Morning Satirical News

Seasons Greetings

 
  

Jock's Thirteen Days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas,
My true love sent me for fun
A cartridge for my shot gun.

On the second day of Christmas,
My true love sent me for fun
Two Victoria’s secrets,
And a cartridge for my shot gun.

On the third day of Christmas,
My true love sent me for fun
Three French kisses,
Two Victoria’s secrets,
And a cartridge for my shot gun.

On the fourth day of Christmas,
My true love sent me for fun
Four calling cards,
Three French kisses,
Two Victoria’s secrets,
And a cartridge for my shot gun.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
My true love sent me for fun
Five beholden kings,
Four calling cards,
Three French kisses,
Two Victoria’s secrets,
And a cartridge for my shot gun.

On the sixth day of Christmas,
My true love sent me for fun
Six hounds a-baying,
Five beholden kings,
Four calling cards,
Three French kisses,
Two Victoria’s secrets,
And a cartridge for my shot gun.

On the seventh day of Christmas,
My true love sent me for fun
Seven mugs a-brimming,
Six hounds a-baying,
Five beholden kings,
Four calling cards,
Three French kisses,
Two Victoria’s secrets,
And a cartridge for my shot gun.

On the eighth day of Christmas,
My true love sent me for fun
Eight aides a-bilking,
Seven mugs a-brimming,
Six hounds a-baying,
Five beholden kings,
Four calling cards,
Three French kisses,
Two Victoria’s secrets,
And a cartridge for my shot gun.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
My true love sent me for fun
Nine caddies prancing,
Eight aides a-bilking,
Seven mugs a-brimming,
Six hounds a-baying,
Five beholden kings,
Four calling cards,
Three French kisses,
Two Victoria’s secrets,
And a cartridge for my shot gun.

On the tenth day of Christmas,
My true love sent me for fun
Ten hordes a-pillaging, 
Nine caddies prancing,
Eight aides a-bilking
Seven mugs a-brimming
Six hounds a-baying,
Five beholden kings,
Four calling cards,
Three French kisses,
Two Victoria’s secrets,
And a cartridge for my shot gun.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
My true love sent me for fun
Eleven gripers pissing,
Ten hordes a-pillaging,
Nine caddies prancing,
Eight aides a-bilking,
Seven mugs a-brimming
Six hounds a-baying,
Five beholden kings,
Four calling cards,
Three French kisses,
Two Victoria’s secrets,
And a cartridge for my shot gun.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
My true love sent me for fun
Twelve grenades with pins a-missing,
Eleven gripers pissing,
Ten hordes a-pillaging, 
Nine caddies prancing,
Eight aides a-bilking,
Seven mugs a-brimming
Six hounds a-baying,
Five beholden kings,
Four calling cards,
Three French kisses,
Two Victoria’s secrets,
And a cartridge for my shot gun.

On the thirteenth day of Christmas,
My true love sent me for fun
A baker’s dozen epiphanies,
Twelve grenades with pins a-missing,
Eleven gripers pissing,
Ten hordes a-pillaging, 
Nine caddies prancing,
Eight aides a-bilking,
Seven mugs a-brimming,
Six hounds a-baying,
Five beholden kings,
Four calling cards,
Three French kisses,
Two Victoria’s secrets,
And a cartridge for my shot gun.

 --Jock Stewart

Read the first 35% of "Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire" for free.

Sarah Palin Saves Local Bookstore Owner's Butt

Junction City, November 25, 2009--Brisk sales of Sarah Palin's Going Rogue are saving the Main Street Book Emporium from the scrap heap of local businesses that go belly up after Walmart comes to town.

Jim Exlibrius, founder and owner of the 20-year-old bookstore conveniently located kitty corner across a busy intersection from the Krispy Kreme, told employees this morning that his butt and their jobs are safe through April Fool's Day because Palin's bestselling book is flying off the shelves "like bats in a tornado."

"I almost lost my shirt after my window display for Audrey Niffenegger's spooky "Her Fearful Symmetry" scared away all my customers," said Exlibris. "Now, I'm making money like a blind water salesman in the Sahara Desert because every woman in this town has always wanted to 'go rogue' and ever man in this town has wanted to know a woman who 'went rogue.'"

According to informed sources at publisher HarperCollins, the Main Street Book Emporium has sold up to 25% of the 2.5 million copies of Going Rogue now in print. Exlibris told reporters that he expects Junction City readers will force HarperCollins to make a tenth trip back to the printer to keep up with demand.

"I not only asked Sarah to come to my store for a book signing so huge that it will make J. K. Rowling look like a wannabee, I urged her (Sarah) to stay here as my wife," said Exlibris. "How can a man not love a woman who writes, 'With the gray Talkeetna Mountains in the distance and the first light covering of snow about to descend on Pioneer Peak, I breathed in an autumn bouquet that combined everything small-town America with splashes of the last frontier.'"

Police reports show that since Going Rogue was released earlier this month, more fights have broken out at the Main Street Book Emporium than Mona's Biker Bar, Hot Balls Miniature Golf Magic Lane, and Ghost-of-a-Chance Cemetery combined.

"If we didn't have a continuous presence at Krispy Kreme," said Chief Kruller, "people would have been killed or worse at that bookstore. Jim just can't keep enough Sarah on the shelf to satisfy everyone."

Sources at city hall indicated that if Palin comes to town to do a reading and signing, Mayor Clark Trail is prepared to give her the key to the city as soon as he can find it (the key).

"He thinks it was in his gone-fishing trousers and must have ended up at the bottom of Miller's Pond after last year's incident with that school of rogue crappies," councilman Calvin Knox said.

The Albino County Literary Club and Pecan Pie Society complains that its winter discussion schedule has been "more tangled than kite string in a Charlie Brown tree" because members sent to Exlibris' store to buy one thing keep coming out with a sack full of Rogues.

"Just a couple of days ago, I sent them there to buy Jeff Shaara's new new book No Less Than Victory, and they came out with Going Rogue, proving, I guess, that winning isn't everything," said society president Marianne Stemple.

Exlibris confessed to Star-Gazer editors that reporter Jock Stewart is the only man in town who refuses to buy Palin's book, and "who the hell is more rogue than he is?"

Stewart reportedly maintains that when Palin buys his book, he'll buy her book and even try out a halibut taco, a reindeer sausage and other delights from the land of the midnight sun Exlibris is giving away free with every copy of Going Rogue through the Black Friday weekend.

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Jim Exlibris, Chief Kruller, Councilman Knox, Mayor Clark Trail and--of course--Jock Stewart are all going rogue in Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire.

Talking to a real reporter

Yesterday, I spoke with a reporter from a mid-sized Georgia daily newspaper about Operation E-Book Drop. As one of the 16 authors at Vanilla Heart Publishing who volunteered to take part, I was happy to find a reporter interested in the story. I want to help get the word out so more service men and women will see it and sign up for a free e-book via smashwords in whatever format they like from text to PDF to Kindle.

When the reporter asked me about "Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire," I told her that if he worked for her newspaper, he probably would have been fired by now. I said the Glock and the bottle of Scotch in his desk drawer would probably be among the reasons.

The newspaper business has changed so much since I went to journalism school, I probably would feel like a dinosaur hiring on to a daily newspaper. So would Jock Stewart, my alter ego, the dark side of me that I blame everything on.

Gone are the days of the letterpress and the Speed Graphic camera. Truth be told, we might soon be saying "gone are the days of printed newspapers." Jock Stewart satirizes almost everything including the newspaper business. I told that to the reporter, too, because all real journalists who work for pay are worried about declining newspaper profits--and the influence of bloggers who work for free. Are we to the point where everyone is a journalist?

Jock certainly says so in "Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire." I hope he says it in a funny enough way that real reporters aren't afraid to talk about him.

I'm looking forward to the reporter's news story when it appears in Sunday's paper. And I hope some servicemen and women see it, too, and realize that in addition to getting a free e-book copy of "Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire," there are about 230 other authors donating their books via Operation E-Book Drop. That's a lot of reading--and the least we can do to support our troops.

--Malcolm, sneaking in a post while Jock is off looking for the keys to his Jeep.

Jock Stewart Novel Tops Junction City Bestseller List

Washington, D. C. Friday the 13th 20009--Libertarian newspaper reporter Jock Stewart of Junction City, Texas is the first unintended casualty-of-conscience of a new bestseller diversity law passed during a period low visibility last night while the moon was behind the clouds of increased government interference in matters that are, quite frankly, none of its damned business.

Harvey Dent, who calls himself the "most liberal of all senators" from the "most whiny of the New England states" began a secret investigation of the New York Times bestseller list several years ago after influential publishers complained that "wizard boy" had a monopoly on popularity.

"Few people realize that the New York Times tore J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter novels out of the regular bestseller list only after we threatened to nationalize the list under the quasi-constitutional powers given to the government by the Patriot Act," said Dent. "We had our eye on Dan Brown for a long time, but didn't have the votes to act."

Stewart, who claims that Dent is so liberal that he wets his bed more often that the party requires, told reporters that while he's happy the novel "Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire" is suddenly making a ton of money due to government interference, he feels "very conflicted" about the results of the new Bestseller Interpretative List Diversity Omnibus act (DILDO).

"The law passed quickly when liberals noticed that the regular bestseller lists were touting a load of conservative books," said Stewart. "By forcing the New York Times and those who disseminate the Times list to offer a smorgasbord of diverse and meaningless lists, Congress hopes to give less fortunate authors a break."

According to paid-off sources, there was strong bi-partisan support for the new law because the traditional lists create a wider gulf between the haves and the have nots.

"Most of the people on the pre-DILDO bestseller lists already had more readers than they deserved just because they were popular and/or wrote good stuff and/or had rich publishers," said DILDO co-committee chairman Jenny Kafka. "Nothing could be more unfair. Our interpretative bestseller lists use a complex algorithm of meets and bounds, liberal vs. conservative demographics, and weighted dice to allow more authors nobody's ever heard of to become widely known."

Constitutional specialists, whose phones seldom ring any more, claim that the next step will be mandated reading followed by pop quizzes with negative tax ramifications for those who aren't reading enough of the government-approved books.

"Anyone reading nothing but books by Beck and Palin would undoubtedly get an F," said Dr. Jefferson Thomas of the Founding Fathers Constitutional Institute. "It's a case of two rights making a wrong."

Dent, who thought Dr. Thomas died years ago said that while giving everyone a chance without regard to their lack of merit would undoubtedly create a weakest-link-based society if allowed to go too far, he remains confident that the odds of that happening are "a more than acceptable" 50-50.

Quoting himself again in the process of writing this story, Stewart said, "My own success at the expense of others makes me pause as I consider whether to give a liberal Congress the finger or a thumbs-up sign."

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Night Beat: Love is the morning and the evening star

Night Beat

Love Is the Morning and The Evening Star

by Jock Stewart, Special Investigative Reporter

The Star-Gazer's Monday morning bulldog edition will carry a story headlined "LOVE-IN STUNS CHURCH OFFICIALS," describing the vast crowd of spiritual pilgrims who attended the Church of the Painful Now's annual "Love Sunday Festival of Praise."

The sanctuary was packed to the belfry when the Reverent Cotton Mouth, resplendent in his deep blue robes, strode to the pulpit, and said to the hushed crowd, "And what is love? It is the morning and the evening star. It shines upon the cradle of the babe and sheds its radiance upon the quiet tomb. Brothers and sisters, I'm here to tell you only a man of God can pen such words about love, not the carnal, but the divine."

Mouth, who begins every "Love Sunday" with those lines, was the catalyst for a festival that, according to highly indoctrinated lay sources, met the needs of a "people no longer willing to hum a love manta that includes the words 'lie down, I think I love you.'"

After the service, Director of Christian Education, Sharon Falconer, explained that participants would be randomly sorted into five groups to discuss various aspects of love based on the following original themes that came to her while she was lying in the clover letting the joy of nature flow into her heart, or words to that effect:

• Love is the morning and the evening star.
• To be in love is merely to be in a state of perpetual amnesia.
• Three things can't be hidden: coughing, poverty and love.
• Don't threaten me with love, Baby. Let's just go walking in the rain.
• Love means never having to say you're sorry.

As Providence would have it, Mayor Clark Trail and I were sorted into the "Love is the Morning and the Evening Star" break out group which met in the Purple Platter's famed Mona Lisa Room "where our food provides enough gas to make you smile."

Host Coral Snake Smith and his staff were on their best behavior, claiming that unlike the "stiff and colorless Presbyterians in the White on White Room, we were all predestined for flank steak rather than the meatloaf surprise." Smith, who only had to serve three of the steaks from a dustpan, was not caught drooling on any of the meals.

After we were well watered, fed, and toweled dry (as needed), our break out leader Lulu Baines suggested that love "is good anywhere and any time, and that's why it's like the morning and the evening star, as the good reverend said. Let us meditate on that while we get our just deserts." She motioned to Smith, who brought in a cart filled with banana splits.

"I swear," said Trail, "I've heard that morning and evening star stuff before."

"Cotton Mouth says that every year."

"Could be," said Trail, diving (figuratively) into his banana split. "It's just so familiar."

I ate the cherry off the top of my desert and slid the rest of it over next to Trail who was acting like he couldn't stop after one.

"Mayor, I heard Burt Lancaster say those lines 49 years ago."

Danny Martin, who was there with his wife Laila, leaned over, dripping whipped cream on the sleeve of his Dockers Suede Sportcoat, and said, "This Lancaster, was he a preacher?"

"He was playing one at the time," I said.

"So Mouth didn't write those lines at all," said Trail.

"But Mouth was right when he said only a man of God could have written them, don't you think?" asked Laila.

"That's a question for Ms. Baines," I said. "She knew Elmer Gantry about as well as anyone could."

"So Gantry wrote them," said Danny.

"Gantry was a figment of Sinclair Lewis' imagination," I said.

"Oh, now I remember that novel," said Trail. "Gantry steals those lines from an agnostic, but whenever he says them, they sound heavenly and pure."

"That's all that matters, then," said Laila, "that the words sound heavenly and pure. That will cover up a lot that is"--she blushed when she said this--"carnal and sordid."

"It's sort of like PR," the mayor. "PR can make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."

"You're right as rain, Clark," I said.

"Spin," said Danny, "love is just spin, is that what you're saying?"

"I thought sex was spin," I said.

"Spin and a whole lot of bounce," said Clark, "unless you're really drunk and don't know what you're doing or who you're with."

Danny and Laila stood up in unison and moved their chairs farther and/or further away. "Sorry, Mayor," said Laila, "but we don't want to hear about sin while we're discussing the morning and the evening star, great preachers like Gantry and Lancaster, or anything else that might make poor Lula Baines feel like a two-dollar hooker."

"Clark, those kids must have been born yesterday," I said.

"Sometimes I wish I could go back to yesterday," he said, finishing up my desert and starting on Danny's. "I wish I could go back to being either naive or stupid rather that stuck in the 'lie down, I think I love you' phase of development. What about you, Jock?"

"I got sorted into the wrong group. For years, I belonged in the perpetual amnesia group, but then I woke up and found myself filled with regrets. My shrink, Dr. Lucrative Angst, told me to make a list of all the people I loved but never told I was sorry."

"Love means never having to say your sorry," said Clark.

"When I said that to Angst, he said it was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard," I said.

"Really!"

I poured two fingers of Scotch out of my pocket flask into my empty iced tea glass. Angst was never as helpful as a wee dram. When Lulu Baines stood up and said, "Love is the magician, the enchanter, that changes worthless things to joy," I ducked out the side door as though I needed to use the restroom.

Truth be told, I've never gone to a love-in without ending up feeling all loved out, and seriously, I needed something more real than the morning and the evening star and hoped I was predestined to find it under the sweet angels heading in my little black book

In fact, my actual heading is "sweet angles," but spinning those phone numbers as "angels" made them more heavenly and pure.

-30-

For more Jock Stewart lunacy, pick up a copy of my comedy/thriller "Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire," released in August by Vanilla Heart Publishing.

What's in it for you reading a book about me?

Night Beat

What's in it for you reading a book about me?

by Jock Stewart, Special Investigative Reporter

County Road 3724, October 31, 2009--I was making a birdie putt on on hole 13 of the west side Hot Balls Miniature Golf Magic Land during the pre-Haunting Halloween Special, when a guy shouted at me from hole 14, "Hey Jock Stewart, that's in it for me reading a book about you?"

He was playing two balls, one for an imaginary friend, and he eight-putted both of them into the mouth of a crocodile guarding the magic castle.

'Absolutely nothing," I said as I sat down to wait for him to either clear the hole or let me play through.

"I keep getting my balls caught in all the wrong places," he said, introducing himself as one Mr. David Farragut of 1864 Torpedo Road in Mooresville.

"If I had your name, I'd be saying damn those teeth, full speed ahead," I told him.

Farragut smiled, indicating with his sad brown eyes and his slouching posture that he'd heard all the David Farragut jokes before.

"I got thrown out of the East Side Hot Balls for saying that," said Farragut. "It was another 18-ball day because I lost a ball on every hole."

"That's got to hurt," I said. "Let me tell you something. I've been there and I've done that. But I didn't get a tee shirt. Instead, some guy from Georgia wrote a book about me. At first, I was really pissed. Then I started waxing philosophical--figuratively speaking, of course--and wondered if a book about me was really a self-help book for you."

"How do you figure that?"

"I figure that with old-fashioned math," I said. "I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, but I'm still a working stiff, getting my three squares a day, keeping a roof over my head, staying more or less sober, and actually having a few laughs. I've screwed up in all the ways a man can screw up, so you don't have to. My life is a road map that demonstrates what not to do and why."

"Really?"

"Right as rain."

"So, hypothetically speaking, how would you get your balls out of the crocodile's mouth and end up with a good score here on hole fourteen?"

"I make up my score as I go along," I said. "That said, I'd fish out those balls with that rake in the sand trap and write down 'two under par' and move on."

Farragut stood up, brushed himself off, and transformed before my eyes from a spineless wimp into a man with the bearing of an admiral, a man who didn't care which side his bread was buttered on because rules are essentially a hobgoblin of little minds, excuses for the weak and the powerless, and rationalizations of those who shed crocodile tears 24/7 while the rest of us race ahead at flank speed on a full tank of guile.

"Mr Stewart," he commanded, "commence to play through with my compliments. Once you're out of sight and out of mind, I have a bit of raking to do."

"You're too kind, I said. Then I picked up my gleaming white ball, spat on it, and said, "I hex you in the name of the granny the conjure woman."

One shot, which might have appeared lucky to the uninitiated, and the ball went right into the hole.

"So you're into witchcraft, then," observed Farragut.

"Not at all," I said, "but the spirits don't know that."

"Now that's guide," said Farragut as he picked up the rake and headed for the crocodile.

"You broke the code," I said, "and the book about me will help you break it every day of the week and twice on Sunday."

-30-

Breaking News: FEDs Closing Down Cat Bootcamp

Albino County, October 20, 2009--Drill Instructor Boots Anderson slips quietly into barracks #3724 five minutes before Reveille on a cool Texas morning. The humidity is 68%, the pressure is 30.05 inches, the dew point is 56 degrees, and the 100 felines at the Albino County Rat Army Boot Camp are blissfully sleeping in the calm before the storm.

Anderson scowls at the mess, the random hairballs, the shredded up bunks, the tipped over litter boxes, the complete lack of military grade standards of cleanliness and ambiance, "as though a tornado hit the freaking place during the long hours between taps and dawn," he muses poetically.

And then it hits. Anderson slings the open, CinchSak (R) 39-gallon lawn and leaf bag of empty cat food cans against the wall. Two hundred eyes pop open, one hundred pairs of ears go back, growls, snarls echo throughout the austere structure. Manx cats comprise company 816, so the denizens can't turn tail and run, opting for caterwauling instead, the kind that makes Anderson's skin crawl as though he's covered in fire ants, the nasty buggers.

"Atten-HUH," bellows Anderson, though it does little good. He hates himself when he resorts to trickery, but the corps demands it or Manx Company is not going to be wearing cat's pajamas on graduation day. So, he puts a smile in his voice when he utters the disgusting words, "Food Time! Would my pretty little kitties like an itty bitty ditty bad of treats?"

The cats assemble smartly in the long center aisle between the rows of bunks. Their bearing is is straight and true like those perfectly posed goddess-style cats in art from ancient Egypt. 

"So you're not a lost cause after all, you lousy, good-for-nothing curs, you miserable excuses for ratters, you sloppy-as-dogs critters, you alleyway varmints. You Siamese." He adds that for good measure, knowing it's a low thing to say to a Manx.

At this moment (05:25 central), the emergency doors at the far end of the building are kicked open and the Feds, damn their lousy timing, crash into the room with assault rifles, mace, snarling dogs straining on leashes, and enough spotlights to make the cats' eyes look like his chaotic collection of old marbles before his brother lost them to Dexter Smith in the school yard before the cat got his tongue.

"General Mark Sirius, Homeland Security SWAT Tsar," shouts the dog-eared fat officer who rolls into the room like like a basset on a acid.

"Are you serious?" yells Anderson.

"If you don't believe me, read my name tag, you wussie cat lover. We're shutting down this operation until we sort through the litter and totally understand what kind of shit you people are into in this county."

"Do you have a warrant?"

"Warrant, why would I need a warrant when I've got guns, dogs, mace and the Patriot Act backing me up? Stand down, I say, for Mark Sirius is sitting in the cat bird seat today."

"It's a little late for that, General, the cats bugged out when you busted in," says Anderson.

"What the hell?" Sirius doesn't look like a cute doggy in the window now. "How did they manage that?"

"Training, General, plus they got those little cat feet; they slipped out like fog."

"Cats or no cats, we're shutting you down. For one thing, it just ain't right, even in Texas. I know what you're thinking, Anderson. You're thinking all we do at Homeland Security is make life difficult for honest, everyday people. Not by a long shot. We've been studying cats, from cat dancing to catamounts to catacombs."

"So what," says Anderson, grinning like a Cheshire cat that's starting to fade into the woodwork.

"I'll tell you what, mister smiley face, you organize cats, you gotta a catastrophe. You think you can control them, but you can't. You whistle and they keep on disobeying your commands, telling secrets, spying, sneaking in under the radar. That's just anarchy, the kind of cat's cradle trap our enemies are waiting for us to get our fat paws stuck in while our pants are down."

Sirius is stoked like a cat on a hot tin roof, but he's not wagging his tail now because Anderson has faded away  into the Texas morning, a morning when the winds are gusting to 23 mph, a morning when the old general should head to the dog house early and hang his head while his masters tell him Sirius is a bad puppy for not putting all those cats in a great big hat and bringing in for questioning.

Anderson laughs from a nearby tree. Once the FEDs leave, it will be back to business as usual. All he has to do is open a can of tuna and the troops will pass in review, soon, if not smartly, the sorry flea-bitten strays.

-30-

For more Jock Stewart absurdity, take a free peek at the first two chapters of "Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire" on Smashwords and see if that wags your tail for you.

Your favorite noir reporter is in hot pursuit of horse thieves, murderers and a full bottle of Scotch in this mystery/thriller with a dash of comedy.

Boss Day Gag Sends Editor to Hell

Junction City, October 16, 2009--When Star-Gazer senior editor Edward Anderson accepted a luncheon invitation from purportedly grateful employees celebrating boss day, he didn't expect to end up in a pine box with a one-way ticket to Hell.

Anderson, who's resting comfortably in a Hell, Michigan sanitarium after waking up in baggage claim feeling "a little crazy," told reporters he doesn't know who put him in the cheap coffin because he was blindfolded and drunk when it happened.

Star-Gazer city editor Alice Chambers said that while the newsroom staff had taken Anderson to the Purple Platter for his boss day lunch, they lost track of him during the food fight.

"After Monique Starnes thew a raw egg, all hell broke loose," said Chambers. "Anderson's always been an outside-the-box kind of guy, so it's hard to imagine him in a pine box unless somebody thought he was dead."

According to Anderson's wife Marcie, "My Ed wasn't dead when he left the house this morning."

Junction City coroner Morgan Slab said that she wouldn't have done an autopsy on Anderson unless she was fairly certain he was dead.

"Anderson's always been out to lunch even when he isn't out to lunch," Slab said, "but dead is a little more grave a condition than absentmindedness."

A spokesman for the Charon Acres Sanitarium in Hell said that while Anderson appeared to have "lost his marbles," he wasn't missing any vital organs. According to sanitarium statistics, many bosses end up in the "looney bin" on October 16th each year and "it's no big deal."

Hugh McNaughton, a security guard for the newspaper, told police that he saw Anderson leave the building with at least 120% of the newsroom staff at high noon.

"In my experience," said McNaughton, "there's usually a yellow-bellied weakling in a group that size that turns stool pigeon whenever the chips are down. But they weren't down, crime-wise at least. If you ask me--and you did--I think Anderson wandered out in the alley behind the building and fell into that joke coffin we keep ready and waiting on the loading dock. It could have happened to anybody."

According to informed sources, Anderson has been shipped to Hell, Michigan in a coffin for the last five boss days in a row without any suspects being found.

"The baggage handlers remembered me from last year," said Anderson. "They gave me a sack of airline nuts and then called Charon Acres. I felt rather touched."

-30-

For more Star-Gazer craziness, pick up a copy of the comedy/thriller, "Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire" available in paperback and on Kindle.

Star-Gazer Classified Ads

FOR SALE - Books, Dreams, Old Coats

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Our Readers Respond: naah naah naah naah naah, Mr. Stewart

Dear Editor--You must be a first class twit covering a story about Jock Stewart's so-called chances of getting a Nobel Prize for that tripe he wrote why he was drunk and/or stoned.

I have no clue who the hell winner Herta Müller is, but Jock, you old coot, hearing thats a gotta hurta.

Just don't come crying to me for sympathy after what you did to me in that silly Sea of Fire business. All I got to say is naah naah naah naah naah, Mr. Stewart.

Yours Sincerely,

Marcus Cash, Editor Emeritus

666 County Road 3724

Yours Sincerely,

Marcus Cash, Editor Emeritus

666 County Road 3724

Stewart on Long List for Nobel Prize

Stockholm, Sweden, October 7, 2009--While names like Bob Dylan and Maya Angelou are being bandied about in literary circles for a Nobel Prize, an obscure reporter from Junction City, Texas was discovered in the short part of the long list by literary sleuths.

Nominated by fate and/or unknown individuals, Jock Stewart is given a 1000-1 chance of taking the prize, while the odds for Dylan are 25-1 and the odds for Angelou are 100-1 according to a London odds maker.

Reached at his home late today, Stewart was asked if he expects to see his own name in the headlines tomorrow when the prize is announced.

"When pigs fly," said Stewart.

Stewart's nomiantion encompasses his books Worst of Jock Stewart and Twice Wed Tails as well as some 100,000 Night Beat columns from the Star-Gazer.

According to Lucinda Trail of the Star-Gazer, "Stewart has gotten screwed out of the Pulitzer for years because the newspaper has been run like a drunk tank. While getting a Nobel is small potatoes, he would certainly be willing to accept it."

According to an Nobel insider who would only give his name as Lars, Stewart has a lot of friends in Sweden because he "tells it like it is even if that means making it up."

Some Nobel laureates were "shocked" and "disgusted" to hear that a libertine like Stewart might be anywhere near the prize.

"If he wins, we'll have to kill him," they joked to reporters loitering around Kornhamnstorg, the waterfront square in the Old Town.

Stewart said that he only wants the Nobel if it knocks Dan Brown off the top of the New York Times bestseller list. Otherwise, "the Nobel plus $5.00 will get you a cup of Joe at the best coffee houses."

Bob Dylan and Maya Angelou could be reached for comment but neither of them said anything about Stewart that could be printed in a family newspaper.

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For more about Jock Stewart, see "Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire"

Night Beat: Waking up in LA

Los Angeles County, October 3, 2009--I woke up this morning fresh out of The Glenlivet without a clue that a dry mouth was going to be the the least of my troubles in a city that boasts 1000 crooks for every pastor.

While suffering through breakfast at a sad diner on Valley Boulevard that didn't serve grits, I got a frazzled call from Chocolate Heart Publisher editor William Klee.

"Better sit down, Jock," he said before going through the normal pleasantries of the first telephone call of the day.

"Pica and I are both sitting down," I said cautiously, "trying to eat a bloody breakfast without any bloody grits. You'd think the City of Industry would have a grit factory. You'd think a guy could come in for a decent cup of Joe and order himself a steaming pile of grits--bloody, choked, and smothered."

"Trudy's already told you about the burglary, right?"

"Klee, I haven't talked to Trudy for weeks, not since she sent me a note telling me I can't spell any better than a den of thieves."

"Jock, don't start," snapped Klee. "A bunch of assholes broke into the Chocolate Heart storage facility and stole most of the books we were taking to the West Hollywood Book Fair on Sunday. When I get my hands on them they will be bloody, choked and smothered."

I ate several fork fulls of hash browns to try and calm my nerves and it worked about as well as throwing a drowning man an anchor.

"Any leads," I asked, "other than the presumption the burglars are assholes?"

"Nary a one."

"When the hell did you start saying 'nary a one'?"

"Just now, Jock. And let me tell you another thing, we're still going to open our booth, we're putting smiles on our faces and mouthwashing away the last traces of Johnny Walker on our breaths, and we're going to be there for our authors, for our people, for writers everywhere across this great land of ours, and when Clint Eastwood comes up and says, "Sell me a book, punk," we're going to shout, "Do you feel lucky?"

A waitress named Barbie, who previously told me she was going to star in the sequel to "Play Misty for Me," topped off my coffee cup. When she smiled fetchingly at me for reasons unknown, I said, "Whatever you do, don't mess with my publisher."

"Oh my Lord, you're Jock Stewart."

"Ged rid of the bimbo," shouted Klee, loud enough to be heard out on the street where several assholes were trying to fence books for enough money to buy some band candy. Barbie ran and hid behind the fry cook who didn't know how to prepare grits or even what grits were, though he thought he'd heard of the movie "True Grit" that starred a bunch of old people.

"You were saying 'nary a one,' Klee," I reminded him.

"I don't have clue as to why," he said. "But now you know what it's like to wake up in LA."

"You've got that right," I said, and we both hung up, in ill humor at how easily an ugly town can turn on you and chew you up and spit you out while you're trying to put one foot in front of the other even though you don't have a clue as to why.

"More coffee, hon?"

"I'll be probably be drinking this swill until the cows all become whoppers the same size as those the thieves will try to tell when the police catch with them."

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Coral Snake Smith Voted Off Survivor Samoa

Upolu Island, Samona, October 2, 2009--Disgruntled patrons of Junction City's Purple Platter Restaurant watched Survivor Samona in horror Thursday evening as their host and famed local restaurateur Coral Snake Smith was voted off the Foa Foa tribe under the mocking gaze of host Jeff Probst.

Moments after the debacle, the five television sets inside the restaurant were covered with meat loaf gravy indicating a high level of disgruntlement.

Speaking on condition of a free omelet every day for the rest of his life, Smith said that he had planned to find the hidden immunity idol and "go the distance" for the $1,000,000 prize which he was going to donate to the orphans of Albino County after paying off a few gambling debts.

"Every season," said Smith, "the program has an obvious bad guy on it, a guy the audience sees immediately, but that the players in camp just don't seem to notice even though he sticks out like corned beef hash on a coffin during granny's funeral. This year's guy had it out for me and nobody gave a flaming lizard's ass about it."

Informed sources close to the hidden immunity idol said that they didn't know "what the hell" Smith was talking about when it came to purported obvious bad guys. In fact, he and/or she claims Smith was voted off the team because he kept doing spit takes all over camp whenever somebody did or said something unusual.

Purple Platter owner Lucinda Trail told reporters she believes Smith was voted off the team because he was vocal about the skimpy outfits being worn by females on the show.

"People are tuning in to see the kinds of tits and ass that they never get to see in real life," said Trail. "They've had two challenges in a row where swim suits had a good chance of being ripped off."

Smith, who remains in seclusion in a secret room above the restaurant with close friends and family, said that he will never show his face in public until the program, taped during the summer, wraps up at the end of the season and fades with other minutiae into the past.

"Coral Snake Smith is a dear friend of mine," said reporter Jock Stewart. "But he dug his own grave when he refused to play the role of the old guy nobody expects to go all the way."

Billy Jensen, president of the Survivor Texas fan club, noted that when one player tells another player, "I'll do everything I can to get you into the final four," one is supposed to be grateful rather than saying "if that's the best you can do, consider me the enemy."

Jeff Probst was unavailable for comment.

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If you're in West Hollywood Sunday, October 4 between 10 a.m. and 6 p.m., stop by the Vanilla Heart Publishing booth (E14 - The Field) and check out the great books on display, including "Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire."

Night Beat: Gossip Columnist Throws the Book at Reporter

Night Beat
Gossip Columnist Throws the Book at Reporter
by Jock Stewart, Special Investigative Reporter

Junction City, September 24, 2009--I remember the exact time Prairie View Tribune gossip columnist Monica Starnes barged into my living room, threw a 220-page book against the side of my head and shouted, "Heavens to Betsy, Stewart, this bloody book makes me look like one of the girls at the House of the Rising Sun."

"The book wasn't bloody until it sliced into my right ear," I snapped. "Now hold your horses while I finish watching my story."

The day in question: Friday, September 18. The time: 3:59 p.m.

My teddy bear Pica and I were sitting in the recliner watching the final episode of my favorite soap opera, The Guiding Shadow. Suffice it to say, I was depressed before my on-again-off-again flame showed up unannounced like bad news and relatives. I had just watched long-time characters spending their last rainy afternoon together walking through Greenwood Cemetery reading the names of former cast members off the crumbling tombstones. It was their all-time best tear-jerker episode.

As the credits rolled, Shiva and Gosh stood next to each other in a tornado on the road out of Winterfield and decided to split up for the rest of their lives.

Story of my life.

"I can't believe you like this schmaltz," snapped Monica. She turned off the TV and handed me a paper towel from the kitchen roller. "Here, hold this against your face until it (your face) stops bleeding."

The book, Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire, purported to be a comedic thriller. "Stewart woke up this morning with an industrial strength hangover," the opening line said.

That could have been about any day of any week, but it was in fact a libelous and possibly true account of Monica (aka Monique) and I ending up in bed together after an office party.

Monica sat on the arm of the recliner and leaned in close. "How do they know this stuff about us, Jock? Are they Feds or spies with hidden cameras?"

"I don't know, Baby Cakes, but what I'm reading so far is funny as hell," I said.

"That's because you come off as the gruff-but-lovable knight in shining armor while I look like the bad girl in town," said Monica.

I flipped open my laptop and Googled the author, one Malcolm R. Campbell of Two Egg, Florida, 'The town where your neighbors are always sunny side up.'

Campbell, who was raised by panthers in Tate's Hell Swamp on the Florida Gulf coast was a widely known hack writer and author of such novels as Lust Under the Billboard, Speed on Square Wheels, and The Lost Thimble.

"Several informed, but aggressively shy sources have already told me that you wrote this novel under a pseudonym because you were angry about (a) The Guiding Shadow going off the air and/or (b) what happened to us while the mayor's racehorse was missing," announced Monica as though she were dictating her next column.

When it came to "us," the story was more about what didn't happen even though we spent so many rainy days together, providing support and shoulders to cry on as we stumbled between the growing number of tombstones in our lives, so many, in fact that fate--the true guiding shadow--laughed its ass off whenever we thought we might catch a lucky break unlike Shiva and Gosh on the show and just be happy, happy in a little white cottage with a picket fence and some kids to call our own no matter who the father was.

"That's balderdash, or words to that effect," I told her, as I laughed at a scene in the novel about Coral Snake Smith's sloppy eating habits.

"But my friends are calling, Jock, telling me I'm a real louse for losing you," said Monica.

"They got that right," I said.

"This is why we broke up," she said. "I come to you for a little Southern comfort and you give me an ice storm of commentary."

She stomped out of the house, leaving the front door open so I could hear her burning rubber as she slapped the shit out of the gears on her Porsche.

"You handled that well," shouted Pica, in a sarcastic tone that always made me want to spit nails.

"Thanks," I said as gruffly as a knight in shining armor is duty bound to respond to evil doers throughout the realm, "you're no sweetheart either."

Truth be told, I knew I was lying to myself. While I would go through the motions of calling lawyers to ask about suing somebody sometime for libel or invasion of privacy or for flat out politically incorrect yarn spinning, I was flattered by the final weave of my new look and feel in the public eye.

As with most fiction, Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire, took liberties with the pure, unbleached facts of my life. But that's covered by poetic license, I'm sure of it.

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 Ask for Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire at your bookstore or find it at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other online booksellers.