Elves
Elves located in Northern
Michigan decided to run their car on pure seawater [sweaters] late Monday. The effort has been met with much consternation, as the elves are still waiting for the tide to come in to power their vehicle. The indiscriminate and nondescript group of elves have tried several other methods of power, including horseradish, mayonnaise, elves, children with handcranks, baking soda, children with baking soda, and elves as power for their car. Unfortunately, the elves are not actually real and their car is abandoned and sitting in the woods near the lake. It will never run.
One of the elves, named Blinky, stated, “Even though I am not real, I am affected by the power shortage and I have the right to try new sources of fuel for my motorcar. Even toxic jalapenos could yield the answer. Unfortuately, we already tried them, and they merely stung our faces and mouths with a fire the like of which has not been seen since 1907. Or was it 1906 and a half? Hard to say. Well, I must be on my way. Sometime you should look us up and come on down to the Elf Shop, where we frolick and play.”
Every other time the elves have appeared they have carried off bits of biscuit, tools, sheds, toolshed, barrels of whiskey, and other Canadian goods with them. No one really knows where they came from and they have never been filmed, but they haunt our memories like so many other memories associated with elves and frolicking. Like pies.
Small Boy
The other day I was reporting on a news story in which a car ran over a small boy. Fortunately, the car was even smaller, so the boy was unharmed.
Picnic Weasels
Every now and then I get a hankering for some picnic weasels. A picnic weasel is a weasel that hops out of a basket and offers you products. Sometimes fruit or candy. It’s usually wrapped and almost always still good. But when it’s not, boy watch out. Those weasels can be crafty. Every day they show up strumming yukelaleys from the Yukon Country. Filled with pure gold and whistling gibberish tunes out of their whiskerey chittering little faces. This is ‘news’ because they also report the financial status of the top 500 companies, in order, as they sing. They have requested that I place this phone number in the news thingy and distribute it to friends who may also want their fiscal advice or strings.
Lowell Calamity
Horrible calamity struck downtown Lowell yesterday as a massive wave of spaghetti brewed over the township. Mills that previously ran their wheels on water now found themselves entirely destroyed by several tons of wheaty spaghetti. The remaining mills’ waterwheels were turned by the broken pieces of the fallen mills, mixed with the spaghetti that caused the calamity in the first place. Nobody knows where the spaghetti came from or why it was so scalding hot, but it sure satisfies… the rent check.
1950’s
A man from the late 1950’s was heard to say the term ‘Whop!’ yesterday, which was taken to mean only one thing: Let’s disco. It’s all the rage in 1960’s California. Yes, that’s right. Confusion sets in.
Sauce
Once the spaghetti hardens, the brick and spaghetti wall should be complete and firm enough to be stackable nearly six feet tall. This is high enough to stack uncooked spaghetti strands along the top and corners, providing several feet of shelter, until the rain sets in. Then not even paper mache mortar can withstand.
Area Publisher
Area publisher is struck with delerium. It is difficult to write a string of blatant blather and nonsense this disreputable and lengthy in such a short period of time without falling into the trap of delerium. The only cure is whiskey and dollars. AND PLENTY OF CONTRARIAN SPANISH JAZZ!!! BRING ME THE SPANISH LOUNGE CUEVO!! Ahem, HECHO me the Spanish Lounge Cuevo. Immediately….
Ah, there we go. Streaming pure insanity from the aether is an exhausting and draining process. It is so intense that even when I stop writing and do something else it still tries to go. And I’m just like no, that is far too random and I am tired and the quality and newsworthiness of this article is deteriorating rapidly. In fact, the entire newspaper is falling to pieces. Read more in next week’s follow-up edition. Now, Tom with the weather:
Briefcase
Tom shows up, carring a middling sized briefcase. He opens it up, pulls the sun out of it, lays it on the counter. Then proceeds to unfold the clouds and place them slightly overlapping the intensely glowing sunball. Then, a square of *actually falling precipitation* is pulled from the briefcase. You are befuddled that the rain, liquid rain, falls from the top of an empty square in space appearing out of nothing, and disappears once it reaches the bottom of this undefined area. Tom picks it up without hesitation and it simply follows. As if the burning sun the size of a bowling ball and floding clouds that hover in the air beside the sun, which is by now charring it’s way through the roof of your blue 1991 sub-sportscar. With pinkish salmon accent stripe. You should do something about that. Now, Fred with the weather.
