All Entries Tagged With: "Ridgway"

Moooooooooooo…

Feeding time in Hooterville

Out for a drive on the Western Slope this weekend? Did you ever wonder why all those hicks keep so many cows around their houses? There’s a method to the madness as our diagrams and data will show.

1. Mr Rancher gets up before the sun every morning to fed his dairy cows. He feeds them pails of water and hay. They don’t drink coffee and eat doughnuts like you. The cows enjoy their breakfast inside the barn in stalls about the size of your condo’s bedroom. Cows like picnics, NASCAR and just about any outdoor event that breaks up the monotony.

Ain’t this a blast!

2. Later that morning the cows return the favor. Fueled by the crunchy sustenance the cows give back an assortment of products like milk, cream, eggs, lettuce and onions. That is why Mr. Rancher lets them loiter around on his land near his house all day.

3. Then Mr Rancher loads his homegrown hay for tomorrow or he goes to the feed store for vaccine and dehorner and the entire procedure begins again.

November 29, 2015

Dinner at Joe’s in DC

Happy Holidays. My family at dinner at Joe’s in Washington DC. Great food and company.

Onion Shortage Could be Region’s Panacea

(Olathe, CO  —  Particularly Pungent Press  —  November 26, 2015)

The autumn onion crop shortages have created misery for some and obscene wealth for others according to Ag sources at Region Zen. In
addition to the scarcity of the edible bulb the spherical heads of greenish white flowers common to the mature plant are curiously absent as is the wafting aroma of onions ready to be picked.

Some people are trading exclusively in onions while others bemoan their lack of foresight and frugality when times were tough and onions commanded little.

The price of a pound of Brown Beauties is roughly twice that of gold on this morning’s commodities market. The strain, actual yellow or amber in the sunlight, have been a part of the Uncompahgre farmer’s landscape since the days of Fathers Escalante and Dominguez. * The same measure of onions is worth more than 20 times the tariff demanded for a pound of Russian caviar or a comparable weight of petrified marmot marrow, valued as an aphrodisiac in China.

“People around these parts are throwing away their worthless currency and trading exclusively in onions,” explained on extension service source.

“Dollars are backed with nothing but promises while these beauties are backed by the Precious Pungent Standard. The deficiencies started the ball rolling before the crop was even disbursed. The impact was immediate.”
Profits, for a chosen few, have become exorbitant, dictating life styles and creating an entire generation of onion gentry while others go without.

Attempts to reign in illegal trafficking and wildcat commerce have fallen on deaf ears as the lure of wealth drifts across barren fields and dried up arroyos.

“I remember when the little bastards would fall off the trucks and nobody even stopped to pick them up,” said Lorenzo Halfwitte, who moved to Olathe from Pea Green back in 1906. Kids used the vegetables to throw at other kids. Goats ate them for breakfast. Today one never sees an onion lying around unattended. It’s paper money that blows around all over the place.”

As of October over 200 new millionaires have joined the ranks of the newly anointed. A throng of new eateries have emerged cater to the whims of these wealthy pockets of unbridled affluence. Restaurants named The Pungent Victual, the Stark Scallion and the Gilded Lily Lounge poke their heads above the old main street luring diners to lush garden settings and sidewalk social scenes. Onion gourmets fill the lavish high-rise apartment edifices that have sprung up overnight to accommodate the hoards of chefs who have come to Olathe to study under the masters.

On the flip side people all over the world suffer from bland diets and cooking itself is stashed on the back burner likely void of imagination and certainly as an art form. Garlic and cayenne cannot carry the weight by themselves.

“These people didn’t pay attention when the bottom fell out nor did they act when the top blew off,” says Halfwitte, whose personal income is estimated in the millions.

And now related products such as burlap and mesh (akin to onion packaging) have hit an all-time high especially on the Corning and Visalia commodities exchange. These once-discarded bags are now considered rare.

In trendy California homeowners use them to replace wallpaper and substitute for lawns in the time of drought. The word is out that the Brown Beauty is the only onion to serve at parties. Sales have skyrocketed in disproportion to the dearth. It is common knowledge that Californians spend over $200 annually on onion dips alone.

Closer to home culinary caravans descend on farmer’s markets before the vegetables can be sorted. Upscale clothing and perfume firms have flooded the place with expensive merchandise while gobbling up retail space on the main avenue as neighboring communities ride the coat tails of this bonanza. Office space at the prestigious Manufacturers’ Hangover Building has ascended $4000 a square foot and there are few vacancies.

Shallot Nights, a perfume fermented and bottled here, has created quite a stir in the marketplace as well as 300 high-paying jobs that further feed the enlightenment.

“It all comes down to patience,” quipped Halfwitte from his amber Rolls Royce pickup. “If you wait long enough somebody’s going to run short of something. All you gotta do is hold on to those trump cards until the right time.” – H.L. Menocken

* Our passing reference to Escalante and Dominguez solidifies a strong dependence on the crop from the beginnings of New World agriculture. Onions were an important staple in the diet of early explorers in Colorado and thought to prevent scurvy and halitosis in livestock by ancient civilizations like the Inca and Mayan groups.

No Accident Roto-Rooter Ad Seen on Obituary Page

(Montrose, CO — Our Frightening Universe — November 25, 2015)

A seemingly innocuous ad that appeared in today’s Montrose Daily Press could be a coded message to outer space aliens operating in the Uncompahgre Valley.
The advertisement in question for Roto Rooter services which appeared at the bottom of the regular Obituary Page may have far reaching significance for the future of human life on the planet.

Although concern remains at the preliminary stages some analysts insist the message is quite clear: An invasion is slated for the serious shopping days of December!

Aliens like these may be placing plumbing ads in local papers prior to an all-out invasion of earth.

While most cool heads prefer to ignore the development as accidental or simply a coincidence a growing number of citizens has come forward complaining of alien intrusions in their daily lives.

“I couldn’t find my car after a shopping trip downtown and I’m almost sure that those creatures (extraterrestrials) moved it,” said Enya Tiremount. “Who else could it have been? I had the keys right here in my purse!”

“There have been marks on my lawn since October,” echoed Marchal Cherubinoff, of Pea Green. “At first I thought the cows had done it but now I’m not so sure. There was somebody sneaking around in my front yard late last night but the dogs didn’t make a peep. When I got up to see about the commotion, I thought I saw a spaceship lift off but it could have been the neighbor’s Christmas lights.”

According to Dr. Efram Pennywhistle, chairman of the Zodiac-Celestial School of Dance at Cal Polygamy Institute in Paonia, the specifically placed Roto Rooter ad was no chance incident.

“These extraterrestrials are quite sophisticated a hiding their memorandums from the public eye,” he stressed. “They sneak around placing thinly veiled, coded instructions in the most unlikely places throughout our infrastructures and disrupt our trusted cultural sources. They even relay their plans in our native language so as not to be discovered. Some appear disguised as actual Roto Rooter technicians. The make a mockery of our traditions. And they are too cheap to buy an proper ad.”

“I figure if I look at the obituary page and I’m not on it, it’s gonna be a good day all things considered,” laughed the trite Pennywhistle, “but this is an entirely different relationship to appraise. What could they be talking about? Have we finally pissed off the rest of the cosmos? What is he connection between Roto-Rooter and mortality?”

More on this as it unfolds. – Fred Zeppelin

Concussion-Proof Helmet Testing

Testing the new concussion-proof football helmet in Canton, Ohio. Over 3500 people lined up to crash their respective noggins into a barn wall in hopes of being chosen for a spot in Dancing With Cigars, an embarrassingly popular television program. Lots of headaches were reported, but hey…What a great Christmas present for the mindless football addict.    (November 24, 2015)

The Ant, the Grasshopper, and the Bar Fly

(Wimpton Finger Wagger and Advertiser  —  November 23, 2015)

So this guy comes into a bar…actually the two of them had been lounging for most of the afternoon flexing what was left of their pale muscles, pumping wisdom like a tired old well about to call it a lifetime. Both were heavy into self-absorbed. But swashbuckling tomcats like Don Juan were light on scrutiny preferring the other side of the looking glass to the mirror.

These were very important men. Don Juan had an opinion on everything which he shared with the less fortunate like Candy, his shell-shocked drinking buddy who had eager ears but little as backup.

“Yeah, I’ve damn well got her made,” started Don Juan. “Got my bank roll, my trailer house is paid for, and my pickup is runnin’ great.”

He turned his neck ever so slightly and caught a glimpse of Candy who looked like he was trying to crawl into his cloudy pilsner glass.

“For crying out loud, man, sit up straight,” he cuffed. “Look at your body language. It says everything about you. It tips your hand.”

Candy looked at his body. He didn’t see or hear anything but he came to attention anyway following a pattern that had begun early on. Candy was there as a human reaction, to do as he was told. He was all but transparent because it had become easier that way.

“Look at this,” said Don Juan, scanning the local gazette as he reached for his beer. “They sent a probe to Mars but it blew up when it got close. Idiots! I wonder how much that cost. I pay taxes and I’m damn sick and tired of the government shooting off space ships like they were butterflies.”

Don Juan thought about what he had just said and smiled at his linguistic flair.
“I don’t like bugs,” said Candy, “especially flying ones.”

Don Juan continued to read the paper, his glasses fallen down around his cantaloupe nose. To him the expression on his face while reading was far more important than any information extracted from the experience. He wore a somber frown accentuated by hush puppies and a cap that read Cheyenne Frontier Days.

“Winter’s comin’,” he soapboxed. “Look here. It snowed three feet in Duluth just yesterday. I’m glad I’m ready…got my wood all in and new mud and snows on the Power Wagon. How ’bout you?”

Candy looked into the bar mirror. He had a propane heater in his small apartment that was paid for by the Veteran’s Administration because of the war. He didn’t drive and the last time he tried to can a batch of tomatoes, given to him by his sister over in Delta, he’d almost blown up the place. How could Candy prepare for winter? One season just plowed into another.

“Oh, I’m fine,” he choked with a uncertain voice, all but drowned out by the television.

“Fine, huh?” barked Don Juan. “Just like last year when you never got around to taping your windows and your pipes froze. Then you had to sleep on my couch for the whole month of January. Your like the man who had a forest of firewood at his fingertips but forgot to discover fire.”

Don Juan was now on a roll.

“Security doesn’t just wander up into your yard,” he preached. “You gotta go get it. Whether it’s financial, social or romantic there’s a brawl going on and you just as well join in right away. Lead with your left, boy!”

He slapped Candy hard on the back. The tiny toothless aperture just under his road map nose was not to be stopped now.

“Take money, for instance,” he continued. “I worked for thirty-five years to get me a nest egg and now I’m gonna enjoy it. I got stocks and bonds, 40 acres up on the Plateau, a great retirement, CDs, credit cards, a fat bank account and even some of them annuities. Everything I got is paid for and I don’t have any kids to leave nothin’ to.”

Candy stared into his empty glass. Don Juan ordered two more beers and companion shots. He had a captive audience and the four dollars was a well spent investment to keep it that way.

“You might as well spend it all,” quipped Candy breaking into a smile.
“Hell, we might just do that this afternoon,” smiled Don Juan who continued to peruse the paper. He was a man smart enough to perform two tasks at once.

“Yeah, you got to be ready for winter around these parts,” he said glancing in the direction of his doleful disciple who smelled like the wet cardboard on a case of Pabst. “You still got time and maybe I’ll even lend a hand but first let me tell you a story. I know you don’t like bugs but it’s called The Ants and the Grasshopper. It’s by some fella named Aesop. He was a Greek a long time ago.”
Candy perked up. “That’s a funny sounding name,” he mumbled.

Maybe you’ll get the connection here. You’ve got to have your affairs in order. You never know when your card will come up. What would you do in an emergency? What do you have to fall back on?”

Don Juan went on to tell Candy the story of the industrious ants and the lazy grasshopper. Despite the fact that Candy did not like bugs he listened intently. Don Juan told him about the ants drying grain on a fine winter’s day. The grain had been collected over long, hard days throughout the summer months.

“Then along comes this grasshopper, half starved, begging for a handout,” he explained. “One of the ants asked him why he had not stored up any food during the summer. He says he had not leisure time enough and that he had passed the days singing. The ants scorned him saying that if he had been foolish enough to sing away the summer then he must dance supperless to bed in the winter.”

Don Juan waited for a response.

“Mean little bastards,” said Candy.

“You miss the point,” said Don Juan. “The ants worked at getting their ducks in a row while the grasshopper wasted his time. It’s just like you and me,” he added. “I’m the ant and you’re the grasshopper. My house in order while your roof is caving in.”

Then suddenly Don Juan clutched his chest, executing a poignant plunge from his prosaic perch at the bar. A swan dive in a dive. He hit the floor hard, his satellite brew crashing beside him. He was a goner.

At the funeral a lot of people that Candy had never seen talked about what a great man Don Juan had been. They said he had grit. They said he had enjoyed a full life. They said he’d be missed. What they were really doing was a little preheat jockeying for position with regards to his assets, which ended up going to an uncle and aunt Don Juan could not stomach.

Meanwhile Candy wandered home and spent the rest of the day putting up visquine over the peewee windows of his ratty chamber. Were there no end to the chores? Don Juan’s old pickup sat propped in the driveway, a gift from the counterfeit relatives who didn’t want to haul the thing back to Salida. Now he would have to put gas in it. How would he ever get around to that.
– Kashmir Horseshoe