Morning Satirical News

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."

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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.

 

 

ASSBOOK Goes Live Today Across the Internet

New York, New York, February 7, 2012--A new anti-social networking service was launched today in a small office deep in the bowels of the city so nice they named it twice. Called "ASSBOOK," the service allows users to compile enemies lists, comment on each other's mundane behavior, add daily anonymity updates, upload strange photographs from around the house, and keep track of what's happening on the "G String" listing of "news."

According to ASSBOOK founder Joe Bum, "we provide a forum for people who like to make asses of themselves and/or sit on their asses all day watching others make asses of themselves."

ASSBOOK International's Mission statement reads in part, "Dedicated to those who freely invade their own privacy in order to provide online advertisers with the demographics they need to target their pitches."

"If one enemy tells another enemy, 'my ass hurts,' you can be sure there's going to be a proctology advertisement appearing on his profile within nanoseconds," Bum said. "We are especially proud of our YOUR ASS IS GRASS chatroom that encourages folks to tell below-the-belt secrets while advertisers, and maybe the FEDs listen in and participate in real time as though they're harmless people."

Informed sources promised Internet "Social Networking Experts" that the company's motto, THE BUTT STOPS HERE would apply to the site's functionality as well as it's clientele. Software engineers will make weekly changes to default settings, screen design, G String sorting, and picture resolution requirements.

"Our approach will separate the sweet asses from the bad asses, user-wise," said Chief Webmaster Craig Bottoms. "Those who put up with us and keep on keeping on will be sitting ducks for the site's advertisements."

Like other social networks, ASSBOOK will encourage people to copy and paste material into their profiles from sources all around the Internet. making copyright infringement less of a pain in the ass than it was in the old days.

"Most ASSBOOK types will find it much easier to paste proverbs, videos, photographs, and headlines into their profile pages rather than coming up with new material on their own," Bum said.

Bloggers, as opposed to actual reproters, were quick to say in some 100,000 posts on Typepad, Blogger, Xanga and WordPress to date that "the whole thing looks like a suppository for the huddled asses yearning to be free."

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Story by Jock Stewart for "The Star-Gazer

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.

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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.

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.

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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."

Autopen Signs Patriot Act Extension While President in France

Washington, D.C., May 27, 2011--An autopen, purportedly acting with Presidential authorization, signed an extension of the Patriot Act on the other side of midnight before many of the unconstitutional portions of the law expired.

White House insiders, who may or may not have been standing inside the White House at the time, claim that the autopen will serve as "a marvelous scapegoat" if and when the law is used improperly.

Jefferson Thomas, president of Where Have All the Freedoms Gone, said that the administration will probably never need the plausible deniability provided by the autopen because the government won't tell the public how the law is applied.

"You can be arrested for breaking the law," said Thomas, "but you'll never know for sure whether you did or you didn't because whether or not you'll be arrested for breaking the law is classified. Privately, many law makers laugh at just how Kafkaesque the Patriot Act and its enforcement really are."

While President Truman used an autopen to answer mail from people who didn't know where the buck stopped, the autopen has enjoyed White House priviledges as far back as the administration of Thomas Jefferson. In those days, the autopen was called a polygraph, a notion that proved inconvenient in later years to those trying to use the pen to sign things they didn't believe in.

According to political analysts, autopens are responsible for most of the nation's laws due to the fact that most elected Representatives and Senators don't have the time to properly frame, much less read, prospective bills in either house of Congress.

French President Nicolas Sarkozy jokingly told President Obama after the law was signed that he was quite sure an autopen has been responsible for most of the insulting things the French have said about the United States after "you Yanks saved our butts in the 1940s."

Patriot Act Enforcement Tsar Bill Smith (not his real name) said that most Americans don't need to worry about the freedoms that have been abridged by the law because they weren't taking advantage of them anyway.

"If you don't know you're free," he said, "you might as welll be in chains."

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For more Jock Stewart, sample the "Jock Talks" series of satirical e-books available on Kindle for only 99 cents each. The latest, co-authored with Smoky Trudeau Zeidel, is "Jock Talks Lightning Safety."

This 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.

Zeidel, who was struck by lightning twenty-two years ago, recounts her true story of the event and its aftermath in her e-book In a Flash. Campbell, who has seen lightning outside the window, uses his “Jock Stewart” alter ego on his weblog to satirize real and/or imaginary events. For legal reasons, Zeidel and Campbell warn that while real lightning has probably occurred in Zigzag, Oregon and on Mt. Hood’s Zigzag Glacier, the story you are about to read is as fictional as a bolt of lightning in a fabric store.

Use of this volume as a lightning rod has not been authorized by the NOAA National Weather Service.

 

 

 

Harding: 'Spirit of Teapot Dome Pushing Up Oil Prices'

Blooming Grove, Ohio, May 2, 2010--With oil prices on the rise, members of the Warren G. Harding Seance and Spook Association (WGHSASA), asked the ghost of the former President at his annual Walpurgis Night appearance if he knew "what's up with big oil?"

"The Spirit of Teapot Dome is pushing up oil prices," said Harding (1865-1923), "and this time out, none of my friends are going to take the fall for it."

Harding, who is often called America's least-effective President, has appeared to paranormal people on the thirteenth floor of the historic Argus Hotel in metropolitan Blooming Grove near his birthplace every Walpurgis Night since 1924.

When the former President appeared to be a no-show for his yearly Not Nostrums, But Normalcy meeting with CIA operatives, thrill seekers and Presidential hopefuls, WGHSASA members lit an extra bonfire on the hotel balcony and began changing the immortal lines of writer John Hodgman:

Fiddle, diddle, fiddle fee,

Teapot Dome has come for me.

Fiddle, diddle, middle, me,

Harding's corpse will come for thee.

Harding, who materialized dead-center on an overstuffed couch, shouted, "Who interupts my sleep tonight when the powers of darkness are abroad in the land?"

"It is I, Master, your humble servant, Mikey De Wolfe, president of the Blooming Grove chapter of your fan club."

"What have you to ask of me, Mikey?"

"We are concerned about Benchmark oil for June delivery prices as reflected in trading on the New York Mercantile Exchange and on the ICE Futures Exchange in London," said Mikey.

"Mikey, dear boy, you must always remember my credo, Not Agitation, But Adjustment," said Harding. "As you ponder oil prices, ponder where the oil is and who has it."

"Big oil has it, Sir."

"Have they really?"

Harding leaned back on the couch and seemed to fall asleep. When Hodgman's immortal lines failed to hold him to the earth plane, Mikey and other WGHSASA members served the traditional post-seance snack of Alaskan King crab to all who had gathered at the Argus.

On-the-scene historians reminded reporters that the meal is a brave tribute to a former President who, some say, died of bad crabs in San Francisco during his 1923 cross-country "Voyage of Misunderstanding," rail trip.

According to well-placed insiders, "Big Oil" representives attending the seance where "white faced" during Harding's pronouncements. One grey haired man dropped his teapot.

According to Old Maxie, the elevator boy at the Argus, the hotel doesn't have a thirteenth floor.

"But every year they come here," he said, with a grin on his face, "to re-enact Odgen Nash's most famous epic, A Tale of the Thirteenth Floor. As Nash said, conversations like this are 'table talk in hell.' Let's depart in peace in a spirit of Not Experiment, But Equipoise and let our dearly departed Presidents lie."

Mikey laughed when Maxie said that.

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--Jock Stewart, Special Investigative Reporter for the Star-Gazer. Download his free "Jock Talks...Satirical News" e-book from Smashwords.

 

Night Beat: If only I dreamt of Jeanie with the light brown hair

Last night, I dreamt I'd fallen on hard times and had once again been forced to take a job as Britney Spears' cook.

I had just placed her morning bowl of cheese grits and jalapeno peppers on the breakfast nook table when she ran through the room trying to get her pink slippers away from my dog Duke and, as expected, knocked the grits off on the floor making the kind of mess no man wants to see at that hour of the day.

"Oops! I did it again," she said.

If only I had dreamt of Jeanie with the light brown hair.

Jeanie is the new receptionist at the Star-Gazer, hired two weeks ago when our former receptionist, Margaret, was deported for being a Canadian with no quickie marriage prospects.

When Jeanie moves through the newspaper office as though borne like a vapor on the sweet summer air, my hard-boiled, ass kicking colleagues resort to poety--the kind of talk no man wants to hear in the city room on a busy news day.

While eating the last Krispy Kreme doughnut in the breakroom, sports editor Caspar Kent said, "Jock, I dreamt about Jeanie again last night."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Kent."

"Let me tell you one thing for sure," he said, wiping the glaze off his lips with a paper towel Jeanie left on the table," if Jeanie were a Canadian about to be picked up by the INS for having an expired Visa, I'd marry her in a New York minute."

"We don't have New York minutes in Texas," I reminded him.

"Whatever," he grumbled. "So, Stewart, you still having those genie nightmares."

"All the time, Kent."

He was, of course, referring to the genie I found drowning in a bottle of Slivovitz across from Jimmy Pew's old Gulf Station that day I played hooky from old lady Jones' algebra class. Needless to say, when he sobered up as much as humanly possible from way to much of the plum brandy, he offered me three wishes. As a red-blooded American boy, I asked for a cool date for the prom, a muscle car, and dreams about living in celebrities' houses.

The fool jumped back into the bottle after granting my last wish. Go figure.

I took Jane Smith to the prom in my new red Impala. We both threw up on the back seat and I never saw her again. After the prom, the dreams began. I was Doris Day's pool man, Faye Dunaway's roofer and Julie Andrews' social secretary before I graduated from high school.

In the years that followed, I wanted to dream of Barbara Eden in her sitcom costume, but instead I had nightmares about pressure washing Agnes Moorehead's driveway while Elizabeth Montgomery twitched her nose at me from her red Camaro SS.

A few days ago, reporter Tim Cooper's 1997 Saturn wouldn't start. Being the chronic good Samaritan even though that's how I met "my genie," I drove him all the way out County Road 3724 to his home in Mooresville.

"I dreamt of Jeanie with the light brown hair againt last night," he said as we passed the kudzu patch where I rescued my ill-humored genie from the plum brandy.

"Wonderful news, Tim"

"We were tripping where the bright streams play."

"Wonderful news, Tim."

I wasn't listening because (a) I was distracted by Britney's recent comment that I'd be making grits for her till the world ends, and (b) the fact that I still had that half-full bottle of Slivovitz under the seat.

"I gotta tell you, Jock, I long for Jeanie with the daydawn smile, radiant in gladness, warm with winning guile."

I pulled over a few miles past State Pen 666 and said, with as little guile as possible, "let's drink to her daydawn smile."

Tim looked like I felt on prom night when Jane Smith told me in the back seat of my bright red car that we would always be together.

"I'd like that, Jock. You're a true friend. After I laughed at you when you told me Brintney said, 'Baby One More Time' after you scrubbed grits and cheese off the front porch of her house, I thought you'd never again give me a ride home when my Saturn wouldn't start."

"No problem, Tim." I handed him the bottle. "Why don't you take the first swig."

As he removed the lid from the rare bottle of Troyanska slivova, I got out of the Jeep and walked over to the roadside view sign that explained the wonders of the architecture of the prison where those in solitary confinement claimed to hear spirits sighning like the wind and sobbing like the rain.

Yes, I know, handing Tim the bottle with all those wishes inside, was a terrible thing. But, truth be told, I never forgave him for laughing at my incarcertation at Britney's house. Now, I would have the last laugh on the summer air.

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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"

Patriarchy Works! Slams Loss of Unplanned Parenthood Initiative

Washington, D.C, April 9, 2011--Patriarchy Works! has slammed the 11th-hour budget deal as a "horrendous insult" to real men everywhere and "yet another example" of a government that's out of sync with the cries and whispers of the loudest of the special interest groups.

According to Earl Grey, president of the widely heard political action committee (PAC) Patriarchy Works!, "we are very happy that lawmakers cut $38 billion from this year's Federal budget. Unfortunately, it's the wrong $38 billion."

Bill Smith, Primary Right Reverend of the Brotherhood of Unlimited Growth (BUG) agrees, maintaining that while Administration and Congressional leaders are congratulating themselves on their victory, they lost an opportunity to establish unplanned parenthood as public policy, fiscal policy and the "moral imperative" of the United States.

Smith, who is best known for his book The Leviticus Model of Family Values, told reporters on the parapet of BUG's castle-styled church perched on a pinnacle overlooking the Anacostia River, that "inasmuch as birth and parenthood are gifts from God, let man not intervene through such desperate and unholy measures as family planning and the arrogant lunacy of individual decision making about sex, pregnancy, and the woman's place in the scheme of things."

Grey acknowledged that Patriarchy Now! has channeled over $38 billion into the collection plates of BUG and other organizations that brew the best tea in the country.

"While we are prepared to suffer fools gladly," said Grey, "everyday people need to understand that the Unplanned Parenthood Initiative is central to proper goverment. We will never have peace in the home, much less the world, until we de-Sangerize our policies and perspectives."

When a reporter said, "Isn't it true that Planned Parenthood, the catalyst for much of this budget debate, actually spends 90% of it's money on prevention," Grey said, "only fools believe it's wise to prevent God's will."

Smith said that his wife, Fanny, "believes living the barefoot and pregnant lifestyle is an honor and cannot understand why so many women these days no longer believe that father knows best."

According to informed sources, Patriarchy Now! and BUG will hold a "million baby stroller march" on Pennsylvania Avenue early next month to protest women's rights, family planning, goddess religions, heroine's journeys, Jungian analysts and others who are not in favor of women being as "fruitful as nature allows."

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New from Vanilla Heart Publishing, Jock Talks Politics 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 Strange People, 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"

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.”

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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.”  

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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.