All Entries Tagged With: "Western satire"

Trout in the Stocking Could Mean Big Changes on the Way

Unspoken Slam Inherent to Holiday Breakups

with Dr. Carl (Pinky) Salmon-Floyd MSW, RTD, YAP, LSMFT

A freshly caught or fish market trout in one’s Christmas stocking could be cause for alarm, especially in strained romantic relationships, syndicate misunderstandings and contested arm wrestling tournaments.

We certainly don’t want to read too much into this. It could be a matter of last minute shopping confusion or a mix-up over in gift-wrapping. More likely the gesture should be seen as nothing less than the direct approach to ending a frivolous or imprudent relationship or a fire-crack love affair close to fizzling out.

The squirmy texture of the lifeless gift, coupled with the unmistakable odor, never bodes well, especially compared with more traditional, fluffy presents such as comfy pajamas, exotic perfumes and cashmere sweaters.

While this kind of cold-blooded, yet eccentric offering is often catalogued under fishing, other gear, tackling box accessories, even booby-trapped hooks would be more appropriate than a whole fish. That is unless the giver is trying to send a passive aggressive message for the whole family to enjoy or the vague threat of a repeat performance for Valentine’s Day if anyone, no matter how dense, misses the point.

The action may lack subtlety but it does get the attention of everyone within six feet of the loaded stocking. Many cling to the absurd notion that a trout is still better than receiving coal, sand or Chinese anklets. This is only true if you are feline. When was the last time you tried start a fire with a dead trout?

Fruitcake Again Unjustly Demonized

(Claxton, GA) That jellied fruit and nut concoction that elbows its way into grocery store aisles and onto holiday tables each year has experienced an upsurge in violent displays of late. The innocent enough cake has been targeted an astonishing 388 times in Dixie alone so far in the month of December.

Police are attempting to determine if the more radical attacks should be classified as hate crimes, as compared to just plain old crimes.

Father Fruitcake, an avowed, itinerant golf cart technician from nearby Statesboro, warned that there would be repercussions in light of the sensitivities of the season. Much of this year’s cherished Mormon Fruitcake, considered the crème de la crème in some circles, was lost during a snowstorm at La Sal Junction earlier this month. Despite this knee-walking catastrophe, the stuff is still everywhere, clogging up heating systems, overwhelming road crews and threatening to grind commerce to a halt.

“Getting back to all this hate crime designation: What exactly is the opposite of a hate crime?” asked Fruitcake. “Has the fruitcake lobby considered all its options?”

Read the sanjuanhorseshoe.com – 2800 stories. No ink. No waiting.

DA WIDDOWEST CWISMAS TWEE

Once upon a time, way out in de fowest, deah was a widdow twee. He was a pwetty widdow twee, wid bwanches in just da wite pwaces, and his mamma and awe his widdow fwends weah vewy pwoud of him.

And den one day, into da fowest came a big man wid an ax oveah his shoudah and  a widdow boy. He was wooking fow a twee to cut down, because it was getting cwose to Cwismas. When da man saw da widdow twee he said to da widdow boy, “Son, dat’s da twee we want. Wook how pwetty it is.”

And da widdow boy wepwied, “Oh I see how pwetty it is. Awe da bwanches awe in just da wight pwaces.”

Da man unshowdahed his ax and appwoached da widdow twee.

“Stop! Stop! scweamed da widdow twee,” who was shuddowing wid appwehension.

“No! No!,” cwied da momma twee twuu da teahs dat wah fawwing fwom hew eyebaws, but dat man wid da ax didn’t heaw dem, and in just a few shoat stwokes of his ax he had feowed da widdow twee. Dwagging it behind him, he and da widdow boy wetahned twuu da fowest to da pwace weah dae wived.

When at wong wast dey emeahged fwom da fowest at da pwace weah dey wived, deah was a wovwy wady deah waiting fow dem. She saw da widdow twee and said, “Oh, what a pwetty widdow twee! It has awe da bwanches in da wite pwaces! We weih decowate it wit awe ob oah wovwy oahnaments and pwace awe ob oah pwetty pwesents bewoe it, and den we will hab a woneahfoe Cwismas!”

And so dey decowated da widdow twee wid awe da pwetty oahnaments, and dey stwung da widdow twee with stwing aftah stwing ob pwetty wites, and when dey pwugged in da stwings of wites da twee gwoed and gwimmahed and was vewy pweased wid himself.

Den de man and da widdow boy and de wovwy wady bwought in wots of pwetty pwesents awe wapped up in wovwy wappings and pwaced dem bewoe de widdow twee. He saw himself in de miwah obah da fiwapwace and he knew dat dis was da most beautifoe he had ebah been in his whoea wife, and he smioed a gwin dat weached fwon bwanch to wovwy bwanch.

De man, de widdow boy and de wovwy wady den went to de taboe wheah a wondeahfoe Cwismas dinnew was spwead out befoe dem. Deah was sawad to staht wid, fouwhoed by tewkey wid dwessing, potatoes wid gwavey, cwanbehwies, tewnips, and wime gewatin. Foe dessaht de wovwy wady bwought in chockwit covahed ecwaihs wid vaniwah ice cweam.

Dey awe ate fwom da wondeafoe wepast befoe dem untio deah was fowe, and den dey embwaced each oddah Mawie Cwismas and went off to sweep in de bewief dat Santa Cwaus wouad awwive befoe mahning.

And dat night a stwange ting happened. Da widdow twee heaud a noise obah by da fiwapwace, and wooking in dat diwection he saw dat Wovah, da famwie dog, had awisen fwom a deep sweep. As da widdow twee watched wid some awarm, Wovah came cwosah and sniffed awe awound. Den Wovah wifted his weg and peed awe obah da widdow twee, wid awe da bwanches in da wight pwaces, and awe da pwetty oahnaments, and awe deah beautifoe wites, and even obah deah pwetty pwesents wid deah wovwy wappings.

And, you know, it kind of spoyed Cwismas foe da widdow twee.

-Donald J Powers, 1979

Santa Says “No” to Elves in Yoga Pants

(Special: Baffin Bay) A generally calm and collect Santa Claus has blown out his red suspenders over a proposal to relax elfin dress codes in the Great North. In addition to fashion revisions on minor accessories and footwear, the relaxing of standards would allow elves to wear yoga pants on the job.

“Tights are one thing one thing, “ shouted the Yuletide icon, “but at last they cover parts of the human anatomy not meant to be accentuated. I realize some styles of clothing are meant to be a little shocking, even provocative but my workshop shall remain off-limits to these expressions of worldly embrace.”

“Elves were never meant to wear yoga drawers”

For centuries elves have been drawn to trendy clothing with often embarrassing results. Whether it is in vogue or retro they grab it off the racks. Many never consider whether tight fitting yoga pants emphasize the right bodily proportions or highlight the positives.

Speaking anonymously one veteran elf says the yoga pants are no more than a passing faze but that the issue here is elf autonomy. That’s why we started a union. That’s why solidarity is such a sticky issue with the front office here.

“He let the reindeer wear those silly, fuzzy snow-boots one sees at ski resorts,” the elf whined. “Santa still dresses like a slob most of the off-season donning bibs, torn, out-of-date Sixties shirts and penny loafers. He even tried to attend a pre-Christmas function down in Canada in a mohair suit,” he laughed, “but Mrs. Claus nixed his choice of textures before it became an international incident.

The source contends that Santa is no garment guru but that he is still writing the checks up here. A new plan for this year, which calls for elves to wear capes and show a little skin, is also off the table.

“Santa would need 16 pairs of elf yoga pants to cover his posterior alone,” finish the elf, who admitted that he wouldn’t have been able to lash out in this manner just a few years ago.

Meanwhile North Pole management is holding firm on the clothing innovations saying they set a bad precedent.

Santa admits that his traditional costume is baggy, itchy and out of touch with the real world.

“But it’s what the people have come to expect and I will not disappoint any one of them because of a labor issues. Elves were never meant to wear yoga drawers” he frowned.

-Kashmir Smelt

Papá Noel Canadiense

(Ottowa) El guerrero de la Navidad vestido de rojo ha admitido su ascendencia canadiense hoy para consternación de millones de fanáticos al sur de la frontera en los Estados Unidos. Farsante.

“Estamos atónitos”, dijo un portavoz de los minoristas aquí. “¿Por qué nos engañaría? ¿Por qué se haría pasar por sí mismo de una manera tan cruel? ¡Debería ser castigado!”

Durante siglos, se consideró que Papá Noel era un producto de los Estados Unidos, ya que su imagen de marca registrada fue creada por personas como Thomas Nast, Clarence Horning, Frank Leslie y Winslow Homer. A pesar de estas suposiciones, la continua insistencia del elfo en que residía en el brutal Polo Norte y su larga asociación con Canadá debería haber indicado una rata.

“La gente preferiría pasar por alto la realidad de una situación en lugar de considerar todas las posibilidades”, dijo la científica social Margaret Swede de Cal Polygamy, una académica visitante aquí. “¿Por qué piensan que los niños canadienses siempre reciben sus regalos primero? Ha sido un fanático de los Maple Leafs desde el primer juego de poder. Incluso va a los juegos de los Expos. Eso en sí mismo muestra una inestabilidad sustancial”.

No se sabe qué hará esta divulgación en las Navidades en las colonias, pero el ex candidato presidencial Al Gore se ha ofrecido valientemente a ocupar el puesto hasta que se nombre un nuevo Santa o se exonere al anterior.

“Santa nos ha engañado durante demasiado tiempo”, continuó Swede. “Incluso la academia liberal tardará en perdonarlo por este acto despiadado”.

Como canadiense en funciones, Santa también es un tema de la corona (Gran Bretaña), lo que puede no tener una buena acogida en los círculos fenianos.

“Su madre era una Murphy”, agregó Swede, “ah, pero no se olviden de la mierda cuando hacen algunas libras al otro lado del mar”.

Después de las vacaciones, Estados Unidos considerará sanciones económicas contra la Commonwealth de Canadá por albergar el fraude barbudo.

– Suzie Compost

Nisei Christmas

“Men speak of them well or ill; they themselves are silent.”

– Stephen Vincent Benet, Ode to Walt Whitman

One Yuletide near Granada, Colorado in 1943, two soldiers sat in a dark cafe watching the snow come down. Snow was still a marvel to these California boy transplants who would be shipping out for Italy in a few days. There was no visible sun in the sky and the windows of the cafe looked as if they hadn’t been washed since the First World War concluded some 25 years ago. One of the soldiers, Private Thomas Okamoto, would go on to be one of the most decorated fighting men in the European Theater. The other, also decorated, would serve for  two years in the 442nd Regimental Combat Team and see action at Salerno Bay, at Naples, at Cassino, and at Anzio. His name was Kiyoshi Nakamura. He was killed by a German sniper near Saverne, France in early 1945.

It was June of 1944, in Rome, that Nakamura met my uncle Clifford, and shared the following story. He wrote it down soon afterwards, in an attempt to keep it all straight. Perhaps a survivor could make sense of it.

We were staring out the window onto the soggy Colorado street. The flakes melted when they hit the frozen ground. Private Okamoto was talking about his uncle’s strawberry garden back in California. He didn’t know if it was still there. Yes, we were afraid to go to war and we were afraid for our families behind barbed wire at Granada. Both of us had parents detained.

A tall, thin rancher stumbled into the cafe, ordered coffee and sent a bone chilling stare in our direction. It wasn’t a hostile look, more one of astonishment, of lassitude. He turned tiredly away from us and asked the walls and ceilings what the world had become.

Then, without warning, he approached our table. We thought he must be drunk.

“Looks like snow,” he said. “How long you been in?”

Private Okamoto answered him, followed by a crisp sir. He motioned at the chair as if asking it to dance, then sat down.

“I’ve heard a lot of you pups were joining up,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to stare but you two are the first I’ve seen in uniform. Where they sending you?”

“Italy, sir,” I answered, “for the time being. Then Berlin.”

“You won’t see much of this damned snow until way past Rome. Where are you boys from?”

“Santa Ana, California, sir. We are only here to visit our families at Granada. They were relocated over a year ago,” I answered. “We brought them Christmas presents.”

“My name is Walters, Frank Walters,”  he said, describing a cold, wet Christmas at Cambrai, in France in 1917. “I was at Belleau Wood as well, and with the Brits at Chateau-Thierry after the Germans broke through in 1918. I survived. A lot of them didn’t.

“And now our government is involved with another war with Germany…and this time with those bastards, the Japanese,” said Walters, catching himself. He looked at the floor.

“You got a lot of family interned at Granada?” he mumbled into his chest.

“Most of them,” I frowned. “The others, a cousin and Private Okamoto’s brother are in the army. We are Japanese-Americans, you know.”

“I know,” breathed Walters. “Good farmers. Good neighbors. I don’t think they deserve what they’re getting. The country’s in a panic and some are up to no good.”

“After Pearl Harbor it’s not hard to believe,” said Okamoto.

Walters returned to his previous state, not saying anything for a few minutes, just staring out the window and then to the door as if expecting a visitor.

“How old are you boys?” he asked, returning to the present.

“I’m 19 and Kiyoshi is 20,” said Okamoto.

“The same age as my Tommy,” said Walters. “He was lost when the West Virginia went down at Pearl Harbor.”

We sat there in shock. After three days visiting a deplorable Granada and 14 weeks training to kill Germans, and perhaps even Japanese, we thought we’d reached a certain sense of numbness. Now we were sitting here with a World War I vet who had lost a son to the Imperial Navy, to young men his age who looked like us.

“My name is Tommy,” offered Okamoto, stumbling over his words in some attempt to ease the pain that all were feeling by now.

“You’re all Tommy,” said Walters, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “We were once children too and it was the same Christmas, but different. Germans and Japanese and English and French all wrapped up like the dark gifts of bitter winter. It’s insane,” he moved his head methodically from side to side. “They put your families in camps and yet you volunteer to fight.”

“What are we to do?,” said Okamoto. “Honor must override or anger, our fear.”

“Honor,” answered Walters, gathering his emotions. “You boys had better drop back a few notches on the honor thing and hold on to a little common sense when you get over there,” he said. The Germans are entrenched all the way up the peninsula. It’ll be no picnic.”

Walters smiled a shell shocked smile and changed the subject to the wine he had drank and the women he had met in France during his war. He then took us totally off guard and asked us to write him a letter saying that it would get to him in Lamar without an address.

“Just send it to Frank Walters,” he said.

We told him we’d send him a postcard from Naples and asked him to watch out for our families if he could.

“I’ll do that,” he said, getting up and disappearing into the snowstorm.

– Kevin Haley