All Entries Tagged With: "Rockies"

Personal Missiles Target Weapons Market

(Gunsight Pass, March 25, 2015) The American taxpayer has knowingly and unknowingly funded the development and production of highly sophisticated, yet often dysfunctional missiles and missile weapons systems. All the while, the people have clamored for personal missiles of their very own.
Now the fog has lifted on the landscape of personal (anti-personal) armed projectiles for the home and office. Although the Pentagon and other military powerhouses might prefer that the average American stick to handguns, assault rifles, hunting rifles, grenades, mortars, refurbished tanks, submachine guns, harpoons, machetes and those little Swiss Army knives, it appears that there is a crack in their armor.
Pro-weapons groups say the public has a right to launch missiles, keep them in their homes and carry missiles in their vehicles. Many add that since taxpayers foot the army’s tab on everything from paper clips to nuclear bombs and whatever else rolls off the military-industrial complex assembly line, they should have the final say on gun control.
“If I want to carry a missile when I venture out onto the interstate or to the grocery…that’s my business,” said a Denver collector who claims to own over 400 rifles and handguns. “If I want to keep a few missiles around the house for protection that should not involve gov’ment interference. The Constitution provides for my freedom.”
Recently lobbyists for the munitions industry have pushed to make personal missiles available, but only to those over 21. Inducement pirates like these did not specify if the number referred to age or IQ.
“All of these restrictions are communist,” continued the bulletproof collector who asked to remain analogous. “If one is old enough to drive a car, get a tattoo, vote or fight for their country he should be old enough to own a missile or two.”
The most popular consumer models are about the size of a small cucumber but contain the firepower of a 3-megaton rutabaga or a large attack watermelon intentionally dropped from 10 stories onto a strategic objective. Most are fired from a steel-plated toilet paper roll, a hollowed out softball bat or stripped down fountain pen. Earlier models were based on everyday heat-seeking technology that tends to backfire.
Problems mounted with these pioneer weapons when the projectiles veered off course from the intended target (neighbor, neighbor’s dog, someone who looked suspicious, a minority group member running) and detonated on contact with, say, the kitchen stove or the barbecue grill.
Armaments that have repeatedly misfired include Hades, Cobras, Brimstoned, Javelin, Python, Popeye, Stiletto, Thunderbird, Patriot, Apache, Hawk and Swingfire. Experts insist these are too much for most consumers to handle. They suggest that the novice starts with tactical ballistic miniatures or the acceptable “baby cruise missiles” for land attacks and the popular V-1 or the hand-held Yun Feng for nautical or solar battle.
“These newer babies offer improved adaptability resulting in a safer, more varied weapon. The new generation of hand rockets is noise seeking, determining concentric, selected aim by decibel levels rather than blood temperature. These are highly effective on city streets, where they are useful in eliminating offensive music from tedious ghetto blasters and loud rapping while not impacting the norm, you know like mindless metal, painful country or catchy elevator toe tappers.”
In rare cases it may be necessary to confront the offending musical party, thus inducing the target to turn up the volume so that when the launch finally transpires the missile can home in more accurately. The accepted method is to yell in the direction of the perpetrator: “Het dirt bag, do you think you could turn the bass up a bit? I haven’t lost all of my hearing yet. Yeah, that’s better. Thanks.”
Ready, aim, fire.
The soon-to-be-released personal missiles should be available at Radio Hack, Brawl-Mart, Taco Hell and of corpse at Target. Home bound and bed-ridden warriors can obtain the technology through any one of a dozen television offers. There are no background checks and the time of an average transaction is less than 15 minutes.
Meanwhile the clear-headed, closer to the action confirmed reports that the personal missiles would be issued to local police forces so as to insure they are used safely, responsibly and without prejudice.
– Tommy Middlefinger

“How the hell can a person go to work in the morning, come home in the evening and have nothin’ to say.” – John Prine

Weather Wong Again

(Silverton – March 25, 2014)
The Natural Whether Cervix has confessed en masse to the occasional sharing of false or distorted information but now it has become an annual affair. Today the NWC announced that it would simply recycle weather reports in that they are cyclical and often are the same anyway.
People who actually believe in atmospheric predictions have been duped for decades, say meteorologists. How could anyone be so gullible to think we could pull climatic prophesies right out of thin air? Will it snow? It could since it is winter and all. Where do the winds come from? We don’t have a clue. Hell, we can’t see the sun today with all the rain clouds. Even the narrowest plebe could follow the leads and suggestions here.
“Our dartboard weather alerts and zero-based, finite calculations have been dismally inaccurate and, due to budget constraints, we simply can’t afford this kind of luxury in the future,” said the late, legendary Manny Mawrin, former all-pro weatherman from Indiana. “Then it came to us: Why spend all that money monitoring the weather when we could just make it up for about half the cost?”
The forecasters expect to save a considerable chunk of change with this new approach. Recycling will afford the entire lot with more leisure time in which to eat doughnuts and read the sports page. – Susie Compost

The Journeys of Parson Hogg

SATAN TURNED BACK ON OPHIR PASS

“It would generally take about a panatela to get over Ophir Pass in the winter whereas in the summer I could make the trek on a cheroot.”
– Otto Mears
“Gimme two cards..” – Parson Hogg

This photo has little or nothing to do with the accompanying story but we thought a slinky red dress might get more attention.

People rarely ask me about my uncle, a circuit preacher who was well known in the gambling saloons of Telluride in the 1880s. Nonetheless he’s on tap for this month’s column.
Parson Hogg was a fearless traveler in these mountains, the San Juans, tracked by grizzly, confronted by warriors, almost freezing to death in a late spring snowstorm right out of the seminary, or so he said. His weekly trip over Ophir Pass from and on to the boom town of Telluride, was probably the most perilous according to his diaries. The solitude was paradise at times and eternal damnation in a moment, depending on who or what one encountered. In the 1880s the place was crawling with highwaymen, looking for gold and silver shipments to steal.
Relatives later said that it was the regular exposure to these dangers what made the man take to gambling.
Parson Hogg never took a drink of alcohol in all his adult years, having made himself deathly ill on snake oil bought from a migrant chemist in Delta as a boy. He was a man who not only learned hard lessons but made it look easy. He made it to Sunday services 47 out of 52 Sundays in 1885 and broke his own record in 1886, with one short of perfect.
Arriving in Telluride one morning at half passed seven he hurried to Jim Hurley’s corner saloon where his eager congregation would be waiting. Such as it was, the Saturday night smelling bar room was the site of the weekly Sunday service. The sermon today would focus on the attributes of prudence, considering the fact that it was already September and the winter was breathing its frigid breath down local necks.
“The man who plans ahead, stays ahead!” declaimed Hogg, working himself into a furry in just moments. “Ye shall flourish in the eyes of the Lord,” he wailed. “The Lord helps them what helps themselves!”
Hogg collected $14 which wasn’t too good for a stunning sermon delivered deep in the land bulging with precious ore. It was a puny stake but it would have to do.
When the Lord placed the opportunity of a gambling table in the lap of the faithful it would be sacrilegious to turn the other cheek.
The game had started across the alley in the parlor of the Woods Hotel.
“Hey, Reverend…you sitting in this morning? Collection basket pretty heavy, was it?” asked a lop-eared miner whose eye-balls needed a shine.
“Maybe for just a hand or two,” said Hogg
And that’s generally how it started, an innocent flirtation with the devil’s dictionary. Tonight Hogg was on too, drawing an inside straight right off and following it up two hands later with Queens and threes…a full house.
“Mighty fortunate card playing, Parson,” said one of the old timers that orbited the table.
“If we didn’t know you were a man of the cloth we’d think there was some monkey business going on,” said another.
“Ye shall flourish in the eyes of the Lord!” muttered Hogg to himself as he pulled in yet another cascade of chips.
“The Lord helps them what helps themselves,” he whispered, “and I damn well helped myself this morning!”
“Well, boys, it was a pleasure doing business with you this fine Sunday and I hope to see you all in church next week,” smiled Parson Hogg sincerely, careful not to tip his arrogance. “I’ve got to be cashing in my chips and going back to Silverton.”
My uncle’s winnings for that Sunday came to just over $200, a pretty good haul for a few hours work in 1887. The preacher shoved the money into his pocket, salvaged his mount from the local livery and headed toward Ophir, weighed down with the worries of a frontier cleric but secure in the fact that he traveled with the Lord and the $214. Although there was an eternity of daylight left and probably very few robbers operating this early in the morning, he took precautions, sticking the $14 collected at church in his pouch and his evil gains (in silver) under his flat-brimmed, black hat.
About two miles up Ophir Pass Hogg was confronted by a surly looking type who demanded his money.
“Why, I’m no more than a poor pastor,” said Hogg, “returning to my flock in Silverton. Surely…”
“Silence, preacher,” said the robber. “You’re carrying a tidy sum of money that you just won on a gambling table in Telluride.”
“How do you know about…I mean what are you talking about? I told you I…”
“Silence, preacher,” said the highwayman. “Now pass me that pouch before this pistol goes off in your general direction.”
Hogg slowly passed the pouch remembering that he had stashed the majority of his treasure under his hat.
“There’s only fourteen dollars here, preacher,” blasted he robber. “Where’s the other $200? Lets check them boots.”
Hogg thought quickly. How could this rabble know exactly how much money he was carrying? Unless…
“Do I know you sir,” offered Hogg.
“Many do,” answered the robber.
“Do you travel in darkness?”
“Many have seen me that-away.”
“Are you the fallen angel, Lucifer?
“At your service.”
Lucifer smiled and bowed condescendingly.
“Now hand over the cash, parson, before I blow your head off your shoulders and look for it within your remains.”
Once again, with his stake at ground zero Hogg had to rely on his wits. He was a tried and true gambler and he had heard the Devil was the wagering type.
“All right, you win,” said Hogg, his voice shaken. “If the $200 is in one of my boots, let’s make a wager. If you can pick the right boot, the money is yours. If you choose the wrong boot you let me go on my way in peace,” quipped Hogg.
Lucifer frowned, then smiled, then frowned again.
“Why should I agree to this wager when I could just take the money right now?” he asked.
“Because I’ve always heard that you’re the sporting type. Is that true or are you just the kind who relies only on his demonic might?” teased Hogg. “Your love of the game is legendary down in the gambling halls and I hate to see you lose such status over a measly $200.”
The Devil frowned again saying that he only wanted to keep the money from falling into the wrong hands anyway. He holstered his pistol and say down on a rock.
“You’re on, parson,” he spat. “Let me get a better look at those boots.”
The devil, now quite immersed in the game pondered the situation. He looked right and he looked left. He looked Hogg smack in the eyes. He looked again.
“It’s the right one,” said Lucifer. “The right boot. Take it off, preacher.
Feigning disappointment Hogg removed the boot exposing only one poorly sewn sock.
“What?” screamed the devil. “Where is the money? Let’s see that other boot!”
No such luck, Mr. highwayman,” chirped Hogg. “You didn’t pay to see that hand.”
And just as quickly as he had appeared, the defeated devil vanished leaving Hogg holding his boot, alone on Ophir Pass. And that’s how the story goes.
If there are those of you out there who are expecting Hogg to see the light and change his card playing ways, forget it. He continued to make his treks throughout the San Juan and was always a fixture at the green, felt table no matter if it was green, felt or otherwise.
– Kevin Haley

Restaurants like this one have disappeared from the landscape replaced by chains offering nothing but the same bad food and genetically modified poison.

Doggie Doins

by Spot
(Hinsdale Hooplah, March 25, 2015)
(Editor’s note: This is the first in a series of canine confidentials with our best friend Spot at the helm. He has promised bone-crushing adventures and snarling scandals while keeping on top of who is doing what to whom. Get the first word direct and uncensored from the doghouse. Excuse the typos please. It’s difficult to type without thumbs).
You may wonder why I was chosen to write this piece since there are packs of dogs that have a much more developed literary flare than I. Well, it’s all timing. The idiot editor of this website stopped by the shack the other day looking for my pork chop owner. He was desperate for animal stories and since I was just hanging out in the back of the International I decide to give it a shot. The dog may yet have his day.
Most of my dog friends are quite familiar with the print version of this newspaper through human interaction in paper training, threats, fetching but few have read the website.
Last weekend in Lake City a cute little Fu Fu got hitched to Scratch who claims German lineage but looks mutt to me. Fu Fu wore a lace-trimmed, finely tailored collar while Scratch showed up in a hounds tooth jacket and hush puppies. Fu Fu’s family from Dallas expressed dismay at their pet’s choice but since she will be giving birth in about three weeks, the family did not interfere with the proceedings.
After the wedding we all went to Restless Sprits for a drink only to be thrown out….Something to do with health codes. Fascists! We could have all been incarcerated due to that stupid leash law.
The garbage levels have tapered off after the summer tourists and hunters left. But there are still some treasures to be had. Yesterday a few of my buds and I found a couple of deer carcasses up by Windy Point and dragged them all back to town. Sometimes I think I just like to make a mess more than I like to munch on landfill treats. These wasteful humans are too much. They all throw unsorted garbage and then cry Wolf at the slightest provocation—only to sit limply by as a bruin overturns a monster dumpster with the minimal effort.
I hope all of you dog-loving flatlanders can make it up for our Annual Alpo Packer Celebration next week. We will honor an aging mongrel, named Rex, who claims to be a direct descendent of Alfred Packer’s dog named “Anthropophagus”. That mutt had more sense than some and stayed in Ouray during Packer’s dark journey in 1873. The festivities include the roasting of a leg of Spam. No cats.
Anthropophagus passed on minutes after Packer was indicted for murder. Most of us around here feel the entire trial was invalid and should have been declared void due to the absence of rabbius corpus.
Soon car-chasing season will be over and snow season will be upon us. Have you ever slept in the snow then jumped into a pickup for a ride downtown? It’s not so bad if the driver doesn’t stop at the bar and leave you in the back. And what if the water in your dish freezes? Give a fellow a leg up and thaw it out.
That’s enough for now. Just remember to look me up when you are in Lake City. If you can’t find me, just leave a scent and I’ll get back to you.

LIFT OP RETIREMENT HOME OPENS DOORS

(Almont, March 25, 2015) Pomolift Acres opened today as hundreds of former lift operators struggled to secure accommodations. The fifty-room chalet can handle about 100 retired lift ops at full capacity. Although principals here are certain that vacancies will not regularly crop up they encourage anyone who qualifies for residency to drop by and fill out the necessary paperwork.
Potential Pomolift patrons must be 55 years of age, a resident of Colorado, and must have labored as a lift operator for at least one full season at any recognized Colorado ski resort. Veterans of other states will be considered based on availability. The facility accepts all kinds of insurance and will even help liquidate assets associated with possible customers. For more information on Pomolift Acres call the Almont Chamber of Comments. -Rocky Flats