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L
climber
California dreamin' on the farside of the world..
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It's snowing again.
Feels like it's been snowing forever.
A hundred little snowbirds--juncos--and two cardinals
are mobbing the birdfeeders in my backyard.
The juncos behave like Keystone Cops;
the cardinals, more dignified
and brilliant blood red against the white white white,
keep a vigilant eye out for hawks.
Fifty feet from them
dozens of green finches hang from nyjar seed bags.
Incoming finches
knock the residents from their tenacious holds
and the cycle repeats itself endlessly.
I wonder if birds get SAD.
Probably not.
They're too busy
finding food and avoiding Coopers Hawks.
Two Carolina Wrens drop by for a meal,
their rich cinnamon brown making the juncos envious.
And then comes a purple finch--a migrant
and puts them all to shame.
The wooly woodpecker on the suet block could care less.
Until a nuthatch lands on his block
and he has to chase him away.
Two weeks ago
in the snow that's been falling forever
but had stopped falling for one day
I saw a bright red stripe.
It was a foot and a half long
and two inches wide
and looked paintbrushed on the snow,
it's line was that straight.
It radiated out from beneath the feeder towards the woods.
A quick look with binoculars revealed
one large gray feather
slightly curved
resting at the feeder-end of the red.
I looked at that red stripe with its solitary feather for a very long time.
Some not-vigilant-enough diner
had been happily pecking sunflower seeds
when death exploded from the sky
and carried him or her away.
But not before a talon hit an artery.
It was a lot of blood for some little bird.
Perhaps it was a blue jay
or a mourning dove.
I stared at that bloody red stripe for a long, long time,
trying to decide what to do
to protect my songbirds from hawks.
Later that day I saw a Coopers
sitting on a branch not 20 feet from my window.
He was amazingly beautiful
flicking his tail and turning his head 180 degrees
in search of dinner.
His eyes were a deep iridescent orange and
his back feathers steel blue.
He was so beautiful
and he would starve to death if he didn't find food soon.
I watched him until he flew off into the woods.
And then I watched the snow
which had stopped falling for a day
begin to fall again.
It covered the bloody red streak beneath the feeder.
Perhaps
snow
is not such a bad thing after all.
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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Mar 10, 2015 - 05:51am PT
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i'm totally crying this morning.
i f*#kin never cry.
though i am this morning.
i'm packing my lovely daughters a lunch.
and ol' john denver is getting at me ears.
and at my heart.
plus i've wrecked myself in a tree accident
and i can't sleep anymore, fir the pain.
so i'm just withering, and
feeling a lot mortal.
life took a heavy turn two weeks ago.
it was one of those cornerstone days.
the confluence of before and after.
and it is exactly what i signed up for,
what i needed, and what i got.
a little gift to myself,
"here's your strung out ass,
i'll hand it to you, though it's all busted
up and shamed."
yea, i'm getting on,
just not fine.
it's really cute.
you should marry me.
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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Mar 12, 2015 - 04:41am PT
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upon the winds this morning,
i heard a whisper
from a sailor out at sea.
"i can't get out of
my dream," he said.
i retorted,
"it's o.k. just stay put."
but you cannot throw
a whisper up-wind,
so my council went
the wrong direction
and now a zealot
in india will
not trek to mecca
and in her absence,
an empty zen
consumes
the sailor's dream
and the edges of
his craft
merge with the
mist and no
longer are we
caged by real horizons.
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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Mar 15, 2015 - 06:40am PT
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chasing silence this morning,
i caught it out in the woods
in the deep pre-dawn darkness.
i glided silently,
the only noise rising from the owl's throat,
out yonder.
then something happened.
a slight constriction in my nostril
re-seated itself according to
my slightly labored breathing.
and now, with each aspiration,
a little noise, almost like a whistle
but more like a mouse eeking out conversation
came from my nose.
catlike, i continued through
the forest without breaking a twig,
though now my nose had something to say.
and the owls heard new game,
and they got closer to me,
and then the who's got louder
and i continued on, elated at
this new, gathering relationship.
then i heard it.
they say that an owl's feathers
make no noise as they carry
the predator swiftly at unsuspecting prey,
but they do make a noise.
it's better than a whisper,
though not quite as good as a queef.
i didn't duck
because i knew the descending bird would bail
once it realized that i had no tail.
i always hope for rowdy beginnings, durings and ends,
and on this morning i realized one-third of my local dream.
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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May 11, 2015 - 09:10am PT
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i operate in
once upon a time scales,
and i am almost there.
yet i will never arrive.
and for this fiery
clash of ironic destinies,
i am ecstatic.
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thebravecowboy
climber
The Good Places
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Oct 23, 2015 - 10:15pm PT
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communique from the high empty.
spoke, this very morning, with a man of melanin, who'd just lost close to 150 pounds, and who was trending toward an advanced degree in history. "i've worked my way through ww 2, and i'm working on ww 1.
i really like the mongols. i'm a retired state patrolman, you know."
jeez, i said to myself.
needless to say, the guy got my vote. sealed the deal with a couple breakfast skillets; his was tex-mex, and mine was, you guessed, denver!
i'm sure those enthusiastic neuropharmacologists can explain how we were north of the arctic circle, at forty thousand feet by the time i realized the decaf at denny's had given me a mickey.
nice flight attendant, what, maybe 11 passenger jet. brazilian jet. anyway, brianna, the flight attendant, has us all sign some kind of a release, saying we'd never narc them out for having filched from the high desert the ermine-phase cur, hence the snapshots, screen grabs, google tweet, you call it what you will. norman, our council on retainer, assures us that nothing even approaching "moral turpitude in south carolina" is a realistic threat.
telling you, i'm going back to tithing, automatic debit and all. this time i mean it.
uncle geno
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Oct 24, 2015 - 06:12am PT
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Sumpin'
Sumpin' over here
Sumpin' over there
Sumpin' sumpin' sumpin' sumpin'
Sumpin' everywhere
Nothin' in my head
Nothin' to be said
Nothin' nothin' nothin'
'Till my face is turning red
Goin' up to town
Goin' all around
Goin' goin' goin'
'Till I can't tell up from down
Ridin' on my bike
What's not to like
ridin' ridin' ridin'
Then I'm gonna take a hike
Rilly wanna hang
Don't give a dang
Rilly rilly rilly rilly
Don't need a thang
-bushman
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Oct 24, 2015 - 09:42am PT
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When you had to be able to find your way to the rock on your own . .
back when It was scary and hard, Only Hard and scary folks were to be found.
It may have been the Blind leading the foolish or the other way 'round.
Now it is the soft and the scared leading the way pulling hard will always save the day if the bolts are
that Big . . .
the game is forever changed, We were not death wishers or worshippers,
We took whippers but only a few
And those who did, who flew for the sake of pushing standards understood
the leader never falls ( and we lived to break rules) we were the proud non-conformists
the draft dodgers and the ones who signed up to prove that we could do anything
conform to the military too, flying 'copters was to cool too ....
the bolts we placed were from grace and to save some , the next 'punters' waist.
that was all we tied into and never hung until the pitch was over.
We climbed and It was a verb the holds were not polished and chalked till tacky for days by
just the weather change,
what has happened to the thing that led my wife and other women to search me out?
It has become just one more thing I must learn to do with out
Like It or not I need to get a drill to play now and I don't think I will.
Seems like the world of climbing will just leave me out.
After 40 years of tying in I'm almost out.
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thebravecowboy
climber
The Good Places
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Nov 10, 2016 - 02:17pm PT
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Remember to get Zen. Barring that, get drunk.
As of yet, other than the Mexican-financed wall and the transition from x-mas (one of my favorites) to Jesus-mas, He can't see into our brains as of yet. Ruth Bader Ginsburg picked up her Crowdsource-financed hyperbaric oxygen bed from the estate of the late Michael Jackson, in an effort to avoid being succeeded by a Scaliaform zombie on the high court.
We're getting creative down here, and that, my friend, is the ultimate repudiation of God with his thing about the Tree of Knowledge.
Oh yes, they finally have a president to put on the three dollar bill.
Ironically, the election that gave us the Orange STD also brought to Coloradans a right to die bill, which represents The Gold Plan of Retirement Preparation. The jingle that resulted in a win for the death with dignity measure was based on the Beatles' lyric: Turn on the gas and wipe that tear away.
Whether it's zika, consommé-born botulism, or Donald J. Trump, you gotta admit we're not going to perish from boredom.
Chin up!
-Your father Bob, who recalls the prion-related disease scare as small potatoes
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thebravecowboy
climber
The Good Places
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Nov 22, 2016 - 03:15pm PT
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Some fifteen thousand unborn, of both sexes, held a celebratory Thanksgiving Prayer Vigil in the Trump Tower Public Area Lobby Tuesday morning. The crowd caused Mr. Trump to postpone the potentially explosive meeting with "the loser NYT", according to Mr. Trump's weedy d#@&%e nozzle, KellyAnne Conway.
A potential fall hazard posed by thousands of liters of amniotic fluid was swept and vacuumed off the Brazilian marble flooring by a largely Hispanic minimum wage work force. "White people won't do that sort of work, we've found", Ms. Conway explained. By explaining the scores of dark people, a demographic not commonly seen near Mr. Trump, Ms. Conway appeared to be trying to calm the trigger-happy Alt.right security detail, who, some say, remind them of the grim, suit-and-tie, "Fruit of Islam" guards of Malcolm X, only all-white.
On the sidewalk out front of Trump Tower, shivering in the thirty-eight degree wind, were scores of recently-born infants, many having had no pre-natal care because of anticipatory Medicaid cuts, and damn' well looking the part. These pint-sized protesters propped up tiny signs expressing their criticism of Trump's white man platform.
A stocky skinhead Trump-guard next to this reporter was spitting into his lapel mike, asking for water cannon to be diverted from North Dakota to meet the threat posed by "this bunch of whiners...paid professionals".
-RMR
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Nov 22, 2016 - 07:21pm PT
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Damn, there's some real talent here! Thanks, all!
What is it about fishing that brings out the imagery?
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Ksolem
Trad climber
Monrovia, California
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Nov 23, 2016 - 12:10pm PT
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When you simply have to have a fix…
Great Falls Basin is an obscure climbing area near the godforsaken town of Trona, California. Low elevation and a sheltered location make Great Falls the refuge of last resort when you need a climbing fix and the weather everywhere else has gone to hell. When the wind blows and the rain turns to snow in the mountains and the high desert it’s time to gas up and head for Trona.
Chased out of the Kern Canyon by a winter storm, Maya and I arrived at Great Falls Basin. The sun was setting and the desert peaks behind us were casting the long "seven mile" shadows out across the Searles Valley. Over the next range to our east was Death Valley with its hotel, gas station, Rangers and tourists. But here Maya and I were alone. I set up the tent back in some bushes and we gathered sticks for a fire.
A couple of miles away a telltale swirl of dust revealed a vehicle working its way up the sandy road. Eventually whoever it was would arrive at our campsite. I stuffed a few shells in the 12 gauge, racked one in the chamber, and set the weapon discreetly aside. If we were the usual group of three or four dirtball climbers I wouldn’t have been so worried, but it was just the two of us, and Maya is drop dead gorgeous. I felt like an idiot for bringing her here.
To my relief the approaching vehicle turned out to be a jeep driven by a BLM Ranger. He parked and got out. He looked at my Nissan sports car. “You might want to drive down before dark, the road’s pretty tricky and that’s not exactly an off road vehicle.” Maya came walking out from the tent. Ranger man’s jaw dropped. “We’re planning to stay through tomorrow; it’s a good place to climb when the mountains are stormy.” The Ranger made no attempt to conceal his thorough examination of Maya. “Yeah, I’ve heard the climbing here is okay. I’ll just be on my way then. You two be careful.” He walked back to his jeep, then turned to face me. “Do you have a gun?” “Yes Sir.” “Good… Good. Have a good night.”
Sometime later I was over at Maya's place for dinner. I watched her cooking, doing each step with care. We sat down at the table and looked at each other. "You know Kris, the problem is that when I look you in the eyes I can see that you are not sane."
Again a cold storm engulfed southern California. Riding in Guy Keesee's VW van I watched the boarded up stores and café's as we rolled through Trona. The only open businesses were a gas station and a well-fortified liquor store. We passed a school; what kind of hell would it be to grow up here? The air was fouled by a borax refinery, the only reason for the town's existence. The last time I had been here was with Maya, and I felt a twinge of the broken heart I thought was behind me.
A few miles past Trona we turned up the sandy road toward Great Falls Basin. The road ends at a large open area. Guy parked the van, we stuffed our packs full of climbing gear and hiked up to a nice ledge under a granite rock-face. Since the van didn't lock I had my pistol in my pack for safe keeping.
A few minutes later the Good Doctor rolled up in his shiny new mini-van. He joined us on the ledge. After exchanging greetings he noticed my pistol case sitting on a rock. "What are you doing with a gun up here?" "The van doesn't lock. And besides, if someone screws with the cars I can put a shot across their bow."
The Good Doctor surveyed the large sand parking area. "From up here you won't even be able to tell where the shot went."
The gauntlet was thrown. "Doctor, Sir, from here I can drop one right through your windshield." "Kristian, I've been practicing at the range, I am quite sure that a pistol is useless at this distance. I’ll wager the pink slip on it. You get one try. Make the shot and the van is yours."
I took the Berretta out of its case and checked that it was unloaded. I sighted the shot. The downward angle was tricky. Mr. Keesee, who until now had been otherwise occupied, took an interest in our conversation. "Kris, go for it. I've seen you make harder shots." After sizing it up I was pretty sure the shot was good. "So Doctor, would you prefer the passenger or the driver's side?"
I was playing games now. I had already decided against taking the shot. There was no favorable outcome. I could miss the vehicle entirely, proving the Good Doctor right. I could miss the windshield but damage the vehicle elsewhere, perhaps penetrating the radiator. But most likely I would make the shot, probably the least desirable outcome. The Good Doctor had been known to go off the rails at times, and he was physically my superior in every way.
Later, back down at the cars, I took out a box of rejected lacquer masters used for making vinyl records, a by-product of my professional career in the music business. These aluminum discs are covered with a thin coat of black lacquer, and they make excellent targets. When hit, the lacquer shatters around the bullet hole and the shiny aluminum is easily visible. So I set one of these up on the far side of a wide wash. I didn't pace off the distance, but the shot was long enough to make my point, and it was downhill. The disc looked tiny, but it was easy to see against the sand.
The Good Doctor stood next to me smiling. I took my first shot. A plume of dirt popped up left of the disc. I relaxed, reset my grip, and shot again. Just off the right edge, I couldn't get any closer without hitting it. The third time was a charm. The Good Doctor, seeing that this group was entirely within the size of his windshield, slapped me hard on the back and thanked me for being a gentleman. Guy sat there shaking his head. "You should have done it. It would have been epic." He wasn't kidding. He really meant it.
"Maybe so, but why would I want a van with a broken windshield."
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thebravecowboy
climber
The Good Places
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Mar 10, 2017 - 12:37pm PT
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"With the election of Donald J. Trump, we at the NRA anticipated a precipitous drop in gun sales", said National Rifle Association President Wayne de la Pieux. "With a Black President vacating the White House, we expected our base to feel less threatened that the Feds would come for their average 16.4 firearms per household."
"As a trade group and the most effective lobbying force in Washington, we warned everyone who would listen that lean times were ahead," he continued. "But that was before Mr. Trump's nationwide traveling roadshow, 'Rape, Race and Smear the Queers', aroused a whole new segment of gun purchasers.
"A gun show at historically all-women Barnard College witnessed petite Emily Roth-Brown toting a slick Savage 12-gauge pump shotgun with seven shot extended magazine and a sawed-off barrel.
The young lady told our NRA interviewer 'I studied tai-kwan-do for the last ten years, but ten minutes' instruction with this baby, and a would-be rapist will be looking at major reconstructive surgery'.
"Down in sunny Southern California, every Juan, Luis and Reynaldo was mobbing 'Black Guns Matter', a firearms superstore just east of I-5. Instead of wiring home (Mexico) their paychecks, this Friday, they'd splurged on a couple Chinese SKS assault-style rifles and a Glock pistol.
"In gay-friendly Austin, Texas, the hot new salsa bar, 'Purple' held a "get-to-know' ice breaker at a nearby indoor shooting range.
"We in the firearms industry have found a whole new benefit to Mr. Trump's historic victory at the polls. And we thank him for it," concluded the NRA's Mr.de la Pieux.
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thebravecowboy
climber
The Good Places
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Mar 28, 2017 - 07:13pm PT
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**President Trump "Crushes" Sixth Graders' Fishing Contest
**
Mr. Trump proudly piloted a smoke-spewing diesel-powered icebreaker (reportedly on loan from Russia) around six-acre Lake Waskaaskabmidjiik ("White Presidents who drown in this lake are never found"), Minnesota. On Sunday, Acting President Trump literally killed with his record-breaking Least Perch, weighing in at 220 kg (700 lbs), by his estimate.
"My competition. They're kids, basically. Kids. Losers. Some of them are under four feet tall. Four feet tall. Some can't even walk. If this is affirmative action, I don't know. Most people don't know."
"Eat this thing? Not on your life. Closest I get. Closest to fish. It's Chicken McNuggets. Ketchup. Ketchup and a fork. These fish. Like this record fish I just caught. Would you believe I was standing on the poop deck of the 'Aleksandr Nevsky', great icebreaker. Mr. Putin. Great leader. He gave it to me for winning the White House. Record-breaking all the way. Mr. Putin. I don't know him, by the way. Take that, Sally Yates! Not! Mr. Putin and I toast each other with alcohol-free vodka. One day, I'm going to take Vladimir on Air Force One. Air Force One. Jared told him about the 'Roy Cohn Rubber Room' on the 747. That's right. Rubber Room. And he's hot to try it out. Mirrors on the ceiling. No seat belts. He loves the younger set. Real young. Russia-America. We see eye-to eye. I like them young, too. Believe me."
White House staffers, Sean Spicer and KelleyAnne Conway, just after snapping this trophy photo, threw a black hood over the President's head and hustled him into the back seat of a ski-equipped Ford Excalibur limo in an effort to limit his self-incriminating bravado. -bgw
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thebravecowboy
climber
The Good Places
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Mar 28, 2017 - 07:16pm PT
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Mainstream and Freedom Caucus Republicans brawled on the House floor Tuesday morning. Once tempers flared, laptops began to fly. Anything not bolted down became airborne as Moderates and Conservatives feuded over "Recreational vs Reproductive Sex".
The GOP, with its Big Tent philosophy, has tried to make room for homophobes, racists, hedge fund managers, coal mine and funeral home owners, folks whose evening wear runs to white sheets. Even gays. Idaho's Representative "Wide Stance" Larry Craig, Sen. Lindsey Graham and even former governor Rick Perry, while deeply closeted, find themselves welcome in the Republican party of today.
The real schism arises between those Repubs who support sex for several purposes (the "Recreational Sexists") and the more strict "Reproductive Sexists". The latter group, a dour lot, are reputed to have sired a number of children equal to the number of times they have experienced "sexual congress" with their wives.
The "Recreational Sexists", on the other hand, recognize a variety of uses for the God-given mystery of sex. "Of course, there's reproduction. And then there's stress reduction after a long, hard day of fund-raising, money-laundering and general quid pro quo," explained Rep. Jacques 'Jax' Bier, whose district includes the French Quarter of New Orleans. "Sex, as y'all know, works pretty good for putting the ladies in their place. Don't leave no marks, most generally," he added.
I am writing this dispatch from a trauma room at D.C. General Hospital. In addition to hurling Bibles, some angry representatives hurled expensive pens at their rivals, and I was caught in the crossfire. Don't tell me a 14 Kt. gold pen doesn't leave a mark when Devin Nunes (R-CA) gives it a good old Visalia fast pitch. Hit me in the right ear.
The trauma doctor, a kind, older Sikh immigrant, credited my earbud: "it certainly prevented the 100 gram, pointed projectile from penetrating through the ear drum to the base of the brain, which would have left you an inert vegetable, my son."
I know it may not sound like responsible journalism, but I just have to say that if the GOP Wealthcare bill had gone through last week, I'd be planning my medical bankruptcy right now. As it is, my Obamacare covers my ER visit. -bgw
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thebravecowboy
climber
The Good Places
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Apr 22, 2017 - 11:41am PT
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Mar-a Lago staff stages voodoo doll contest for boss
The international staff of Mar-a-lago, here on a visa program which allows Mr. Trump to pay below minimum wage while taking tax deductions for "Foreign aid contributions", are a colorful lot.
Housed in ethnically and linguistically segregated housing, and isolated (that's right, no cell phones or internet), these wage-slaves hail from nations generally in the bottom ten percent of GDP countries. Think Paucistan, Guacamala, Dagastan Sur, Gnyn, and others.
The Donald's great-grandfather, Christian Johannes Trump, took heed of John D. Rockefeller's skillful use of debt, isolation, threats of violence, caloric deprivation, "company stores", white slavery, forced sterilization and euthanasia to shape a docile work force of zombie-like employees. Said workers, upon escaping from the Trump compound, were often mistaken for semi-humans, even animals, by neighboring German-Americans.
Well, fast forward to Twenty-first Century Palm Beach, and, over the noise of the rising sea-level surf, the low, almost subsonic roar one hears are "the staff". The President's bullet-headed personal security run a tight ship here at Mar-a-Lago, as at Trump Tower and the White House. Blood stains blamed on beet borscht in the kitchen, pay mute testimony to "enhanced enforcement of Mr. Trump's high standards", according to insiders who asked to remain anonymous.
Somehow escaping the "staff quarters" of Mar-a-Lago in late March was a fourteen year-old Tokalauan, formerly of Swains Island, pop. 17, in American Samoa. The youth, who asked to be referred only as "Sal", measured five feet, four inches and weighed 100 pounds when rescued from shark-infested waters off Trump's resort. An alert Coastguardsman recognized an inner-arm tatoo "MAL 1439", giving lie to "Sal"'s initial claim to be Hatian.
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thebravecowboy
climber
The Good Places
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Aug 28, 2017 - 10:09am PT
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Pixie-like Attorney General Jefferson Beauregard Sessions may talk all tough and law-and-order, but, truth be told, he's flirting with the law and diversifying his investments by growing marijuana. A long-term profiteer on private prisons, the elfin A.G.Sessions has rustled up dozens of undocumented aliens awaiting deportation to staff his "little grow operation" in an Alabama pole barn on Sessions' own property.
"Now I don't personally partake of reefer, but Mother (Sessions' wife) does like a bit of weed, well, whenever she has to be in the same room with me," Mr. Sessions reported to our "Southeast USA War Correspondent" Kareem al-Khalid.
When asked if his personal pot operation would affect his threats to essentially bomb the pot industry back to the Stone Age, the former Keebler Elf demurred "Nuh-uh.".
This is Kareem al-Khalid, for Al-Jazeera, reporting from Civil War-torn USA.
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thebravecowboy
climber
The Good Places
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Sep 24, 2017 - 11:48am PT
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Trump Belts Out National Anthem at Super Dome
An expected crowd of 35,000 never materialized. In the colossal sports venue were scores of MLB starting pitchers and NFL starting QBs. They expressed their patriotism by pelting the Prez with a creative assortment of projectiles.
Tom Brady connected with a past-due fourteen pound jackfruit. Other First Amendment objects included gift packs from the Westminster Dog Show, bulging cans of Vienna Sausages, Backwoods "Buck-in-Rut", and bottles of orange hair spray. Three year old Jimmy McSheehee, of Pittsburgh, hurled a Whoopee Cushion.
Mr. trump, after a disinfecting shower, raved about his ratings in a brief Oval Office photo op. Surrounded by some three to four hundred of his security detail, he announced "the patriotic athletes, they showered me with gifts, bigly!"
The District of Columbia Power Company, in support of the nationwide protest of Mr. trump's "rabid and rancid racism" cut electricity to The Executive Mansion for 45 minutes, reflecting also tump's failure to pay his light bill. -bgw
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thebravecowboy
climber
The Good Places
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Oct 17, 2017 - 12:00pm PT
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Incensed that one of President Trump's handlers had stolen albino rocker Johnny Winter's wigs, a sixteen year old boy from Olathe, CO, audibly called Trump "a piece of work". No one, but no one insults The Dear Leader for Life. It's illegal!
Out of nowhere, black SUV's and armored personnel carriers with gun ports converged on the hundred twenty pound Edwin Murphy. Down dropped a rear ramp from the APC, and out strutted "a pocket warrior", the diminutive Attorney General Jefferson Beauregard Sessions, clad in black from his men's size 4 Doc Martin boots to a Darth Vader helmet purchased in the boys' department of an Army PX.
Having washed out of the military for obvious reasons, Sessions eschewed firearms, preferring his extensive collection of Tasers, stun-guns, and cattle prods. He sneaked up behind Edwin and zapped him good on the back of his neck, just below the hairline. In his high, whiny Alabama drawl, the Police Chief of the Free World boasted "I got you good," as he blew pretend smoke from his Taser.
Four goons with black ICE shirts descended like vultures on meth, zip-tying every part of poor Edwin's body that stuck out of his twitching torso. Now I swear, any one of those former mall cops was of sufficient size to feed a village of a hundred cannibals for a month or more. I've got it from an anonymous sources that all Homeland Security and ICE death-mobiles have multiple microwaves going constantly.
This scene repeats itself all over the USA dozens of times daily. Mr. Sessions can't be everywhere to protect our president's nobility, but literally hundreds of nights on duty in a little Klan suit, lighting afire crosses, and what have you, have imbued the little rascal with an implacable energy for pursuing causes that are, at best, questionable.
Back to the little felon from Olathe, CO. Mr. Sessions, having doffed his helmet, sat in a jump seat in the death mobile and read, like a parson, Edwin his Miranda rights from a vest pocket New Testament. "Ya know, son, if y'all was, um, colored, your life blood would be drainin' out of you as we speak."
The prisoner, pale and trembling, with a bitten lip and cracked tooth thanks to the electric shock, murmured "Yes Sir." His eyes locked on Mr. Sessions, and ran up and down, taking him in. And then Edwin started to giggle. And to laugh. He would have held his belly if he wasn't tied up like a turkey in the oven.
The captive giggled, chortled and guffawed and, breathless, said. "I know you. You're the Keebler elf!"
Zap! Zap! Darkness.
If they want to take my free speech away, by gol', they'll have to peel my teeth and gums offa it.
(Redacted), contributing editor York New Times
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thebravecowboy
climber
The Good Places
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Late breaking news from the Eastern Hemisphere.
His underground nuke test site in disarray since a collapse which killed hundreds of nuclear technicians, North Korea's leader, Kim Jung Un, renewed a war of words against American president Donald J. trump.
Last month, the North Korean strongman called trump a "dotard", causing search engines, world-wide, to crash as hundreds of millions scrambled to see if the American despot was, indeed a dotard. The answer? Yes, trump is a dotard, doddering and confused.
Monday morning (Tuesday on the Korean Peninsula), Mr. Un pulled out all stops by labelling Mr. trump "a well-marbled, staggering eunuch".
Google, Bing, and Yahoo ground to a halt as the world raced to see how to pronounce "eunuch", as well as to see if Mr. Kim was speaking truthfully, or was resorting to hyperbole.
Our sources both inside and outside of the White House are currently polling 18 out of 23 in favor of "trump is a well-marbled, staggering eunuch".
Now back to you, Ursula.
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