Thursday, November 29, 2007
It was interesting to read that Village employees have combatted the current hard economic times with a nifty 3% pay raise. We here at NFBS were particularly thrilled to see that included in the list of benefitted Village employees was none other than Litter and Debris Code Enforcement Officer Daniel Shame. He will now make $22.95 an hour to trespass instead of the piddley $22.28 he was making before the wage increase. I can think of no better person to offer the pay raise to, unless you count every other person on the friggin planet, and a few animals as well.
And speaking of Junior...
Proving once again that more than terrorism, more than a nuclear explosion, more than cell phone talking Adventist drivers trying to get home before sundown on a Friday night, the biggest threat to Broken Springs is blight, the Village Council has decided to hire a backup Code Enforcement Officer. The decision, according to this week's Journalistic Error, is partly due to the possibility that current Trash Cop Daniel Shame may resign.
Now that would rekindle my spirit.
An Identity Theft Seminar will be offered December 11th at the library. Residents interested in attending the seminar can call the library and leave their name, in addition to their phone, social security, and ATM PIN numbers to register for the seminar.
It's campaign season, and the recently mentioned local rag has declared its position with the publication of their first recycled political joke. So here is our first joke, establishing our political position:
When Hillary Clinton heard that Rudy Giuliani will run against her for President, she became very depressed. She said that if she wanted to spend the next year battling an adulterer, she could've stayed at home.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Residents of Broken County are displeased with the job Shame has done, particularly those residents he’s cited as violators. But the board seems quite content with his job performance, despite the fact that Broken County ranks in beauty right behind the back alleys in Harlem. Asked why Broken County is still so far away from the mythical suburbs of Wisteria Lane with its flower beds and perfect length lawns, resident Jim Bob Johnson says, “Well, you can put a dress on a pig, but it’s still a pig.”
This is not the first time Broken Township’s Litter and Debris Ordinance has caused a stir. Several years ago, the Township took Earl Waxmell to court over safety issues regarding tires on his salvage yard that he’d been operating since the 1980s. Waxmell’s “unsafe” property was safe enough legally speaking until someone got tired of looking at a bunch of old tires. This was when the Board started to dress the pig.
Harry Fishhook, who operates a car repair shop on the corner of Dans Hill Road and M-140, was cited for his property full of inoperable cars. Apparently there are those in the township who don’t quite grasp the concept of owning a car repair shop. If the cars were operable, Harry Fishhook’s business would sink, much like Daniel Shame’s reputation amongst the locals. Fishhook has also questioned the need for the trash cop to wear a gun while doing his job. To this, Board President Pete Dixby has responded, “We can’t very well ask Shame to trespass on private property unarmed, can we?”
Nearby in the slightly less visually offensive town of Broken Springs, Trash Cop Shame does his duty in a more conducive environment. His wage from the Village of Broken Springs, whatever it is (we’ve lost track after the third raise) is quite satisfactory and rarely does his trespassing or overstepping of civil liberty cause any ruckus. In fact, the Council even praises him for it. But then again, with a relative on the Village Council, is anyone surprised that the Trash Cop has limitless power? We may be rid of him as a real cop on the streets of Broken Springs, but he haunts us still. Let’s all just hope that someday Trash Cop Daniel Shame is disposed of.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Too bad Daniel Shame didn't have powers like this...
You can watch the complete episodes on ABC.com
And if you like the dark humor of Pushing Daisies, you should really check out the old canceled Showtime series, Dead Like Me, viewable online here.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
In historic fashion, the curse of the Billy Goat again reared its ugly head on those Lovable Losers, the Chicago Cubs. Game three of the National League Division Series ended with the Arizona Diamondbacks beating the Cubbies by the score of 5-1. The serpents stung Chicago Cub Rich Hill so bad he only lasted four innings in the post season game, ensuring the continuation of planetary rotation and balance within the cosmos.
"On the one hand, I'm severely disappointed," said 86-year-old Bud Cromsky, a die hard Chicago Cub fan, "But at least there'll be no Armageddon."
Continued life on earth has, of all things, a Billy Goat to thank. During the Cubs' last trip to the Series in 1945, Chicago tavern-keeper, Sam Sianis and his pet goat Murphy were denied entrance into Wrigley Field. Sianis said, "Never again will World Series be played in Wrigley Field,�€� or so the tale is told. The moral of this story is: don't tick off a man with a goat. Of course curses cannot live on Billy Goats alone.
In 1969, a black cat walked across Wrigley Field and the Cubs lost to the New York Mets. The superstition that followed was predictable, but rarely is the question asked: how did a cat get into Wrigley when a Billy Goat doesn't stand a chance?
In the eighth inning of game six of 2003's LCS between the Marlins and the Cubs, with the Cubs just innings away from a World Series, one of the Cubs' very own helped further along their losing streak. On a pop foul near the left field line, Chicago outfielder Moises Alou seemed poised to pocket the second out of the inning. But a Cubbie fan deflected the ball away from Alou's glove, and the inevitable chaos ensued. An error, a walk, eight runs, and several cups of beer spilt on the infamous fan later, the Cubs rolled over faster than John F. on Marilyn Monroe.
It's been 99 years since the Chicago Cubs won a World Series. Bud Cromsky was but a twinkle in his pop's eye. Back then Wrigley Field didn't have lights because electricity had not yet been invented. Neither had television, the internet, or air conditioning. Back then Chicago wasn't even the Windy City yet. It was affectionately known as the Slightly Breezy City.
One can only wonder how much the world will have changed if the Chicago Cubs ever return to the World Series. I've got my money on robotic pitchers and beer that stays cold without refrigeration. But in the meantime, we should celebrate the continued stability of the cosmos.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
As you may have noticed, we did run a story in which we referred to the Police Chief still as Jimmy Kingston. The truth is we will probably continue to do so, only because we find Kingston to be a much more colorful fellow than Allgay. So in the fictional Broken Springs, we like to think - as some of our FOJ friends already do - that Jim Kingston will always be Chief to us.
I'm so glad that the Streetscrape Project was completed, as promised, before the start of the fair one month ago. I've almost forgotten what color those orange barrels were that littered our town.
Three cheers for Streetscrape! Did former Mayor Jan Chaddwich have a wonderful idea or what? The weeds in the median give our quaint little village a prairie look. The medians narrowed our roads so that anything wider than a motorcycle cannot pass through. And those bump outs...! Won't those be the perfect speed bumps for Adventist drivers speeding through town and rolling through our stop signs? The generic looking street lamps look like they've come straight out of a knockoff Norman Rockwell painting. And the clincher... as if all that were not enough... is the backwards facing benches. Tell me, have you ever seen anything more... well, backwards? All the other towns are sure to get jealous and imitate us, at which point, we can simply flip the benches around and be the only normal town in Broken County. What a genius idea. I dunno about you but I'd much rather watch a man with a beard full of scrambled eggs eat breakfast than watch the dozens of cars speeding past to get out of our God forsaken town as fast as they can.
Three cheers for Jan Chaddwich's Streetscrape Project! Why we didn't spend $800,000 of our hard earned tax dollars sooner to tear up our streets and detour traffic for half a year is beyond me.
There is good news in Broken Township, where Daniel Shame still reigns as Garbarge Cop, defending our streets against litter and debris, which threaten our very existence. The biggest problem Broken Township has to worry about is litter and debris on private property owners land. Even an automobile repair shop was cited for their unrunning vehicles. Are you kidding? Next thing you know, they'll be citing a junk man for his junk. Oh wait, they've already done that. When it comes to ugliness that is litter and debris, I say what's the use of hiding it? It's like an 80 year old getting a face lift.
If the inside is rotten, why pretend the outside isn't?
Some of you may remember the Jeremiah story about the man who loved his daughter so much he couldn't keep his hands off her. I'm happy to report that Jeremiah, despite passing the lie detector test Jim Kingston arranged for him, is behind bars and no longer a threat to little Kaylee.
Perhaps there is justice in the world after all.
Until next time, downward and in a spiral....
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Police were called after the incident sent the retriever to Lakeview Pet Hospital in Niles. The dog sustained several injuries to his front legs and one ear was pulled longer than the other.
The vet talked with Officer Mike Lundgren and told him that the child should be immediately located and tested for rabies. Otherwise the dog was going to have to be put on a series of painful shots and medications that were by no means, according to Dr. Jerry Affe, “a walk in the park.” Police then scoped the neighborhood until they spotted the boy swinging in the park near the school. The child was then humanely put down with two bullets between the eyes.
“It’s unforgivable to let your children run loose,” said Chief Kingston. “Not only is it inconsiderate but it’s also against the law,” he added, citing a Village resolution passed last year requiring all children thirteen years old and younger to be kept on a leash at all times unless they’re kept inside a locked house.
Unauthorized negligence of youngsters has posed a public nuisance in the past in the quaint little village of Broken Springs with incidents ranging from teachers’ houses being tee-pee-ed to paintball pranks. But this is the first time in Broken Springs history when a child’s mischief has resulted in his own demise.
“Who knows what those little critters are carrying around,” justified Chief Kingston, referring to the children. “They’ve been known to carry infectious diseases and harmful insects all in our houses and schools. It’s a wonder any of us survive daily contact with them.”
The child in question has so far gone unclaimed. Because he was not wearing tags, even the boy’s name is a mystery. If anyone knows anything about the identification of the child, the department would appreciate knowing so they can properly bill the boy’s family for funeral and burial costs.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
About 20 minutes later a Broken Springs cop came into the bar and asked who owned the dog tied under the tree. The man said that it was his.
The policeman said, "Your dog seems to be in heat."
The Broken Springs man replies, "No way dog's in heat---she's cool cause I got 'er tied under the shade of the tree."
The policeman says, "No! You don't understand-- your dog needs to be bred.
"No way," the said the man, "My dog don't need bread, she's not hungry, cause I fed her beef jerky this mornin'."
Now the policeman gets mad and yells out; "NO! You don't seem to understand, your dog wants to have sex!"
The man looks at the cop and says, "Go ahead. I always wanted a police dog!"
Monday, August 20, 2007
By far the best part of this year’s fair - and this is a little sad - was the APA pool booth in Commercial Building #3. As some of you may already know, I’ve been an APA member for four years and counting and any place with a pool table is like Heaven to me. John Easton, local league operator, runs a Fast Rack Contest that’s free to try every four hours. If you can make six balls in the least amount of time, you win a free tee shirt with the approximate value of $1.49. Well, I’m not fast at anything I do, except tending bar, and least of all pool. I play slower than a handicapped snail crawls, so I was mighty proud of my best score of 35 seconds. Unfortunately it wasn’t fast enough to win a shirt. I was beat by a carnie named Dave. And despite my best efforts, John resisted my pleadings for a tee shirt, which means I’m gonna have to sucker some poor soul into strip pool some night - all because John Easton is being stingy with his tee shirts. Either that or I could wait a couple months and find one on the racks of Goodwill.
The few times I ventured away from the pool table booth at the fair, I wandered around the animal barns, where I saw many interesting things.
The goat pens are getting smaller and smaller every year. This one here couldn’t have been more than 2x2, with barely enough room to stand up, let alone lay down. It almost made me want to call the ASPCA. But then I wandered over to the rabbit barn, where not only were the rabbits penned up claustrophobically, but they were also made to listen to the music of Toby Keith on the barn‘s speaker system. Talk about torture! There was no listening to anything in the chicken/duck/and turkey barn, other than a bunch of roosters with time deficient biological clocks. They were cock-a-doodle dooing all night long. It was enough to make the ducks quack up.
This two legged goat was a big attraction. According to his sign, he was born next to the Crook Nuclear Plant. Sadly, I heard that the five legged sheep died on its way to the Fair. Bless his five hearts.
These Siamese Goats were joined at the neck.
I found a horse with a hairdo much like my own. And that’s not all we had in common. Apparently at some point in her past, she’d slept with a total ass. Her bastard mule wasn’t getting any attention in the “Wonders of Birth” barn, but I thought he was cute.
Other than animals, the Broken County Youth Fair has the same crappy rides every year, and the same high priced food. The only exception is the Fiends of Broken Springs Korn Dog Stand, which was the busiest food joint there. In all, the beau-friend and I consumed thirteen korn dogs, not counting the one I’m having genetically tested at the lab as we speak. The Fiends of Broken Springs will not release the recipe for their infamous korn dogs, but I’ll discover the secret ingredient if it kills me.
I was glad to see the Republican Building even less busy than the Health Department's STD tent. Does that mean that even conservative Broken County is waking up and smelling the goat's milk?
The Historical Building was a disappointment this year. Last year this building had information about the House of David and the history of the Fairgrounds property. This year the entire building was basically a poster contest of fair families genealogies, whose only intention seemed to be gaining sympathy for third and fourth generations of fair volunteers. The only thing that puzzled me is that everyone in these pictures were smiling gleefully and not weeping uncontrollably.
All in all, I’m looking forward to next year’s fair, if only to make a killing at my rival korn dog stand.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
The former Chief received many cards, gifts, handshakes, and pinches on the butt from the sitting room only crowd last Wednesday night.
Shockingly we at NFBS were not invited to this prestigious event. Apparently the Broken Springs Post Office lost our invitation in the mail, an unfortunate error that will not be forgotten during the Christmas tip season. We’re sure the Kingston Klan regrets the error, and their letter of apology has also unfortunately suffered the same un-received fate as the original invite. We’re sure our presence (and presents) were sorely missed. Despite the mistake, we will report the highlights of the six hour long tribute, as reported to us from the tape recorder we planted under the church’s alter.
Former Broken Springs Cop Daniel Shame presented Jimmy with a walker that doubles as a TV tray, with which Jim can use to eat his beans and weanies without ever missing a single spin of the Wheel of Fortune.
Local Veternarian Phillip Wrecht presented the former Chief with three dozen unwanted cats and dogs from his animal hospital, almost all of which were spayed and neutered, just like Kingston himself.
Sheriff Paul Bunion invited Jim to wear a brown uniform after January 1st. When asked later if he’d consider the option, Kinston told us he’d rather work for Fed Ex than UPS.
Janice Wisealeck shared a story about a time before cops gave out tickets for mufflers that dragged on the ground. She said Jimmy once “negro-rigged” her parent’s muffler with his own two hands and for that he will always be a gentleman in her heart. And the bill he sent them later for eighty dollars was very reasonable, she added.
Longtime friend and brown-noser Chuck Flint praised Kingston for having the courage to play sports in his youth, despite being a small little weakling who would later grow up to don a holster and a gun to compensate for his size inadequacies.
Carol Gilman presented the former Chief with a red, white, and blue quilt that she started back when Jimmy was a mere patrolman and he once let her slide out of a speeding ticket when she only had three minutes to get to Slaters Supermarket before they closed. The colors of the quilt are symbolic, according to Gilman. Red represents the blood of his enemies someday filling the streets of Broken Springs. White represents Kingston’s superior race and ethnicity, and blue signifies his temperament after being forced into early (yet profitable) retirement.
And octarian Karen Plug commended the size of Kingston’s package, particularly around the holidays when he’d deliver his packages to all the needy people in Broken Springs.
Had we been at the ceremony we would have presented the former Chief with a distinction that goes something like this:
Thank you Jim Kingston for all the inspiration you gave us to report your many wonderful accomplishments.
Thank you for not registering Operation Christmas Care Bear with the state of Michigan, thereby having an otherwise reputable charity investigated by the state police not once but two times.
Thank you for unlawfully cashing the taser donation checks which you solicited before the purchase of tasers was even approved by the police commission.
Thank you for not holding former Officer Daniel Shame responsible for his childlike antics, from illegally searching minors to his bow and arrow target practice in a different township while on duty and being paid by the taxpayers to keep the streets of Broken Springs safe from people like himself.
Thank you for taking part in the political campaign of Jan Chaddwick while you were on medical leave. Thank you for keeping that black man running against her in his proper place, which is under the heal of the white man in power.
Thank you for using an accurate descriptive word for the entire black race, while in their company in a local restaurant. Thank you for saying it loud enough for them to hear and be offended. Thank you for then admitting it to the Herald Republican.
Thank you for purchasing and using an illegal Bionic Ear to spy on potential criminals in our quaint little town.
Without terrific qualities such as these there would be no NFBS.
But most of all, thank you for helping to shut down that pesky read-by-no-one online rag called the Urinal Era. Had you not helped to shut that first amendment protected website down, News from Broken Springs, which is currently read daily by dozens, might never have been born, and you wouldn’t be reading this here and now.
You were truly an inspiration, Jim. We’ll never ever forget you.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Local Broken Springs resident Marilyn Fisher had always dreamed of being in the Eukanuba Dog Show. The 36-year-old had showed dogs her whole life, from Rottweilers to Chihuahuas, from Los Angelos to Boston, where the dogs bahked instead of barked. Her big chance came in Tampa, Florida, where her dog, a two-year-old Scottish Terrier, Jackson Grant Lee (named after the tenth and eighteenth Presidents, and the jeans company, respectively) had qualified for the Big Show.
According to his doggy portfolio, Jackson had beaten some harsh competition in his path. Marilyn believed that Jackson was above the fierce disposition that all terriers are known for, yet deep down she knew he liked winning even more than she did, a trait taught to him by Marilyn's dog trainer ex-husband, Gerald. When they split - Marilyn and Gerald, that is, not Gerald and Jackson, Marilyn retained sole custody of the canine, on the condition that if she ever used Jackson as a stud, she'd share the profits, which to Marilyn was ironic because Gerald's infidelity had caused their divorce.
Well, that and Gerald didn't think Marilyn was capable of showing Jackson competitively. When Marilyn heard him admit it to his AKC buddies, she filed for divorce before the sun was up the next morning. His infidelity had little to do with it, actually, but she never told him that.
The Eukanuba Dog Show was being filmed live on Animal Planet. Marilyn took three hours to pick out a stunning skirt to wear as she trotted Jackson around the auditorium. Two hours before the big event, she bathed her pride and joy, blow dried and brushed him so he looked his absolute best. Jackson was a big flirt, and as such, a judge's favorite. Gerald would be in the audience, so to spite him, she wanted to be as big a flirt as Jackson. Like Jackson, she was having an excellent hair day.
Her seven day diet had really seemed to work. She was trim (if a bit bloated) and looked like a million bucks. Her hair, like Jackson's coat, shimmered like black diamonds under the lights, and fell precisely in place with no need for hair spray. Luck, as it seemed, was on her side.
Timing, however, wasn't.
That time of the month, as it turns out, began only hours before showtime. Marilyn shrugged it off as only a menstruating woman can. Because she'd so occupied herself with catering to every need of her four legged best friend, thoughts of her approaching period had escaped her. Anyway, she'd stopped keeping track since she'd stopped having sex. She calmly found a fifty-cent tampon machine in the restroom. It was nothing Tampax couldn't handle.
The auditorium was packed. Gerald had a front row seat and she smiled to him on her first lap around the judges. As the dogs were being introduced, Marilyn felt like the center of attention. Jackson was strutting like he'd never had before. Even he knew this was the chance of a lifetime. They both smiled at the television cameras all around as they stood in the prestigious Best in Show line.
That was when the unheard of happened. As Marilyn stood there, flashing a devilish grin to the man who never had any faith in her, the Alaskan Malamute from the Working Dog class crept his nose in her butt. She heard a small giggle from the audience. Jackson, of course, was still as a Roman statue, proud and beautiful. When the Malamute was tugged away by his handler, Marilyn composed herself. Sniffing dogs were not uncommon in shows, especially when half the contestants had a very perceptive sense of smell.
The Bassett Hound took a turn next. He was on the other side of Marilyn and when he inched over, Jackson gave him a very subtle growl. His whiff was quick and furtive. She glanced down to her well behaved Jackson, grateful for his tact. The cameras all caught the Bassett, and she could only imagine what the television commentators were saying.
She bent down in embarrassment, pretending to cuddle her dog. Her skirt fell down over her knees and for a brief moment, Jackson was lost under it. The soft touch of his fur against her knee high pantyhose gave her the confidence to stand back up. But when she did, the audience roared in laughter. On the gigantic screen above her, she saw why.
Jackson, proud and beloved canine champion, had retrieved a white fluffy toy, the string hanging out of his mouth.
Who said terriers can't fetch?
(This article originally appeared on Associated Content.)
Friday, July 13, 2007
This man is NOT a real cop. And if he was, he certainly wouldn't be working in Broken Springs. Clearly, he has bought that uniform on eBay in an effort to swoon innocent Broken Springs women into the backseat of his Mercedes Benz (which is NOT a real squad car, despite what he may tell you).
Ladies (and gentlemen... come on, look how hot he is), be forewarned. Now that the Broken Springs Police Department is auctioning off their extra police uniforms, everyone must be extra vigilant in noticing impostures.
I repeat. This man is NOT a real cop. Do not let him frisk you. That's NOT a gun in his holster. Here is your first clue to this man's scam: He didn't even bother to buy the uniform pants. That is *so* against dress code.
Likewise, the woman above is NOT a real cop. In fact, she's recently spent time behind bars for being a lowdown, rotten criminal. Men of Broken Springs... do not fall for her guiles. If she asks you to assume the position, high tail it out of there. Do not look back.
She's obviously just bought that BS Officer uniform on eBay (Liddie Bruehlman warned us about this). Again, she is NOT a real cop. Please don't be fooled. The only thing she's armed with is a video camcorder. If she strip searches you, the film may be leaked to the Internet.
Consider this your only warning.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Cloverleaf Campground is looking for a new Park manager, preferably one who can properly kiss the butt of the Village Council. Good help is so hard to find.
And the best news of all is that News from Broken Springs has recently acquired its own domain. Let's give a warm welcome to...
Yes, the old blogger address will still be good, but instead of typing out the whole thing, NFBS readers can now just type in brokensprings.net. Much easier to pass around to your friends too. The only bad thing is we'll need to print up some new business cards. Also, no need to hunt up that long email addy to email the editor. Now, to contact us all you need to put in your TO box is firstname.lastname@example.org. Easy as pie.
But how can NFBS afford such a domain? Domain names costs dozens of dollars a year, and currently the staff here at the Broken Springs Rag makes peanuts. Perhaps you, the reader, would like a domain of your very own if the price is right?
The price is very right. The .net domain cost us exactly no dollars and no cents. Yes, we did have to take a few online surveys and sign up for newsletters we didn't really want, but in the end, it was very worth it.
Another Free is the name of the website that offers the service. In one afternoon, we were able to gain enough points for a two year domain registration. Check them out because we highly recommend them.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
About a month ago, area retailers began to notice a returning customer trying to become intimate with several in store mannequins. On numerous occasions, the man was asked to leave and once, after his blatant groping was witnessed by several jaw dropped onlookers in Victoria's Secret, he was escorted out by security officers, only to be quickly released. Though there was no doubt that his behavior was sexually inappropriate, it was unclear whether or not he'd actually broken any law.
Around the time the mysterious 'Mannequin Stalker,' as he became known, disappeared, the sexual assaults of mannequins began, leaving authority figures to speculate that the mysterious stalker had promoted himself from unacceptable behavior to criminal contact with non consenting mannequins, and in some extreme cases, statue-tory rape.
Two of the rapist's previous victims describe their attacker as a man in his middle 30s, with a receding hairline and an extremely small penis. Unfortunately since their description applies to almost every 30 something man in Broken Springs, the perpetrator has not yet been caught. However, the DNA collected at the scene of his most recent victim is being tested and may lead to his identification.
As the authorities now hunt for the Rapist, public debate has opened over what constitutes as rape in today's marketing world of plastic woman modeling lingerie. Some consider the Mannequin Rapist a victim of society's emphasis on marketed sex. Others insist that he's mentally ill and with some mental therapy, he could pass as a normal member of society, or possibly a member of Congress. And still others suggest that the only therapy that could cure him is a pair of scissors applied directly to his testicles.
"They were asking for it," says local misogynist Arthur Scutbucket (52), of the mannequins. 'We've both seen the way they dress, flaunting themselves in public with their provocative poses and skimpy outfits. Sometimes even in shop windows, just gagging for it! Mini skirts, halter tops, with pink thongs," He talks fast, with quick spurts of breath, "It's disgusting how these filthy sluts show their pert nipples through the thin, clinging fabric of the skimpy tops they're whoring," he said as he massaged the bulge in his trousers. "One plastic tramp wasn't even wearing any panties!"
But can clothing, or lack thereof justify rape? Modern sensibilities may answer in the negative, but there is a correlation between the number of mannequin rapes reported and how few clothes they're actually wearing during the onset of the attack. According to the records, a mannequin is six times more likely to be assaulted if she models for Victoria's Secret than she is while working for a store like Home Depot. We spoke to a woman mannequin modeling Carhart overalls while holding a screw gun in one hand and a hammer in the other. The closest she's ever come to being raped, she told us, was when a butch lesbian slipped a hand in her back pocket and gave her a squeeze.
"I almost dropped the hammer," she said.
Mannequins working in Housewares report the fewest number of sexual related assaults, suggesting that an apron may be the most preventive item of clothing a mannequin can wear. An exception to this statement are those mannequins dressed in French Maid outfits, who must endure an even higher amount of questionable behavior, usually resulting in a cleanup in their aisle of the store.
An anonymous mannequin wearing only a Dolce and Gabbana matching bra and pantie set told us that not a day goes by when she isn't accosted in some deliberate or accidental way. "Usually they pretend to trip and catch themselves against my buttocks, sometimes sliding a cold finger across the seam of my thong ever so slowly. Once, a smelly Italian faked a fainting spell just to reach out and take hold of my breasts for leverage. But we're ladies, so we don't react or pull away. If it were up to us, we'd slap them, but that would be bad for business. So we just grin and bare it, quite literally."
Grinning and baring it, however professional, only adds to the problem on the rise. If a mannequin refuses even to step away from an offending shopper, chances are that she'll keep her lips sealed as well. A local poll of 50 people conducted in the mall during our lunch break concluded that nearly half of men and women don't consider an assault rape unless the victim clearly says no to her aggressor. Since most mannequins lack full functioning mouths, it is no wonder why many of them just grin and bare it. Even if she could open her mouth, what's to prevent a sexual predator from using it as just another orifice in which to shove his obtrusive manhood?
Mannequins get very little sympathy from women, our studies show. Asked whether or not she feels sorry for them, an obese cocktail waitress replies, "Why should I? They have the best job in the world. All they do is stand there, in their beautiful clothes and perfectly molded figures. They get ogled at all day long for doing nothing. I work my tail off, only to hear my customers make quips about how I eat what they leave on their plates."
"Would you ever consider sexually assaulting a mannequin?" we asked her.
"Are you kidding? If I sat on their face, I'd bust their pretty little head."
Two other ladies, shopping in the men's department of Sears, also expressed a scathing opinion about the morality of the plastic women in question. "I'm not jealous or anything," said Amy Jacobin (58), "But do you notice how big their breasts are?" Her daughter agreed, and added, "The rapist is a sicko, no doubt about that. But can you really blame him for not being able to control himself around them? It's a good thing that Victoria Secret had a sale on thongs today because I needed a new pair once I got out of there."
"How about male mannequins?" we asked.
"Oh, they're lovely," they both said in unison, indicating a double standard in our mannequin community where female mannequins are sluts and male mannequins are studs.
"But why aren't there women running around raping male mannequins?"
"Because that would interfere with our shopping," answered the mother.
To further understand the complexities of a mannequin rapist's mind, we interviewed Max Von Krauter, 41, currently serving three consecutive life terms in the Broken Springs Prison for Boys after raping an astonishing thirty-four mannequins during the Christmas Shopping season of 1982. The first thing he says from behind his very own window is, "I didn't think of myself as a rapist. I preferred to call myself a mannequinizer. I loved everything about them: their cold to the touch skin, their smooth, hairless bodies, their new plastic smell. I couldn't keep my hands off them. Department store policy said no, but their synthetic come hither stares said, 'Yes YES!'"
When we asked Krauter to tell us about his first time, he told us, "It was an ordinary day. I was shopping for lingerie for my wife of six years, who later divorced me, probably because she never got the lingerie. I couldn't decide on red cami-knickers or a black teddy. Nearby a mannequin was wearing the cami-knickers, so I asked a sales lady to hold up the black teddy, to compare the items. Not long after that, we three were tangled in the aisles of the floor. I was taking the sales lady from behind while she was performing cunnilingus on the mannequin. From then on, I got hard whenever I passed one."
"How were you caught?" we asked him.
"There are only so many mannequins you can undress before the security guards start to notice. But I was having such a good time, I never saw them coming. When they slapped the cuffs on me, I thought Madeline - she was my favorite - wanted to play rough. Well, I'd get my wish for playing rough all right, as soon as I was sent here. Only it wasn't with a mannequin named Madeline. It was with a dumb inmate named Bubba. I never saw him coming either. But he did. It was then I realized how the mannequins must have felt."
Krauter, now a Born Again Christian, realizes that he suffered a severe lapse in judgment in which he succumbed to temptations of hard plastic. But he's tackled his problem and is moving on with his life. He works as a seamstress during the week and busies himself in the laundry room most of the weekend. In that time he's had many solitary moments, in which he understands how selfish his past behavior was.
"Just because she dressed in a sexy satin two piece bathing suit, or an evening gown that gave her amazing cleavage doesn't mean she was asking to be taken from behind while Jingle Bells played over the store intercom. Just because she didn't say no or push my hand away when I reached up her silk skirt doesn't mean she wanted sex. It just means she was made of plastic and couldn't talk or move her limbs. She might have stared at me with a look of sexual hunger in her eyes but that gaze was only a marketing device used to drive up the sale of skimpy overpriced lingerie, nothing more." He ends our interview with these words of advice for the current mannequin rapist: 'Please, think of the mannequins. Turn yourself in."
But until the Mannequin Rapist is caught, no woman behind a shop glass window is safe.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
"We thought the move to ethanol was a move in the right direction but we all wanted to do even more for the environment," said IRL Commercial President Terry Angstadt. “That’s when we decided to shorten the race by a hundred miles. Think of all the corn we’ll save the people of Indiana.”
The race will still officially be known as the Indy 500 for marketing purposes, or at least until millions of dollars of new merchandise can be manufactured with the new name. For the time being, according to Angstadt, the Indy 500 will still be the Indy 500, only with fewer laps. Forty fewer laps, to be precise. Instead of racing 200 laps, the 33 open wheel cars will make 160 trips around the oval in the 91st annual competition.
By moving to ethanol and shortening the race, experts predict that the IRL can save the Midwest approximately three hundred thousand dollars, and the world several years of a more beneficial climate. And the future only looks brighter for the sport. There are talks concerning the age old championship tradition, as well.
The tradition started when three-time Indianapolis 500 winner Louis Meyer drank buttermilk in Victory Lane after winning the 1936 race. Until next year.
“Beginning in 2008, the winner of the Indianapolis 500 will drink soy milk,” announced a grinning Angstadt.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
When Rita Millingham ended a seven year relationship with Rich Sadler a month ago, she cited reasons typical of most women who break up with their boyfriends. There was no chemistry in their love life. They often argued about in-laws and money. She wanted kids; he was happy with a dog. But the straw that broke the camel’s back was when Rita found Rich’s stash of porn beneath the floorboards under the dinner table. “Right under where I fed him dinner, a dinner, I might add, that I slaved over and served every night promptly at seven, he had hidden magazines full of naked women with bigger boobs than me,” recounts Rita.
Only after this discovery, all hell broke loose, and according to Rich, “She freaked out on me. All of a sudden, she’s got these gunked up pages pressed up to her nose and she’s accusing me of having an affair with Miss Nude November even though Miss Nude November has nothing on Miss Anal August. Next thing I know, Rita’s digging through my closet upstairs, pitching my belongings into the front yard. She even tossed Cassandra out the window.”
Cassandra, it was discovered after much probing, is Rich’s blow up doll, and though she was deflated at the time and unharmed in the second story fall, Rich immediately stormed out of the house to check on her safety. “Rita slammed the door in my face,” he told us. “I tucked Cassandra under my arm and was going to boat across the lake until I realized my boat keys were in my overalls still in the bedroom. So I dropped Cassie off in the boat and headed back to the house. Rita was angrier than a hornet with a crooked stinger when I came through the door. She ended up chasing me to my pickup with the iron skillet I bought her last year for her birthday. So I drove to a hotel instead.”
With no other mode of transportation, the next morning Rita packed up her belongings in six heavily crammed suitcases and hauled them into Rich’s 12 foot fishing boat. She’d plucked the boat keys from Rich’s smelly overalls and started on her way to a new life. Little did she know that her inflatable enemy was tucked away in the bow of the boat.
“I was halfway across the lake when I noticed the boat slowing down,” she told us. “I figured that my tightwad ex-boyfriend didn’t put enough gas in the tank. But it turns out all my suitcases were sinking the boat.”
Not knowing how to swim, Rita panicked and started tossing her belongings overboard, but shifting so much weight at once caused the boat to topple and the currently single Rita was soon sinking in her ex-boyfriend‘s favorite fishing spot.
“I thought I was going to die,” she says, choking up. “I saw the boat completely disappear and my luggage floating around me, but couldn’t grab onto any of it. The only thing I could grasp was Rich’s blow up doll, who knows where that came from. While I flapped my arms and legs frantically, trying not to drown, I blew her up. She’s actually very pretty in a synthetic sort of way.”
When a helicopter rescue crew arrived at the scene, they found a very irate Rita, in the middle of the lake with her arms around Cassandra. “Come quick, She’s losing air! Bring lubricant!” the distressed Rita was screaming.
“Our best guess is that a fishing lure penetrated the love doll,” reports Pilot Charles Knox, the superior officer at the scene. “I sent down my fittest private to help the woman in need and approximately 17 minutes later, he was being pulled into the copter with a flaccid woman under one arm and Ms. Millingham under the other.”
Upon further inspection, Rita Millingham seemed to be quite exhausted but uninjured.
She has since patched things up with Rich Sadler, who’s patched up things with Cassandra as well. The two are scheduled to marry next spring.
“Cassandra saved my life,” admits the future Mrs. Sadler. “To show my gratitude, I’ve asked her to be my maid of honor.”
Rich can only beam with joy, “The honeymoon’s gonna be a blast!”
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
We at NFBS believe these changes are generally for the better. Perhaps not for the better of this publication because we’re like a tabloid without celebrities now. But for the future of BS, we’re willing to take one for the team. Good riddance, three stooges. Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.
Oh, that’s not to say that local stories are a thing of the past. There will always be that silly Broken Springs Village Council making those silly decisions that affect all of our lives. The Village People (as we like to call them around the office water cooler) are consistently stepping on the rake of satire. Thank Heavens. And of course, our satirical fingers are always able to find a target in that quack we have for a President.
Now, to celebrate the passing of Chief Kingston’s tenure as Police Thief, here is a nice racist joke he’d love…
I had a bunch of Canadian dollars I needed to exchange, so I went to the currency exchange window at the local bank. Short line. Just one lady in front of me, an Asian lady who was trying to exchange yen for dollars and she was a little irritated.
She asked the teller, "Why it change?? Yesterday, I get two hunat dolla fo same yen. Today I get hunat eighty?? Why it change?"
The teller shrugged his shoulders and said, "Fluctuations."
The Asian lady says, "Fluc you white people, too!"
Sunday, May 13, 2007
“The pictures are fake,” insists Peggy Boredom. “I’ve seen the same pictures in the newspapers after the tornadoes ripped through Kansas.”
In addition to the office photo, Jetson also made public a photo of the department’s refrigerator sometimes used as an evidence locker.
“I think they’re photoshopped,” says Lonna Lee Longjohns. “In this day and age it’s not hard to superimpose moldy sandwiches in the evidence fridge. And we can’t necessarily assume that those Corona bottles aren’t evidence in some ongoing investigation.”
“At the very least, that beer is aiding in a current investigation,” added FOJ for Life, Gordo Davis.
Chief Kingston, who’s been busy recovering from an undisclosed illness since March, could not be reached for comment. Sources tell us he goes in for rehab twice a week to the Blue Ship Casino, but the nature of his rehabilitation is unknown.
Officer Mort Allgay, who’s been busy cleaning up the office since both Kingston and Lt. Roy Smegley jumped ship, has recently received a $4.00 an hour raise. “Either we could give him a raise or hire one of the illegal aliens I have working at Hildecrust Holes,” explained Chairperson Ernie Hildecrust, who also added that Jim Kingston’s 31 years of service have been appreciated by both the community and the board. But he was quick to add, “In retrospect, I wish we would’ve gotten him a maid instead of a new car.”
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
“Nowhere in the village statutes does it say appointees must be alive,” insisted Pezdispenser in an interview with News from Broken Springs by phone. “And even if it did, John was alive when he served on the council in years past. That’s good enough for us.”
Alldead’s deceasedness didn’t bother anyone else on the Council either. Trustee Stan Chaddwick told us that being a politician in Broken Springs is a lot like being dead already. “Let’s face it,” he said, “If you had a life, you wouldn’t be living in Broken Springs, would you?”
Other Council members remain optimistic about Alldead’s future tenure as Trustee. Curly Headed Sandy, who is just learning to speak without regurgitating the standard Chaddwickian party line, told us that Alldead’s silence will be a refreshing at the meetings. “So far he hasn’t said a word in any of our interviews and that can only mean one thing. He agrees with everything we say. He has to be the least confrontational man alive… er, I mean dead.”
Alldead’s family and friends are proud of their relative's achievements. His wife was tearful when she told us that even when he was being lowered six feet into the ground, she knew her husband was not done making a difference in Broken Springs. His teenage sons are also grateful to the dead man they call dad. “He can’t throw the football around like he used to,” said son Ryan, 16, “In fact, he can’t even catch it anymore. It just bounces off him. But everyone tells me he’ll make a fine village politician.”
Citizen and local troublemaker, Bruce Robertson, told us in an off the record interview that Alldead had not even applied for the job of Village Trustee. He insists that Alldead was hand picked by the Council in an effort to snub all the other candidates.
“Total rubbish!” Pezdispenser responded. “There were no other candidates. No one in their right mind wanted the job. That’s why we had to pick a dead guy.”
According to the many sources we‘ve spoken with, they could not have dug up a better man.
Friday, May 04, 2007
In his critique of the department, which lasted two months, three days, and fourteen hours (but who’s counting?) Jetson showed slides of the area formally known as Jim Kingston’s office. But seeing how Jim’s been off duty for over a month (actually, two months, three days and fourteen hours, but who’s counting?) what used to be a desk is now nothing more than a six foot tall heap of unanswered administrative data. Kingston defenders insist that somewhere in that pile there exists a policy manual. Kingston Kritics are adamant in insisting that the only thing under the pile of papers are more unaccounted for Taser donations. Either way, Jetson’s point was clear. Jim Kingston is a disorganized buffoon.
But is sloppiness such a mortal sin? Jetson implied that Kingston’s disorganized clutter is only a symptom of a much larger problem, that of being a spoiled brat who gets anything he wants from his bosses.
“He’s taken advantage of the commission’s willingness to give him a blank check. He’s got everything he ever wanted, from new cars to vacation back pay, even his own handicapped parking spot at the Village Hall.”
Another issue Jetson took issue with is all of the weaponry and spare uniforms in the evidence room. “We could clothe and arm a Broken Springs militia with all the uniforms and weapons we have. In fact, maybe we ought to. They’d do better than this department.”
Jetson went on to clarify that he wasn’t finding fault with any of the lower ranked officers, as they were often just trying to make lemonade about of old, rotten lemons. But the fault, he said, lies with the Chief himself and the oversight committees whose job it was to keep a leash on the out of control chief.
Such a lack of leadership has in fact “broken” Broken Springs, according to the high paid self proclaimed expert. He emphasized a need to heal the schism and mend our Springs back together.
“The first thing we have to do is bury the Sewer Wars,” he said, referring to the decades old community conflict over how to rid itself of its own feces. “Then we have to have party… a Hatfield-McCoy family reunion, if you will. There should be lots of booze, a pool, and naked Twister. That oughta mend some fences.”
“Lastly,” Jetson suggested, “I think we ought to donate those old uniforms and weapons to a faraway Goodwill. The fewer weapons we have in this volatile community, the safer we’ll all be.”
The Board thanked Jetson for his hard work.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
We, the undersigned, fully support and adore the local home town boy made good, now adult, Police Chief of Broken Springs, James Earl Kingston. By signing this petition, we sell our souls to this man, who protects us from the dangerous thugs and unruly teenagers of the tiny metropolis of Broken Springs, Michigan, otherwise known as Little Chicago.
This is an attempt to thwart those buttinskies who have nothing better to do than dig up dirt on this fine man. We fine citizens of Broken Springs don't care if he's potentially broken the law he's sworn to uphold. He IS the law. And he mows a lot of yards for those unable to keep their grass trimmed. He also picks up litter. And he smiles and waves at those people he likes all the time.
Get well soon, Jim. We miss you.
Monday, April 09, 2007
I am writing because I agree with everything Lonna Lee Longjohns wrote on April 4th. Not only do I agree with her every word, I also agree with her every syllable down to her very last consonant, especially when she expressed the lovely sentiment about our current police board, which was (to remind those of you not taking your daily gingko tablet) : Shoot ‘em all !
It’s a shame that the police board should actually police the police chief. As if he’s not being policed enough by the local dirt diggers, not to mention the very expensive big town police consultant they recently hired (at our expense) to evaluate departmental procedures, the board insists on stabbing Kingston in the back with underhanded tactics like granting the poor man never-ending leaves of absence on account of his medical problems. Showing their true colors, these sly devils on the police board have even insisted on paying him during this time off, as if to imply that he already gets paid for doing next to nothing, when nothing could be further from the truth.
Police Chief Jim Kingston has always been a Hero, and I don’t mean a sub sandwich (although he’d make a very good one of those as well… turkey** on rye with a delicious slice of goats head cheese… I’m salivating just thinking about it). He shouldn’t be eaten alive by his critics. Rather, he should be nibbled on and savored for the hero he is, not to mention for his mouth watering sesame seed buns.
We thank you, Jim, for being you. Always remember you’re a hero to the majority of the town, and those who don’t think so don’t know which side their bread is buttered on. To the rest of us, you’re a footlong with extra mayo.
**NFBS thinks the author meant chicken.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
When is the Broken Springs Police Board going to stop this whole oversight nonsense going on? People are trying to harass and destroy the good Jim Kingston over nothing but legal technicalities.
What Jim has endured because of this unnecessary supervision is more human than human. I’ll tell you what he should do. He should hire an attorney to write up letters threatening lawsuit to these troublemakers. And then he should sue the Police Board too, for doing their jobs. That’ll teach them. I don’t even believe in suing people but for these anti-Kingston folks, I do.
The police board needs to go, especially that leader who I won’t even dignify by saying his name. He’s so done I’d like to stick a fork in him. The rest of the board are all yesmen and yes women because if they won’t be, they’ll be treated badly by that Supervisor I dare not mention by name. They should all take a long walk off a short pier.
Hang in their Jim, whatever you decide. The board may not back you, but we fools in the community do.
Lonna “Longjohns” Jackson
Sunday, April 01, 2007
First Broken Springs’s Finest, Daniel Shame ups and leaves us to take another job (probably where they have tasers). Broken Springs won’t be Broken Springs without him. Then the Mayor resigns, leaving a big seat to fill in Village government. A huge seat. And soon Slaters Supermarket will be Fartings Friendly Market. Is nothing in Broken Springs sacred anymore?
I could see the writing on the wall in the case of Slaters. I first suspected they were in financial trouble when they started getting their shopping carts repossessed. But I guess the day had to come when they finally went under. They overpriced themselves right out of town. I’m one of the few born and raised BSer who never worked at Slaters. I’m neither boasting nor bitching. Just commenting.
All I can say is here at NFBS we sincerely hope Jim Kingston is well on his way to a speedy recovery. If not, our blogging days might be over completely.
Seriously though, Roy Smegley is not nearly the colorful figure that Jim Kingston is. And whoever replaces Jan Chaddwick won’t hold a candle to the headline making ability she had.
As Dylan once said, times… they are a-changin'. Will it be for the better or worse? Only time will tell. And Jagger said that time is on my side (yes it is) so I’m optimistic. And as Jerry Garcia once said, we might be going to Hell in a bucket but at least we’re enjoying the ride…
Private citizen Chaddwick’s parting words were so inspirational, it reminded me of this joke:
An old lady dies and goes to heaven. She's chatting it up with St. Peter
at the Pearly Gates when all of a sudden she hears the most awful
bloodcurdling screams. "Don't worry about that," says St. Peter. "It's
only someone having the holes put into her shoulder blades for wings."
The old lady looks a little uncomfortable but carries on with the
conversation. Ten minutes later, there are more blood curdling screams
"Oh my God," says the old lady, "now what’s happening?"
"Not to worry," says St. Peter, "She's just having her head drilled to fit the halo."
"I can't do this," says the old lady, "I'm going to hell."
"You can't go there, "says St. Peter. "You'll be raped and sodomized."
"Maybe so," she says, "but I've already got the holes for that!"
Thursday, March 29, 2007
President Pro Tem Bob Pezdispenser, who currently lacks a vagina, will take over the role of President until the Council can appoint a new Vagina in Chief to serve until the September election.
Asked whether he’ll be able to run the Village despite the fact that he’s not a woman, he responded, “Well, I won’t pursue a lawsuit every 28 days and I’ll probably be tearing out the pink carpet in the Village Hall. But other than that, things will stay pretty much the same.”
Ms. Chaddwick has been on the Village Council for eight long years. She seceded Mayorship from the Village’s first non-elected female Mayor, Marian Kiljoy. At the time of Kiljoy’s climb to power, many underestimated the power a mere woman could have in a town that had been run by men for over a century. But Kiljoy set the foundation for a strong Mayorship, which Chaddwick expanded more than many thought was humanly possible. In retrospect, Kiljoy wasn’t half the despot Chaddwick grew to be.
Not that she wasn’t fully grown when she took office…
Among her many achievements, Ms. Chaddwick will forever be known for:
- Suing the Township for half a million dollars because they had the gall to bend to the will of their constituents during the Sewer Project Scandal. Proving once again that crap flows downhill, the Township got it in the end. Township taxpayers were flushed out of hundreds of thousands of dollars all in the name of Operation Tidy Bowl, the Chaddwickian pursuit of universal toilets, no matter what the cost or who leaves the lid up.
- With the help of the aforementioned lawsuit settlement, Chaddwick helped balance the budget for the Village for the first time since Broken Springs was the county seat. In fact, with a half a mill in the bank, the Village’s budget will be balanced for the next 26 years, respectfully.
- Installing two vending machines in the Village Hall lobby, and furthermore, insisting that they always have a full supply of Hostess cupcakes, Twinkees, and Krispy Kremes.
- The about-to-be-commenced Street Scrape Project, which will tear up our roads in the pursuit of beautification of our fair city. Long term goals of the project include remodeling Broken Springs to look like a Norman Rockwell painting so that people will no longer throw their gum in the streets or shoot at local businesses with paintball guns.
- And last but certainly not least, Chaddwick lent her name to the infamous Cease and Desist letter News from Broken Springs received last year, attempting to censor a legitimate new source such as ourselves. Voltaire’s quote comes to mind: It is the characteristic of the most stringent censorships, that they give credibility to the opinions they attack.
But that's an exaggeration. It's more like her larger than life frame's been slightly budged around by foot.
Ms. Chaddwick ended her interview with NFBS with the following reflection from St. Peter:
“It is God's will that by doing good, you might cure the ignorance of the fools who think you're a danger to society. Exercise your freedom by serving God, not by breaking the rules. Treat everyone you meet with dignity. Love your spiritual family. Revere God. Respect the government.”
“Especially that last part,” she said, to which we here at NFBS responded with an Albert Camus quote of our own:
"Nothing is more despicable than respect based on fear."
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
It appears as if those doggone Kingston Kritics are at it again. The very few of them (and I do mean very few as the current count stands at -4) are attacking the best police chief ever both behind and in front of his overworked back
No one’s perfect but Jim Kingston comes dangerously close. He’s a fine man whose job description doesn’t include half of the many things he does for the community. Has no one realized that if he didn’t shovel sidewalks in the winter, we’d all be suffocated in snow? If he didn’t mow overgrown grass, we’d all have hay fever and wouldn’t be able to drive to work? And if he didn’t buy all those scratch off tickets at Weedway, our local economy wouldn’t be booming like it is. I certainly don’t see his Kritics ever doing any of these selfless deeds. The only thing they shovel is more garbage to the press about Jim. Jim has done so much for our community, despite being torn a new one by a few meanies. (Very few… since the beginning of this letter the number has dropped to -6.) Jim is always getting knocked down but he gets up again. You’re never gonna keep him down.
Wake up, silent supporters of Kingston, and let your voice be heard. For every one of his Kritics, Jim has three supporters whose families he’s saved or whose relatives he’s kept out of jail. Everyone should remember the acronym WWJD - what would Jim do? I believe he would fight back (if he wasn’t too sick to show up for work) Let’s all get mad and replace the negativity with obedience to what used to be a peaceful Broken Springs community or even fewer people will want to live here than already do now.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Officer Daniel Shame, infamous for the size of his bow and arrow, gave his resignation as a Broken Springs Police Officer earlier this week in order to pursue his dream job - modeling Calvin Klein underwear. Unfortunately underwear modeling pays by the inch, and the former officer Shame is only endowed with centimeters, not inches worth of raw talent. As a result, he will be forced to moonlight as a police officer for Niles Township in order to pay his bills.
Now would be a good time to give a big KUDOS to Officer Shame for all of inspiration he’s given the staff of News from Broken Springs. Nobody else might, but we will sorely miss him.
Thank you for all of the wonderful memories, including:
Nearly arresting Cecil Mortin for stealing a Slater’s Supermarket grocery cart. You hauled that cart up in your K9-mobile, only to have it fall out as you pulled out onto Old 31. As you later learned, just as Cecil told you, Slaters allowed him to use the cart to push his groceries home because he doesn‘t have a drivers license. But you were proactive in protecting the safety of that grocery cart. Thanks to you, grocery carts everywhere can breathe a sigh of relief. Well, at least until it crashed to the ground.
I can’t tell you how many young girls’ lives you’ve changed by letting them touch your badge as you kept an eye on the taverns in town. Those girls, guaranteed, will never forget you. No matter how much therapy they get.
Remember Durango, that loveable mutt who couldn’t smell marijuana if you’d pulled over Cheech and Chong? You trained him with your own two feet. When he went to the kennel in the sky, it was clear that Broken Springs PD lost one of its finest members. God bless his furry soul.
Your target practice caught you up in all sorts of trouble but here at NFBS, we understand that all work and no play make Danny a dull boy. Anyway, it could’ve been worse. You could’ve been gambling at the boat or taking a four hour lunch at Subweigh. You could’ve been hunting behind Pri-Mart and accidentally shooting someone in the leg as they pumped their gas.
That reminds me of that time you were hunting behind Pri-Mart and you accidentally shot someone in the leg as they pumped their gas. Boy was that a hoot. But thank you for doing it on your own time and not company time.
And last but certainly not least, thank you for signing your name to that God awful Cease and Desist letter that we received a year ago. You remember that letter, don’t you? It had a lot of big words in it and was filled with legal threats. I know you didn’t really mean it for us since we always write about you in the most positive light possible. You really meant it for your nemesis, Bonii Didjaseedat. But it was awfully nice of you to include little ole News from Broken Springs in all the fun and games.
Daniel Shame, always remember: We’ll miss you more than Britney misses booze. If you’re ever in town, don’t forget to visit. You can even sleep over if you tip a few too many. We have a couch for guests on the front lawn… at least until that worthless Debris Code Officer tells us to get rid of it.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
The police in the small town of Broken Springs, Michigan, as in other small towns, often search for missing persons. But it isn’t everyday they search for one of their own, let alone their own boss. However, ever since Police Chief Jim Kingston was named in three complaints filed by Broken Springs residents, he’s been harder to find than the criminals he once helped to catch.
Township authorities, anxious to resolve the complaints as quickly as possible, reported earlier this week that Kingston has missed work most of last week and failed to show for the monthly police committee meeting, where the aforementioned complaints were to be discussed. Officially, he’s ill, according to those close to him. His wife even presented the Township Board with a handwritten note from home.
But calls to his home are left unanswered. His mail (most notably his Lottery Digest and Hustler magazines) have yet to be picked up from his PO Box.* And the most haunting clue to his disappearance is the overgrown grass in his front yard.
“Nope, ain’t seen ‘im,” says neighbor Wilbur Reed. “He ain’t even took out his trash.”
Has the 30 year police veteran skipped town? Is he lying low until things quiet down? Or has he simply vanished into thin air? Local police are none the wiser than everyone else. They said it was days before they noticed the Chief was even gone. And since then, they insist that if he doesn’t have a warrant out for his arrest, they’re not all that interested in finding him.
“A man’s got a right to some private time,” says Officer Daniel Shame. “I usually spend mine on the commode just before breakfast. But if Jim wants to take his all at once, that’s his prerogative.”
There are those in town, however, that claim to have spotted Kingston in broad daylight. Some witnesses insist they’ve seen him buying Super Cash scratch offs at Weedway gas station. Others claim to have watched him work a Sudoko while waiting for his Jiffy Lube oil change.
One wild eyed resident even says she saw him sharing a Corona and singing karaoke with Elvis Presley at Coyote’s Bar and Grille. “He better not quit his day job,” she added.
Whenever the elusive Kingston decides to come out of hiding, one thing is for certain. If he sees his shadow, we’ll have six more weeks of winter.
* As of this printing, someone has picked up the Hustler magazines.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
It is with a heavy heart that I write this letter from my hammock in the northern part of Florida, sipping a Corona and smoking a big fat Cuban cigar which I’m sure isn’t doing my bad heart any favors. My attorney has just phoned me to advise me that during my temporary hiatus, Lt. Roy Smegley will take over my duties as Police Chief. I have the utmost faith in him to handle all the responsibilities left up to the head position, from mowing out of control grass on the riverbank, to chasing twelve year olds off the streets after curfew. There is no one better capable for this job, other than me. But I unfortunately have a very contagious condition that disables me from performing my duties as the best Police Chief ever.
Fret not, my small town friends (and enemies). My condition is not life threatening, only job threatening. My many doctors have assured me that I am the only one susceptible to this rare disease, which they’ve named “Bonii and Brucitus” after those who’ve given me the serious affliction. Once I recover, if I do recover fully, I’ll still retain the present day 60% of my brain capacities and 32% of my motor functions.
I don’t intend to blame my absence from duty completely on my condition, but I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t notice the first symptoms near the time those three complaints were filed at the Township Hall. Still, I performed my duties to the best of my ability until another - much more common - affliction caused me to accidentally miss Monday night’s Police Committee Meeting, for which I was crucified by local blogs and “newspapers.”
As an aging man in my (ahem) middle forties, I sometimes suffer from CRS. If you need it spelled out, you’ve never had it. Truth be told, and I’m rather ashamed to admit this, I forgot to remind my wife to set the clocks up an hour for Daylights Savings Time the previous Saturday night. I have several witnesses who saw me strolling into church an hour late Sunday morning, right around the end of the Preacher’s sermon. I knew it was nearly over because I could hear Gladys Spitzer snoring in the corner. My wife, bless her platinum blond soul, took the blame for my oversight. And because she’s always right, I didn’t disagree. I just let her redeem herself by setting the clocks ahead after we got home from church. But the silly woman forgot again and come Monday morning I was wondering why the seven o’clock news came on at six.
I wandered in early to the seven o’clock police committee meeting at a quarter to eight, but Katie told me they’d already adjourned and that Ernie was hotter than a premenstrual hornet because I was not there. When I called him later, I figured it was in my best interest to be at least two states away, so I headed to Florida. I had my lawyer call in sick for me at work and that’s where we presently stand.
I expect a full recovery and when I’m reinstated with a proper and much deserved pay increase, I’ll be happy to clear up all those questions concerning Police Manuals and redacted phone logs. Those complications can also be explained away as simply as my temporary leave of absence. In the meantime, Broken Springs, I hope you miss me ten times as much as I miss you. How could you not? In a few more days I bet even my critics will be begging for my return. And being the good hearted soul I am, I’ll never turn my back on our fair town.
James E. Kingston
Monday, March 12, 2007
On this 12th day of March in the 2007th year, we gather to have a police committee meeting in the small township of Onoyoko, in the medium sized state of Michigan. But what if you threw a meeting and no one showed up?
Well, lots of people showed up for this meeting, minus the one person upon whose very existence was necessary to hold the meeting. But he wasn’t there. I can’t complain much, really. I missed the last meeting because of a date I had with several dead Popes, not to mention the time I spent with the deceased poets Keats and Shelly.
But then again, the Committee isn’t relying on me to give a report each month about how our officers are “busier than usual.”
Before the meeting started, and before I realized that you know who wasn’t there, I felt the presence of two cops behind me. I mean, directly behind me. Probably sticking kick me signs on my back. Officer Allgay, recognizable by his cue ball head (that’s not a dig… I love cue balls) was heard taking a call from the Sheriff, whom he told he’d call back later. But the real question is what will he call him? Sir? Your Highness? Sugarbuns?
Just a guess but I think he’d like that last one.
Just then Officer Allgay pokes me in the back with his pen (at least I hope it was his pen) to make sure I made proper notes of his attire for the meeting. Apparently he mistook the Township Hall for the Kodak Theatre, the cheap white tile for the Red Carpet, and me for Joan Rivers. And I’m just crazy enough to indulge him.
Mr. Allgay, I’m begrudged to admit, was dressed to the nines, but only because he isn’t tall enough to reach the tens. His stylish dark colored khakis contrasted the bright glow of his head in such a way that one couldn’t help but to look at him. All in good fun, Mort. Or should I say… Chief Mort?
Threatening to interrupt my note taking fun, Chairperson Hildecrust calls the meeting to order, but not until after he expresses how the absence of you know who boggles his mind, seeing as how all the important things are happening.
I sympathize with poor Ernie. Having a police committee meeting without a police chief is like putting on shoes without shoelaces. Unless you have Velcro shoes, which we don’t. Or sandels, which are practical in the spring and summer assuming you’ve remembered to clip your toenails and shaved the long black hair off your big toe.
As the minutes pass, and the Chief’s Report isn’t read because there isn’t a Chief there to report it, another cop walks in and sits down behind me, making me feel a bit like a whore in church.
The committee begins talking about buying another car, this one for a grand cheaper, from somewhere else.
Then there is some talk about the union contract negotiations and Ernie gets roped into representing the committee.
Sue Frettin brings up a way to possibly resolve one of three complaints recently filed by citizens against the Township concerning the Chief’s behavior. Resident Bonii Didjaseedat requested the phone logs from Chief Kingston on a day when she suspected he was in contact with a certain someone he shouldn’t have been in contact with. But when she received her FOIA requested log, the entire document was blacker than Benton Harlem at midnight during a power outage. A copy of this log was passed back and forth to committee members and it rather resembled a Rorschach inkblot test. Looks like a guilty conscience to me. The attorney (who looks to have lost some weight) says that Jimmy told him he’d blacked out the numbers from personal calls in the log. Sue Frettin, hoping to resolve this conflict, offers to be the middle woman and look for whatever number Bonii suspects may be on the list. Bonii agrees and hopefully Sue will be able to pry the original, unredacted copy from the grips of Kingston in the future. In the meantime, Bonii asks to see the receipts where Kingston is reimbursing the Township for the personal calls made on his work cell phone. Sue doubts the existence of such receipts and Committee member Bob Frugal quips that there is probably no extra charge depending on what kind of cell phone plan he has.
Ex Commissioner and now ordinary citizen Curly Headed Sandy comments that for a Police Chief who’s on duty 24/7, there are bound to be some personal calls made on his work phone and she doesn’t mind.
No one thought of ringing him up right then to ask why he wasn’t at this all important meeting.
Concerning the other complaints, not much could be said about the incomplete (at best) policy and procedure manual turned over to the Clerk’s office in response to another FOIA request. The Committee had many questions for the Chief, none of which could be answered so long as his seat remained vacant.
Then the bombshell is dropped. Ernie Hildecrust says Jimmy missed most of last week from work and asks everyone’s opinion on whether it’d be prudent to name a substitute Chief. It suddenly dawns on me why the three cops are at this meeting after all. They’re like vultures, about to swoop in on Kingston’s decomposing carcass.
Mort, have I mentioned how handsome you looked tonight?
The attorney advises the committee that it’s not the time to replace Kingston, even if only temporarily. He will make some calls to come to the bottom of things, he says.
As an endnote to the meeting, Bonii asks a question on behalf of Troublemaker Boob about whether or not permission was granted to Officer Keith Mauve February 16th to take his car home to Stevensville overnight. She asks if Hildecrust requested car video footage, as resident Boob asked him to do. Ernie said he had not done so. Sue mentions that the officer may have been needed in court early the next morning, but seeing as how the next morning was a Saturday, well, it was worth a try, Sue. Curly Headed Sandy scoffs at the idea that Bonii is now following Officer Mauve, not to mention Daniel Shame, and Chief Kingston himself. That Bonii sure is a sly one, ain’t she? I wish I could be in three places at one time.
Meeting adjourned at 7:26. Everyone got to bed at a decent hour, thanks to Jim Kingston playing hooky.