Random Acts of Writing. (psst. off topic)

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Messages 1 - 88 of total 88 in this topic
philo

Trad climber
Somewhere halfway over the rainbow
Topic Author's Original Post - May 13, 2010 - 11:07am PT
Just for fun. Post up the random stuff that oozes out of your synapses.
Here is one. It just popped into my head and oout my fingers, wierd.







I had a peanut butter and banana sandwhich and I thought of you. And all the time spent in your blue canoe. Like bonobo monkeys locked in the city zoo. Exactly what else were we supposed to do?
Norwegian

Trad climber
Placerville, California
May 13, 2010 - 11:19am PT
caffeine reflections.
Anastasia

climber
hanging from a crimp and crying for my mama.
May 13, 2010 - 11:29am PT
I climb to where there is nothing but the wind
and all that I am is judged on a single hold
all I am holding on to is revealed
as love takes me farther than most would dare to go
philo

Trad climber
Somewhere halfway over the rainbow
Topic Author's Reply - May 13, 2010 - 11:29am PT
Whoa that was GOOD Anastasia.
Jaybro

Social climber
Wolf City, Wyoming
May 13, 2010 - 11:50am PT
It's time
good day for something
sometimes I get tired just smiling
Anastasia

climber
hanging from a crimp and crying for my mama.
May 13, 2010 - 01:17pm PT

I feel him reaching through me across time and memory. Sometimes what we leave behind meets us in the future. I can smell him in the room though it's empty. My hands shake from nervousness as I try to write. I have seen more than most but it's only one part of the story. Writing it down feels invasive, incomplete as the past burns brighter than the present. He is not here to tell his part, yet I feel his hand on my shoulder, encouraging. I feel myself shaken to the core. You are not suppose to feel the hand of a ghost as something warm and securing. I wonder again how death follows me.
TwistedCrank

climber
Ideeho-dee-do-dah-day boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom
May 13, 2010 - 01:19pm PT
I'm tripping balls.
FeelioBabar

Trad climber
One drink ahead of my past.
May 13, 2010 - 01:32pm PT
A piece I wrote for The Drake Magazine:

The Junkie: An Addiction to Streamer Fishing

He has a serious problem, this man. Some would call it a sickness. He's a junkie of the worst kind and he knows it, lying and cheating to get what he needs, reckless in the pursuit of his much-needed fix.

He is the Streamer Addict. Bunny fur and Marabou drive him wild. River. Lake. Crappy urban pond. Anytime, anywhere—when he needs it, he needs it. Casting like he's shooting a 12-gauge, his presentation is anything but delicate. Stuffing it into the rocks on the far bank. Flipping it out there. His flies hit the water like depth charges, sending feeble specimens fleeing in terror.

He serves it up simple and the fish respond like any well-evolved creature: fight or flight. You've seen him, fishing by himself, laughing, screaming, and leering at you on the water. Moving quickly around your position, you can't help but wonder what he's up to. Stripping wildly, cursing, all the while that smug-ass grin spread across his face.

The junkie covers lots of water, while you stand in the same hole for three hours. The afflicted tosses a middle finger to tradition. Sunny? Midday? Hatch? The junkie doesn't care. All day, every day, chump. His box of flies looks like a truck hit the Muppet band. He talks in tongues about "applying the voodoo," "street-fighter flashes," and "30-foot handshakes." And who wears a stripping basket on a trout river anyway?

But it's not easy, being a dedicated fiend. There are slow days, too. Tough days. Frustration. Stripping till the arm hurts. Crazy action with no hook-ups. Sticking to the guns is sometimes difficult. But then there are the other days, where the junkie's as high as a Georgia pine. He's kind of a dick, really, laughing at the sad faces you make as he strips one through the run you just flogged and then lifts the local thug out of the water to show what you missed. You ask what he's throwing, and can only muster a confused gaze when you see the size of it. "Is that a saltw#ter hook?" you stammer. "And what's with the fighting butt?" The junkie just smiles, eyes glazing.

To many, he makes no sense. Breaks all the rules. A step away from spin fishing, some say. They just don't get it. But perhaps it's better that way. Many just don't have the fortitude for the charms of streamer fishing. Best you just stick to your little bugs and 6x. As you part ways with the junkie, he flips you a five-inch fly with huge red eyes like his own. He staggers off, and with a booming laugh says, "First one's free kid, now shorten up that leader and get in there!"
FeelioBabar

Trad climber
One drink ahead of my past.
May 13, 2010 - 01:51pm PT
He did...and thanks. Was yours for Tom as well? Good stuff. cheers.
philo

Trad climber
Somewhere halfway over the rainbow
Topic Author's Reply - May 13, 2010 - 02:04pm PT
Fly-errrr
Anastasia

climber
hanging from a crimp and crying for my mama.
May 13, 2010 - 02:54pm PT
I really like. :)
The Wolf

Trad climber
Martinez, CA
May 13, 2010 - 03:45pm PT
"Still"

If you're still, you can hear the lightening strike the wishing star as the quarter moon dances across the crimson horizon of late October.
The clouds fall, piece by piece an apocalypse for life forms of a different dimension.

When it rains, emotions evolve. At the end of and era time slows down. Investigate the wind and witness the future erupt. Reality commands a focus of illusion. Voices are barriers in the communication of thought. Words are not experience, volume is not wisdom. Time and space are important yet don't exist. Life is a paradox a confusing dilemma, but it all becomes feeling, and you can feel the thunder roll if you're still.
Chiloe

Trad climber
Lee, NH
May 13, 2010 - 05:16pm PT
Random poetry I've written lately sounds more like this.

Table 1: Mixed-effects linear regression of mean winter temperature on year (1970–2007), to estimate common and region-specific trends. Model with unstructured covariance matrix fit by maximum likelihood, based on n = 646 winter temperature means (38 years × 17 weather stations) in rural regions of nine states.
MisterE

Social climber
Across Town From Easy Street
May 13, 2010 - 05:50pm PT
Edit: This one is better...

Jazzy Woodpecker

A woodpecker that lives somewhere near
has taken up an odd habit.
It flies around to various metal objects,
tapping out its once-wooden staccato beat.
A small aluminum plate attached to a telephone pole, 3492234765,is the tinny high-hat, then
a quick flight across to the road "T" sign for a 10-minute slam of the mid-cymbal range,
so off it must be jazz.
I get out my drum, laughing
and begin to play along
Flickerbird with Ashiko accompaniment.
The little bird seems to prefer
the 10-12 fast beats with a 16-20 beat spacing.
Soon, it flies away.
I set down my drum,
thinking the show is over.
Then: From the huge steel powerline supports
above my property,
I hear the structurally amplified
and familiar rat-tat-tat-tat!
For the phonic finale:
amazing reverberation for a smallbeak's effort.

-EW, Nason Ridge 2005




cowpoke

climber
May 13, 2010 - 06:20pm PT
Table 1: Mixed-effects linear regression of mean winter temperature on year (1970–2007), to estimate common and region-specific trends. Model with unstructured covariance matrix fit by maximum likelihood, based on n = 646 winter temperature means (38 years × 17 weather stations) in rural regions of nine states.
beautiful prose. for me, it was a latent variable model, today. with figures!
Ricardo Cabeza

climber
All Over.
May 13, 2010 - 06:39pm PT
pants for deliverance

Are the pants being delivered by a pants cannon?

http://nonaked.tribe.net/photos/2bd7b733-99b0-4721-9361-c6e87aa017c0
Largo

Sport climber
The Big Wide Open Face
May 13, 2010 - 07:16pm PT
Southern Paiute Indians first appeared around 900 A.D., fleeing the desert lowlands for the water, plants and game in Red Rock’s winding canyons. Roasting pits, grinding holes and countless petroglyphs still recall the hunter-gatherers, nothing so much as the dark shadows stretching off 8,154 foot high La Madre Mountain, so often featured in the Indian’s fiercesome rock art. These shadows, now stretching over Hannah’s Place, have not changed in twelve hundred years, and reminded Rose, as they once reminded ancient Paiutes, that light may boast of blinding speed, but shadows always catch it in the end.

From Resistance
Norwegian

Trad climber
Placerville, California
May 13, 2010 - 08:02pm PT
your soul is your own worst critic.

-morphed from a robert hunter lyric in eyes of the world.
Anastasia

climber
hanging from a crimp and crying for my mama.
May 13, 2010 - 11:02pm PT
Your beauty is a truth that can't be hidden. All lies look foul when placed upon you.
philo

Trad climber
Somewhere halfway over the rainbow
Topic Author's Reply - May 13, 2010 - 11:33pm PT
In 4X4 daring with rock music blaring and bright headlights glaring at dazed bovine staring we Gunnistoners blew brazenly into North Chasm View campground unerring. If there had been any witnesses, it must have seemed like the four riders of the apocalypse had come for an extended stay.
Tony Bird

climber
Northridge, CA
May 13, 2010 - 11:54pm PT
i usta go to a monthly poetry reading in santa monica. the rule was, you had to sit through the whole thing and listen to all the other poets if you wanted to come back and read again. as the moderator said,

"if poets don't listen to other poets, who will?"
Norwegian

Trad climber
Placerville, California
May 13, 2010 - 11:59pm PT
error is enveloping.
enlightenment is ellusive.
and my bliss is pissed.
Norwegian

Trad climber
Placerville, California
May 13, 2010 - 11:59pm PT
alcohol echos.
Chiloe

Trad climber
Lee, NH
May 14, 2010 - 09:21am PT
beautiful prose. for me, it was a latent variable model, today. with figures!

When the party turns to poems, as it might, you and I can swap modeling epics.
Jaybro

Social climber
Wolf City, Wyoming
May 14, 2010 - 11:48am PT
Godot ain't gonna show,
Where are they now?
What do you name an emerald Green Swedish car?
waiting on a phone call
Ironman II?
Valley?
MisterE

Social climber
Across Town From Easy Street
May 14, 2010 - 12:12pm PT
Breathe

just right

and every cell

flops over

grinning.

-James Bertolino
philo

Trad climber
Somewhere halfway over the rainbow
Topic Author's Reply - May 14, 2010 - 01:26pm PT
Defeat is a bitter tasting brew not suitable for toasting friends with.
ydpl8s

Trad climber
Santa Monica, California
May 14, 2010 - 02:55pm PT
Spring Creek Tower, Gunnison - dead of winter.

The adrenaline was certainly flowing that day. I led the last pitch, normally 5.6 or 5.7 about 45 min. after sunset. The rock was covered with about 1/4 in. of verglass and I was chipping ice off of footholds (no crampons) by swinging that big hex and using the old "wool glove sticking to the ice" trick for my hands. On the last pitch I got one stopper (I think about a #5) in a shallow ice covered seam and then ran it out to the top. When I brought Mike up, his eyes were as big as saucers and he whispered through gasps "nice lead Moss".

We topped out in the absolute dark with 4 ft deep snow drifts on top, it was 5 below. We had to dig around through the drifts to find rocks that we could sling and rap off, in the dark with no lamps. Once I stepped on a snow bridge that broke away below me and I could see the creek 100s of feet down through the hole...almost sh*$ my pants on that one. We finally rapped off and skiied out in the dark. 3 months later in the Spring, we retrieved our slings and one big hex we left for the rap.
cowpoke

climber
May 14, 2010 - 03:21pm PT
When the party turns to poems
oh boy, that is funny...and true.
Anastasia

climber
hanging from a crimp and crying for my mama.
May 14, 2010 - 04:20pm PT
all the stats are in
it's a picture ending
and standing on the side
I am left alone to catch my breath

knowing my best friend and my ex-boyfriend
are to exchange vows of marriage

a romance grown in the shadows of my back
now a truth that bruises my sight
yet I am no longer confused
over all that was strained when it was once so free

I am relieved from a burden of lies
knowing with certainty
they are right for each other

I find myself smiling

philo

Trad climber
Somewhere halfway over the rainbow
Topic Author's Reply - May 14, 2010 - 05:54pm PT
"Hold down the fort" he said.
I said "I don't think zepplins make good forts".
Norwegian

Trad climber
Placerville, California
May 14, 2010 - 06:12pm PT
anastasia, im glad that you are smiling for that difficult and twisted journey.
when i read your post, for some reason, i didn't see the smiling word,

i just read,
"i find myself"

and i mentally fled, just over there, chewing on that sentence.
i find myself.

good for you. that's a tough search.
and you were smiling!
philo

Trad climber
Somewhere halfway over the rainbow
Topic Author's Reply - May 14, 2010 - 08:16pm PT
Anastasia your words are rocking my heart.
Fritz

Trad climber
Hagerman, ID
May 14, 2010 - 11:10pm PT
Love the fishing stories! Thank you for posting up!

Just at dark: I climb onto the pile of logging slash, and start pulling out pieces and tossing them to Wally for our campfire.

Shortly, something flies near my face. I have a premonition of evil, and I look down to see what might be happening. I am black from the belly down with incensed, but cold, black-hornets that are crawling up me with malice in their demonical little minds.

“Hornets!!” I scream, as I leap off the slash pile and start running towards the road (and Wally) while peeling off my shirt and flailing at my pants. About that time the first hornets start stinging me through the shirt and on my head.

I blow by the slightly stunned Wally and start running up the road at just below light speed. (the truck was not an option, since I was still covered with hornets.)

Meanwhile Wally is standing there trying to figure out what is going on.

He later told me that the only thing he could think was: Fritz had finally gone insane.

About that time the first hornet stung him.

We both ran about 100 yards up the road in the dark: slapping and getting stung, cursing and screaming: until we felt safe again.
hossjulia

Social climber
Eastside
May 15, 2010 - 07:03pm PT
The plan had been hatching and morphing for days in all of our minds.

On the silent bike ride home at 10pm, with Mono Lake a (large) presence to my right, I could hardly think of anything more than (traffic), laying on the floor with my feet up, a glass of wine and stretching. let alone packing to ski the next morning.
I open the door to a split board hardwear yard sale. I had to step over and on things to get across the room. Roomie is cobbing together bindings and parts for his split.

He goes off at 10:30 to borrow stickboys wax iron. (A near neighbor) I'm contentedly falling asleep on the floor, feet up and glass of wine near at hand.

At 11pm or so, roomie comes back and goes, "Were leaving tonight, you wanna go, get your sh#t packed, stickboy is on fire!"
"F*#k, dude, not tonight." is my whinny reply. I lay there for another few seconds, sit up, gulp down my wine, jump up and start packing. "I have no food!" I cry, then rummage through the pantry and fridge and come up with enough. (I do this climbing too, "I can't do it!" then 5 minutes later, I have.)10 minutes later, I'm ready.
While I'm waiting, I check my phone and find that Anastasia has called, she'll be in town over the weekend. I call her back, leave a message and plan on being around Sunday so we can get together.
Stickboy shows up around 11:20 or so and we're off. Err, so we thought. After roomie tears the front of his truck apart searching for his keys, he finds them in his pocket. Must be the Knob Creek kicking in.
It's now 11:30.
We hit my storage unit 5 minutes later and I pick up my hardware. Skis, check, boots, check, poles, check, pack, unpack the sh#t I don't need and go light, check. Double check that my skins are there. Bag, pad, pillow, I'm done! NOW we're off.
Up the deserted highway to spring ski heaven. No one in sight but a snowshoe hare that tries to keep pace when it is caught in the headlights.
On the way up the pass, roomie asks me what the old hippy will think when we pull in at midnight and wake him up. "I just hope he's not packing" Was my reply, but on second thought, "Of course he's packing, I don't think he'll shoot us though."
Roomie has a laugh that rolls out of him and drowns any bad thoughts. Stickboy is crammed in the jump seat a go-in on about the old hippy we will surely wake up. Then he comments on how this all came together at the last minute, how his plans had been totally different, and how none of us really had the chance to talk it over and here we were, on a deserted hwy at midnight, goin up to ride a place we all love more than just about anything else. Wondrous.

Midnight on the pass. We file out of the Toyota and start unloading. The liquor has loosened the tongues and we are loud. But we know there is no one else around besides the rock & roll hippy and take advantage.
The little skully boom comes out and we are rockin to Joe Strummer, Hayseed Dixie, and god knows who else. Sacred herb is smoked in abundant thanks.
The hippy gets up to investigate and is greeted with an ice cold PBR in appeasement. It works and he is happy to see us, proceeds to entertain and talk our ears off for the next 2 hours.
I check out the lodge and find it smells like a rat cage, so I decide to sleep outside. It's going on 2am so off I crawl into my bed.
I had noticed the sky earlier. My God I thought, what happened to the Milky Way! Straight over head, running north to south, the stars had aligned into a loose double helix. It wasn't the Milky Way. This sunk into my gut as something important. Roomie saw me craning my neck and looked too, giving me a puzzled look in the middle of whatever spray he was on about. He saw it.
After I get settled, I gaze up and marvel, this is the clearest night I have seen in a long time, every star is there, the sky is thick with them. New moon, no haze, no smoke, no high thin clouds, just a brilliant sky of diamonds sparkling in the cold. There were more stars than spaces between them. A coyote yipped and howled very close, reminding us we were never really alone, he was met with hearty laughter by the happy noisy crew. He did not appreciate this and yipped some more.
Just as I doze off, I hear a car and headlights shine on the snowbanks. Uhm, no, that's my roomie on his skateboard in the deserted hwy, with his headlamp. It's so quiet it seemed like a car. I listen to him riding back and forth, back and forth, hope he doesn't hit a rock and land on his head, then drop off.
Sometime later I wake, look up and realize that the sky is solid stars. I have never seen a night sky so clear and jam packed, and I have seen plenty of moonless starry nights in the Sierra before. I feel fortunate to have witnessed this. There is the Milky Way now, over to the E/SE.

The birds wake me up a little bit later with their cheerfulness and I wait for the sun to warm up my day. It does and chases me out of my bag, but it's too early! Only 7:30.
By 9 we're all up and more or less ready to go. I'm restless and know the snow is softening up fast. The party boys drag their feet, but we finally hit it around 10. Sierra start.
After 2 weeks on my bike, skinning feels great, it's good to be back in my backyard, the terrain is familiar and the sensual contours lead me with out much thought.
We climb to a ridge top @ ~11,000' have lunch and take it all in. It's noon. They proceed on to an objective worthy of hard young men, I ski back down the way we came, happy to be making turns on corn. A short scoot back to the lodge, and I bum a ride home to write this.
I'm bushed and nappy, but the past 16 hours have been bliss.

R.B.

Trad climber
Pacifica
May 16, 2010 - 01:36am PT
Many times, in literary works ... a whole story can be told with one sentence, for example:

The sweatstained, thirsty and overheated big wall climber mantled onto the ledge and was elated for being done with the climbing for the day as he knew that soon, he would be able to take off the hot climbing shoes to air out his blazing hot feet, and soon be eating a fine meal of canned beans and swilling a lukewarm can of Ol' English 800 while he and his partner took in the scenery of the evening rainbow in its brillance.

Now don't that just put you right there!
hossjulia

Social climber
Eastside
Aug 15, 2010 - 07:36pm PT
"Chris and the Pika's"

The employee area at TPR was once a cesspool we called poo-ville. Nothing grew, there was garbage and left over detritus everywhere.
fast forward a few years to after Mr. Bill's epic clean up effort, massive efforts by the owners to reduce our water consumption (and resulting leach field impact) and the cessation of poisoning mice, and we now have wildflowers, native grasses and lots of critters. (including mice)It's now called yurt-ville.
Marmots moved in a couple of years ago and entertain us with their sun bathing on our decks. Belding's Ground Squirrels scamper underfoot and Junco's nest in the grass, urging caution at fledge time.
A week ago, I heard the unmistakable chirping of a Pika. I had not seen them in the resort proper before and quickly spotted him under our pastry chief's deck.
The very next day, one of our cooks Chris asks me about 3 creatures he saw IN his yurt the night before. Round fat things with no tails that hop like a rabbit. I couldn't believe it, he had 3 Pika's in his yurt! He woke up to the sound of something in with him just in time to watch one of his wool socks drug across the floor and under the wall. A little while later he saw the biggest one (named "Daddy" by him) going after the horseradish leftover on his dinner plate. He said daddy got a taste of it and went nuts, jumping all over and doing the cha-cha. He must have liked the taste, because they keep trying to get back in, even after Chris barricaded the skirt flap with rocks. He says they have built a nest under his yurt and he hears the family quarrels every night.
So in the interst of trying to get some sleep, he decides to live trap them. Last night, he sets out the trap baited with a fig newton. He swears that as soon as Daddy sees the trap, he sets to the loudest alarm calling yet, running around the thing and yelling at it. (I heard some of this)So now of course, none of the rest of the family will go near it. He's seen 5 of them, 2 big ones and 3 little ones.
Let's see if Chris makes peace with the Pika's and gets some sleep. I sure hope so, he cooks my food!

On a related topic, we have a family of shrews living in a cabin. Last guests loved them, we'll see what the next group thinks.
perswig

climber
Aug 15, 2010 - 08:53pm PT
The steady, droning basso continuo of the approaching plow (finally it's snowing), brief gouts of sparks seen best out the corner of your eye, feet tingling with the vibration of steel on macadam transmitted through our old stone foundation (and maybe up into my soul - it's starting to feel like winter), and then the bittersweet doppler as the plow passes and takes its wakeup song to someone else, leaving in its wake only the sound of the dogs breathing and maybe the tree lights glimmering through the tiny crystals.

I can hear it. Can you?
Dale

(posted '08 in What Song...; starting to think about winter a bit)
Wade Icey

Trad climber
www.alohashirtrescue.com
Aug 15, 2010 - 10:09pm PT
i dreamed a nun playing delta blues in a smoke-filled speakeasy. I'm not catholic and every thing i know about nuns i learned from sally field. that nun played walkin blues and come on in my kitchen like she was breaking a promise... my heart murmured and she knocked the wind out of me. i couldn't breathe. i had to get out of the smoke, get some air, so i awoke.
MisterE

Social climber
Bouncy Tiggerville
Dec 1, 2010 - 09:29pm PT
Bump

A Simple Lesson in Human Behavior
Humanity: 1: the quality or state of being humane
Humane: 1: marked by compassion, sympathy, or consideration for humans or animals
Premise:
The important lessons in life are the most difficult to overcome and understand. If not learned, they return to one again and again.
Statement of Purpose:
This premise lies in all of our subconsciousness, we know with some part of ourselves that it is true. How one deals with the challenge of these lessons defines a state of active or reactive living in our lives. We either choose to accept the difficulty of the challenge of our own reactions/responses to difficult situations, or we react without understanding. When we react, we continue the cycle of misunderstanding, resentment, and anger.
The Questions: “What is it about this statement that makes me react? Why am I allowing this person to effect my perception? My stability? My peace?”
The answers are in the questions. By asking them - internalizing the questions about one’s reactions - it takes the reaction away, makes it personal.
“Why am I responding to this negativity in my particular way?” “What is within me that is unresolved, and therefore forcing me to react?”
In that, it takes the power away from those seeking to engage one’s energy for their insecure purposes. This process serves a dual purpose in that it takes one into an active state of mind, focusing healing energy within. From that active, considerate state of mind, one can look outward toward the person that previously caused one pain and say:
“Thank you for challenging me, helping me grow to be a better person.”
Finding compassion where there once was pain.
It is a way of tricking one’s mind until one gets the hang of the processes, these questions. Eventually, with practice, it will become second nature and one can simply let others insecurities flow around and past them, not through them, not a mirror of them.
Erik Wolfe
06/24/10
Tony Bird

climber
Northridge, CA
Dec 2, 2010 - 08:49am PT
roaks mi shoozle dun wookwee kataff
oazmo lo loro do wozido waff
hoaksa di dafma li lorksma zi smaff
izdi mogo, larksdi mogo, ifti movo. ugi.
Norwegian

Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
Mar 1, 2015 - 06:24am PT
if we by chance meet in the ink-black dark,
and we converge at a common coordinate,
i will be that space where nothing is.

you won't bump into me.
and we won't accidently hug in a co-trip arrest.

with morning's light, you'll only see one set of boot prints
in the dust.

except for that sickle-shaped skid mark, over there.

that's my goal.
because out of everything in this world,
i adore most, the empty spaces.

so i strive to become one.
i don't know if i can accomplish this
while still existing;
that is the crux of my plan,
but i don't deny my dream it's momentum
simply because it is absurd.

i'll do it.
i'll become nothing. i will.
the graduation unto nothing, i do not take lightly.
this position must be earned.
nothing has big, clown-like shoes to phil.

and one day, long away,
you'll be coming down the mountain in the dark,
dammit the torch batteries died,
and we'll cross axis,
and you will recognize me.

maybe as the wind.
maybe as starlight in your eyes.

maybe as an uncommon thought.

i got stock in the mystery.
i sold my everything material,
including my physical essence
in my quest for spirtitual stardom.
thebravecowboy

climber
my pals call me Shackleton
Mar 1, 2015 - 09:25am PT
Having made it this far in my earthly sojourn, I generally don't give the JFK assassination conspiracy a second thought. I saw a guy last week, or was it next week...doesn't really matter which, and he'd just binge-watched the entirety of "Breaking Bad", and he was on clear liquids and some kind of negative pressure bed, plus O2. Well, he looked about how I've felt when I failed to screen out all the JFK conspiracy business that's out there, both signals and chaff.

Eggheads down at Bellevue put me on some kind of narcotic antagonist that helps with obsessions, both foreign and domestic, which allowed me to walk unnoticed among the living.

Until this fella, we'll call him "Joe" came up to me while I was looking at chocolate cake slices at one of the original glass and chrome automats off Fifth Avenue. He handed me a silver dollar-sized wooden disk that read "Help a deaf-mute to put a roof over his head". Code, pure and simple.

He with his key lime pie and I with my chocolate cake with chocolate frosting walked to a glass-topped table near the rear of the shop. We did a little shoving, each wanting to sit back to the wall, facing the front window. A saucy little number dressed like a candy striper gave us water in little cone paper cups which sat in stainless steel cup-holders. What year is this, anyway?

He got right to the point, signing away like a scarecrow in a good breeze. All I know is from "I love you", which earned me an open-palmed slap in the kisser. He then looked around the place, like he was being tailed by all the Feds south of 108th Street. He must have achieved some sense of well-being, as he launched into a rapid-fire verbal explanation of his gig.

"So my mom was de Mohrenschild's secretary and my dad, he was supposed to be Pete Roselli's getaway driver after the JFK hit, but Chicago pulled him out at the last minute to leave Roselli with his fingers pinched under the manhole cover by the Book Depository."

"So you got great street creds, Joe," I said, my eyes half-lidded to disguise my joy at having one person, even a crazy son of a bitch, who supported the conspiracy theory, "but what the f*#k proof you got?"

Joe slapped a mosquito on his neck, left side, looked at his hand which held a dart 'bout the size of a blowgun dart, one with fine red feather fletching. Real pretty, as his eyes quickly glazed over and he fell off the period-piece wrought iron chair.

"C'mon, c'mon, self, what would Robert Redford do?" I asked myself, remembering the jam he got into in Days of the Condor. In as natural a fashion as possible, I exited the automat at a brisk walk, shielding myself as best I could with two rectangular plastic trays 'bout yea big.

It is best if I send this unsigned. They're everywhere, you know.

Unsigned
Tobia

Social climber
Denial
Mar 1, 2015 - 12:34pm PT
you can laugh if you want to, i'm just jammin.

The Mirror and Me
When i look into the mirror, i have no idea of who see,
is it a bad reflection or is it me?

The vague image is something of a man,
you will have to tell me because i don’t know who i am.
i got lost in the picture, somewhere i went on the lamb.

Somewhere in the time of self-discovery, i forgot the plan
since forth
i have been a lost man.

Returning to the reflection, it is a mystery to me,
i search in vain, nothing there but mere vacancy.
No matter which way i turn,the image is hollow
just like my thoughts, i cannot follow.

At some point in my life i believe i could discern
the image and all that it would concern
now that is lost in what is the abyss of years turned.

And with each year passing, i fall farther behind
hence who i am has been hard to define.

When i look into the mirror, there is nothing to see,
the reflection of what i might be
is nothing more than a dark reality.


thebravecowboy

climber
my pals call me Shackleton
Mar 1, 2015 - 09:56pm PT
I was sitting in a diner that sang out "do not enter!", but I had ignored my gut, so to speak. 'Round about half an hour later my "hand-pattied" burger arrived, giving me something to stare at other than the north-of-thirtyfive woman in the sweatshirt that said "HARPY". She was less doped up than some, and had not failed to notice my interest in her chest. We shared a minor blush. She sat up good and tall, the way her mom had once told her, to emphasize what breasts as she was born with . Turns out, her shirt said "HAPPY". I immediately lost interest and concentrated on the fries.

Do as I say, not as I do.

Your father
MisterE

Gym climber
Bishop, CA
Mar 1, 2015 - 10:03pm PT
Bushman

Social climber
Elk Grove, California
Mar 2, 2015 - 08:09am PT
'Yellow Dog'

I used to look at stars more often until my eyes got bad
Then I remembered that I didn't finish reading my giant science book
Before writing kicked in and my poems were had
Until someone hated them and my feelings were hurt so I was off the hook
Until my project overload was like Ivanhoe and I dunno
There's more where that came from but it ain't no yellow mellow custard dripping from a dead dog's eye
Yellow dog yellow dog yellow dog down
I hope the frogs aren't so numerous this year
They poop all over the place
There's no need to worry because what we have here is about a bona fide lack of communication and a lopsided oneupmanship which leaves me to contemplate my indecisive lackluster attitude
Sometimes I think I don't own my own heart and when people tell me I'm not in control of my own destiny my anger seeps out around the edges into my peripheral vision and bleeds into my daily decision-making processes making it more difficult to find the reason to practice kindness for the sake of kindness
Alimony would not suit me nor another sad sack of regrets
Funny how she found me when I was the one looking for love in all the wrong places
There's that and the fact that the rain drifts in striated patterns through the atmosphere as I drive to the east to protect another one's interests for another one's interest in order to protect my own interests at the behest of another's interests which may or may not profoundly affect me
And that might be of some interest
Yet not to thee

-Bushman
perswig

climber
Mar 2, 2015 - 09:16am PT
I thought so, too, DMT, esp the first one on this page.

Some great content throughout! I started from the beginning with this bump only to see my name at the end and no recollection of having been here before; I'm glad I forgot.
Dale
Bushman

Social climber
Elk Grove, California
Mar 2, 2015 - 09:28am PT
Dream #1 set to the music from 'The Lonely Goatherd'
puppet play song from 'The Sound of Music.'

The boy at the parade with his parents wants to know the story of why I am so young after all these many years.
His father told him I looked the same age even thirty years ago.
I tell him I will reveal the secret to them if he will wait there with the others.
He watches me as I cross the parade route and enter a building.
I go up the stairs and into an unfurnished room and I lock the door behind me.
There below the window is a long rectangular pine box and I open the lid.
A dried and grey corpse of a man with white hair is looking up at me.
He knows what I'm thinking.
Telepathically he tells me, "Son, you can never tell anyone how it is we have managed to survive for so many years. If they find out who we are they will be afraid of us and will seek out our kind and destroy us."
Silently shuddering I close my eyes tightly and then place the lid back on the box.
Fletcher

Boulder climber
A very quiet place
Mar 2, 2015 - 09:33am PT
Funny, this thread is kind of the inverse of what I sometimes use SuperTopo for: I'll compose a post on some thread and that post inspires me to write more about it on my blog or or elsewhere as appropriate.

Recognize many of SuperTopo's good storytellers here. Will be back to read what you've all shared later. Thanks!

Eric
Marlow

Sport climber
OSLO
Mar 2, 2015 - 10:19am PT

A raven and an old story
a raven
hops on one foot
crack of thunder
Bushman

Social climber
Elk Grove, California
Mar 2, 2015 - 10:42am PT
There is a secret passageway to be found between where all reason stops and where insanity begins.
Enter at your own peril and remember to leave little bread crumbs along the way.
Make short trips to acclimatize yourself at first and try not to linger in the warm and fuzzy niches.
Just keep moving and don't make eye contact for more than brief seconds with those you encounter there.
Set your alarm for the return trip so as not to deplete your oxygen supply.
Gnome Ofthe Diabase

climber
Out Of Bed
Mar 2, 2015 - 11:55am PT
The passing of some hard memories, lately
?Much harder dreams, that would not pass,
Nightmares,
After fast days and long nights,
Morning Nightmares , passing with the dawns light
crimes of past heros and villains,
projected on the back wall in the darkest corner of my mind.
Norwegian

Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
Mar 3, 2015 - 06:06am PT
yesterday my 8-year old
attempted to destroy her voice box,
just to see if she could.

it drove me to the shed,
she was pissed.

i gently directed her to her
room and allowed her the space to work.

once in the shed
i disassembled my chainsaw
and i mentally travelled
to that dangerous strip on main street.

i avoid this patch of pavement, physically,
because there's katy, the hairdresser upstairs,
and jackie, the wedding-dress gal downstairs.

and boy, i have a huge crush on both.
they are so very adorable.
katie, maybe 33 and a young mom.

jackie, older, in her 50's, with a british accent,
never raised children.

jackie always throws me compliments,
like, "you're smashing."

a few times before i've enjoyed their
light conversation on the sidewalk,
the sun especially hovers over them.

but i'm married to my good wife.
and absolutely adore her, i do.
and i told her so, the other day.

i say,
'gosh, things look down and i'm trodden,
and then i look up and see you, and it's like
seeing a rainbow. and suddenly, everthing's alright.'

and i mean it.

then after cleaning my tool,
i went back in and makalu had calmed down
and i read her 50 pages to sleep.

then i ran to main street
and ripped down all of my wanted posters,
off of those greasy light poles
upon which the cowboys lien.
Bushman

Social climber
Elk Grove, California
Mar 3, 2015 - 08:53am PT
Dream #2 also set to the music from 'The Lonely Goatherd'
puppet play song from 'The Sound of Music.'

That song was stuck in my dreams for three nights in a row. 2nd night of it I dreamed of an early climbing epic composed by my mind sans modern day techniques or equipment, think 'the lonely goat trail.' Some embellishment has been added for effect.

Here where mountain was steepest the angle of the rock and the ice was near vertical to overhanging in places. The rope was taught between the four climbers as the leader pulled up the slack from above. As each man struggled up the cliff face, the last man Jacque, who had being injured, struggled most of all. The rock had struck him above the right eye and the concussion had left him weak and nauseous. Small avalanches of ice and snow dumped upon the climbers periodically. Phillip the leader cried out, "let's go, we have to make the bivouac above this section before dark!" He stared intently at his one good piton which was hanging half way out of the crack in front of him as he winched on the rope, and as the climbers below made inch by inch progress he leaned hard into the cliff face and pulled some more. Blood dripped from his hands and sweat from his brow. The wind was picking up as a sunless grey sky grew darker by the minute. The third man, whose name was Karl, was a seasoned but older climber. He had a bad ankle from an old injury and it had been bothering him throughout the climb. With pain and the numbness in his toes it had become increasingly more difficult to keep this right foot on the holds.

Unbeknownst to any of them the rock fall that had injured Jacque had also had damaged the rope at a place in the middle between Peter, second on the rope, and Karl. Just as a series of small avalanches was raining icy crystals down on them and Phillip was winching in another foot of rope was when Jacque fell. The full force of the rope from Jacques fall caught Karl as he was weighting his right foot on a sloping hold on the icy rock. His ankle gave as his foot slipped and he was away, yelling, "falling!" as he fell.
Phillip and Peter braced themselves against the rope as the the jolt travelled through Peter and up the rope to Phillip. The impact levered the lone good pin downward where it still held the four men to the mountain by a scant two inches of steel in the quarter inch crack.

Phillip yelled down to them, "get off the rope, the anchor is bad and I can't hold on much longer!"
Peter held fast too with both hands on a horizontal hold and his feet firm also, but his strength began to slowly ebb. The two men below still hung swinging and fully weighting the rope, Jacque near limp but struggling to right himself as he moaned, and Karl grabbing a hold but still trying to find perch for his feet. The damaged rope was another matter, frayed where it ran over a sharp flake, sawing itself with the tension and bouncing of the two men. As Phillip glanced down below the situation became sickeningly obvious as he noticed the rope was almost completely cut through.
Bushman

Social climber
Elk Grove, California
Mar 3, 2015 - 09:22am PT
For many years during my tree climbing and rock climbing years I would wake up in the night with an involuntary reaction to reach up and grab something as I was beginning to fall backwards.
Many times I reached up and smacked my hands on the headboard in the process.
Sometimes it also woke my wife as my arms flew up much to her chagrin.
It was at that brief moment where in the tree in my dreaming mind I thought I was losing my balance and falling backwards.
When my shoulder injuries got worse with my right shoulder constantly trying to dislocate it really hurt like a bitch when I woke up and involuntarily reached up like that so suddenly.
I would get such a sharp pain that I would dread the thought of it happening the next time.
Several years after I stopped climbing rocks and a couple years ago after I stopped climbing trees full-time the involuntary reaction to reach out and save myself finally went away.
Strange what the unconscious mind can do.
thebravecowboy

climber
my pals call me Shackleton
Mar 4, 2015 - 06:25am PT
I swear, Jesus and I were the only whites in the entire area. A coupla little sand N... kids, they were poking the reporter (Bill O'Reilly) in the nutbag with sharpened sticks, and laughing away in their pathetic U.N. imitation of speech.

Test my faith? Naw, not by a long shot. Once you've been touched by most of the living popes of the 20th AND 21st centuries, you've got unshakable faith.
Norwegian

Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
Mar 5, 2015 - 04:16am PT
i find myself lost on this journey.
so i get out the topo and lay the tattered
pages before me on the bar.

juses, over these years i've spilt so
many liquids that they are barely discernible.

no wonder i'm off on sketchy terrain.

let's see, here.

i got my w2 form,
my i.r.s. form
and my marriage license,
though which is which i cannot tell for the ink has run.

one says,
"you're f*#ked."

one says,
"you're broke."

and one says,
"f*#k off."

any ideas where i should go from here?

i see a noose way over there
that might indicate the topout.

and over there is a nekid lady,
but she's certainly off route.

ah, i see a beer up there,
and it's falling straight for my head.

whew.
that was close.

maybe i should just bivy
and wait until all the evil in this world dies.

but then i'd never wake up.
Norwegian

Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
Mar 5, 2015 - 04:56am PT
i am learning to hate life
gracefully.

for entropy needs
encouragement now and then, too.

and without graceful deployment,
the hate becomes death,
which is the seed
of a new love.

we can have no more of that shite blooming.

Norwegian

Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
Mar 5, 2015 - 05:22am PT
a million bucks
can be created
and destroyed.

therefore,
it isn't and doesn't matter.
L

climber
California dreamin' on the farside of the world..
Mar 5, 2015 - 08:17am PT
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.




Norwegian

Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
Mar 10, 2015 - 05:51am PT
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.
Norwegian

Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
Mar 12, 2015 - 04:41am PT
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.
Norwegian

Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
Mar 15, 2015 - 06:40am PT
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.

Norwegian

Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
May 11, 2015 - 09:10am PT
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.
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Oct 23, 2015 - 10:15pm PT
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
Bushman

Social climber
Elk Grove, California
Oct 24, 2015 - 06:12am PT
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
Gnome Ofthe Diabase

climber
Out Of Bed
Oct 24, 2015 - 09:42am PT
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.
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Nov 10, 2016 - 02:17pm PT
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
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Nov 22, 2016 - 03:15pm PT
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
Fossil climber

Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
Nov 22, 2016 - 07:21pm PT
Damn, there's some real talent here! Thanks, all!

What is it about fishing that brings out the imagery?
Ksolem

Trad climber
Monrovia, California
Nov 23, 2016 - 12:10pm PT
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."
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Mar 10, 2017 - 12:37pm PT
"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.
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Mar 28, 2017 - 07:13pm PT
**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
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Mar 28, 2017 - 07:16pm PT
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
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Apr 22, 2017 - 11:41am PT
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.
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Aug 28, 2017 - 10:09am PT
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.
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Sep 24, 2017 - 11:48am PT
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
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Oct 17, 2017 - 12:00pm PT
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
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Nov 6, 2017 - 06:14pm PT
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.
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Nov 12, 2017 - 10:20am PT

The two stared a bit too long for the ICE/Secret Service's comfort. Sgt. Jughead Mongo, and four members of the ICE/Secret Service's Mobile Thug Team cut the two "ill-fated equines" down with an estimated 90 second blast from 16 handguns, 11-24 long guns, and "a big ol' RPG (wire-guided)", and in so doing, kept our White Christian Nation safe for "pseudo-democracy". Thoughts and prayers. "Don't pay to f*#k with us. We're everywhere, and we even got girl agents and a coupla guy agents that don't got them big scalp 'butter rolls' on the backs of they haids. I'm not no violent man. And I'm not no angry man. Just sayin', is all," stated Sgt. Mongo with his 'beadies" bulging and blood-shot.

Sgt. Mongo begged to take his leave. He'd just caught word that a seventy year old woman, a native of Montenegro, living for the last thirty years without documentation in Williamsburg, VA, had been spotted. "Can't have these alien Coloreds runnin' around within range of the White House. So we're takin' her down. Wanna come along?" I told him I had a "vienna sausage/tater tot hot dish in the oven, so I'd have to catch the live video feed this time around."
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Dec 1, 2017 - 09:40pm PT
Shortly after his triumphal return to the USA from a really, very fine Asian Presidential Ad campaign, Great Leader trump huddled with A.G.Sessions. The A.G. had just finished perjuring himself to Congressional interrogators. The substance of the meeting of the two predators centered on the three UCLA basketball players whom the President saved from "30-50 years at hard labor' in the Excellent Songgong Rehabilitation Facility in Gangrape, China.

Mr. Sessions said to trump "Them three boys wouldn't last one minute in one of those Chinese toenail factories. You tell 'em that, Mr. Trump, and tell 'em they owe their physcal (sic) health and sexyal self-respect to the fact that you pulled old Z's arm near outen its socket. Showed the Chinese we kick butt. Sir"

The elfin Sessions added "Course, them boys'll never get a job in the U.S.and A., long as you're at the rudder of State, and I got my shillelagh in the water. Hell's bells, we can lock 'em up here in our own great country. Shoot 'em, on a as-needed basis. At long last, it (sic) open season on colored boys, and I swear, my asthma and rheumatism's the best they been since Ronnie Reagan was slashin' the marginal tax rate and pimpin' 'welfare mothers'."

For two powerful men who despised each other, they shared a hearty laugh. The slight Attorney General, as a result of his feet not reaching the floor in front of his velvet-upholstered Queen Ann side chair, consistently spilled his swee' tea (sweetened iced tea), on the carpet, drawing ants. The President, not amused, sipped from his can of Diet Coke and scratched his nuts.

It is not fair to say that the United States of America is adrift. We are on a true and steady heading. No one great mind could have done it alone. Like one of those uneaten fruit cakes, there are many components, components that lead us toward a fatal collision with history. Fixings such as Vladimir Putin, the Koch Siamese twins, Mad Dog Mattis, Donald J. trump, the Steve Siamese twins, Bannon and Miller, and a candied fruit mix of DeVos, Zinke, Perry, Pruitt, Tillerson, Carson, with Mnuchin added as a lubricant and anti-drying agent. Ivanka, Donnie Jr., and Eric, each less than a trace. Hope, Huckabee and KellyAnne to preempt spoilage.

And who benefits from this madness? I suppose the top .1%, numbering at most 320,000 people. Throw in the mortuary owners who specialize in "preventable deaths resulting from no health insurance", and a score of yacht dealers.

Now, mull around in your mind two more figures. The remaining Americans, the scant 320,000,000 folks, who survive on stagnant wages, no retirement, shrinking health insurance, dying Medicare and Medicaid. The second number is 3,200,000. If just one in a hundred Americans has, and uses a pitchfork, there are three million, two hundred thousand pitchforks.

An editorial comment: One pitchfork is an agricultural tool. Millions of pitchforks are quite another thing.
-bgw
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Jan 12, 2018 - 07:36pm PT
Genius Business Man Addresses Debt

President pro-temp Donald trump waited in the 4 million dollar armored Hummer limo as an under-the-table Haitian employee of Mar a Lago scurried into a Palm Beach Get-n-Go Convenience Store for the seventeenth time over the last month. Why was Maurice DuChamps shopping for the president? Paulo Rodriquez, owner of the Get-n-Go franchise, earlier revealed that "Mr. Trump, he is investing in the Power Ball with Power Play, plus the Mega Millions, as he has certain, pues, obligations to the Mafia of the Russians."

A surly black-shirted security fullback sporting a smart submachine gun grabbed Mr. Rodriquez by the throat and pasted a duck tape "silencer" across the man's face, tased him and left a warning letter signed by the president. It looked a lot like those big steakhouse menus favored by trump as he scuttles the USA.

I hid behind, of all things, the Cheetos display, unnoticed by Trump's thug. He rifled Mr. Rodriguez' pockets, stole two packs of Newport smokes and dragged the Haitian employee back to the armored limo.

I don't know how I'm going to relate this incident to my wife, who watches Fox News day and night. I'd best keep the whole incident to myself.


stolen from BGW


thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
May 28, 2018 - 03:48pm PT
Sir, esteem goodbud-dy, royal loyal Americain, Sir,

Has comed to mine attention!! You have, how to say, soft streak when pertane to peoples colored.

Andthen thusly, getsing to "good part" where I asking you to sending many many dollar/rupee to for helping brother mine, Sha-Douchi, getting baling out ov hospital where treating for "only other person infectad by said venerable disease, except monkeys and Americain Presidencetrumps."

Linguage never not mine strongbox, and sensing godliness on your parting, I fell upone knee, both, asking, Sir, for said remittanceance PayPal except.

Praise gods upon your presumed souls in Baghatvannashi Gitmo, copyrights perfectible.

Pygmy Joe Joe, Shrinipur

Post Toasties Script:: Black Beemer 730i no is mine. Belong to "Bad Guy Fil," kissinga cousin Duterte by marriaging.

Above sling of hash protected. FBI, Interpol act upon violations. Just sayin'.
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Dec 24, 2018 - 04:53pm PT
Lots of people are saying that the President, hard at work in the deserted White House, has invited "a team of wonderful people, patriots, wonderful people" most of whom have pleaded guilty to arms charges, interstate transport of Tiki Torches for illicit purposes, miscellaneous "groping charges," perfidy, and that old standby dog poop in flaming paper bags- on -porch-steps violations, for home video showings of "Jeffery Epstein's Party Jet, Unexpurgated."

Sixty-three percent of Americans believe that a White House which operated like a driver-less car would be far superior to the current roach motel at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Feb 21, 2019 - 08:30pm PT
Giuliani plea bargains a golden water closet for trump's cell at Colorado's notorious Super-Max Prison
Southern Colorado, drought-stricken, wind-swept, and economically dependent upon many penitentiaries, anticipates the "enrollment" of disgraced former president Donald trump.

The unrepentant Russian operative is soon to join the ranks of other contributors to the American Nightmare who exist behind the triple walls and coil upon coil of American-made concertina razor wire.

These are bad hombres, don't forget for one minute. And most of them are native-born white-bread Americans. The Unabomber. Terry Nichols. Oh, of course, there's an occasional brown person, like El Chapo, but he was forcibly brought to the US...he's no illegal immigrant.

Anna-Maria Gomez, who lost her two children to ICE agents as she applied for (and was granted) legal asylum in Chula Vista, CA two years ago, had some words for the newcomer (Mr. trump) to Florence, CO. "I miss my ninos oh so very much. My heart is scarred. But I pray that 'El Payaso' will experience consequences for his life of harm."

"In El Salvador, I taught the psychology at university. What most astounds me is the why of your Republican Party, including my Senator Cory Gardner, who are not, by any measure, insane, supporting this, this person, who, with his murdering ICE thugs, imprison my precious children. Is this not a nation of laws, please to tell me? 'Land of the Free.' Dios mio."



As if in answer to Ms. Gomez pleas, the SuperMax Warden confirmed rumors that there was no provision in Guliani's plea bargain for toilet tissue.

credit to the OG Guru BGW-U
thebravecowboy

climber
The Good Places
Apr 1, 2019 - 10:50am PT
trump says "p---y" while pence says "puddy-tat"


In a truly historic turnabout, the White Powerhouse promises a 400 page, gilt-edge, red-letter edition "uncharacteristically truthful" clarification of the blockbuster Billy Bush hot-mike video in which the then-failed businessman Donald trump boasted that he grabbed p*s.

The administration mental hygienist, VP Mike Pence, defended in excruciating detail, his liege, Mr. trump. "The Billy Bush video clearly shows mein Prasident saying that he grabbed puddy-tats, not the other (redacted) (redacted). This I swear on that fictitious Mrs. Butterworth bottle which fake news alleges I cannot tolerate at my table as it would violate mother's and my holy marital vows."

The vice president trotted out a hundred-strong coterie of sworn-on-a-bible toadies, sycophants, shorts-sniffers, incels, number two-scenters, gun-nuts, senate majority leaders, corporate bottom-feeders, pardoned felons, and weenie-waggers eager to attest to the honesty of the commander-in-chief.

The fourteen pound treatise is graced with a likeness of the first four term president stamped in faux gold, and is printed using stolen currency presses at Mar-a-Lago at government expense. It is to be placed in every one of Jeffry Epstein's orgy jets, tawdry hot-pillow motel, dark hallway, and, of course, in each of trump's high-rise money laundries.

TEASER ALERT: This epic tome, an all-time best-seller even before its release, divulges that the president stands, not sits, at the toilet while tweeting.


In a flourishing afterword, Mr. Pence, a cause-celebre of the adamantine religious rightward lurch, celebrates the fact that "pray" and "prey" will henceforth be spelled "prey."

-Bob GWhere
Nick Danger

Ice climber
Arvada, CO
Apr 1, 2019 - 02:41pm PT
Brave, you are a funny dude!
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