Archive for September, 2011



TWO more people have filed for election to Claremont Town Council.  There are THREE seats open.  The new filers are DB Setzer (Dale Jr.)  and Rick Fulbright.

Since there are three seats to be filled, we will have to settle for ONE incumbent being returned.  To insure that the two challengers are elected, VOTE FOR THEM AND NO ONE ELSE!  You have THREE VOTES but use ONLY TWO of them!

Maybe with some new blood on the board, we can return some sanity to this village.


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  Conviction Date: 10/22/2001

     Gender: M     Race: W
     Hair: BROWN     Eye: HAZEL
     Height: 5′ 07     Weight: 142 lbs.
     DOB: 12-14-1974     Age: 36


NOTE:  Our records show that Hotchkiss may now be living in the Denver (NC) area.

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The man who approached tellers at the Eastern Bank in South Boston on Aug. 25 eventually fled empty-handed, but only after one teller had refused his order for “all your money” (she told him she was “closed”) and another had scolded him for breaking into the front of the adjacent line and for not removing his hoodie. [Boston Globe]


A man dressed as Gumby was ignored by a 7-Eleven clerk when he tried to rob the store in Rancho Penasquitos, Calif., on Sept. 5. The clerk told “Gumby” not to waste his time, and “Gumby” finally fled. The clerk had such little respect for “Gumby” that he did not even report the “robbery”; it came to light only when his boss was reviewing surveillance video. [Seattle Times-AP]

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You might remember my little cousin Wilbur, who lives in a cardboard box down on Jackson Street and only has one nostril.

He was born that way, but we didn’t notice it till he was four years old. Otis Leakey was visiting one day from Paducah, Kentucky, and he said, “Have yall looked at Little Wilbur lately?”

And we said, “What?” And he said “Have yall looked at Little Wilbur lately? You know, you ought to get that boy checked.” Otis couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew something was wrong with Wilbur’s face. And so we took Wilbur to the doctor, and, sure enough, he was missing one nostril. We probly never would of known about it if Otis hadn’t come to visit that year.

Anyhow, that’s beside the point. The point is that we’ve been trying to get Little Wilbur to get a good paying job for several years now, but Wilbur is what you call your chronically unemployed. It’s partly due to discrimination against the partial-nosed population, but I think it’s mainly cause of Wilbur’s own attitude.

“I don’t have to work,” he’ll tell you. “I have a handicapped sticker.”

It’s true. Wilbur wrote off to the Texas Department of Motor Vehicles and got himself a handicapped sticker. He wears it on his forehead.

“Wilbur, just cause you’re handicapped doesn’t mean you have to sit around on Jackson Street all day being pitiful. You could at least volunteer for the Special Olympics or something.”

“I earned this nostril,” Wilbur told me, “and I’m gonna use it.”

Besides, two years ago we tried to put Little Wilbur in the Special Olympics, but they said he was the only single-nostriled person they’d ever had and they didn’t have anybody to compete against him.

“That just shows you,” he said, “the prejudice of the full-nosed population at large.”

I told Wilbur it would be different if his nostril got shot off in Vietnam or something, but he was a natural one-nostril man and so . . .

“There are plenty of cocaine-head Hollywood producers with nostrils worse than mine!” he interrupted. “They could have put them in the Special Olympics.”

“Wilbur, cocaine-head Hollywood producers can’t use a table fork, much less a discus.”

Wilbur snorted.

“Please don’t do that again,” I told him. “That’s the one thing you can do that grosses me out.”

“You see?” Wilbur said. “It’s because I have one nostril, isn’t it? If anybody else had a cold, as I happen to have at this very moment, you wouldn’t say anything, would you? But when it’s a handicapped person . . .”

“Wilbur,” I said.

“Yes,” he sniffled.

“I don’t care how many nostrils you have. I don’t care whether you’re handicapped or not–and, by the way, take that sticker off your forehead, it’s annoying–the least you could do is work the check-out line at Kroger’s.”

“Do you know what people would do in a grocery store check-out line the first time they saw a one-nostriled person?”

“Check out?”

“They would laugh! They would whisper! They would turn away! They would make their children go to another line! They would . . .”

I guess it was about then that I smacked Wilbur right in the . . . well, I guess you know where I smacked him.

He’ll be out of the hospital this week.

Maybe the carnival has something.

And speaking of mutated human flesh attempting to be taken seriously, the best drive-in movie of 1989 just came out this week–“Mutant on the Bounty,” the engrossing (and grossing) story of a horribly mutilated saxophone player who’s rescued from a freefall through outer space by a ship full of bored singles-bar rejects. Meet the Hawaiian-shirted Skipper, his stuttering first mate, the transvestite droid Lizardo, and the adorable chain-smoking nymphomaniac doctor who performs open-brain surgery with a pair of scissors. This wacky crew takes in the sax-playing mutant and tries to make him forget his troubles–namely, that his face now looks like a can of Raviolios, and a couple of intergalactic Seven-Eleven robbers named Rick and Manny are coming to point ray guns at him and giggle a lot. What’s the point? The same point as every outer-space movie for the last thirty years–will the universe be destroyed by the virus that only they know about?

There have been several attempts at outer-space comedy before, but this one is the champeen. Kyle T. Heffner, as the deformed but good natured Max the Mutant, gives the best performance of the year by a man who picks dead skin off his face in every scene.

Remember when “Return of the Living Dead” first came out, and we all knew it was gonna be a classic, but it took everbody three years to figure it out?

This one’s better.

Four dead bodies. One dead droid. One pus-faced mutant. Open-brain laser surgery. Gooey objects removed from cranial cavity in closeup. One giant outer-space rubber dart gun. Face-frying. Exploding spaceship. Excellent Freddy Krueger ripoff voice. Aardvarking. Mutant aardvarking. Gratuitous Hawaiian shirt. Gratuitous baby blue tuxedo shirt. Toilet Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for John Fleck, as the droid who switches between the personality of a transvestite stripper and a Nixon Administration press secretary; John Durbin, as Manny the goofball sidekick of the standup comedian armed robber, for his love of puff weasels; Deborah Benson, as the dippy reporter whose idea of cheering up a man who’s had his face fried off is a little tic-tac-toe, for saying “Could we just turn out one more light?”; Victoria Catlin, as the nympho chain-smoking surgeon, for saying “Don’t die on me now, you son of a beech” in a dimwit French accent; Scott Williamson, as Rick the intergalactic convenience-store robber, for having the world’s most obnoxious giggle and saying “Out there, somewhere, is a very very very unlucky saxophone player”; Kyle T. Heffner, as Max the Mutant, for saying “First they mutilate me, then they lose my luggage. I don’t think I’m even gonna get credit for my Frequent Flyer miles” and “Even if I didn’t look like I was bobbing for French fries, I’d be thrilled to be with you”; and Robert Torrence, the producer, director and co-writer, who’s already planning a sequel called “Seven Brides for Seven Mutants.”

Four stars.

Joe Bob says check it out twice.

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Mennonites, a famously patriarchal, closed-sect religion, often live in colonies such as the one in Bolivia founded by a group from Manitoba, Canada. At press time, eight men from the colony are on trial in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, for rapes of up to 130 women and girls from 2005 to 2009, allegedly instigated by Peter Weiber, 48, the colony’s veterinarian. Weiber supposedly converted a cow anesthetic into an aerosol sedative that he sprayed into the victims’ open bedroom windows at night, after which he and his co-defendants would enter and have their way with the victims. According to an August dispatch in Time magazine, the case is hampered by shamed victims’ reluctance to testify and by the behavior of the defendants, who have been laughing at witnesses, joking with guards, or falling asleep during the trial. [Time]

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Did Pippa Middleton go

commando for London

Fashion Week?



The younger MIddleton sister set rumour-mills alight as it was suggested she let it all hang out in the front row of the event.

Pippa Middleton hardly appeared on the scene before her rear was on display everywhere, and now, while her sister is being groomed into a real princess, Pippa is living it up at London Fashion Week and being accused of flashing more than a smile to a photographer.

The younger Middleton sister is said to have been attending London Fashion Week commando. The cheek!

According to Hollywood Life, it was all in a bid to grab the limelight, which has  been slipping from her grasp of late, and whether she was or was not hanging loose, it has managed to grab her a couple of lines in the news again.

Well done Pippa for a job well done.  






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When Billy W. Williams, 53, skipped out during his trial for aggravated assault in 2003 in Dallas, Judge Faith Johnson was obviously annoyed, though Williams was nonetheless found guilty in absentia. When Williams was recaptured and returned to her courtroom for sentencing, Judge Johnson organized a “welcome back” party in his “honor,” with balloons, streamers and a cake, to create a festive backdrop for her gleeful announcement that she was sentencing him to life in prison. [CNN-AP]

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