This summer there were some crazy big forest fires here in Colorado. You know about the homes destroyed, and people displaced.
Locally, people were getting a little testy as we all expected something to catch on fire at the drop of a hat-or cigarette.
This sign was hanging at a ranch near Redstone, Colorado.
The guy who put the sign up was serious about fires. I couldn’t print the other sign he had.
Don’t mess with cowboys when it comes to fires.
El Kabong with a shovel.
Global warming, global cooling, forest fires, mudflows, beetle infestations, and incredibly stinky feet. This has been the summer of 2012.
I’ve heard from more than one source that this has been
“…the hottest July on record.”
That can’t be right.
There are fossilized palm trees in Siberia.
Evidently, Siberia had enough warm summers to support palm trees, water slides, and expensive sunscreen displays.
“Jerry, that was not ‘on record’,” you might say. “Those are fossils.”
In response to that, I have two words.
“Fossil Record.”
People either have to stop saying “This has been the hottest July on Record,” or they have to stop calling it “The Fossil Record.”
I don’t care which way it goes.
The whole matter could be settled between environmentalists, and paleontologists with a thumb wrestling war. Winner takes all.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to book a waterpark vacation in Siberia.
Writers have to look the part. That’s a problem for me. As a comedy writer, what do I do, dress like Rob Petrie? I can’t do Red Skelton’s hair, or Jack Benny’s horn-rimmed glasses.
When my daughter took me horseback riding at the ranch she worked on, I stopped for this photo op. By the looks of things, I’m on my 18th western novel by now. I think the title is “Shootout at the Starbucks.”
The opening line in the book goes like this:
“Forget about paying for the coffee for the chump behind you. Bart Slackline was here for his morning brew, and all of these coyotes surrounding him just made it that much harder. He was ready to horsewhip the barista when suddenly …”
Maybe westerns are easier to write than comedy, after all.
It’s just that during the photo shoot I shouldn’t have squatted with my spurs on.
Matt and I were discussing the new cave tour for next year:
“We will probably put in switches along the way so the tour guide can turn off lights behind the group,” said Matt. “That way the guides can keep the tour moving along,” he beamed.
“I’ve got a better idea,” I replied. “Why don’t we grow some Spanktites in the cave?”
“What are ‘Spanktites?” Matt wanted to know.
“They’re like Stalagmites, and Stalactites, only they grow horizontally,” I answered. “The Spanktites could be spring loaded to swat the lollygaggers in the parotid,” I offered.
Matt wasn’t real sure if we should be artificially growing things in the cave. The spanking part didn’t seem to bother him, though.
I thought it was all better than the “Impale-tites” I was going suggest.
I’ve got a few months to work out the bugs.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get a pliers to bend some stalactites.
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My son Caleb pulls some amazing stunts, but this one I didn’t believe, even though I saw it with my own eyes.
He said, “Dad, come out and check out my new slackline!”
I followed him out to some rocks and trees where he looked at me and said, “What do you think?” as he pointed to thin air.
“I don’t see anything,” I replied.
“I know,” Caleb smiled. And with that, he walked over beside a rock and started walking up an invisible slackline. My jaw dropped.
He wobbled, shook, and waved his hands wildly as he ascended the loose slant. When he got to the tree, he grabbed the branches, turned around, and said “How was that?’’
I gave him a thumbs up, then went back to my book and continued reading about Houdini.
Kids.