Morning Satirical News

Send in the Clowns

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For more Jock Stewart hijinks, click here.

Swedish Serenade Singers Sent to Sanitarium

Rawlson, TX, April 27, 2012--Rawlson is a small, Swedish town in the northern climes of the county where all sins and cares eventually merge into one, and ja, you betcha, the Rillerah runs through it.

Police were called to Lars Sørensen's boarding house in the 200 block of Andersen Street late yesterday morning where they removed four residents on charges of disturbing the peace after they (the residents) sang the same serenade for sixty straight hours to the detriment of folks trying to enjoy their morning Muesli and kaffee.

According to Sørensen, the men became overly bawdy for a family-values establishment when they endlessly repeated the last line of their purported serenade, "Shood to soon shahoon la shoon da shoo shooga shoogan on the Rillerah."

Police took the men to the Rawlson Sanitarium on a 72-hour psychiatric hold.

Police Chief Erik "Hot Shot" Dawson told reporters that the men, whose names are being withheld pending the notification of next of kin, claimed to be protesting the poison oak planted on the banks of the Rillerah by members of the Rawlson school board.

"After the school marm caught kids having a little brawla brawla and a little hut-sut in the park next to the river instead of attending class, she convinced the superintendent that poison oak would solve the problem," Dawson said. "Needless to say, the hooky and nooky players gave themselves away when they kept scratching their shooga shoogans in class."

Informed sources believe it is highly likely that one or more of the serenading men works for the Thomsen High School grounds crew and began singing "Hut-Sut Rawlson on the Rillerah, add a little brawla, brawla too it" while tending the Forget-me-not garden next to the school band room.

At a town meeting, Thomsen High School Principal Ingrid Sooit said that while she was scandalized by the song, "the scratching of private parts proved that they (the parts) might have become a little too public."

The meeting ended when the city council passed a resolution stating that anyone singing "Hut-Sut Rawlson on the Rillerah" outside the privacy of his or her bedroom was to be considered a public nuisance and fined up to 100 kronor for every minute of serenading.

When asked by big city reporters for a little help with the song's meaning, Mayor Bridget Cass blushed and said that the town library had a Swedish-English dictionary at the reference desk for the edification of outlanders.

"Suffice it to say," added Cass, "'hut-sut' is a not-so-nice word for 'sex' and 'brawla, brawla' is a not-so-nice phrase for everything that leads up to it. But, nej, I will say no more about the intent behind such nonsense as ''Hut-Sut Rawlson on the Rillerah, add a little brawla sooit" because as soon as I sign the new ordinance, we can all be fined up to our shooga shoogans."

-

Story by Jock Stewart, Special Investigative Reporter

For more Jock Stewart, download a copy of "Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire" for only 99 cents for your Kindle.

 

 

UNCLAIMED FRIGHT Coming to Town on Halloween

story filed by Jock Stewart, Special Investigative Reporter

Junction City, TX, October 2, 2011--Unclaimed Fright, the mega-corporation founded by de-archetyped Jungian analyst Frederick Anima in the Haight-Ashbury District of San Francisco during the "heady days of the Vietnam War," announced plans to turn the former Border's Book Store on County Road 3724 into a super-sized Primal Scream Center (PSC).

Anima (prounced enema) said that Junction City presented Unclaimed Fright with "overly ripe demographics" for the company's famed electric chair PSC intervention therapy because Albino County is a "seething mass" of humanity with no sense of personal responsibility.

"Figuratively speaking," said Anima, drawing a stick-figure hangman game on a large flip chart, "at least 98.6% of county residents are hung up with fears. They are literally being scared to death by everything that goes bump in the night, but won't admit it."

Puer Aeternus, chairman of the Junction City Psychotherapist's Club interrupted Anima's presentation thirteen times--based on security cam footage. He shouted, "You've got that right!" six times and hit Anima in the head with a spit wad seven times.

After being subdued by police and given 5cc of Valium, Aeternus explained that while Texans are "mean sons of bitches" on the outside, they live in a state of denial about their fears on the inside.

According to a Junction City Psychotherapist's Club white paper, Albino County needs a massive "infusion of sanity" that will not be found by screaming for hours in one of Unclaimed Fright's mock electric chairs.

"Primal Scream Therapy is a meaningful intervention for patients with neurotic disorders," said Anima. "We've simply enhanced the process to keep the cost to the patient well within the amount insurance companies are willing to pay. It's widely known that insurance companies think talk therapy is 'just paying for friends,' so we cure folks in our unfriendly, 'Old Sparky Electric Chair Room.' Patients are taught to own their fears with reasonably safe jolts of persuasion from an old car battery and leave feeling much better about the outside world."

Anima said that the company's award winning and highly controversial "GOT FRIGHT? CLAIM IT HERE" advertising campaign will begin running in the obituary section of the Star-Gazer next week.

An informed source for the nearby Saint James Infirmary, speaking on condition that he would not be referred to as the "Boss Shrink," said that it was "unlikely" that any of the "therapists" working for Unclaimed Fright would be allowed to commit anyone other than themselves to the infirmary.

Unclaimed Fright officials promised that its PSC would keep neurotics off the streets with the same effectiveness that the state's lethal injection program keeps criminals off the streets.

--

Got unclaimed laughter? Put it to good use by reading Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire, the comedy/satire about Junction City, Police Chief Kruller, and the seething mass of fictional humanity of Albino County.

Organized Crime Eyes Rising Sagebrush Revenue

Reno, Nevada, August 9, 2011--Vinnie "Big Bonanza" Romano is finally a happy man. While sales at his International Romano Cheese Company are merely modest, street sales of his sagebrush products are finally going up in smoke.

According to sources who claim their lives "wouldn't be worth a played out silver mine" if they talked openly, Romano moved from Detroit to Reno three years ago when he realized the Sagebrush State was "a place where the big cheese in a well-organized family" could corner the sagebrush market.

"The landscape around Carson City, Virginia City and Reno is badder than the Badlands," Romano purportedly told his friends around a Vegas roulette wheel before there numbers were up. "But look at all the damn sagebrush, ripe for the picking."

Romano set up a factory in an abandoned silver mine near Virginia City in spite of the fact nearby signs told him the place was dangerous. The plan: to introduce a new product called Nevada Rubbed Sage that would steal business from the venerable McCormick Company.

Factory manager Mario Bruno sent gangs of sagebrush thieves out into the bad Nevada landscape to bring the stuff back to the mine by the light of the moon and a few well-placed flashlights. Beneath the rotting timbers where men once became rich extacting silver from the earth, Bruno's machines hacked, chopped and rubbed sage before depositing it into thousands of .5 ounce bottles with silvery labels.

According to chief marketing goon, Bill Smith, McCormick's sage is imported from Croatia which "last I heard, is unAmerican. Our home-grown product will help the poor Carson City and Reno economy while undercutting McCormick's $2.98 price."

Introduced at $1.00 a bottle three years ago, initial sales of Nevada Rubbed Sage were brisk even  though Trader Joe's, Safeway and Walmart refused to carry the product.

"Who are you going to trust to rub your sage," quipped Romano, "sage from a company founded by a guy named Willoughby or a jet-setter named Vinnie?"

Vinnie's rubbed sage hit the fan, informed sources believe, on Thanksgiving Day 2008 when everyday families dipped into mama's best turkey and dressing and realized that the ground up and rubbed sagebursh growing on Nevada's bad-looking landscape tasted bad.

Sagebrush expert Rider Purple explained to reporters gathered around a Nevada Rubbed Sage outlet on U. S. 395 that while the toxic sagebrush, Artemisia tridentata, smells like common sage (Salvia officinalis) when it's wet, it "tastes lousy and bitter and more or less like weeds on a plate."

After trying "weeds on a plate" as a green-oriented, natural-sounding, family-friendly slogan for his Nevada Rubbed Sage, Romano concluded late this summer that his rubbed sage was simply rubbing people the wrong way. According to uninformed sources, he said, "hell, maybe we can get those turkeys out there to smoke it."

To the chagrin of the legal and highly taxed cigarette companies, sales of Vinnie's Bad Smokes have been brisk.

--Jock Stewart, Special Investigative Reporter

This e-book parody of “helpful hints” newspaper feature articles is inspired by "In a Flash," by Smoky Trudeau Zeidel and by "Morning Satirical News," a weblog by Malcolm R. Campbell. Available for only 99 cents.

 

 

 

 

 

Night Beat: Andy Williams no longer sings 'Loon Liver'

Got up this morning and heard a raucous cacophony of screeches, hisses and flutes outside the window. Sounded like the crap we used to hear on the first day of band practice back at Sam Houston High School.

Since I'd fallen asleep in my clothes--just in case--I grabbed my Glock-17 out from under the currently un-used guest pillow and ran out on the desk to investigate. The world looked normal which meant it probably wasn't.

"I love that big old gun of yours," said my sexy neighbor lady Label Ranks who just happened to be peeking over the fence.

"Thank you, Label."

"Stop calling me Label. The name is Mabel Franks."

Franks? No wonder she always looked at me funny. Before I bought a pair of hearing aids yesterday for the reasonable price of $57,000, I never could hear the letters "M" and "F." Every time I walked into the press room at the Star-Gazer, the purported employees shouted, "Uck you, lover ucker." Always thought they were daft.

Turns out, I was deafer than I knew.

"Sorry, Mabel, but today is the first time I've been able to hear much of anything other than gibberish."

"Two years of my sweet nothings have been wasted on you. Is that right, Jock?"

"Right as rain."

"Pity," she said, lighting up a cigarette that I'd always called Larboro, prompting fast food clerks to scream "Uck you." I never saw the humor in it as the time. "So, what's up other than your gun?"

"The racket," I said, wondering if she were deaf or daft.

"What racket?"

"That crap in the trees."

"Birds, Jock, the joyful song stylings of your fine feathered friends."

"They sing?"

"They do."

"My goodness."

I ran inside and called Lucinda at the Star-Gazer.

"Birds," I shouted. "They sing. The bird books are right. All those italicized words describing what birds sound like are true. They (both the sounds and the birds) are right here in my yard."

"You finally bought your hearing aids."

"About 57 grand just to hear birds sing, to learn my neighbor's name isn't Label Rank and to realize the guys in the press room never did yell 'Uck you' when I pressed the red button to stop the presses like they do in the old black and white movies."

"You haven't heard a word I've said for years," she quipped. "I wanted to liven up our sex life with a little conversation, but you always ruined it singing that gosh awful Loon Liver."

"Ah, Baby Cakes, it's my favorite song."

"Here, listen to this MP3 file of Andy Williams singing your favorite song."

The lyrics, which began on the top floor of the Star-Gazer building downtown made their way from one cell tower to another, bypassed the fine feathered friends in the trees, and reached my cell phone as a very celestial rendition of the humorous song about loons I'd been singing to girl friends and hookers ever since the comedy Beak Ass at Tiny's came out in 1961.

"My goodness, what has Andy done to our song? Moon River, wider than a mile? What is that about? Send in the loons." I spat on my new hearing aids and put them back in my ears. No help. Same new lyrics, lyrics that made a mockery of everything I knew and loved.

"Indeed," she said. "Other than you, there isn't a loon in sight."

"I'm guessing the movie never was called Beak Ass at Tiny's was it."

"Maybe yes, maybe no."

The thumping noise tangled up in her voice was starting to get irritating. "What's the deal with the jungle drums in the office?" I asked, not wanting to know.

"That's my heart beating, Jock."

"You have a heart?"

"Yes, and it starts beating faster and faster whenever you say those naughty words 'Loon Liver.' It's a conditioned response. Those words usually mean I'm about to get lucky."

"Hold that thought," I said. "I'm already in the car."

"You slept in your clothes again, how crude!"

"Crude!" I exclaimed. "I liked it better when I thought it was lewd. I'm taking my hearing aids out as soon as I get to your executive suite."

"Please do," she cooed.

-

Jock Stewart appears in the novel "Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire" by Malcolm R. Campbell as well as a series of cool e-books.

Malcolm R. Campbell is also the author of "The Sun Singer," "Bears; Where They Fought," and "Garden of Heaven: an Odyssey."

What's the sound of one cat clapping?

Junction City, June 24, 2011--Albino County homeowners from Prairieview to Moorseville are reporting a "disturbing upsurge" in cat vandalism in spite of the best efforts of county commission chairman Dick Cheshire's Cat's Cradle Task Force.

According to spokesmen for the sheriff's police, incidents of hairball vandalism, shredded rare books, missing parakeets, torn furniture and midnight caterwauling outside bedrooms where innocent children are reading exotic books under the covers with flashlights are up 330% since the last time anyone checked.

"It's a catastrophe," said Cheshire as he admitted that "little cat feet" had depleted the task force's budget of $350,000 in only three weeks. "Our finances smell like a bad litter box."

The latest known incident occurred before dawn at the home of Coralie Poodlestone of 666 Dante Street in Mooresville where the scalloped apron rail and sweeping cabriole legs of Baker provincial draw table were "shredded to smithereens." A note next to a broken dining room window said, "What's the sound of one cat clapping?"

Two weeks ago, a group calling itself Cats is Us sent an e-mail to the editorial department of the Star-Gazer, claiming responsibility for the violence. While the Sheriff's Department has asked the newspaper not to release the full text of the message, Editor Lucinda Trail said that the message was typical of the kind of "cat and mouse acts that run rampant through innocent communities like unclipped claws through a cat lover's arms when pet stores and veterinary clinics become so obsessed with booze and reality TV that they forget to close their doors when night flies into town like little crows' wings."

Poodlestone said she believes cats from Cats is Us are targeting homeowners in her neighborhood due to the Man's Best Friend Acres sales department's "hazardous preoccupation with homeowners having doggy sounding last names." The Rex family at 75 Dogrun Avenue and old lady Fido at 387 Broken Leash Road discovered, when they went outside to take a leak this morning, that their yards were covered with hairballs and empty tuna cans.

According to Cheshire, the county's crack philosophers are trying to figure out the answer to the sound of one cat clapping riddle. "So far, the answer is 'nothing,'" Cheshire said with a grin that hung there in the air long after he had left the building.

Sheriff's Police detectives label the demands of Cats is Us "excessive and out of sync with the traditional kinds of demands made by garden variety kidnappers and other hooligans.

"All cats love fish but fear to wet their paws," explained Bill "Cat's Eye" Morgansterne. "They want what we can't give them and don't want what we are offering which, if I do say so myself, is a cat’s pajamas kind of deal."

According to Trail, all of the notes received from Cats is Us and copycat gangs indicate that the "litter will hit the fan" if the demands are not met prior to the dog days of August.

"I feel like a detective on a hot tin roof,"Morgansterne admitted.

-30-

Click here for more wild stories from the famed Star-Gazer.

Royal Wedding to Hurt Junction City's Economy

Junction City, April 26, 2011--Local businesses will be locked down and shuttered this Friday by order of Mayor Clark Trail to allow citizens who escaped from the United Kingdom to watch the Royal Wedding festivities without fear of getting a pink slip from the boss. Numbers crunchers estimate the local holiday will cost the city as much as $50 billion at a time when the economy throughout the region is already in need of hospice care.

Trail, whose ancestors served carefully as Groom of the Stool to multiple English kings, proclaimed Friday as Kate and Willy Day in honor of the wedding experts say will save the monarchy from indifference.

Albino County Baseball Stadium will provide complimentary breakfast scones and luncheon haggis for wedding enthusiasts who want to "share the joy" with up to 50,000 other fans and the 160 by 72 foot Score-a-Tron high definition television screen.

Local dignitaries, including the Mayor, Chief of Police Kruller, Main Street Book Emporium owner Jim Exlibris, Investigative Reporter Jock Stewart, and the Reverend Cotton Mouth of the Church of the Painful Now will officiate at an on-the-field wedding ceremony for Mack Smith and Edna Jones. As winners of the Star-Gazer's William and Kate look-a-like contest, Smith and Jones will, through the magic of television, take their vows alongside the royal couple. The ceremony will begin at 5 a.m. local time.

"Even though we'll be standing on home plate here in our sweet little town," said Jones, "we will be at Westminster Abbey with William and Kate in spirit even though Kate shunned us by not replying to our e-mails about the joint wedding."

Earlier this week, stadium groundskeepers announced that their supply of red carpet only stretched as far as second base, a fact that "seemed damned appropriate" according to Smith's Facebook page. However, Anglophiles at Mega-Mart Carpet Outlet in Prairieview stepped up to the plate with enough carpet to cover all the bases.

Trail, now divorced, married his former wife Luncinda at the Albino County Baseball Stadium during the seventh inning stretch of the championship game between the Mud Hens and the Mooresville Tailgaters, said that he thinks the "royal spin" on Friday's stadium wedding will increase the odds for many years of wedded bliss for Smith and Jones.

Just prior to the ceremony, as screaming fans get their first glimpses of Kate's and Edna's dresses, the Junction City Wal-Mart will release the name of the designer along with sketches and photographs.

After the home plate ceremony, Mack and Edna will travel down the vacant and almost-bankrupt Main Street in Mark Trail's old hay wagon pulled by the champion horse Sea of Fire. Fans at the stadium will simultaneously view both the hay wagon and Kate and William's horse-drawn carriage via the split-screen feed on the Score-a-Tron.

During a breakfast, hosted for 650 guests at City Hall by Mayor Trail, Mack and Edna will step out on the loading dock at 7:25 a.m. local time to greet the crowd. According to former gossip columnist Monique Starnes, "yes, my sweets, there will be kisses both here and on the palace balcony."

"It will be a Disney-Style, fairytale day for all of us," Trail said, "even though Mack and Edna will not be allowed to honeymoon alongside William at Kate at the Great Barrier Reef due Mack's fear of fish and other complications."

While the British Monarchy has declined to comment on Junction City's home plate wedding, local officials are hopeful the Queen will give TV cameras a discreet wink and a nod during the exchange of vows as a sign of good sportsmanship.

---

New from Vanilla Heart Publishing, Jock Talks Strange People is available as an e-book on Kindle and in multiple formats at Smashwords for only 99 cents. Along with Jock Talks Outlandish Happenings and Jock Talks Politics, this new e-book features the collected satirical posts from Morning Satirical News.

For more information about the new series, see the Jock Talks web page.

Some of Jock's favorites include, "Mimi Saint Croix Gets Epitaph to Die For," "Publisher Fires Author for Spitting on Sidewalk," "FEDs Closing Down Cat Bootcamp," "Coral Snake Smith Voted Off Survivor Samoa," "FEDS: 'Eat an apple a day or we'll fine your ass'" and "City Gets in Bed With the Mob to Save Library"

Our Readers Respond

Dear Editor,

You hopeless twit, death is not a laughing matter. It's serious business. When a comedian passes away, they're immediately reincarnated into a burro so they can be useful, like taking fat tourists down to the bottom of Grand Canyon.

Louise Smith, Graveyards are for Losers, Box 777, Junction City

Broccoli and Beer

No matter how many times I told my high school cafeteria workers "beer is food," they never gave us anything green on St. Paddy's Day except broccoli.

The only broccoli the kids at PS 666 thought was important was Albert Broccoli, producer of the James Bond films. Brocolli in any other form was an oversized slab of garnish some cooks used when they ran out of parsley.

Student Government to the Rescue

The head of our student council, Jack Hopps of Prairieview, became a genius on St. Paddy's Day Eve when it occurred to him while drinking beer at a triple-feature horror-rama at the drive-in theatre on County Road 3724, that the head cook at PS 666 might serve beer greened up with broccoli under the pretext that it was simply a loose dip.

Disguised as his own mother on a bad day, Jack arrived at the school's cafeteria loading dock at 6:00 a.m., backing the family pick-truck in between the gravy tanker truck and the truck of loose crackers. "Jack's Mother" packaged the dip in one-gallon mayonnaise jars, so it looked right at home on the loading dock with the other factory fresh foods delivered in mass quantities for the kids who couldn't afford to pack a sack lunch from home.

Mamie Slams Down a Few Shots

Head cook Mamie Staunton, whom it was rumored served time at the state pen for serving fresh botulism at a café closed down by the health department, took a quick liking to “Jack’s Mother’s” dip. According to several truck drivers, she consumed “enough to be stinking drunk because, as everyone knows, broccoli in any form smells really bad.”

Needless to say, Mamie viewed the concoction has “a fine broccoli dip” that would disguise the fact the crackers prepared for that day’s lunch had more sawdust in them than usual. Meanwhile, those in the know—which included everyone but the real or imagined adults on the premises—viewed the “dip” as beer with a dash of broccoli in it.

Restrooms Searched to No Avail

After lunch, the school principal noted that the kids being hauled into his office “were drunker than usual.” The restrooms, PE department, band room other “usual locations” were searched, but no alcoholic beverages of any kind were found.

Suffice it to say, that if any of this really happened, it was a long time ago, so telling about it now isn’t going to get me into any trouble. Should you wish to donate a couple of gallons of Mama Hopp’s Broccoli Dip to your school cafeteria or civic organization, here’s the recipe:

How to Make the Stuff

200 gallons of light Irish beer.

1 package of chopped frozen broccoli (thawed out)

1 small jar of diced pimentos

1 pound of grated Parmesan cheese

1 tsp salt

Stir ingredients carefully in animal feed trough or other handy container. Taste frequently to insure best practices food preparation standards are being ignored. Dump contents into one-gallon mayonnaise jars.

Enjoy.

--by Jock Stewart, protagonist extraordinaire in "Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire," a comedy/satire about a hard boiled news reporter, now on sale for only 99 cents.

Burning Balls Light Up Ides of March Eve

Junction City, March 15, 2011--The top drawer men of Junction City pulled out their best clothes for last night’s Ides of March Eve gala “set your balls on fire for libraries” festival at the miniature golf course on County Road 3724.

The brain child of Hot Balls Miniature Golf Magic Land president Corinne Manchester, the debut of what will become an annual event raised $276,000 for the Junction City Public Library.

Hot Balls uses a secret mixture of kerosene, glue, and eleven herbs and spices to transform ordinary golf balls into flaming golf balls with enough fire in their hearts to burn for nine badly played holes.

"Men, with their balls on fire, whacked their sticks all over the 18-hole course showing that they have what it takes to give until it hurts,” Manchester said.

Random sources close to the golf course whispered that many balls remained on fire in the steamed-up automobiles in the parking lot after the gala, suggesting that wives and lovers also put out for the cause.

Mayor Clark Trail, who burned up the course during practice sessions earlier in the day, confessed that while he voted against the zoning variance that allowed Hot Balls to open its doors to adults who loved playing with fire and give the fire marshal the finger, he now sees how wrong he was.

“Fewer people than expected have gotten hurt,” said Trail, “and most of them knew it was their own damned fault for trying to keep too many balls in the air at once. Tonight, we all got burned for charity and the city is richer for it.”

Fire chief Mary Ash said that the department “hosed down players who got too hot for their own good.”

-

In other county news:

• Leona Andrews, 235 Crooked Creek Road, Pinedale, celebrated her 106^th birthday today by burning down a backyard picnic table when she was unable to blow out the candles on her angel food cake.  
• Martin Lantz, Star Route, Prairie View, was arrested on suspicion of shoplifting when he was caught with a mouthful of beef jerky at Bunting’s Shop ‘n Serve on South Ten Mile Road last night at closing time. 
• According to Parker House, security chief at the Hot Balls Miniature Golf Magic Land on County Road 3724, the nuts being handed to customers getting a hole in one (a golf term) are “only Cashews.”  

###

99^¢

Guess what, kids! You can now read the stunningly hilarious Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire e-book in multiple formats at Smashwords for just 99 cents. Buy today because we’re not going to give away the farm forever.