Doswell Man Offers Tips for Trick-or –Treating this Halloween Season

By guest columnist Willie Pruitt

Halloween is always a mixed bag in Doswell. It’s hard to tell who is in costume and who isn’t (see the picture of Pine Level resident Larry Milton at left. Costume or not?) and we frequently get carloads of teenagers carted in here because according to rumors some of the Dixie Treat residents hand out condoms but that is only a rumor.

I have had my share of dealing with difficult experiences during Halloween so Newsfromdoswell asked me to relate my experiences and how I deal with them.

If kids come trick-or-treating and they sing that old “trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat” song, if you are a single man like me DO NOT offer to smell their feet, even as a joke. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been on the phone to parents on November 1 trying to explain myself.

The hands-down scariest place on earth during Halloween is the Doswell Trailer Court. Seriously, Kings Dominion should move their Halloween Haunt to the Dixie Treat. Until you see an 86-year-old man in full clown makeup standing at the door of his trailer trying to wave you inside you haven’t lived yet.

You know after the little kids come trick-or-treating you have a lull of about an hour then the teenagers start showing up holding pillow cases about 9 PM? You can scare off the teenage moochers like me – just start answering the door naked. Best Halloween costume in the world. Word gets around Doswell pretty quick not to go to the Pruitt house. Of course, make sure you are dressed and act all innocent and all when the deputies show up.

Dress up like a clown and ride the Richmond city bus.

If you are an adult it’s OK to get dressed up but use common sense and don’t wear a costume that will get you in trouble. One year Verdon Road resident Marshall Stetson dressed up like a Samoan gigolo, complete with a leather vest with the nipples cut out. He was disgusting without being scary or funny.

Try running the first Ronald McDonald ad on a loop on your TV. Scares the bejeebers out of the kiddies!

Have a safe and fun Halloween!

Doswell Man Thinking Back Fondly of his Visit to the Dump Yesterday Morning

“We don’t talk trash – we embrace it.”

Pine Level resident Mark Gillespie has been reminiscing all day of his lovely trip to the dump yesterday.

“It was a most friendly and pleasant trip,” he says, looking up wistfully at the ceiling in his modest frame rancher. “It was sunny, and not too hot. As I was giving my bags the heave-ho into the masher I noticed one man frantically forking free dump mulch into the back of his Ford F-150. Another guy was scrounging through the books and magazine shed, accumulating numerous volumes of German dungeon porn. Yet another patron was draining his empty beer and liquor bottles before he chucked them in the recycler bin – man at his best.”

Gillespie even reports the one-eyed attendant – usually so cantankerous and angry – was smiling and pleasant. “He stumbled out of his dump shack and complimented me on how neatly I tied my garbage bag ties. And when I reached for the masher button, he said ‘please, allow me’ and pushed it for me after jabbing several times right beside it. I steadied his hand and pointed it at the button, then we both watched the heavy hydraulic piston crush the bags back into the can with gusto. It was quite invigorating.”

“As I was leaving another Doswell resident pulled up in a black Escalade, smiled and waved at me.” Gillespie says with a hint of nostalgia and a tear in his eye. “I pulled ahead so he could have my choice spot in front of the hopper. He was much appreciative, because he had several huge contractor bags that were very hard to handle, like he had bodies in them or something.”

Gillespie says he can only hope subsequent visits to the dump can be as pleasurable as this one. “As I was leaving I waved a last goodbye to the one-eyed attendant, who waved back a little to my right just before he turned and walked straight into the door jamb of his dump shack, knocking off his giant wraparound sunglasses, his curses melting into the sunset as I drove away.”

Doswell Blogger Gives Guests at Book Signing the Business for not Laughing More at his Boring Stories of Childhood

Doswell resident Dale Brumfield spoke for almost 6 hours at his most recent presentation and book signing at the Augusta County Friends of the Library near Fishersville, VA, prompting many of the attendees to doze, shift uncomfortably and, most noticeably, get up and leave.

“Now listen here,” he admonished one guest as she reluctantly purchased one of his books, Three Buck Naked Commodes: and 18 MoreTales from a Small Town, “Those stories were facinating, and there’s no reason why all of you could not have laughed more heartily at them.”

“Well, his stories started out OK,” said guest Sally Wallford, who preferred to remain anonymous, “but he started going off about this story of his dad digging the seat belts out from under the seats of their 1968 Cadillac on Sunday, and although his recall of that 40-year-old event is remarkable, it just was not that interesting. I’m sorry, it wasn’t.” Whoops, she was supposed to be anonymous.

“The one about his pet rabbit that ran under the stairs in 1966 and he couldn’t get it out, making them late for some parade was the final straw for me,” claimed Staunton resident George Kauffman, “It was a story that could have been told in 1 minute – no, in 10 seconds – but Brumfield stretched it out for over 15 minutes, always stopping to clarify, or backing up to relate some insignificant detail that he forgot – man, it was deadly.”

“I’m only buying his book because he said if we didn’t he would keep telling those awful stories,” says a Waynesboro woman who wouldn’t slow down long enough to tell us her name. “I mean, OK, he always ordered a hamburger with just mustard when he was a kid. Big flipping deal.”

Brumfield noted that he thought his presentation was riveting, and couldn’t understand the negative reactions. “People just need to realize that stories from my childhood are mesmerizing, and treat them as such. There is no reason to get up and leave just because it takes me 20 minutes to correct the timeline and the order in which my Mom used to make bean soup. It's those details that make a story come alive.”

“Three Buck Naked Commodes” is available on all the online booksellers, in case anyone is still interested.

Doswell Account Rep & Wife have Boss Over for Dinner, Then Dissolve him in Acid

As his way of saying "thanks" for his help in landing the Henderson account, Teman Road resident and Account Representative Paul Holdfield Invited his boss Mr. McAdam over to dinner the other night after giving a “heads-up” to wife Babs.

“I left work a little early to help Babs with dinner,” the sharp-dressed account manager said from the comfort of his rumpus room as he crossed his legs and lit his pipe while awaiting the arrival of his crusty yet benign boss. “She’s got a roast in the ov-“

Ding-dong! Paul’s words were interrupted by the doorbell. He excused himself, walked into his split-level foyer and answered the door. As expected, it was Mr. McAdam, President and partner of the firm McAdam and Farnsworth.

“Hold-FIELD!” He shouted, rocking back on his heels as he folded his arms defensively.

Paul froze – what had he done wrong this time? “Uh, ye . . . yes Mr. McAdam?” he stuttered, just before Mr. McAdam broke into a big toothy smile, grabbed Paul in a headlock and gave him a good-natured noogie. After a good laugh, Paul invited his boss down the steps into the rumpus room, offering him a seat on the free-form couch and a Tom Collins on the rocks.

Putting some Dino on the hi-fi, and after some good-natured ribbing about the incident on the porch and a look at Babs’ sad clown paintings lining the paneled rumpus room walls, Babs called down the stairs and announced to the two that dinner was ready. “You are going to love Babs’ roast,” Paul bragged as they sat down at the candlelit table and Babs draped her apron over the kitchen stool before she too came in and sat down. “Her secret ingredient is . . . black pepper!”

“Now Paul, don’t you go giving away all my cooking secrets!” Bab said with a wink toward Mr. McAdam, to his delight. “Let Mr. McAdam find them out on his own!”

“I see one already - are those slivered almonds in the green beans?” McAdam asked with a twinkle in his eye, “and real mashed potato flakes? You’ve got quite a little woman there, Holdfield.”

“Don’t I know it, sir.” Paul answered with a little wink toward his wife, who blushed in modest pride.

After chowing down on the delicious dinner, Babs sprung a real surprise on Mr. McAdam – his favorite lemon popovers, straight from the oven. “Why Babs – you shouldn’t have!” he cried as he finished the first and reached for the second one. “Why, these are absol . . ."

He never finished. The strychnine in the popovers instantly paralyzed Mr. McAdams’ esophagus and vocal chords. He gagged for air, his face turned black and his eyes rolled back in his head before he fell backwards in his chair, twisting and twitching uncontrollably, his nervous system shutting down in response to the toxic doses. Babs and Paul calmly finished their popovers until Mr. McAdam finally twitched to a stop. They then hoisted his stiff and unresponsive body, carried him up to the bathtub, which had been filled earlier by Paul with concentrated sulfuric acid. They toppled the lifeless body into the sizzling, poisonous brew, then stood back as it sizzled and popped furiously, the toxic acid dissolving first the skin, then the organs and finally the bones. After about an hour, as Paul and Babs enjoyed a gin rickey, and seeing that the boss’s body was completely dissolved, Paul pulled the bath plug and the wretched blood and acid bath drained out. Babs fetched a 50-lb bag of neutralizing salts and she and Paul washed it down the bath drain to minimize damage to the pipes caused by the acid.

Finally, after cleaning any final remnants of the former Mr. McAdam, Paul and Babs made love on the downstairs futon before they picked up their packed suitcases and walked out to the family Chevy wagon. Just as they got in Paul pressed a button on a small remote in his hand, igniting the gas leak in the kitchen and setting the entire split-level rancher on fire.

“Babs, your popovers hit the spot.” Paul said just as they drove away to their eventual destination of Tijuana, Mexico.

Doswell Shuttle Service Available for Virginia State Fair Patrons

Promises to stear clear of the Doswell fart cloud

The Newsfromdoswell News Van will be available as a shuttle for visitors to the State Fair at the new Meadow Farm location, a few short miles from downtown Doswell.

“We have spared no expense in providing first-class accommodations to visitors to the state fair,” says blogger and van owner Dale Brumfield. “I washed the van, took out the rear two seats, cleaned out all the McDonalds bags, and lag-screwed 10 lawn chairs to the floor.”

Brumfield claims he also hired a local guy to give a short presentation on the history of the state fair, and point out local landmarks to riders, including the abandoned Watlington house, the former Wagon Wheel woodworking shop, Flippo Lumber yard and the brand new hotels across the road from Kings Dominion. “It’ll give the folks a little local color, and whet their appetites for the more exotic flavors they’ll find at the fair itself,” says Brumfield, “and it will make a few bucks for me.”

"And yes, for the comfort of our riders we will drive clear of the fart cloud in front of the post office."

Brumfield says if you want to catch a ride to the state fair, get off I-95 at the Doswell exit, turn west onto Route 30, then north on Route 1 for 1 mile. The shuttle will depart every 90 minutes from the empty lot at Route 1 and Verdon Road starting at 4 PM Sept. 24. The shuttle will drop off and pick up for the return trip back to Verdon Road by slowing down on Route 30 at the Fair entrance. State fair officials forbid the van from parking on Meadow Farm property, therefore riders will have to hop off while the van is still rolling. Older riders are advised to “tuck and roll” from the rear door to avoid injuries to hips due to striking the pavement from a moving vehicle. A liability waiver will be signed by all riders. There is no parking in the vacant lot at Verdon Road, and towing will be enforced.

Doswell Teens Recall their Funniest OMG! Moments

What's your funniest OMG moment? Send them in to the Newsfromdoswell News Van!

Dear Newsfromdoswell,
One time, there was this creepy writer-guy hanging in a van out front of our school, and he said he was a blogger? And he wanted to know a funny OMG moment for a column or something he was writing? So I told him to wait a minute, and I got the Sheriff Deputy to come over, and he made him get out and handcuffed him and made him lay down while they called in his license and stuff. Everybody was ROFLing at him! OMG it was freaking hilarious!
Darlene L., age 16

Dear Newsfromdoswell,
This didn’t happen to me, I have to say it was just recently when the Hanover police made the guy get out of the van, spread himself face-down on the ground and stay there while they ran his license. He said he was a writer or something. He was hanging out, waiting for school to let out. Creepy old perv.
John B., age 17

Dear Newsfromdoswell,
The other day when that guy was hanging in front of the school and had to get out and lay face-down while the cops checked him out me and some guys let the air out of the tires on his creepy porn van and when he left he drove away on flat tires. We laughed our asses off!
Mike W., age 17

Dear Newsfromdoswell,
After that disgusting old guy was patted down by the police on school property after trying to talk to some students, my friend keyed his stinky conversion van as he drove off. Then, his key wouldn’t work in his own car – that stupid van wore it down. We should sue him.
Mark M., age 15

Doswell Man Finally Removes Bush-Quayle Bumper Sticker from Crown Victoria

Old Doswell Road resident Mike Coffman broke down and scraped his Bush-Quayle sticker from the bumper of his 1984 Crown Victoria, the last vestige left almost anywhere of that 1988 election year.

“It’s been a good one,” lamented Coffman as he wiped away the lingering glue fragments with a Sham-Wow that was given to him for his 73^rd birthday by his wife Agnes. “I celebrated my 52^nd birthday with dinner down in Richmond at Wright’s restaurant in northside, then as a surprise Agnes bought me the bumper sticker at a gas station. I didn’t put it on right away because I didn’t know which side of the bumper it should go on. The joke was, I put it on the left, because when those racecar drivers on I-95 passed me, they could see it. It wasn’t meant to be ironical (sic).”

“I liked that sticker because you could still read it, all the way to the end,” Agnes said as she watched Mike apply bumper cleaner with a rage and buff the area. “Maybe next Mike can trade in those bicentennial license plates for something more up-to-date.”

Mike suddenly stopped his buffing, stood and turned. “Now look here,” he said, gesturing with his rag, “It makes no sense to get rid of a perfectly good license plate, and spend $10 on a new one. You might as well just throw your money away.”

Agnes rolled her eyes. “Yea, you certainly don’t wanna spend $10 on anything – especially on your wife. How much did you spend on those tube socks you got me for my birthday last month? I don’t even wear tube socks!”

“Listen, those socks had that reinforced toe, and they last for years as long as you take care of them,” Mike yelled back, “but what do you know about taking care of anything? I had to buy you a new skillet last year at the Target because you insisted that the old one was too worn out, and it was only 12 years old!”

Agnes suddenly turned to this interviewer. “Talking about big spenders, listen to this, “ she said, “One day last year Mike discovered the gas pump at the old Gulf station in Ashland was malfunctioning – it wouldn’t turn off, it was pumping gas and not registering. Mike filled up the car and every container he could find, including empty coffee cups he fished out of the trash. He even stuck the nozzle in his mouth and drove off with a mouthful of gas, but he swallowed some of it before he found another cup to spit it in . . .”

“Don’t start, Agnes!” Mike said, waving his Sham-Wow.

“He burped and tooted gasoline fumes for three days, and he was too tight to go buyPepto!”

Mike threw down his Sham-Wow and stomped into the house. “Well, I better go make his dinner,” Agnes said with resignation, “Should I pee or spit into his food tonight?”

Doswell Man Mistakes Centerstage Grand Opening for Benny-Fit for Hospice

Foppish fatcats milling about (Left) did not resemble typical Benny’s fans

Saturday night Verdon Road resident Malcolm Whitehead drove around downtown Richmond for 30 minutes trying to find a parking space, then wondered why so many of Richmond’s more well-healed residents seemed to be so interested in a gathering of doddering ex-punk rockers, then sat through an entire opera before realizing he had mistaken Centerstage’s grand opening for the Benny-Fit for Hospice, which was the real event he was looking for.

“As God is my witness, I thought this was the Benny-fit,” he said out front of the opulent former Carpenter Center, now called the Sammy Maudlin Center or something. “First of all, they said the Benny-Fit was 10 bucks. Some guy who looked like he just passed through the Doswell fart cloud, judging by his wrinkled nose and haughty demeanor, charged me $140 to get in – that should have raised a flag. Then I should have noticed when the opera started that those people – while dressed and acting strangely – still did not resemble or sound like the Orthotonics. Then the dulcet rounds of soothing, polite and subdued applause should also have been a dead giveaway. It wasn’t until I was leaving after the opera that I overheard some overly-tanned guy tell his super-skinny bejeweled trophy wife that they were going to “take the Benz to LeMaire for a Merlot nightcap” that I suspected something was horribly wrong.”

The Benny-Fit for Hospice was in fact a no-holds-barred reunion of the friends, musicians, hangers-on, burnouts and counter-culture casualties that frequented the popular nightspot in the early 1980s, all to raise money for hospice in Richmond. It is presumed the Centerstage opera was designed to raise money for Centerstage.

“By the time that stupid opera finally ground to a conclusion, and I was able to push my way through literally dozens of chattering penguin suits, cummerbunds, monocles, strapless evening gowns, fake boobs, spray-on tans, frosted hair, top hats, and suffocating perfumes, the Benny-Fit was almost over,” complained Whitehead as he raced his car out to the Playing Field, hoping to get in at the last minute and catch a set of one of the bands.

He was in luck – the Orthotonics were playing, and Whitehead still had two more bands to look forward to. “I missed the silent auction and seeing Dirty Secrets, the Diversions and the updated Good Guys, but I got to see White Cross, Beex and my old friends the Orthos,” he said as he cracked open a Pabst Blue Ribbon in a can, kept a drunk woman from falling and waved through a fogbank of cigarette smoke.

“This is it,” he said proudly at the top of his lungs, “I’m home!”

Doswell High-Schoolers Not Solely Responsible for ‘Battle of the Brains’ Free-for-all

It seemed to be the cultural mis-match of the century on WTVR-channel 6’s “Battle of the Brains” yesterday when Doswell's Patrick Henry High School “Shuckers” went toe-to-toe with the “Silver Spoons” of Fagley Preparatory Academy in Fairfax in what was described by host Cheryl Miller as an “anarchic free-for-all”.

The game was off to a rocky start as the three Shuckers continually hit their buttons during the first few questions, prompting host Miller to finally shout at them to knock it off, drawing snickers and hoots of condescension from the snooty Prep school contestants.

Once the questions finally got under way The Shuckers repeatedly accused the Silver Spoons of cheating, only because they were answering the questions correctly. Finally, the Shuckers were provoked by the comment by one of the Spoons that what the Shuckers lacked in teeth they made up for with extra toes, prompting the Shucker bench to empty and a full-scale brawl to erupt.

But BOB host Miller took charge of the situation, back-flipping out into the middle of the fracas and displaying a jaw-dropping mastery of a number of martial arts diciplines, including Kendo, Chinese Kung-Fu, Ju Jitsu, Karate and North Korean Judo. She kicked, chopped and flipped the unruly high-schoolers, despite wearing heels and a skirt, and when the dust settled she stood triumphant, her hair not even mussed, among the fallen junior and senior males, who moaned in agony at her feet.

The highlight of the fight was when Miller actually flew – “Crouching Tiger”-style – back to her host podium.

The game was declared a draw, and the two foes will meet again sometime in the fall.

Cultured Doswell Man Insulted by Fast Food Worker’s Admission of “Here go your Drank”

Verdon Road resident and tenured Randolph-Macon University Literature Professor Richard Lowery (Left, after the episode was over) was flabbergasted Tuesday by a McDonald’s employee’s admission of “here go your drank” when offering him his #13 Meal medium soda cup.

“I have rarely heard such bastardization of the English language in a professional environment,” stated the high and mighty intellectual after he walked to the condiment station and angrily manhandled a recalcitrant ketchup pump in a futile effort to acquire ketchup for his “French-type potatoes”. “What the . . . it is such a gross abomination. I have never . . .” he trailed off as he dumped about a hundred little paper condiment cups on the floor. “God in Heaven!” he wailed as he stopped to pick up the now-useless cups before rising and cracking his head on the pump spout, breaking it off and smearing industrial-grade ketchup through his uncombed grey hair.

“Ow! Dammit!” Lowery shouted in the not-so-elegant English he just decried, drawing stares from the other more blue-collar patrons and disdain from the employee behind the counter. He then angrily walked over to the “drank” station and bumped his cup numerous times under the ice dispenser. The icemaker hummed but failed to deliver any ice, drawing more frustrated epitephs from the rapidly melting-down, formerly erudite Prof. Giving up on the ice, he decided to fill his cup with room temperature ice tea before carrying his tray to one of the plastic booths.

“The culture of abbreviated language, coupled with the electronic shortcut vernacular of text-messaging and email contributes to this coarsening,” said the cultured and more subdued Lowery just as he chowed down on his giant burger, accidentally discharging a sludge-like concoction of tomato, mustard and mayo out the back and down his shirt into the lap of his tweedy, baggy trousers. “MY GO . . . I SWEAR!” he bellowed as he scooped up the remnants with several tissue-thin napkins just as he bumped his tray and tipped over his “drank”, popping off the lid and pouring a 20-ounces of tepid sweet tea on top of the sloppy burger leftovers still in his lap.

At the end of his rope, he launched into a string of guttural obscenities that eventually led the manager to escort him out, where he continued his muffled tantrum from out in the parking lot, looking like a crazy man that tried to make a chef’s salad inside his pants.

Here go your drank, Professor.

Doswell Tough Guy Delivers Out-of-Town Wiseacre a Mouthfulla Bloody Chiclets

The incident had it all, including the booze and the broads and the wailing sax in the background. Bullfield Road resident and local bully Mick van der Meer took it personally when a black Escalade rear-ended his F-250 in the parking lot of the Stop n’Go last Saturday night, and then didn’t take kindly to the misplaced Yankee’s Jersey plates, smart mouth and global warming bumper sticker.

Armed with a pocketful of grudges and a mean slice on the links, van der Meer leaned back in his creaking desk chair, squinted up at the moaning ceiling fan through his gin haze and recounted the parking lot snafu. “That pathetic pretty boy had it comin’,” he muttered as he broke the filter off an Old Gold and poured a Medley Brothers with an Aqua Velva chaser in a Tupperware cup. “Don’t ask for whom the sax wails, it wails for that bleating punk I roundhoused in the bottom of the fifth when he jacked my wheels and did not, as you say, request my forgiveness.”

After the initial confrontation and as the pin-headed Corzine-hugging Jerseyite traded barbs with the bellicose bully van der Meer, the fracas turned ugly. “I had to wrench him out the window of his Escalade into the Stop n’Go parking lot like a volunteer fireman pulling a 2-week-old corpse off a smoldering mattress in a Route 1 fleabag,” van der Meer spit as he cocked his snap-brim fedora and ignored the jangling phone. “He was reticent at first to apologize, but he sang in response to a little chin music and my full nelson before coughing up a throaty act of contrition faster than a post-whack wise guy with a bloody shiv, a spaghetti-smeared bib and a guilty look on his face facing the Padre for the hundredth time down at St. Vitus.”

“I told that carpetbagging New England clam chowderhead that I was gonna bum two-bits from the one-eyed bag lady with the limp then poke him up the nose wid ‘em if he didn’t trade insurance information,” van der Meer continued, “Otherwise I was gonna have to go Ralph Kramden-style, with a one-two to the puss followed by a quick ass-ride to the pavement, wid no stops on the way down.”

“He ain’t so priddy no more,” van der Meer reflected, “now he’s ugly as homemade soap, sportin’ a mouthfulla bloody Chiclets as he drives home talkin’ to himself.”

There were no broads in this story, despite the tantalizing lead.

Stubborn “Fart Cloud” in front of Doswell Post Office Just Won’t Dissipate

A fart cloud released sometime Wednesday near the front door of the Doswell post office shows no sign of dispersal, according to “nosewitnesses” who have passed through it.

Post office employee Emma Wilson says that everybody who comes inside has a “disgusted expression” or has their nose wrinkled after passing through the distinctly noxious patch, which seems to hang relentlessly about 15 feet north of the outdoor mailbox and 30 feet from the front door of the neighboring Stop n’ Go convenience mart. “I use the back door, so I have not walked through it,” claims Wilson, “but a lot of people come in here asking if the previous patron burned the popcorn because the smell is apparently still out there.”

Speculation on who could have created such a lethal and long-lasting stink is rampant throughout the Doswell community. “I think it may have been the Carytown-style guy,” says Wilson, “he looks like the kind who would eat lots of nuts and berries and dry cereal - stuff that would precipitate such an emission. Either him or that man from the future who was here for the town forum. Can you even smell a fart through a spacesuit?”

Other community leaders have differing opinions who may have left the immovable gassy reminder of their presence. “It could have been anybody,” says Ramud Dumar, the palindrome-named owner of the Stop n’ Go, “Lots of folks here in Doswell eat lots of beans and fried foods and Andy Capp Hot Fries, many from right here in my store. But as Vishnu is my witness, it took a special person to drop an f-bomb that dense and make it last as long as it has. Shew! Mama.”

Plans to bring in a Lysol truck to bury the odor have not been considered yet.

Sen. Mark Warner Backs out of Doswell Town Hall Meeting; “Man from the Future” Substitutes

Since Senator Mark Warner claimed he “had no idea” he was scheduled to speak at the Doswell Town Hall September 1, a man claiming to be from the future was instead the keynote speaker at a contentitious September meeting of the Doswell Ruritan club, held in the Ruritan building single-purpose room.

Clad in a silver jumpsuit and holding a goofy silver helmet under his left arm, the man – who said his name was “Grognak-6” – sure seemed to be from the future, judging from his choice of clothing and his loud, ultra-authoritative voice that made him sound like he was announcing the fighters in a heavyweight boxing match. He said he was from the year 2265, almost five years after time travel is perfected. According to him, people live in bubble houses, drive perfected jet-packs, and eat bars of plant-based protein, sort of a vegetarian soylent green (soy soylent, perhaps?). He also said people drink only a General Ripper-style concoction of distilled water and pure grain alcohol.

He also claimed that any discussions of health care and health insurance were unnecessary, since these are “quaint relics of the past” - all diseases in the future have been eradicated by a pill called “Wellium”, which will be manufactured and administered by the “ammonia people of Neptune” to all earth citizens.

After that wonderful spaghetti supper prepared by the Doswell “Ruriteens”, the meeting and conversation turned confrontational, then chaotic among the burping and tooth-picking. Some difficult questions regarding the future and time travel were posed by Doswell residents, and Grognak-6’s answers seemed flip, spontaneous and even flat-out falsehoods, lending some to doubt to his credibility:

Q: Is time travel safe?
A: It is the safest form of transportation in existence.
Q: Then why do you wear a helmet?
A:
Q: Can you travel to any time in history?
A: Yes.
Q: Then why did you come to Doswell, Virginia, in 2009? Don't tell me just to address the Ruritan club.
A:
Q: If your only food is soy soylent green, why did you eat our spaghetti without even asking what it was?
A: I know of your spaghetti from my research before traveling.
Q: Why does your silver jumpsuit have Velcro snaps in the back? Is Velcro the ‘clothing snaps of the future’?
A: This is a futuristic Velcro, made with tungsten and zinc.

Q: Is that an "Ellman's" tag in the back?

A: No.
Q: Where in the future do you live?
A: Shangri-La Towers, Sector G7, in the Samsung quadrant, Northern United Amerasian Emirate.
Q: Is that the location of your time travel machine?
A: Yes.
Q: Then how do you plan to get back?
A:

After another ugly 15 minutes the man from the future gave up and left, driving back to the future in his not-so-futuristic 1998 Ford Saturn.

Bratty Doswell Kids Freak When Busload of Amputees Arrives at Lake

It was going to be another fun summer day at Lake Anna for Doswell brother and sister Duane (age 9) and Nora (age 12) Lamb until a busload of physically disabled people from St. Anthony’s Rehabilitation Hospital in Stafford arrived and freaked the kids out.

“There was a guy hopping on his one leg down the sand into the water!” screeched Duane, who insisted that Nora told him that if he got in the water after that his leg would fall off, too. “I don’t want my leg to fall off!”

Nora finally stopped lying to her brother and dry-heaving long enough offer her perspective on the group. “Ew! Yuck!” she screamed as she watched a man with no arms struggle out of his t-shirt. “Gross!”

“Obviously, children at that age who have lived relatively sheltered lives are disturbed by those who they perceive as different,” says St. Anthony’s spokeswoman Audra Langford. “But those two kids are just spoiled-rotten punks.”

“I offered to talk to the two kids about how I lost my hands in Iraq,” said Desert Storm veteran and former army captain John Eisle, “But they chose to just screech like brats. Now, I’m usually not one to remove my prosthetics and wave my arms in kids’ faces, but I can make an exception.”

Clueless Parents John and Maggie Lamb offered no explanations to their children about the disabled people, nor stressed empathy and understanding, instead choosing to let them scream and wail at the presence of the group. “Well, so much for our day at the lake,” said John as he slipped back into his loafers and started rounding up their belongings.

But the St. Anthony’s group was undeterred. Frustrated and annoyed by the unbelievable histrionics of the Lamb kids, they decided to band together and recreate a scene from the 1932 movie “Freaks”. They formed a circle around the family, then starting dancing and chanting “Gooble gobble, gooble gobble, one of us, one of us!”

Well, that did the trick. Now the whole Lamb family is on Xanax.