Thursday, 22 March 2018

image for Well, I'm sitting here in Gander Newfoundland waiting to take that big jump over the pond!
Just a roving and roaming reporter man up to his old tricks in the Great White North right before Easter

I'm waiting here in Gander, Newfoundland. That's way up here in Alberta, Canada. Or some such place. Who knows? Who cares? Nope. I already said it - it's in Newfoundland! You knucklehead, think, think think.

After flying that old Nissan Sentra down to New Orleans every Friday night after driving all over central Mississippi the same day, it all become a blur. Try working with that on a seven-day week binge. Add in a gambling addiction and bingo, you're broke but at least not busted! Do it for two years and you're more than willing to take that long drive from Jacksonville to Portsmouth, Ohio, singin' ole negro spirituals all the way.

So I'm click-clacking away at this laptop that Cousin Michael and his buddy Sal bought me for Christmas with my own hard-earned loot from publishing all this ridiculous malarkey.

The plane will be leaving for England in 15 minutes. Try our Newfoundland ice cream. We have the best dairy in the world.

"Well wiseguy, I'm smacking on this nicotine gum like Oliver Cromwell ready for battle. I want a cigarette. So chop suey to youey, you dumb nut!"


On boarding the plane I run into the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson leaving the flight in. He's dressed as a High Plains Indian war chief, with hawk and eagle feathers in his headdress and all. And he's as white as Oliver Cromwell, too.

"Hi Vargo."

"Hi Thompson."

So I board the flight and who's there to meet me with a coffee? A hot steaming cup of black industrial grind metal grease? Well, it's Hill and Bill. And they're smiling at me like I'm their long, lost relative.

"Hi Sam." The two look like love birds ready for spring. They're both dressed in Air Force general military costumes.

"Hi guys," I say. Then I brush the flakes off my hoodie and leather jacket from my daze playing with The Godz and take a seat way in the back of the plane.


Half way across the big lake, the plane starts rattling and shaking like an Oklahoma-to-Nebraska locomotive.

Do not be concerned. This is your captain speaking. We're experiencing some heavy winds and inclement weather conditions. We're flying high, high, high and God how me and Billy Boy are high right now. Thompson, pass me that joint. No I'm smoking Bugler right now. Well what the fork, hand it over. Do it now and that's an order."

So a friendly little lobster-shaped like a funky Snoop Dogg UFO guides us down to 40K high to 30k, then 20k, then down to the warp zone speed....

I finish my copy and continue typing away about how when I return in a few days after a very important meeting with Qeen(s) Elizabeths, I will be returning home to South Dakota to hunt prairie chickens with my pals.

Then I wake up.

It was all a dream.

Time to do some work again.

Up and at 'em, as soon as I finish my second cup and watch Morning Joe for a bit on CNN.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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