes has come under severe criticism by those who are insisting he address the sad state of affairs at the high school level first.
In continuum, the President heaped praise on policies aimed at controlling illegal Irish and Israel immigrants. This one brought down the house. After the applause, Obama did not elaborate. He concluded this segment pointing to the economy and low unemployment figures. Again the audience went wild as a band, hired by surviving remnants of Chicago’s Daley Regime, played “That Old Gang of Mine”.
Turning to the international theater, the President said relations with other potential super powers were better than ever.
“The Russians are at it again in Ukraine while the Chinese are busy building artificial islands in the South China Sea,” he chipped. “We are right on that one ignoring negative behavior all the way. “The people who hated us in the fifties and sixties are our buddies now and the people that liked us hate us.”
Obama did not tread into dangerous waters here exposing reasons why these groups might feel such anger.
The President then went on to vehemently warn Maoists, militants, drug lords, Wall Street, corporate polluters and Cubs fans that frivolous/violent actions would not be tolerated. Then came the release of an estimated 15 tons of confetti and helium balloons blown up by the Clintons over the weekend. As projected, the place went nuts!
The speech finished with a plea from the President to email him soon.
Rumors as to an immanent crash of all propped up methods and paltry social systems were brushed under the podium rug with the news that one of the White House dogs was pregnant and would be having puppies in time for Christmas. – Neville Hoser
“We were all having fun singing Prussian marching songs and you had to come along and lip synch the “International” – Estelle Marmotbreath, surveying the damage to three walkway birdbaths following the 45th Antioquia Rumba Brunch May 1, 2018.
Pharisee to speak
(Montrose) Right-wing spiritual war monger, the Rev. Phil Pharisee of the Temple of Self-Absorption and Tantric Plumbing, will address the piercing question: Does God Have a Cell Phone? on Friday night at the Armageddon Bingo Hall on East Main. Parking is free for the first 300 through the door. Hard facts and cold cuts will be served. Bring a covered fish.
