Dakota Ridge

 

Descriptions of the future, as told by prehistoric time travelers upon their return to their respective eras:

 Le Moustier (France)

There were so many amazing things. In the future, they have large beasts called ‘airplanes’ that are armored in a shiny substance as hard as stone. They are as large as a female Mastodon during calving season.’

Minnesota Woman (Northern US): 

Minnesota Woman returned from the future, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and picked up a broom.  

‘The tribes are enormous. So many people... And don'tcha know? They have messy, thoughtless children in the future, too.’

Talgai (Australia):

‘It’s about the same as it is here.’

Cheddar Man and Hennewick Man (UK and US):

‘Cheddar man! You’re back! ’ Hennewick man hollered. ‘What did you see?’

Breathless, Cheddar man sat on a large stone and wiped his brow. 

‘OMG, Hennewick man. You would not believe what I saw. The people in the future sat in the belly of these huge red, round-legged creatures called ‘double decker busses’ that are as large as the gash between your mom’s legs.’

‘Fuck you, Cheddar man!’

Otzi (Italy):

‘The women are pale, hairless and a bit slutty’

Jasper and Robot.

 ‘Robot!’

Jasper twisted in his sheets.

‘Yes, handsome?’ 

The voice came from another room. 

‘Contact Francine's robot and schedule brunch for Sunday,’ Jasper said, one eye buried in the pillow, the other staring into vacant space. ‘Pick someplace we both like. Pick a time we’re both available.’

‘Yes, lovely.’

‘And can you pick out a birthday card or whatever for her? Seems like I might have missed her birthday. Make it an apology card if that’s the case.’

‘It’s not the case. Her birthday is two months from today. You already bought a present for her. It will be sent at the perfect time.’

Jasper rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t remember the last time he and Francine met -- no clue when it could have been. A year? God, he hoped it hadn't been that long. 

‘Did she have surgery or something, Robot?’

‘Yes.’ 

Crap. He thought so. 

‘Did I...’

‘Yes... you sent a card. And flowers. And I personally visited Francine's robot. We discussed how she was healing, and I offered to help out if she needed it. She said it wasn’t necessary. Francine's robot is very nice.’

Robot entered the bedroom with a load of laundry and began folding. Robot did not face Jasper.

‘She all good, then?’ Jasper said.

‘Yes.’ 

Jasper tried tossing the sheets from his body, but his arm became entangled and he gave up.

‘I feel so isolated, Robot,' he said. 'Lonely, I guess. You ever feel like that?’

Robot continued working, but the stack of freshly folded tee-shirts tumbled to the floor. Robot kneeled to retrieve them. 

‘Can you come here?’

Robot placed the folded tee shirts on the dresser, and froze. 

 

Ambient temperature OK. Interrupt, exception, checksum all OK, battery output voltage nominal, RX/TS error codes all return zero, RF network signal as perfect as the goddamned day is long.

‘Robot?’

Fuck. Not a single error. 

 

Robot silently spun around, glided to Jasper and slid into the bed.

Memorial Park

 

Lake Mac Tractor

 

Arvada Square

 

Sisters

 

Fried Chicken Lovers Riot Amid Covid Shortages

Aside from the long lines, it seemed like a peaceful Saturday morning at the Nashville Hot Chicken shack in Arvada, Colorado. 

Until the gunshots erupted.

Next thing fry cook Dylan Dahl knew, the windows in the restaurant exploded into transparent pebbles and he was roughly forced at gunpoint into the freezer by two large men. 

They blindfolded  and gagged him. 

'He told me if I didn't give him all the frozen chicken, I'd wake up dead six feet underground,' Dahl said. 'It didn't make sense at the time, but when you have a gun shoved into the back of your head, what are you going to do?

Dahl complied. He handed over the company's supply of frozen chicken to his armed customers and they left him unharmed. 

He returned to the dining area to find a mob of rioters destroying the restaurant.

'I saw my neighbor, and her daughter,' he said. ' ...an elementary school kid... pouring gasoline on the tables and chairs.'

Global shortages of processed chicken and other fast-food items like ketchup and dipping sauces have provoked rage and violence across the nation. 

Local officials appear unprepared to deal with the chicken unrest that has finally spilled into the community. 

'The council is proactively planning to bring these scofflaws to justice and prevent further distress in the community,' said Press Officer Angela Harding at a video briefing.

Harding took no questions, and members of the press wondered aloud why they bothered to come to the briefing at all.

The story Saturday was different at a nearby Burger King eatery. There was no broken glass, no armed thugs, no arson.

'Our chicken offerings always seemed to scare customers away rather than attract them, so it's pretty much business as usual here,' said manager Tony Butler. 'We're a little low on ketchup, but we have plenty of Whoppers.' 

JOB DESCRIPTION: Military Leadership Position

We have an IMMEDIATE OPENING for a General Officer to lead a major U.S. Air Force command into combat.

Responsibilities include: organizing, maintaining and deploying a heavier-than-air, death-centric organization. 

Other responsibilities include: 

• Distribution of combat-ready flying machines to lay waste upon enemies from afar.

• Use of heat and energy to transform foreign human beings into atoms.

• Sudden conversion of large cities into glass parking lots.

• Manifestation of the song lyric: ‘it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall’

Requirements:

• Knowledge of airplanes, missiles, bombs

• Awareness of the earth and its features (land, sea, air, etc.)

• Able to work weekends and evenings as needed.

Preferred candidates will demonstrate:

• A fondness for the Art of War, by Sun Tzu

• Comfort with the use of swear words

• Easy-going, friendly leadership style.

Send resume , cover letter and salary requirements to president@whitehouse.gov

Or, connect on social media: Joe Biden – Facebook, Twitter

Covid Pandemic Supply Chain Woes Strangle Sports Industry

Covid pandemic supply chain disruptions have rocked the sports industry to its core due to severe shortages of the colors orange, gold and blue.

While global suppliers of color wrestle with Covid outbreaks and labor shortages due to illness and death, U.S sports teams that rely on these colors are left empty-handed and worry for the future. 

The supply chain disruptions have sent teams at all levels of sport on a desperate, cut-throat search for new sources as they scramble to salvage what’s left of their seasons. 

Some have even drawn up plans to address what team leaders suspect might be a permanent state of scarcity in the ultraviolet spectrum. 

The problem affects every game, both professional and collegiate, with a staggering two-thirds of the National Football League incorporating at least one of these colors in their programs. 

For Major League Baseball, the number is closer to 76 percent, and more than 60 percent of the National Basketball Association require the colors to rock the house. 

But some NFL fans say they feel the most intense misery. 

At a strip mall bar in Northglenn, Colorado, Lorenzo Garcia expressed despair in his vintage Jay Cutler jersey, torn and faded by time -- it wasn't a popular jersey when Cutler played for the team, but it's all Garcia could find. He's a lifelong Denver Broncos fan. 

‘This has been brutal,’ he said. ‘Broncos fans know we’ve have had a rough time of it already with all that Brock Osweiler and Joe Flacco crap. And now this.’ 

Team managers are considering converting color schemes to shades of beige, brown, or gray, with some even trying ‘color blind’ options similar to that of the Las Vegas Raiders. It's an idea Garcia calls 'unthinkable.'

'That's some seriously depraved bull****,' he said. 

Other ideas include using QR codes printed on helmets and jerseys so fans can scan the codes with their smartphones to display a list of colors published on the internet. 

Owners are optimistic there's a bright side. 

‘The shortage will be here for a long time,’ said one owner, who insisted anonymity due to him being such a major league pussy. ‘This could be the new normal to save costs and preserve the profitability of our beloved sports industry.’ 

Ticket and merchandise prices will remain the same, with increases likely in the future, he added.

The MLS listings for Heaven and Hell

Heaven:

- well-lit
- spacious
- "right side of tracks"
- eternal happiness
- "safe bet"


Hell:

- eternal misery
- "nanny state"
- high-crime
- "tax-and-spend"
- prison-like decor

5 reasons to buy my original artwork

1. I'm punctual, and all works thoroughly spell-checked.

2. Images so original it's hard to tell what the subject is.

3. Not outsourced. Created and executed in Englewood, Colorado -- smack in the middle of America.

4. "Style over substance."

Big fat truck

Pretty and friendly

Alley Transformer

16th St Mall idler

sidewalk sketch

Lady

Humiliating Self Portrait Series. #7

Humiliating Self Portrait Series #6

Humiliating Self Portrait Series #5

Humiliating Self Portrait Series #4

Humiliating Self Portrait Series. #3

Humiliating Self Portrait Series #2

Humiliating Self Portrait Series #1

Vinyl bass amp

 

 

Letter from Van Gogh to his brother, requesting art supplies (adjusted for inflation)

Dearest Brother,

I know you're on your honeymoon, but...

Please send $2,408 worth of paint ASAP to Arles. This is in addition to the $1,000 order I sent you earlier this week (which I have yet to receive, by the way.)

Also needed ASAP: 10 meters canvas.

Please hurry, brother. South France ain't gonna paint itself.

And say 'hey' to your new wife from me.

With a cordial hearty handshake,

Vincent "got no supplies" Van Gogh.

Studio Domingo: Garden, by V.

Studio Domingo: Hitchcock Angel, by V.

Studio Domingo

Studio Domingo

Studio Domingo

study, 16th St. Mall guy, water pencil

study - 16th St. Mall guy, black colored pencil

study, study, 16th St. Mall guy, contour

Pencil studies, 16th St. Mall guy

Water pencil study 16th St. Mall guy

Water pencil study

study

Keeter and E Ray, drinking

Dude at Starbucks

Creepy contour drawing. Deadman pose.

Airline passenger.

MiG-15

Smithsonian museum. Plane engine

Blizzard commute

Still life apple, oil

Spaceman!

16th St. Mall chess player

Bozo the Clown en pointe

Charcoal head study

Light rail commuter

Operation "Bore Children to Tears" is underway.

One week into my daughter's career as a student and this smart and curious little girl is already telling me what a lousy week she had at school, that she doesn't like it, that it powerful sucks because she and her classmates are required to sit and be quiet all day long.

I feel ya, sista.

It's been 35 years since I attended kindergarten, and somehow educators still haven't figured out what makes five-year-old girls and boys tick, haven't figured out that boys and girls do not need to be quiet or sit still in order to learn, that quietness and stillness retard mental and emotional development in five-year-olds, just like it does for most human beings.

Mankind seeks love

You: Distant, incomprehensible, intelligent and wise. Does carbon-based life turn you on?

Me: Violent, creative, instinctual, emotional, frightened.

What I seek: Your total destruction.

What I hope you seek: A little slap and tickle, a good fight.

My dream: An epic clash of cultures, planets ground to dust, depleted stars, trillions dead, a dark epoch and perhaps an epiphany, a small hope, a pair of intrepid dreamers, a common enemy, a common goal, two star-crossed lovers in need of each other’s warmth, strength, life, joined in a technological manner by a mutual commitment of love, of harmony, of balance, drifting through a bountiful universe spreading eternal bliss to all we touch.

My nightmare: That I'm here alone, or simply farther from you than my farthest thoughts, farther than matter can go, farther than light can shine.

Might have to give up fishing because I'm a soft hearted man

When you're as good a fisherman as I am, "catch and release" starts to seem a little cruel. I prefer "catch and fry up in the campfire" because it tends to more quickly end the torment these animals are forced to endure. 

It's a torment I'm directly responsible for every time I expertly present a caddis fly in such a tempting manner that the fish must strike. Poor little guy can't help himself. 

I'm no longer proud of my little triumphs because it's like shooting fish in a... jeez, that's a weak analogy.

Goodbye, Frank.

For 13 years, you were the biggest pain in the butt, yet I miss you and I'm sad that you're gone. If we meet again, I hope you'll forgive me. Jk.

I've come to Andalucia to learn flamenco

I was already an accomplished American guitarist by the time I first heard Vicente Amigo nearly fifteen years ago. When he attacked the strings with his explosive "Spanish strum" I thought to myself, "where the hell have I been all this time? How have I never heard this before?"


So I immediately packed my bags and hopped the first ocean freighter to Cadiz. I lie many wave-tossed nights with my headphones lodged in my ears, listening, cataloging, organizing, learning this music... down to the last detail.

"Did you know skilled flamenco musicians can produce a three-octave melody by simply clapping their hands?

WTF?

"It's true, dude."

Such was my Atlantic crossing. I dreamt of nothing but the guitar. Little did I know of the disappointments and struggle that lie ahead.

In Cadiz, being a good guitarist is nothing. Being a great guitarist remarkable only in the sense that your playing doesn't make Andalucians wince in displeasure. Being a virtuoso gains you an opportunity to apply for apprenticeship.

I still don't know why they accepted me. I was always afraid to ask.

But they put me in a class with a bunch of bookish teenagers. I had proven my technical skills, but my new judges found my heart severely deficient in vitamin "F". Nobody in Cadiz had the slightest hope or care that I pass the final exam. To them, I was just the next Ry Cooder, Carlos Santana, or George Harrison: They, too, thought they were good enough to cross the culture barrier.

I had such a long way to go.

Duece Fuego's Ark

How long does it take to build a gas-powered scale model Pay-n-Pak jet boat?

Is twenty-six years enough time?

Cuz I've been working on my model Pay-n-Pak jet boat for twenty six years, and I'm still not done.

I started the project in junior high, and can understand that it might have been a little beyond the abilities of a first-time R/C boat builder such as I was back then. Mistakes were made, setbacks occurred, bad advice given. And on top it all the self-discipline required to complete a complex project had yet to develop in my youthful brain. Which could explain the first couple of years.

It does not explain the next twenty. I've taken this damned boat with me all over the country, declaring to all who set eyes upon her, "I fully intend to finish this boat, mark my words!"

I don't know exactly how many times I've said that. I can only guess that over the course of twenty years I repeated it many, many times. It became a kind of a joke for those aware of the boat's existence: "Oh, you'll get around to it... you mean like the boat?" I've promised to finish it so many times the promise eventually sounded like a joke to me, too.

In a sense, it means that I've consistently made the decision to NOT FINISH the boat many, many times over two decades. Or maybe it slipped my mind for two decades. Well can you blame me? I didn't know decades were so short...


It comes to an end this year. The goddamned boat will float this summer.

You mark my words.

Gotta polish these bloody ramparts. The woman don't like bloody ramparts. She also wants me to get her swords sharpened -- like I don't have important things to do.

"Sure, sweetie... I'll take your weapons the smith on the way to this morning's JOUST. No problem, I've got plenty of time to travel 20 minutes out of my way while the squire prepares my armor and horse -- Oh that's RIGHT! My squire quit the other day. Well, I guess I'll just fight for your honor in my pajamas today."

Love you, sweetie!

Message to my 7th grade AP math teacher:

Ms. Harvey:

Would you please put some damn clothes on so I can study these quadratic equations? For god's sakes, this class is hard enough as it is without you prancing around in your tight-fitting preppy purple Izod shirt and your MASSIVE bosoms poking out every which way but Sunday.

I can't keep my mind on these VARIABLES... I've never seen nipples so strong... look like they're gonna spear right through the knit. Come on, boy! All you gotta do is solve for x and you can write your own ticket with this lady!

Spaceman, put the pedal to the metal and get the hell out of here!

Bounce, bounce, bounce off the atmosphere of my heart, you sweet thing! 

I'm taking you home with me. We're gonna get married, you and I. 

But we gotta fly, cuz the authorities are on the hunt for your missing person. 

I'm gonna be your loverbeing. 

I'm gonna show you the way to the center of the sun I'm gonna get you high. 

I'm GONNA MAKE YOU SAY GOODBYE... to that fool you call your man. 

He's such a stupid man-boy human with hairy arms and an unclean mouth. He won't stand a chance when I vaporize his brain. Not a chance in hell when I'm done with him. 

He's a dead man... a dead, stupid man-boy human with hairy arms, an unclean mouth and a soggy brain steaming in his skull. 

That's how much I love thee, my sweet earthling. You make me perform difficult tasks, tasks that creatures beneath us might consider unpleasant. 

The restraining straps aren't too tight, are they? 

Now hold on, Sugarpie... we gotta go.

Strange encounters with a first-time dad

“Don't look at Daddy's dick, sweetie.”

My 9-month-old daughter sat on the tile floor and watched me as I brushed my teeth. I did it just the way I had done for years – naked at the sink... and her gaze started to bother me. If that weren't bad enough, she climbed to a standing position, supported herself against my leg, and reached skyward for my cock!

Now, I had done nothing to provoke this – a guy's gotta brush his teeth. None-the-less my baby's searching hand had forced me past some terrible, unspoken line that prompted a full body spasm of defense far out of proportion to the threat.

I imagined a parade fathers: my dad, my grandpa, Governor Bill Ritter, the neighbor down the street, the social worker – all of them advancing on me, spurning, reproachful, disgusted, shaking their fists in a violent revulsion:

“YOU SICK SON OF A BITCH! NEVER LET THE BABY NEAR YOUR SHAME!”

No, no... of course not. The baby will be punished severely.

But wait a minute... That's not right.

I couldn't be the first guy to have blundered into his daughter's innocent curiosity about her daddy's junk. How had other fathers dealt with this? How did my dad do it?

To answer my own question: he didn't have to. My brother and I didn't pose the same kind of threat. Of course we weren't allowed to go grabbing and pinching his dick, but neither of us ever wanted to (Well, I guess I shouldn't speak for my bro.)

No, I mustn't be brutal about this. I mustn't be harsh, but what do I do? Think, man!

I told her, “Don't grab Daddy's junk, sweetie.”

That made her mother laugh, so I rolled with it and it grew into a running gag. But it didn't end there. Daddies have to change diapers, you see? And in case you didn't know, baby girls have tiny little crevices that are impossible to avoid when wiping up all the poop that seems to ooze out of their butts all the time.

I'm just doing my job, see? There's crap everywhere and I've read that women must be careful when wiping their asses so they don't get that nasty shit stuck in their junk, see?

So I do my best to clean my sweetie's junk – get the bits of blueberry and applesauce crap out of there so she doesn't get an infection or the clap or some kind of unpleasant yeast infection (I'm unclear about these maladies).

And I can't help but notice she's gazing up at me in a relaxed way. Staring right into my eyes. So I wonder if maybe she isn't enjoying this, which on the one hand is A-1, top-shelf, royally effed up... but on the other hand, who wouldn't like to have someone else hand-wash their privates?

Where do I sign up...? Just keep my Dad the hell away from me.

Apparently, incest hadn't entered my baby's mind at all -- probably because she has no shame. Nor should she. She's perfect in every way. Innocent on all counts.

I'm the one who must navigate the murky paths of shame for her. I'm the one who worries this could be weird (it's not.) I'm the one who has to remind himself that it's okay for a father to clean up his daughter after she's crapped all over the place. It's more than OK – it's required.

So maybe I've got a few hangups. Nothing serious, I hope. I can't be the only one.

Rap machine: test number one.

My lyrics don't rhyme
They never did and never will.
Poetry hates me
'Cuz I possess disdain
for quatrain and refrain
for hexameter and hyperbole
for simile
for meter.

My lyrics haven't the time to rhyme like fine wine between thine... hind... legs?
Senseless and fence-less, what-a-mess I've made of my pencils... and my papers.

My lyrics can't rhyme cuz they're slime and haven't a dime.

They're street, baby.

Romertopf: German for bone-dry pork loin.

Bought a Romertopf at a yard sale a few weeks back thinking it would be a perfectly eclectic addition to the family kitchen. You know -- delicious roasts on a bed of hearty vegetables... that kind of thing.

Well, I've learnt a lesson, and learnt it well:

You can't have delicious roasts on a bed of hearty vegetable just because you buy a two-dollar clay pot at a yard sale. No, sir. You still gotta know a thing or two about cooking.

Don't believe those Romertopf recipes that say you can't overcook meat in a clay pot. Trust me, you can.

It was so sad, too. It's a tragedy when pork is treated so badly.

You're such a beautiful Retro-Tech vintage stereo: I'm the only one who loves you.

Just look at her. She's gorgeous, ain't she? Can't stop gawking at her HUGE KNOBS, can you?

Neither can I.

Born 1978-1980, I remember the day she came to the house. She was unpacked with care, and BAM! -- just like that, the family was finally cool.

At least in my eyes.

Felt the same as buying an iPod three years after all your friends bought theirs. It was like: "Cool stereo, man! Yeah, thanks. We like it because of the quality."

When the parentals got divorced, we kept her in our house. My dad bought an identical model for his house -- only newer, and also a kick-ass dual tape deck. By that time, she had grown old and tired. No longer a novelty, but just a device to make sound.

They just don't make 'em like that no more. Can't believe I'm saying that, but what the fuck, it's true. Circuit City's like Houston and Las Vegas getting hitched at an outdoor wedding in a trailer park -- gawdy graphic displays and thousands of tiny buttons.

I'm not trying to launch the Space Shuttle, here. I just wanna rock a little. Click, click... BANG! Know what I mean?

Anyway, I had break out the lighter fluid and contact cleaner, dissassemble her piece-by-piece and clean out the 30 years of dust inside. She works like new. I think I'll call her Beulla.

Drunk behind the control stick

"I'm telling you, that planet came out of nowhere! I was just cruising along, you know, lookin' at the stars, and WHAM! Just like that -- I was, like, "SHIT! Did I just hit a planet?!"


Spaceman peered at the trooper's prowler stationed outside his cockpit, but he couldn't see the officer inside. They had been communicating over TicketNet, the official communication platform used by traffic officers in this sector of the galaxy. It was new technology, and it was quite effective at insulating officers from the influence of a traffic violator's emotional appeals. Spaceman was unable to catch a glance from the cop. Spaceman felt he needed every advantage he could find. He was stoned to the bone.

"I mean, there was NOTHING I COULD DO. It just happened so fast," he added.

The officer's voice, laden with static in the speaker: [How fast were you traveling?]

"Oh, not fast... The speed limit, you know... Maybe a little faster," Spaceman stammered.

[How much have you had to drink?]

"What? Nothing. Totally. Well, a couple of beers, like, maybe an hour ago..."

[A couple of beers, sir?]

"If that."

[Would you move your face closer to the cockpit window so I can scan you with the Booze-a-tron?"

"Now officer, I really don't think any of this is necessa..."

[I'm not going to ask again. My lasers are trained on your cockpit. Should you refuse to cooperate, I will be within my rights to open fire... ]

"Wait, wait, wait, wait! It's not like I did this ON PURPOSE! It's like I said, it couldn't be helped! Nobody could have avoided this."


[You hit a planet, sir. You've caused considerable damage on the surface. Many people down there are upset. Now please, move your face to the cockpit window. I need to scan you for intoxicants.]

Spaceman slowly moved his right hand to the thruster control by his thigh. The cop's prowler seemed small to him, possibly only a local bird. It was possible he could get a big enough jump on him to reach the sector boundary before they called in reinforcements. His thumb hovered over the thruster release.

[If you attempt to flee, sir. You will be killed. Reinforcements are already dispatched. You won't make it.]

Spaceman slumped in his seat.

[I've engaged my Imbecilitron, sir. The device reads minds of thugs and idiots like yourself. No offense, sir -- I personally don't think you're an imbecile. However, the device only functions in the presence of certain brainwaves found predominantly in beings of low intellect. It's so effective, in fact, that we were alerted when you entered the sector. We knew you were going to do this long before you did. All we had to do is wait.]