Thanks for the Memories, the Heartache, and the Trauma

Former Broken Springs Police Chief James Earl Kingston was recently honored for his 30 plus years of disservice to the community of Broken Springs. Nine friends and 32 relatives met at the Divided Unitarian Church to pay tribute to Broken Springs’s longest serving top cop, who was recently canned by the Township Board for being an inadequate piece of horse manure.

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.

PD a Disorganized Pigsty

Peter Jetson delivered a stinging address to the Onoyoko Township Board and about half of Broken Springs Thursday night. In it, he equated the Broken Springs Police Department with the Hindenburg, on a path with disaster and full of hot air. Largely to blame for this bleak future is locally beloved Police Chief Jim Kingston who, due to an emergency situation at the Blue Ship casino, could not attend the meeting. Sources tell us a slot machine had taken Kingston’s wallet hostage. There has been no word on whether or not the situation was resolved.

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.

Kingston a Hero, not a sub sandwich

Dear Editor,

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.

Carol Growackier

**NFBS thinks the author meant chicken.

Potent and Impotent

Boy, they’re dropping like flies in Broken Springs, aren’t they?

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!"

Kingston supporters: Hally Ho

Dear Editor,

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.

Lucianne Grieves

Township Sets Trap for Kingston

Township Officials Boggled by Chief’s Disappearance

Police Chief Harry Houdini?

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.

From Jimmy

Dear Broken Springs citizens (and rabble rousers),

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.

God Bless,
James E. Kingston

Police Commission Meeting

In the second consecutive Monday Morning meeting, nothing much happened. The Township attorney, like nearly the rest of Broken Springs, was out of town. And the most noticeable change in the Commission itself was the presence of its newest member, Sue Frettin,’ who made her presence known by the 35 questions she posed to the Chief throughout the meeting.

At the start of the meeting, the bills and financial report were not ready, but by the end of the meeting, the secretary had them passed out to be voted on.

The Chief’s report was the same old thing, as well. The Broken Springs PD was, as usual, “extremely busy” Complaints were up five percent.

There was a complaint that Dickie’s restaurant was putting too many eggs in their omelets. The Department had to check it out. Another complaint concerned Subweigh skimping out on the meat on their six inch Steak and Cheese. And most importantly, the Teeny Tiny Bakery was accused of omitting jelly from their jelly donuts. All complaints were investigated promptly and diligently. Follow up investigations are still occurring almost daily.

The new car issue came up again, and again Bob Frugal voiced his preference for resolving the issue sooner rather than later. Jimmy Kingston asked very nicely….

“Can we at least have one new car, please please please, with a cherry on top?”

But Ernie Hildecrust, in typical Ernie fashion, pushed for more time, mainly because the Township board is not clear about how dearly their recent divorce from the Village will cost them. Will they lose their assets or not? Will Mayor Jan Chaddwick sue for even more assets than she already has? Only time will tell. Commission Rookie Sue Frettin’ said that even if the Village insists on alimony doesn’t mean the Commission will have to pay it. But since the bids for new cars are good through March, they can afford to wait another month.

We have four cars active on the road, three of them broken in with over one hundred thousand miles. Of the three cars that have the most miles, the oldest is not over four years old and the newest is only two years old, which makes me a bit skeptical on ever buying a Chevy Impala.

The new computer for Diane McDonald is in, but the transition has been anything but easy since Diane was working with the Neanderthal Lotus program and is now learning Windows XP. They should’ve probably waited for Windows CE.

We’ve secured our $2500 grant for our portion of the Livescan system. I somewhat remember what exactly the Livescan system is for, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

There was a follow up comment about a complaint issued at the last Commission meeting concerning cops being seen at Sandra Oh’s Bakery near John Bears Road and Hellywood. Only one officer ever confessed to being around that area but only for a traffic stop, and only to turn around in their driveway. He denied ever having consumed any bakery goods while there, and saliva swabs confirm his story. Chief Kingston has not heard from the troublemaker… er, I mean complainant about the issue, so as far as he’s concerned, her story was as full of holes as the donuts his cops didn’t eat.

There was a sixteen year old touching people inappropriately around Anthony’s University. There was a sexual suspect arrested in Georgia on Christmas Eve… he was seen wearing a red suit and asking children to sit on his lap. The department told these suspects to keep the inappropriate touching where it belongs, in the local bars after hours.

There were also a couple B&E’s recently. Keith Mauve, infamous for his burglar intuition, investigated a burglary Friday night on Gruff Street. Another B&E involved a male suspect making sexual innuendos to young males, around Morningwood Drive. Boy we’re horny in Broken Springs. Perhaps we need a brothel?

The Commission then started talking about future meeting dates. Rookie Sue Frettin’ prefers Friday mornings for future meetings, but the two farmers on the Commission aren’t so keen about coming in on mornings. Temporarily, however, it’s decided that 7 AM is a better time than 10 AM, so the next meeting will be Monday, February 12th, before the roosters crow or the sun comes up. Personally I love this time, as it’s usually right before my bedtime. Loyal NFBS readers will have to rely on other write-ups next time, however, because next month it’s my turn to be one of those “out of towners.”

By the end of the meeting, the bill report is ready and voted on. At this time, Rookie Sue informs Kingston that she would like a personal tour of the Police Department via Diane McDonald, just in the interests of being better informed about police matters. Kingston grudgingly nods in response.

Get well soon, Phil Ruse!

Police Thief Still Chief

Questions linger about local charity and Chief's webbed feet...

For most people in Broken Springs, Christmas means many things. It’s the time of year to spread holiday cheer, or at least refrain from killing those who almost run you down at Walmart. It’s a time of giving instead of not giving a damn, and it’s a time when every house has a surplus of chocolate and sugar coated candies, usually stuffed in tiny stockings and given as last minute gifts. But for many in our fair city, Christmas is also a time to donate to a local well known charity run by a local well known ordinary Joe, only his name ain’t Joe and it turns out he ain‘t so ordinary. The charity is Operation Christmas Care Bear and the Ordinary Joe is Police Chief Jim Kingston.

Unfortunately for those few generous Broken Springers with an IQ in the triple digits, if their charitable donation to Operation Christmas Care Bear is just a ploy for a tax deduction during America’s second favorite holiday, Tax Day, the news that everyone’s favorite charity isn’t legal might come as a shock, especially if you file long form. But reality is often stranger than fiction, even clever satirical fiction dreamt up by a local Gonzo wannabe.

Just why isn’t Christmas Care Bear registered with the state of Michigan as a legal charity? According to Kingston’s unbiased pro-bono (and anti-Cher) lawyer, Bill Marcus, the charity is in the process of registration that has so far taken approximately twenty years. “We had our information on file when Lansing introduced their new state of the art Commodore 64 computer system. Then we were requested to resend our tax information so they could transfer it to 5 ½ inch floppy disk. Next thing you know, they were using 3 inch hard floppies, then CDs and now they’re asking us to send in either a flash drive or a link to our myspace profile,” explains Marcus. “Jim’s charity has always been very informal because no Broken County employee above the age of 16 can even type using all their fingers, let alone set up a myspace profile. So the process of registration has been a lengthy one.”

Others in the community question the ethical code of a Police Chief who’s gotten his hand caught a few too many times in the cookie jar. “I’m not saying he’s a thief but he’s tried to cash checks that were not his to cash,” says Broken Springs village leader Robert Boob. “Then there was that one time all that Senior Bingo money came up missing and Jim’s department came up empty in their investigation. But come on, where’d he get that new Corvette?

Kingston defenders insist it was a Pinto and not a Corvette.

“I’m just saying, if it talks like a duck and it walks like a duck, then it damn sure ain’t no chicken,” summed up Kingston‘s loudest critic. When asked if he was calling the Chief a duck, Boob answered, “If the quack fits.”

Chief Mallard could not be reached for comment.

Whether or not Christmas Care Bear gets registered, one thing is for certain. Chief Kingston could sure use a decoy.

Santa Coming to Coyote’s Bar and Grille

On Friday, December 15th, Santa and his servant elves will drop into Broken Springs, according to a press release from the North Pole. According to the Top Secret Yuletide Memo, Santa himself will be unable to attend the event, due to an unforeseen outbreak of gonorrhea. But a Santa replacement will be on hand to sit in for Big Red. This year that honor goes to local national Dr. Phil celebrity, Jeremiah Narc. From 4 to 7, any area children will be able to sit on his lap and tell him what they want for Christmas. Area kids will also be able to get their mug shot taken with him and for an extra ten dollar charitable donation to Chief Kingston’s Christmas Care Bear Foundation, local parents can buy a trip for their offspring in Santa’s sled, which is currently Jeremiah’s uninsured rusty green Ford Bronco with expired license plate tags.

“Just remember Christmas Care Bear is not yet officially registered with the state, so claim the donations on your taxes at your own risk,” reminded Kingston.




“It’s sure to be a festive event,” said Coyote’s owner Roger ‘the Codger’ Jones. “Jeremiah will make a great Santa because he loves kids. No one can argue with that. If anything, he loves them too much, especially that daughter of his.”

When asked if his wife will be dressed as Mrs. Claus, Jeremiah said he’d recently caught her having an affair with one of the elves. Her attendance is unlikely, unless she can figure out how to untie herself from the stove.

B&E Sting Botched

Turns out “burglar” lived there…

When part time Broken Springs officer Keith Mauve noticed a dark skinned male moving suspiciously on the property across the street from where Mauve was moonlighting as a very tardy gas man, he thought he was witnessing a crime in progress. But his impromptu sting operation fell apart when he discovered that the cell phone clipped to his belt was dead. Frantically, as if he’d inhaled too many gas fumes, he pounded on the door of the house where he was working, but to his dismay the single woman inside wouldn’t let a stranger like him in to use her phone. Not wishing to blow his undercover status as a police officer, Mauve withheld his true identity and attempted to push his way into the house anyway. But thanks to Geritol, the tiny woman was stronger than she looked and he was unable to carry through with his plan. Frustrated, he told her she was going to blow everything and because he’d just installed a gas line, the woman thought he was threatening to blow up her house if she didn’t let him in. When she called 911 on him, he didn’t stop her because that was who he planned to call all along.

Officer Scroggins arrived at the scene in a very quick 25 minutes and when he did, the suspected burglar was still maneuvering across the street. Officer Mauve explained to his younger, slimmer co-worker that the man had been over there nearly an hour, snooping about, mysteriously moving furniture from his truck bed into the house, rather than the other way around. This was, as Mauve explained it, a possible decoy, just like the puzzling act of letting the dog out of the pen in the backyard to feed it.

“Clearly, the guy’s up to no good,” insisted Mauve to Scroggins. “He’s probably a terrorist or at least a burglar. Possibly both.”

But when Scroggins approached the suspect, one hand on his holster and the other on his inquisitional mag light, the officer learned the embarrassing truth. His fellow cop was an idiot.

The “burglar” in question turned out to be the property owner who’d just been hauling a recently purchased sofa onto his porch. When asked why he suspected the innocent homeowner of home invasion, especially since burglars usually haul furniture out of instead of into a house, Mauve insisted that criminals nowadays are often more clever than the cops trying to catch them. But others in the neighborhood suspect that Mauve had been burning the midnight oil that night with a fellow named Walker. Johnny Walker.

Despite the humiliating tale, Chief Kingston took the opportunity to applaud his department over the incident, making the following argument, “My officers are ever vigilant and devoted to protecting Broken Springs residents, even if only from themselves.”

For his vigilance, Mauve was awarded his long awaited Police Academy stripes and he was also given a raise. He plans to use the extra money either on a spare cell phone battery or another fifth of scotch. Possibly both.

Police Commission Meeting

There was a packed house for this month’s meeting. It was standing room only, but only because there were no chairs. Other than the three commissioners (plus the secretary and the attorney) there were five audience members. Next month they should consider charging at the door.

Mayor Jan Chaddwick was absent. Probably had another stroke.
Commissioner Bob Frugal doesn’t sound so good either. They said he had shaking grapes syndrome.

Amidst all of this excitement, the minutes from the last meeting are accepted, as are the bills. The financial report was thrown out the window, though. Just kidding. It was accepted as well.

Chief Thief Kingston says that complaints were up 3% this month, most of them probably about the police department.

Attorney Amnesia then talks very boringly about retirement funding. His discourse is so boring, I want to retire. He insists that the police department is under-funded while the fire department is over-funded. Personally I’m just dum-funded. Everyone knows that firemen are hotter than police officers, therefore they should have a better retirement fund. Amnesia, perhaps because he knows something the rest of us do not, speaks in hypotheticals, assuming the worst. He keeps saying things like, “If the department is still here…” Where else would it be? Neptune? Uranus?

Kingston then expresses his ambitions to get his hands on a fingerprinting machine here. Apparently they cost an arm and a leg, and we currently resort to using Niles’s facilitities. LSD’s machine is not good enough, obviously because they weren’t even able to screen the private company currently putting their handicapped children at risk. The commission decides to share Anthonys University’s fingerprinting machine. AU will bill us by the fingertip and round to the nearest digit. But first we must get an okay from the state of Michigan.

Rob Fishnet has proven that education pays off (it just sometimes has a bad exchange rate) when he caught a fourth offense DUIer. And another of our brave police men even worked… brace yourself… a ten hour shift and miraculously lived to tell about it. It included a 6-7 hour round trip to Detroit.

There was a drug prescription pad stolen. Someone forged the doctor’s signature and the thief was only caught because his forgery was legible.

Some idiot bank (you choose) in town cashed an $8,000 rubber check for a guy with no account. With the money he bought a car in Chicago, and a license and insurance with more bad checks. But the good news is he saved a ton of money on car insurance with Geico.

There have been robberies galore in Broken Springs!
The Dairy King robber is still at large.
Family Penny’s robber is still at large.
McHeart Attack’s robber was at large until he was supersized.

In fact, Broken Springs has had so many robberies, police are now mistaking ordinary citizens as robbers in their own houses.

There was another incident of kids causing trouble at Anthonys University. They were trying to eat pork in the parking lot and a riot ensued.

The mother of a sex offender was caught in Rob’s Fishnet when her crashing car came over the hill. She’s also the daughter of a man who’s fished all his life without a license. And her third cousin once sodomized a pumpkin.

Someone who’d rolled down Niagra Falls in a barrel has been attempting to steal identities. Sandy Quarts thinks she got an email from him about transferring money from one of his accounts. BS Police are planning on tracing the email.

The Pollack cop who we recently traded to the Sheriff’s Department (for a minor league cop to be named later) pulled over a man traveling not only with a known felon but several baggies full of marijuana and money. The Pollack cop smoked the money and turned in the marijuana.

All of this is proving that times are tough in Lil Chicago. The Chief Thief insists that this is reason enough to purchase an extra squad car. But Commission Chairperson Ernie Hildecrust wants to downsize to three cop cars, from four. Kingston protested, saying that with only three cars, only three quarters of our town would be covered. Furthermore, the ole Green Machine is so over driven he doesn’t even use it for patrol anymore. He only uses it to go back and forth to work, not counting the trips to Weedway Gas Station to load up on Gatorade, hot dogs, and scratch off tickets.

Sandy insists we need lots and lots of cars, the more the better. The more we have, the safer we are. She prefers a fleet. Jimmy says the cars we already have are beat to death so we need new ones and we need them by the first of the year. Ernie insists that this is not the time to spend money foolishly even if the people of Broken Springs are foolishly throwing gobs of extra money their way.

Sandy Quarts points out the cop cars go 100 mph, which is almost as fast as they go at Indy and Daytona.

Tempers begin to flare as the two sides butt heads.
Ernie just wants to be seen by his constituents as a fiscally sound representative.
Jimmy just wants more toys, and lots of them.
Sandy just wants Jimmy to get whatever he wants.
Phil Ruse just wants to get home in time for Wheel of Fortune.

Ruse, back from his temporary visit to Saturn, makes a motion to pass the budget, which includes $44,000 for two new patrol cars. Since we learned last year that a new Impala costs $17,000, we can now assume that the bubble gum lights and XM Satellite radio costs an extra five grand per car.

There’s more jumping back and forth, which makes me wish I’d actually attended this meeting instead of getting my butt kicked on the pool table.

It seems that whatever Jimmy wants Jimmy gets but not this time. Phil Ruse had misunderstood what he was voting on and called a “do over,” at which time he voted with that anti-cop sourpuss Ernie Hildecrust. Rock on, boys. Make Jimmy earn that extra set of wheels.

Meeting adjourned.

BDSM PD?

Ethical questions arose Friday when Police Chief Jim Kingston was discovered stashing twelve pairs of old department handcuffs in the trunk of a personal vehicle. The handcuffs, he claimed, were to be donated to Goodwill but when News from Broken Springs called local stores none had received a donation from the BSPD.

Rumors are afloat that the recently retired cuffs will meet their fate in Kingston’s bungalow basement, which neighbor say is decorated like a dungeon. And a look at the police budget raises spooky coincidences. Over the last fifteen years the Broken Springs Police Department has racked up an extraordinary bill for handcuffs, leather whips, and canine muzzles, almost three times the amount that our neighbors in Lincoln Township have spent. Another interesting tidbit is the specific purchase of five dog collars after the death of Durango, the K9 unit. When questioned about the unordinary high expenses, department clerk Mary McDonald said, “Better to have too many handcuffs than not enough.”

“Yes, but why is it necessary to keep a pair of cuffs in your bottom desk drawer?” we asked as she turned a lively shade of red.

“Those are there in the event of a terrorist attack,” she said.

As we tried to shake the image of Osama bin Laden cuffed to Ms. McDonald’s drawers, we questioned another potentially dangerous witness, Kingston’s own garbage man.

The Unreliable Refuse Technician (as he preferred to be called) assigned to Kingston’s home street for the last seven years insists that he’s often picked up boxes of rusty cuffs along with an assortment of gags, leather collars, and red rubber balls. “Oh, and a lot of loser scratch off tickets,” he added.

Some residents are shocked at these recent allegations yet many more insist that the accusations are only an attempt to smear an innocent man who annually gives to charity. One man who believes that is Kingston himself. He had the following comment to the press.

“There’s a certain faction in Broken Springs who’ll stop at nothing to disrespect officers of the law. They did it to Daniel Shame. And now they’re doing it to me. But that’s discrimination. Saying all cops are bad is like saying all n^&&*%$ like fried chicken. It’s simply not true. Some n^&&*%$ are vegetarians.”

Another Kingston defender is Mrs. Kingston, who despite gag strap sores on her mouth, couldn’t keep quiet about the morality of her loving husband. “He’s not into S&M. I doubt if he even knows what it is, or even how to spell it.”

“Does he ever tie you to the bedposts?” we asked.

“Only when he’s going fishing,” she said.

Whatever the reason Jim Kingston is hoarding handcuffs, at least we now know why his keychain is so heavy. Apparently he’s an avid fisherman. And as far as we’re concerned here at NFBS, it isn’t a crime to like a little bass every now and then.

Bank Robbed at Squirt Gun Point

Three Fifths Bank was robbed early Friday afternoon by a man wielding a loaded squirt gun and a backpack he claimed was filled with several gallons of extra ammunition. The suspect, who fled the scene with $12,000 and a handful of complimentary lollipops, was caught on the bank’s surveillance camera and an APB has been put out for his arrest.

The robbery caught everyone by surprise, including the bank’s gardener, who was busy watering inside plants when the suspect arrived. “When I saw the squirt gun, I figured he was just another town loony on a hot day. But when he opened fire on my begonia I took offense. ‘I just watered her,’ I told him. ‘Any more water could hurt her.’ That was when he took the flower, pot and all, in his arms and approached the desk.”

According to other witnesses on the scene, the suspect set the flower pot on the counter, pointed his large squirt gun at it and said to the bank clerk, “Hand over all the money or the begonia gets it.”

It wasn’t long before the robber noticed a more fruitful target, however. Every Friday is Casual Dress Day at Three Fifths and bank employee Pam Hucklebee was sporting a tight fitting white tee shirt. The suspect’s new targets were both staring him directly in the face.

“All of a sudden his eyes got as big as watermelons,” remembered a towel draped and terror stricken Hucklebee. “He told me that in addition to all of our money, he also wanted to open a free checking account. When the manager refused him a free checking account, the robber opened fire and all hell broke loose.”

Broken Springs Police were the first law enforcement agency to arrive at the scene, and the robber had already hit several innocent targets by then, including Hucklebee’s nervously heaving torso. Daniel Shame drew his weapon on the bandit but had to drop his revolver when he was struck by a stream of water in the shoulder. He quickly retreated to his squad car for a life saving towel. Backup officers who’d cut their lunch short from Subweigh were of little assistance in capturing the water bandit as he sped away on his bicycle. Chief Kingston explained how the suspect escaped.

“By the time we arrived, Officer Shame was already down. The armed and dangerous bank robber was already on his getaway vehicle. We chased him on foot for several blocks but when he got too far away, all we could do was try to shoot out his tires. Have you ever tried to shoot out the tires on a moving bicycle? It’s no easy task,” said the beleaguered Chief, who walked back to his car with a noticeable limp.

At the end of the day, Three Fifths Bank suffered the loss of $12,143.66 and an undetermined number of lollipops. Three ceiling tiles ended up with water damage, and six employees either need to buy darker colored tee shirts or begin wearing brassieres.

Meanwhile, the begonia has fully recovered.

Mayor Demands Apology

Take it back, you meanie, she tells township rival...

Broken Springs Village President Jan Chaddwick has demanded an apology for what she’s called a “low blow, below the belt” made by Township Supervisor Ernest Hildecrust in regard to the police department. “There was a comment made at the last police commission meeting implying that our police officers have an unusual case of flatulence. And nothing could be further from the truth,” she told News from Broken Springs.

“What I said,” clarified Hildecrust, “is that I don’t want our cops using the department gas tanks to fill up their personal vehicles. It’s embarrassing enough when our star cop gets caught playing William "Don’t Ask Don’t Tell" on company time, I don’t need to be dealing with allegations of fuel swiping on top of everything else. If I have to worry about something, why can‘t it just be Medicare like everyone else my age?”

Hildecrust, who personally spearheaded the campaign to get the gas tanks after the LSD school district privatized their transportation department, insists that he was only trying to nip a potential problem ‘in the bud’ by directing his comment to Police Chief Jim Kingston.

“It goes without saying,” answered Kingston at the meeting, wishing Hildecrust had not said it.

“It was totally uncalled for,” commented the Mayor’s wife, Stan Chaddwick after the village council meeting. “I mean, other than the archery incident, and the hunting incident, and the Christmas Care Bear discrepancies, and the cashing of the Taser checks, and the sexual harassment suit ages ago, and the political intimidation of that black Haitian guy running for council, name me one single time our police department has ever acted dishonorably.”

Ms. Chaddwick, who suffers from occasional diarrhea of the mouth and constipation of the brain, also had second thoughts about whether or not four mills would be enough to fund the overstaffed, overpaid bare bones budgeted police department next year. The millage election is set for August 8th, and despite the Mayor’s doubts, it’s too late to change the amount of mills requested.

The gas issue also fueled questions regarding the possible Township takeover of the police department. “I hope they (the township) aren’t waiting for us to pass this millage before they yank the carpet out from under us,” speculated the always paranoid Chaddwick.

“Is this the calm before the storm?” sputtered a very worried Bob Dustpan.

“Don’t worry,” insisted Paul Pezdispensor. “It’s always darkest right before dawn.”

“And the early bird catches the worm,” added Mike Tendergrass.

“But what if we’re the worm?” asked Chaddwick with a look of dread in her eyes.

Tails of the Cougar

I confess.

I attacked the Burro. I know the two buffalo got blamed for it but I did it. It was all me. The Burro totally had it coming, though.

You see, I was on my way back from my honeymoon when I ran into the Burro and all hell broke loose. Yes, Lucy and I tied the knot. We were wed in a private ceremony (invite only) and immediately flew to the Caribbean for our honeymoon. When my editor found out where I was (she tracked my credit cards) she demanded that I either high tail it back to Broken Springs or email her my next column. Well, I hocked my laptop in order to buy Lucy an expensive 4 karat gold wedding ring so after only three fun filled days and four funner filled nights I cut my honeymoon short and took a greyhound back home. It was Monday afternoon when I arrived back and I didn’t have a clue as to what to write about for my next column. Shallow Throat told me specifically that she’d reject any harlequin romance so I couldn’t write about my wedding night. I couldn’t even write about how Lucy makes my whiskers twitch with that little thing she does with her hips. Or the way the sunlight hits her eyes when she’s grooming herself in the salon window. Lucy is my muse and without her, I’m just an ordinary cougar with no literative merit.

So I was prowling the township, fighting off writer’s block, when I ran into this wise cracking Burro, whose name was Bubba. As I was walking by his fence, he hollered to me, “Hey, aren’t you the cougar the cops got an APB out on?” in his best Eddie Murphy voice.

“What’s it to ya?” I snapped back, not in the mood for a smart ass.

“Two thousand big ones. That’s the price on your head,” he answered back with dollar signs in his eyes. Two thousand bucks? I was flattered. I don’t think even Osama himself has a bounty that big. I kept walking, with a pounce in my step from the compliment.

I was nearly past the fence when I turned back to the Burro and said, “What’s an APB? Is it anything like the PBA?”

“No, no, you dumb pussy,” said the donkey. “All Points Bulletin. It’s like a BOL.”

“B.O.L,” I spelled out the letters. “You saying I stink, Burro?”

“No, you big dumb wad of fur. BOL means Be On the Lookout. But lucky for you, the Broken Springs cops are SOL when it comes to most things.”

“SOL?”

“Nevermind. I just mean they’ll never catch you because they’d have to be smarter than the creature they’re trying to catch. Like those two buffalo over there.” Bubba nodded to the bison grazing across the road. “Those fellas wouldn’t stand a chance against Jimmy’s boys.”

“Who’s Jimmy?” I asked.

“Jimmy Kingston? Chief of Police? Boy, you are a dumb cat. Where you been living, under a rock?”

“No, at the Holiday Inn, in the Caribbean. I just got back from my honeymoon. I wore a black tux…”

“With tails?”

“How’d you know?”

“I have ESP.”

“Hey, I know that one! It’s a sports channel.” I grinned, proud of my wisdom.

“You’re a regular Danforth Quayle, aren’t you?”

“Well I don’t like to brag,” I said, clearing my throat. “So anyway, these cops… are they dangerous?”

“Only to themselves. I wouldn’t worry. They’re about as competent as a turtle at a drag race,” said the Burro as he chewed a mouthful of cud.

“Isn’t Jimmy the guy who runs that local charity?” I said, recalling details that my editor had shared with me before I left town.

“You mean the charity he has YET to register with the state?”

“I’m sure he has a real good reason. I've only ever heard good things about Jim Kingston. Isn’t he a hometown boy made good?”

“Good? Good for nothing.”

“Take it back! That’s an officer of the law you’re talking about. His job is to protect and serve Broken Springs. And I personally think he’s doing a damn fine job.”

“Spoken like a typical FOJ,” mumbled the burro who was beginning to get on my nerves. “Friend of Jim,” he added before I got the chance to ask.

“I’ve never even met the man. But doesn’t he also mow village lawns and pick up litter left along the street?”

“Nominate him for sainthood, why don’t you? Next thing you’ll be telling me is that you think that power hungry Mayor of ours is light on her feet and has the best interest of Broken Springs in mind.”

“I don’t know her either, but Lucy says she colors her hair. She’s not exactly a fox but you’re no Prince Charming yourself, Burro.”

“That reminds me of a joke. What’s covered with a tent and rolls on wheels?”

That was the straw that broke, in this case, the burro’s back. Before he could blurt out the rest of his Mayor in a wheelchair joke, I bared my teeth and lunged for his jugular. I’m normally not so violent but Bubba had spouted enough of his negative venom. He fell to the ground and muttered, “A motor home,” just before he lost consciousness from the loss of blood.

I high tailed it out of there. The buffalo were my only witnesses and I negotiated their silence by letting them out of their gate. It was only later that I learned the fate of Bill and Cody. Bubba later died, as I understand. I didn’t mean to kill him. I only wanted to maim him a little and teach him a lesson. But I’m sure you understand how I felt when he badmouthed our fine public servants the way he did.

When I told my editor what happened, she signed me up to an anger management class and requested a full psyche evaluation. She also put me on probation. I told her that Lucy says I’m just a big pussy. I purr when you rub my belly. If only the Burro had known that…

The Cougar can be reached at berriencougar@hotmail.com

Police Commission Meeting

It was fairly evident soon after entering Township Hall that El Gordo Davis dropped the ball in his promise to fill the room with a pro-taser audience. There were a dozen chairs set up, no more, no less.

It was almost as evident once the meeting started that Mayor Jan Chaddwick had regained all of her motor functions after the stroke she didn’t have. She seemed as healthy as a buffalo… er, I mean horse. But she did look a little blue in the wardrobe. It’s entirely possible, however, that her ailments are invisible to the naked eye because before the meeting started she asked if they could talk about gas. Flatulence is nothing to be ashamed of, Jan No need to sugar coat it and call it ‘fuel.’

In fact, little Nappy El Gordo Davis wasn’t in the room when the meeting started. Let’s just say he must have his watch set to BPT, or NPT as Kingston might call it. When he does show up, he leaned so close to Journalistic Error editoress Cathy Pullonhertoeifshehollarscallthecops I half expected them to lock lips. He was showing her a picture of an alligator so I can only assume that he’s been doing some genealogical research.

In the Chief’s report, Kingston said it was “business as usual,” which means the Broken Springs police spent another month catching wayward juvies vandalizing parks, Adventists trafficking wacky weed, and keeping the streets of Broken Springs safe from escaped buffalo.

The Commission, because it's such a tease, flirted with the idea of discussing a couple different policies. But then they said they had a headache and curled up on their side of the bed.

A big NFBS congrats to Rob Fishnet for graduating from the Police Academy. And our deepest sympathies for being demoted to Daniel Shame's partner. His last partner was a dog, which might explain why he keeps asking you to lick his face.

Ernie Hildecrust, in his infinite wisdom, tells Kingston that he and his officers are on the honor system when it comes to filling up their gas tanks from the newly delivered fuel tanks. Kingston responded by saying that it “goes without saying.” But if it truly goes without saying, would there have been reason for Ernie to say it to begin with? The mind boggles.

Kingston then reminded everyone of the upcoming millage, encouraging those in attendance to support it. Ernie reassured the crowd that Cathy Pullonhertoeifshehollarsshootthebuffalo will probably write a good propaganda piece in the weakly rag. She nods in approval.

Then a few tears were shed over the loss of David Polaski, who’s been hired on to the county department (where they have the tasers he so wanted). The Mayor expressed relief that he’s still working around the area, and the Commission ruefully reminisced about all the training they financed for him. Officer Kork will now be the department’s primary firearms instructor. One wonders why responsibility doesn’t go to Daniel Shame, since he’s so skilled at hitting women pumping gas, not to mention all of his archery qualifications.

The big story of the night is the tale of two buffalo. They’d escaped a four and a half foot fence. One was 1700 lbs and the other was 1200 lbs which means they were nearly twice as big as the Mayor and obviously as dangerous to the community at large. A man’s burro was attacked and his ass was grass. The Broken Springs Police were given no option, other than calling animal control and tranquilizing the beasts, but to shoot the animals. So in their limitless pursuit of public safety, and also because they wanted to make sure their guns still worked, they shot and killed the two buffalo in Puchanan Township. The rumor that it took them 17 shots to hit the unarmed animals is unsubstantiated. It may have been many more than that.

Ernie Hildecrust then made the comment that our police force really “shoots the bull,” which is quite witty for a man of his age, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps he’d like a regular column in NFBS?

He’s probably just still feeling the contact high from the drug bust in his backyard. Apparently some University students were caught trafficking drugs out near Hildecrust Holes. Police also caught the juvy who’d been vandalizing the Groping Park bathrooms. It’s amazing how much damage one set of hands can cause. But enough about the Police Chief…

The meeting was adjourned at 7:20, which means it was - yet again - a waste of a change of underwear.

Clock Fighting in BS?

After two badly damaged clocks were discovered in the garages of Broken Springs residents early this week, Police Chief Kingston issued a warning for villagers to be on the lookout for clock fighting operations, urging citizens to report any suspicious activity to local authorities, “any time of the day, day or night, around the uh… clock.”

The first of the two clocks was discovered as Wilma Jesper, of 311 East Carpenter Street, cleaned out her patio. She was rummaging through old household items for the community garage sale, she said, when she found the busted clock. “I didn’t think anything of it,” she told News from Broken Springs, “until I heard that Mrs. Lillywhite down the street had also found one of her clocks badly damaged. So after the two of us discussed it over coffee for an hour Wednesday morning, we decided to report it.”

“It took you an hour to discuss broken clocks?” we clarified.

“No, that part only took ten minutes. But we had to talk about the Finklesteins too. Did you hear that their daughter got pregnant by the preacher’s son? These kids today… they think safe sex is doing it with their seatbelt on.”

“So about the clocks…?” we asked.

Mrs. Lillywhite continues where Mrs. Jesper left off. “Jimmy came right over. After only glancing at our two clocks, he knew something was wrong. He took them down to the station to be autopsied. Then he told us to lock our doors at night and change our security codes on our house alarms. He also told us that the Finklestein girl was going to have an abortion, according to the church pianist.”

“So about the clocks…?” we asked again.

“Clock fighting is a very serious problem that threatens even small communities like ours,” explained the Chief “Let me warn you. The pictures you’re about to see are disturbing,“ he said as he displayed them across his evidence table. “As you can see, these clocks didn’t stand a chance. They didn’t have a hand to stand on. Their time had run out.”


“Are there other clocks in Broken Springs that have fallen victim to this sadistic practice?” we asked.

“I’m certain of it,” declared the Chief. “These criminals will tell you that what they do is harmless, that all they’re doing is killing time. But once I get my hands on them, they’ll be doing time instead of killing it.”

Clock fighting, which is illegal in 47 states including Michigan, is a form of entertainment not unlike dog fighting, where two clocks face off in a battle usually to the death. Hands often get busted, bells get rung, and eventually the loser’s guts spill out. Some fights take hours, others only minutes before one of the two clocks ticks its last tock.

If any BS resident suspects their neighbors of clock fighting, they’re encouraged to call the police immediately. Kingston especially warned residents to keep their ears open for desperate sounding alarms, and sickly cuckoos.


*no clocks were harmed in the writing of this article*

Another Dick in Broken Springs

This is a blast from the past, from a time long, long ago… well okay, a year ago last October… when a certain political someone made a campaign stop in Broken Springs.

Sometime on Thursday, the 28th, I learned that Broken Springs, MI, Pickle Town itself was to be graced by a visit by none other than our nation's Republican V.P, Dick Cheney on Friday morning at approximately 9 AM. Not only that but a friend of mine, Sheriff Paul Bunian‘s brother, was to actually help serve the Cheneys at a restaurant called Floppers just out of town.

The Sheriff's brother asked me what I wanted him to ask Dick the next morning. I said he needn't ask him a thing... just spitting in his eggs would be good enough for me. Or perhaps he could accidentally spill his coffee down his lap so it looked like he wet himself. Either is fine, I said. I'm not picky. Well, it's no secret that I oppose Dick Cheney in nearly every way possible, and I saw the Friday morning visit much differently than most of my fellow Pickle Bourghers. I intended to protest his visit with every fiber of my being. There was only one problem. Nothing was organized in the way of an official protest. Even the Southern Democrats out of Puchanan wanted to 'leave this one alone' for who knows what reason, other than the small fact that Democrats have no balls.

So Friday morning rolls around, and I awake at 6:30, fresh off an unusual entire night's sleep. I take my ritualistic shower, stumble around the house like a zombie until I wake up, let the dogs out, feed the fish, check CNN to see if the world's still here. Then I pondered going back to bed, but at the last minute decided against it.

It's not often that the Veep of America visits obscure Broken Springs, after all. In fact, the last big name politician to visit was President Carter looking for a good place to start another peanut farm. If I had gone back to bed and slept through Dick‘s visit, I would've hated myself for the missed opportunity. I knew nothing big would go down - after all, nothing big ever does in Pickle Town - but something told me - dammit, you didn't wake up early for nothing, you whiny little ball-less liberal.

So a little after eight in the morning, I headed out to Dick’s campaign location by foot. I decided to walk only because I didn't want to fight the traffic, and also because I figured the John Kerry sticker on the bumper of my Mazda would target me as a possible terrorist. My strategy was to attend as an ordinary American, curious about all the hoopla. I was undercover, in a ‘plain sight‘ sort of way. I would not protest unless I saw others protesting. Floppers Family Restaurant wasn't all that far a walk, but I did underestimate the distance by a bit. I started off at a brisk pace, moving quickly on the cold wet morning so I didn't miss all the excitement. But as I traveled through town, I spotted one of BS's finest cutting through the back alley behind our most troublesome bar. I figured he'd spotted me headed to the far end of town and would pull out behind me on Carpenter street, only he didn't. So I continued down the hill and towards the bridge, trying not to draw attention to myself in any way. Once on the bridge, the squad car reappears, drives by me slowly, and then turns into Clover Campground just ahead past the bridge. Inside the park, he pulled onto a dirt road leading down to the river, in clear sight of me on the bridge. Then he sat there pointed at me, waiting. I started to get slightly paranoid. But this morning, I was bound and determined that no matter how much the cops seemed to be watching me (and they were watching me) I would make it to my potential protest. Once I crossed the bridge, the cop drove back up that dirt road slowly, keeping in line with me, and I figured by the time I made it to the driveway of Clover Campground, he'd be there to greet me with a nice shiny gun sparkling out of his holster, encouraging me to return home before any trouble was caused. Either that or he might've tried to arrest me for intent to protest, which isn't a crime, but they could call it - intent to incite rioting or whatever bs they could come up with in their tiny little bald heads. My paranoia increases and I almost turned back. Almost. Especially when I saw Broken Springs’s GREEN squad car drive down into the park and start chatting up the other squad car. Everyone knows that Jimmy Kingston himself drives that green car, and Kingston himself once read me my rights over satire.

But like Bush in Iraq, I 'stayed the course' and kept briskly walking to my destination, too scared to see if they were following me, too bull headed to care. I galloped across the drive of Cloverleaf Campground and didn't look back for a long while. When I did, the fuzz was all gone and I breathed a fresh sigh of relief.

Approaching Floppers just a short time later, I saw a crowd of people gathered, carrying dark blue signs that, once I got close enough, I recognized as signs of the devil. There didn't seem to be any protestors, only supporters, waving those signs as if the Cheney bus wouldn't know where to stop without their guidance. A cop was leading a sniffing dog from car to car parked on the side of the road, then from mailbox to mailbox. Upon seeing this, I was happy I didn't drive, because I'm nearly certain that dog would've gotten a whiff of a smelly sock in my glove box or some old pizza in my truck and I'd probably still be in jail instead of here writing this all out.

It was 8:34 and I was early, but I didn't necessarily want to hang around with a bunch of cavemen, so when the county cop asked me in that typical midwestern drawl, 'where ya headed?' I said only, "Through," and pointed up ahead like it was the wild west or something and I had business in the next town over. The county guy seemed a little puzzled and I half expected him to question me further - 'where to exactly, ma'm?' And if so I had a couple half truths lined up in my head. My boyfriend lives on a side street from the main drag. Also, much further up the road is a cemetery I've often visited. I could've said I was going to either place. But nothing further was inquired, as the county cop just told me to walk on the other side of the road and continue 'through.' So I did, making sure to glance over the crowd for possible undercover democrats. A democrat undercover would not be holding a BUSH CHENEY sign, or getting out of a gas guzzling SUV with bumper stickers about prayer in school. I looked for anyone resembling a hippie. Anyone wearing sandels or tie dyes, braids or beads. Nada. I looked for what I consider to be smart looking women, most likely not traveling with a pack of bratty kids. Zip. Senior citizens with airhorns and peace signs taped to their walkers? Zero. The only protestor I saw was this dark haired young boy wearing dark thick rimmed specs and a biker's jacket, silently holding a sign that read: I don't want my friends to die for your war, which I thought was very brave of him.

I continued on, figuring the county guys were making sure I made it to 'through' wherever the hell 'through' was. I walked another half mile up the road and decided to buy a pop at the Strange Line gas station. It was the perfect excuse to turn around, having figured out where 'through' was after all. And so I headed back, on the side of the street where the crowd had gathered to see our infamous president... er, I mean vice prez. It was ten to nine when I was passing back 'through' and a different county cop stopped me, asked me that succinct yet familiar question - where ya headed? 'Through' I said, but added, 'Back to town.' Only he said I had to wait, as the road was blocked off and I had to wait with the others. But he assured me it'd only be about a 30 minute wait.

Secretly I was elated. Of course that was exactly what I wanted to do... wait with the others, observe and study the weird species of human being I’m surrounded by in Broken County, AKA the Republican Voter. Also I was dead tired. I figure I’d walked probably 2 miles by then. I stood next to the sign boy and gave him hints that I was one of his kind through small talk. But I carried on the impression - by telling anyone who'd listen - I just wanted to pass through but they (AKA the Fascists) wouldn't let me, so I don't really want to be here. Plus, it had started to rain harder and I was getting to look like a drowned rat.

Nothing much happens. Dick shows up, in a motorcade of two dozen cop cars and four buses either with no windows or tinted windows. The first two buses say Bush Cheney on the side, the next two are just regular looking buses. I guess they do the mystery act for security reasons. “Wow, cool, there he is,” everyone was saying. “Big hairy deal,” is what I was saying.

So sometime in between all of this, a group of young boys showed up, all chatty like young boys are. There were some young girls too, but they didn't seem nearly as rebellious. I figured they might've been from Anthony’s University but couldn't be sure. They stand around and talk for a bit, and then the boys take out this cloth they had rolled up. Unveiled it read “Quagmire Accomplished,” a mock of George's Mission Accomplished sign on the boat deck when he wore that too tight flight suit last May. So inside I'm going YAY, finally some protestors, finally some action. And of course it causes a stir among the Bush pod people, who all try to hide the huge sign (at least 15 feet long, 4 feet high) with their tiny little 18x12 Bush Cheney signs. Several small arguments break out. Nothing major, unfortunately. No punches thrown. But I mosey on nearby and notice the dark skinned boy holding one end of the sign being interrogated by a Bushie. She was asking him where he was from, assuming by the color of his skin he was, at worst, a terrorist and at best, an illegal immigrant. He said, "I was born here." He started to get a little unnerved by all the questions and his buddy said something to him about needing to go back to school. So I tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Do you need someone to hold your sign?"

So there I was holding one end of this huge sign, and the other end was held by this women so far away I couldn't barely see what she was wearing. I began to talk to the other people around me, who'd come with the small group. There was a lovely man by the name of Flore with a British accent, actually from London who reminded me of Tony Blair, only smart. He was holding two signs with all his might... one a Kerry Edwards sign and the other a copy of a sign he said was erected in London, which he was sure to give me a better look at. Tony Blair's head was photo-shopped on the head of a poodle and he was being led around by a leash held by the cowboy Bush. The sign read: Drop Bush, Not Bombs.

Turns out this group of people was from North Bend, which is across the state line, in the very red state of Indiana (which always votes Republican and would do so even if Adolph Hitler had the nomination). The lady holding the other end of the sign was Flore's wife, also with an adorable British accent. There was also a man with them who seemed to pronounce everything with a Z, originally from Norway. Well, needless to say, I just fell in love with these people right away. I kept on saying, 'I love your accent' which is probably a very Yankee thing to say, isn't it? But I couldn't help it. You'd think I'd never met a British person before. But I have watched quite a bit of BBC. The protest people were so grateful that I'd helped them out, but disappointed that they were the only protestors. They figured that since BS is technically a college town, it'd be more liberal. Ha! I had to straighten them out there. People whose beliefs and practices include vegetarianism partly inspired by a belief that meat makes you horny are by no means liberal.

Once Cheney had his three pounds of bacon and double scoop of scrambled eggs (only kidding, he only ordered water) his bus hooked a right and he made his way through the grand metropolis that is Broken Springs, MI. If he blinked, he might've missed it.

I wonder now if they served him genuine tap water, straight from the flows of the filthy St. Joe River? There isn’t a Broken Springer alive who hasn’t at least once taken a whiz in that water. So if the Veep drank some tap water, there’s a chance that he’s taken a little of each of us back to Washington with him whether he knows it or not. I’ll drink to that.

When everything that was to happen happened, I said goodbye to all my accented friends and started towards home. While walking back I had the privilege of seeing two military men dressed in full camouflage pop out of the woods. It was like walking down a street in Vietnam. I heard someone say there were about 20 of them total, hiding in plain sight but no one knew they were there. On my way back to town, my mother drove by in her van and beeped the horn at me. She rescued me from the rain and gave me a lift into town, wanting to know all about everything. And I wanted to tell her so we decided to go to breakfast at the other breakfast place in town, Dickie‘s. I seriously had to pee too, and had walked up quite an appetite. So we sit, and she starts explaining how she was trying to get through to join me but they had the road blocked off and wouldn‘t let her in. Isn‘t that funny, I told her. They wouldn‘t let me out. I started telling her all about everything and just then, you'll never guess who walks through the door.

No, not Cheney. Someone far far worse.

Police Chief James 'Jimmy' Kingston. He approaches me and in almost a confrontational way asks, "So how far didja get? Did you see him?" like he was God or something. Cheney, I mean, not Kingston. I said no, that I only saw the buses, and Jimmy made a comment about seeing me 'huffin' down there, across the bridge. And I thought of saying, 'You could've given me a ride, ya prick,' but think better of it, as my mom's sitting there and all.

Kingston had sat down, and three other Broken Springs officers join him. And my mom keeps on spouting anti-Bush rhetoric quite loud enough for all of them to hear. I keep trying to hush her down, worried that her mouth will land us both in the clink. Having any political opinions left of Pat Buchanan was dangerous in Broken Springs that day, or come to think of it, any day. I tell her everything, watching my words carefully because the cops were sitting just ten feet away. It was just a few minutes past eleven when she jokingly made the comment, "Boy, today would've been a good day to rob a bank," because all our boys in blue were busy protecting a Dick. I don't think the cops heard, but I hush her up anyway and not more than ten minutes later, a call comes over their police radios announcing a robbery in progress at Three Fifths Bank, just a block away. The cops jump from their chairs and out the door, abandoning toast, waffles, and coffee. My mom exclaims, all excited, 'Didja hear that? The bank's being robbed!' I hadn't heard the words on the radios so I figured she was just foolin', but sure enough, the bank was really being robbed as Cheney was making his way out of Broken Springs. Then my mom says about the cops, "Hey, they didn't leave a tip!" Nor did they pay for their breakfasts before they left. Talk about highway robbery!

So... they didn't catch the bank robber until several months later in Wisconsin. We were all over the news for a few days. You gotta love a town that writes the satire itself, eh? I could’ve never came up with an idea as clever as “Bank gets nicked when V.P. visits.” You should’ve heard people talking about it around town. I heard the term Keystone Kop mentioned more than I care to count.

Rumor was that Bush was also thinking of paying Broken Springs a visit. But lucky for us (and our IRAs) he decided against it.

In retrospect, I’m grateful the Veep didn’t do any hunting while he was here. I would've hated to see him crowd in on Daniel Shame’s territory.