Realtors take notice …
EVERGREEN — Marge and Homer flew into DIA on July 31, rented a car, got a good night’s sleep in an Aurora hotel, then drove up into the green high country to scout prospective candidates for a “second home.” After gendering a few likely prospects, Homer decided to scout some prospective saloons, and the couple wound up drinking in more of the local color than was strictly good for them. Perceiving that Homer was more or less obliterated, the marginally less obliterated Marge suggested she drive them back to Aurora. Calling upon his last remaining brain cells, Homer asked Marge if she had any idea where they were. Marge admitted she didn’t, but thought her cell phone’s fancy “nav” system could get them where they needed to go. Apparently cool on the plan, Homer smashed Marge’s sunglasses and headphones. Apparently fearing she might be next, Marge bolted onto Evergreen’s darkened Main Street and called 911, and deputies quickly located her hiding in a tiny fenced alley near the stoplight. No sooner did the officers begin interviewing Marge than Homer staggered up and started vomiting bluster, insults and drunken aggression all over the sidewalk. Deputies arrested Homer on suspicion of domestic assault and criminal mischief, and drove Marge to a Golden hotel where she’d be within bail-making distance of Homer in the morning, assuming that was her intention.
Firewood foray fuels feud
CONIFER — Feeling the approach of autumn in the chill of the night, on the sunny morning of Aug. 1 Mr. Hatfield ventured out in search of dead trees to beef up his winter firewood store. About that same time, Mr. McCoy was embracing the new day at home when he heard a “popping” noise and looked out to see Hatfield in mid-venture. “What the (forage) are you doing on my property?” McCoy queried. “I’m on my own (foraging) property line,” Hatfield smiled, with a tip of his coonskin cap. “No, you’re on my (foraging) property,” McCoy politely corrected. “I’m calling the sheriff.” McCoy’s plan struck Hatfield as sound. “Go ahead and call the (foraging) sheriff,” said Hatfield, encouragingly. “You’re an (ace in the) hole.” Setting aside that suggestion for later consideration, McCoy first kept his word by summoning a deputy and asking him to convey his respectful request that Hatfield be mindful of the surveyor’s pronouncements. Receiving McCoy’s wishes gracefully, Hatfield told the officer that his greatest desire is to live in peace and brotherhood with McCoy, which is why he never calls the sheriff when his good neighbor blasts hill and hollow with loud music at all hours. Rather than muddy that placid river of friendship separating the two households with the point of a legal stick, the deputy merely advised Hatfield and McCoy to keep their pleasantries down to a dull roar.
The crash sounded better than their last album
SOUTH TURKEY CREEK — The fellow who phoned JCSO on Aug. 4 just had a quick question: Did anybody happen to call about running down a fence at the bottom of South Deer Creek Road? No, said the deputy, no railing-ruining reports received. Well, said the querisome complainant, somebody did paste his pickets, but good. As near as he could figure, sometime during the previous night a vehicle trying to turn onto Deer Creek swung more than a little wide and wound up parked in his yard. Aside from the fearfully afflicted fence, the only other evidence of the crime was a black baseball hat displaying a white skull on the front and the word “FIEND” stenciled under the brim, which artifact was found lying in the grass where the careening car came to rest. Officers responding to the scene recognized the hair-raising headwear as a style associated with the prototypical horror-punk band “The Misfits.” While of (exceedingly) minor cultural interest, that information was not especially helpful in identifying the rail-wrecking roadster, and the case, like the complainant’s yard, remains wide open.