Latest posts

by Aly Nielsen, NewsBusters

Judicial Watch recently filed a lawsuit against the Department of Justice after uncovering evidence it forced companies to give money to left-wing nonprofits during the Obama administration — nonprofits which also received millions from billionaire George Soros and other liberal foundations.

The Freedom of Information Act lawsuit filed on June 12, demands “records relating to an Obama administration policy of settling agency lawsuits against corporate defendants by requiring that the corporations make ‘donations’ to left-wing interest groups La Raza, the [National] Urban League and the National Community Reinvestment Coalition [NCRC],” according to the press release.

“When big banks are sued by the government for discrimination or mortgage abuse, they can settle the cases by donating to third-party non-victims,” Fox News reported in March 2017.

So far, at least $3 billion in payments to “non-victim entities” like La Raza have been uncovered, Judicial Watch said.

During Obama’s presidency however, the government didn’t just force companies to donate to the left-wing nonprofits. Federal agencies also gave more than $89.5 million to the three non-profits: $69.9 million to the National Urban League, $13 million to National Community Reinvestment Coalition and $6.5 million to La Raza, according to

Major media have yet to cover both this Judicial Watch lawsuit and another lawsuit against USAID for funding Soros groups in eastern Europe.

The three left-wing groups cited in the Judicial Watch lawsuit are already backed with millions of dollars from liberal organizations like the Ford Foundation, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation and Soros.

The Ford Foundation gave more than $19.6 million to La Raza, $3.7 million to the National Urban League and nearly $1.2 million to the NCRC between 2003 and 2015.

The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation meanwhile gave almost $24 million to La Raza and $15.5 to the National Urban League during the same time frame.

Soros’ Open Society Foundation (OSF) gave $4.76 million to the La Raza and $700,000 to NCFC.

The Ford Foundation, Gates Foundation and OSF have given to many other left-wing causes as well. They are among Planned Parenthood’s largest donors after giving tens of millions of dollars. OSF and the Ford Foundation also funded journalism groups behind the ongoing attacks on ExxonMobil over climate change.

Leaked emails from OSF revealed that during Obama’s presidency, Soros advised then-Secretary of State Hillary Clinton on foreign policy in Albania. He also gave at least $10.5 million to Clinton’s 2016 presidential campaign.


Matt Pacenza, a New York native who moved to Utah to take up the environmentalist cause, posted a video on Youtube in December of 2015 in which he urges and aids two young children in helping him to kill Donald Trump in effigy. In the video, titled ‘Destroying a Donald Trump Snowman,’ it he appears he and his two young sons constructed a snowman with the image of Donald Trump on its head and subsequently ran it over with his car.

After obvious coaching on his part, Pacenza asks the youngsters, “What have you made here boys?” They answer, “We’ve made a Donald Trump snowman.” And the rest of the video goes this way:

Pacenza: “A Donald Trump snowman? And what do you intend to do with your Donald Trump snowman?”

Older boy: “We want to run it over because we don’t like Donald Trump.”

Pacenza: “And why don’t you like Donald Trump?”

Older Boy: “Because he says mean things about Mexicans, and Syrians and Muslims.”

Pacenza: “How about you Maxie?”

Younger Boy: “I just hate him ’cause he sucks.”

Pacenza: “Okay, move out of the way boys, get up on the porch.”

Then you see a car in which the driver revs the engine then plows over the ‘Donald Trump’ snowman. In the background you hear the boys giggling, and one of them says, “We’ll never find that head.”

The video as posted by Matt Pacenza can be seen below.

The video has also been uploaded to my Youtube channel.

Ironically named Heal Utah, Pacenza’s environmentalist lobbying organization is staffed primarily by folks who came from outside of Utah, and virtually none are from rural Utah or the small resource-based communities which have been harmed by efforts like those of his group. Behind the facade of ‘cleaner air’ and ‘healthier environment,’ Heal Utah has succeeded at nothing other than killing jobs and industry in some of Utah’s most economically hard-hit communities. Heal Utah and its urban operatives have thwarted jobs, revenues and an improved standard of living for thousands of rural Utahans.

The video posted by Pacenza is extremely disturbing. The toxic hatred that would drive someone to coach young children to despise, and kill–even in effigy–someone whom they simply don’t like, is far more deadly than any environmental boogeymen that New Yorker, Matt Pacenza, has ever confronted in Utah.





January 29, 2017

Colorado Freshman Rep., Dave Williams, introducing bill to outlaw sanctuary cities

By Marjorie Haun

On Monday, January 30, freshman Colorado Representative Dave Williams (R) of House District 15, will be introducing legislation to outlaw so-called sanctuary cities in the state. Williams’ bill goes farther than simply making official ‘sanctuary’ status illegal, to establish a right of action for crime victims against public officials who enact policies which put Colorado citizens at risk through giving unconstitutional protections to illegal and/or criminal aliens.

In addition to the sponsors listed on the bill, others have been added and will show up on the updated version of the bill. Those co-sponsors include Senator John Cooke, Senator Kevin Lundberg, Senate President pro tempore Jerry Sonnenberg, and Senate Majority Leader Chris Holbert. Others may yet be added.

This bold move by Representative Williams comes on the heels of President Trump’s swift and unequivocal actions against sanctuary cities across the country. The executive order issued by President Trump on Monday states, “These jurisdictions have caused immeasurable harm to the American people and to the very fabric of our Republic,” and there is ample evidence supporting his claim.

Colorado immigration hawk, Tom Tancredo, recently wrote about the purely fiscal costs incurred by ‘sanctuary’ cities. In his Breitbart article from January 28, Tancredo stated:

In my home state of Colorado, the 2016 SCAAP report by the state Department of Corrections revealed that state prison system was holding 2,039 criminal aliens at a cost of $37,958 per inmate. That is a total cost of $77,396,362. The federal reimbursement grant was $2,077, 720. That is a grant of 2.7 cents for every dollar of actual cost. Those 2,039 criminal alien inmates were 14% of all state prison inmates: One in every seven felons in the state prison system is a criminal alien.

What are the comparable numbers for your state? You can discover the SCAAP grant amounts for each state prison system and the local county jails applying for federal reimbursement at this website.

The federal SCAAP grant program was established by Congress as an acknowledgment of federal responsibility for a failed border security and failed federal enforcement of immigration laws. But the appropriated amount for reimbursing local communities their incarceration costs through SCAAP grants has NEVER been adequate for full cost reimbursement. In 2016, the federal reimbursement program was given a paltry $189 million.

  • At 2.7 cents on the dollar, that amount would not reimburse the full costs of even one of the five states having over 10,000 criminal aliens in the state’s jails and prisons and receiving over $6 million in SCAAP grants– California, New York, Texas, Florida, and Arizona.
  • That $189 million would be $7 BILLION annually if the federal government wanted to reimburse states and local communities the full cost of incarcerating over 200,000 criminal aliens

Williams’ ban on sanctuary cities will be formally introduced in the Colorado House of Representatives on Monday, when it will be assigned a bill number and then assigned to a House committee. The summary of the bill–which is quite lengthy–reads:

Bill Summary

(Note: This summary applies to this bill as introduced and does not reflect any amendments that may be subsequently adopted. If this bill passes third reading in the house of introduction, a bill summary that applies to the reengrossed version of this bill will be available at

The bill is known as the “Colorado Politician Accountability Act”.

The bill includes a legislative declaration that states that addressing sanctuary jurisdictions is a matter of statewide concern and that makes findings about how sanctuary policies are contrary to federal law and state interests.

The bill creates a civil remedy against the state or a political subdivision of the state (jurisdiction) and against its elected officials for creating sanctuary policies. The bill also creates a crime of rendering assistance to an illegal alien that can be brought against an elected official for creating a sanctuary jurisdiction.

An elected official is responsible for the creation of a sanctuary jurisdiction if the elected official votes in favor of imposing or creating a law, ordinance, or policy that allows the jurisdiction to operate as a sanctuary jurisdiction, fails to take steps to try to change a law, ordinance, or policy that allows the jurisdiction to operate as a sanctuary jurisdiction, or is a county sheriff who imposes or enforces a policy that allows the jurisdiction to operate as a sanctuary jurisdiction in a county in which the elected officials have not voted to impose or create a sanctuary jurisdiction.

The bill allows any person who claims that he or she is a victim of any crime committed by an illegal alien who established residency in a sanctuary jurisdiction to file a civil action for compensatory damages against a jurisdiction and against the elected officials of the jurisdiction who were responsible for creating the policy to operate as a sanctuary jurisdiction. Notwithstanding the protections of the “Colorado Governmental Immunity Act”, the jurisdiction and its officials who are responsible for creating a sanctuary jurisdiction are civilly liable for damages if the person who engaged in the criminal activity:

! Is determined to be an illegal alien;

! Had established residency in the sanctuary jurisdiction; and

! Is convicted of the crime that is a proximate cause of the injury to a person or property.

The maximum amount of compensatory damages for injury to persons is $700,000 per person or $1,980,000 for injury to 2 or more persons; except that no person may recover in excess of $700,000. The maximum amount of compensatory damages for injury to property is set at $350,000 per person or $990,000 for injury to multiple persons; except that no person may recover in excess of $350,000.

The bill defines a “sanctuary jurisdiction” as a jurisdiction that adopts a law, ordinance, or policy on or after the effective date of this bill that prohibits or in any way restricts an official or employee of the jurisdiction from:

! Cooperating and complying with federal immigration officials or enforcing federal immigration law;

! Sending to or receiving from or requesting from federal immigration officials information regarding the citizenship or immigration status, lawful or unlawful, of an individual;

! Maintaining or exchanging information about an individual’s immigration status, lawful or unlawful, with other federal agencies, state agencies, or municipalities;

! Inquiring about an individual’s name, date and place of birth, and immigration status while enforcing or conducting an official investigation into a violation of any law of this state;

! Continuing to detain an individual, regardless of the individual’s ability to be released on bail, who has been identified as an illegal alien while in custody for violating any state law; or

! Verifying the lawful presence and eligibility of a person applying for a state or local public benefit as required by state and federal law.

The bill sets forth the requirements for determining when an illegal alien has established residency in a sanctuary jurisdiction. An “illegal alien” is defined as a person who is not lawfully present within the United States, as determined by federal immigration law.

The governing body of any jurisdiction is prohibited from adopting a law, ordinance, rule, policy, or plan or taking any action that limits or prohibits an elected official, employee, or law enforcement officer from communicating or cooperating with an appropriate public official, employee, or law enforcement officer of the federal government concerning the immigration status of an individual residing in the state. The governing body of a jurisdiction is required to provide written notice to each elected official, employee, and law enforcement officer of the jurisdiction of his or her duty to communicate and cooperate with the federal government concerning enforcement of any federal or state immigration law. The governing body of any jurisdiction in this state is required to annually submit a written report to the department of public safety (department) that the jurisdiction is in compliance with the cooperation and communication requirements. If the department does not receive those written reports, the department is required to provide the name of that jurisdiction to the state controller.

A law enforcement officer of a jurisdiction who has reasonable cause to believe that an individual under arrest is not lawfully present in the United States shall immediately report the individual to the appropriate U.S. immigration and customs enforcement office (ICE) within the department of homeland security. The governing body of any jurisdiction is required to report annually to the department on the number of individuals who were reported to ICE by law enforcement officers from that jurisdiction. The department is directed to compile and submit annual reports on compliance to the general assembly and to the state controller. The state controller is required to withhold the payment of any state funds to any jurisdiction that is found by the department to have failed to comply with these reporting requirements. The state controller shall withhold funds until the department notifies the state controller that the jurisdiction is in compliance.

The bill creates the crime of rendering assistance to an illegal alien through a sanctuary jurisdiction, which is a class 4 felony. A person who is an elected official of a jurisdiction commits rendering assistance to an illegal alien through a sanctuary jurisdiction if, with intent to hinder, delay, or prevent the discovery, detection, apprehension, prosecution, conviction, or punishment of illegal aliens within the jurisdiction:

! He or she was responsible for creating a sanctuary jurisdiction in the jurisdiction to which the official is elected; and

! When, as a result of the protection afforded by a sanctuary jurisdiction, a third person engages in criminal activity and the third person:

! Is an illegal alien as legally defined by federal immigration law;

! Had established residency in the sanctuary jurisdiction that was created by the official; and

! Has been convicted of a crime that caused injury to a person or to property.

A person who has knowledge of a crime committed by an illegal alien as a result of the creation of a sanctuary jurisdiction may file an affidavit with the attorney general or with a district attorney outlining the crime and requesting that charges be brought or that a grand jury be impaneled. The attorney general or district attorney shall investigate and respond in writing with his or her decision to the person filing the affidavit within 49 days. If the attorney general or district attorney declines to bring charges or impanel a grand jury, the person may file a second affidavit directly with the applicable court.

The bill includes a severability clause and a provision that states that the bill is not subject to judicial review.

The bill takes effect upon passage and applies to acts or omissions occurring on or after said date.

This bill is a daring move on the part of the freshman Representative Williams, however, the chances of it making through Colorado’s Democrat-controlled State House are slim. Nonetheless, it reflects the sentiment so strongly, if unartfully, voiced by President Trump, that government at all levels must address public safety and national security threats where they often begin; at the America’s entry ways.

# # # # # # # # # # #

Cute Kittens Against Socialism is broadcasting this Public Service Announcement on “National Dog Day” to warn the millions of Americans currently being infiltrated by dogs, and influenced by their propaganda, that your mental health may be in grave danger.

The following study was formulated by the same researchers who brought you “global warming,” “Mermaid: The Body Found,” and “the ‘G’ spot.”


This research was funded by the “Tapeworm Foundation,” “The Toxoplasmosis Society,” and “Too Cute: Puppies with Diarrhea.” Not one cent of Koch-brothers money went into any phase of this investigation which explores the political leanings of dogs. And, finally, the sponsor of this groundbreaking study, “Cute Kittens Against Socialism,” promise that not one iota, not one itty bit, not one friggin’ flea speck of bias influenced its outcome.

Abstract: This research was conducted in response to the ongoing debate about who really is man’s best friend. Since behavior and political ideology are intimately connected, Cute Kittens Against Socialism commissioned this study with the goal of providing information to Americans about what influences are coming into the homes of unsuspecting dog owners. Evidence that dogs are often found on Democrat voter rolls brought forth the hypothesis that Americans with dogs are more liberal because their pets are Socialists.

Findings: Vast differences between Canis Domesticus and Felis Domesticus exist in the following behavioral domains:

Dependency vs. Self-reliance

  • Dogs are completely dependent on humans and other dogs to take care of their needs, from doggie biscuits to emotional security, therefore their relationship to humans is comparable to living as welfare recipients. Dogs are incapable of doing anything without  being commanded. Left to their own devices, dogs will starve and die of depression while waiting for their masters to provide for them instead of getting off their canine butts and obtaining of their own food and addressing their own emotional emptiness. Dogs are sometime co-dependent and will stay with inadequate and/or abusive humans because they have no sense of individuality. Clearly, dogs are Socialists.
  • Cats, even those with employees who feed them on a regular basis, continuously hone their hunting skills and are fully capable of finding food for themselves when the kibbles run out. Cats are not emotionally needy, and seek closeness only when they want something warm to rub against or need a scratch under the chin. Cats are rugged individualists who refuse to be commanded, ruled, or any way controlled by forces other than their own whim. Cats easily leave inadequate and/or abusive masters, seeking for those circumstances which most benefit their individual needs. Cats are also generous and will share their hunting quarries with their employees in the form of the occasional mouse or blue jay left just outside the back door. Cats are obviously conservative.

Utopian Delusions vs. Reality


  • Dogs chase cars. Dogs chase their tails. Dogs display many behaviors generated by the delusional premise that “wanting something to be a certain way will make it so,” which is a universal theme in all Socialist theories. Dogs, despite their dependency and inadequacy as individuals, have a grandiose sense of self and an unrealistic notion that they can alter reality in order to overcome their personal deficiency. Dogs howl at the moon to make it go away. Does it go away? No. Dogs pretend large moving vehicles are prey. Who is the real predator in dog vs. automobile, hu? Dogs, like Socialists, will always try to undo reality to fit their delusional worldview, why? Because it makes them feel special, that’s why. Dogs are therefore Socialists.
  • Cats are firmly pinned to the Barcalounger of reality.  Cats observe and analyze the world, formulating strategies to meet their goals. Cats don’t chase cars. Cats howl only to warn away interlopers. Cats don’t play pretend like dogs and Socialists. Cats understand and live by the natural order of things. Cats are therefore conservative.

Pack vs. Feral Colony

  • Dogs have a strong psychological need to be part of a group. They are incapable of independent action or thought. Dogs, without the constraints of a human family, will join a pack. Dogs are like lemmings, only worse because they eat their own poop. Whatever the leader of the pack does, the rest will do. Dog packs are filthy, constantly on the move, ruled by appetite, dangerous, killing randomly, as much for thrill as for food. Packs of dogs are like mindless masses of moving mange, similar to low-information Liberals and Democrat stoners who vote in lock-step with the hound that yips the loudest and longest.  Pack dogs are Socialist-leaning Democrat voters.
  • Cats are by nature solitary hunters. They follow the Natural Law of the jungle, in their pursuit of life, liberty, and the perfect mouse. Cats may form feral colonies in the absence of human care, but feral colonies are orderly, regulated by matriarchal pussy cats who act in the best interests of the kittens. Feral colonies are self-sufficient and do not waste. The hunters within the colony carry out their tasks and share their kills with all in the colony. Cat colonies are stable, and provide beneficial supports to all generations within the colony. Feral cat colonies are well-ordered conservative organizations.

Eating Poop vs. Burying Your Poop

  • One of the most puzzling findings in this study was the high number of Democrats who allow dogs to give them open-mouthed French kisses. Surely they understand that dogs eat poop. Dogs eat their own poop. They eat the poop of other dogs. They even eat the poop of other species. The eat maggoty poop. They recycle poop by eating poop, pooping poop, eating poop, and pooping poop in an endless digestive cycle. Dogs roll in poop. They roll on and around the festering carcasses of dead things. They roll in trash, especially that which contains bloody offal and stuff that smells like zombie farts. Dogs never attempt to keep themselves clean. Dogs are the canine version of the Occupy Movement; Occupy the dog park, Occupy the Port-o-let, Occupy the Landfill, Occupy Roadkill. Dogs regard personal hygiene as a phony bourgeois imposition upon the natural state. Dogs smell like Socialists.
  • Cats are highly hygiene-conscious. Cats clean every square inch of their bodies by twisting into impossible positions and licking, licking, grinning, and licking. Cats have a natural antiseptic in their saliva that acts simultaneously as an anti-bacterial agent and pleasant cologne. Cats are offended and embarrassed by poop. Cats instinctively bury their poop. They feel great remorse if their poop ends up somewhere it doesn’t belong. Cats won’t eat food within several yards of poop. Cats avoid the poop of other animals. And cats avoid festering dead things because they like their meat fresh and sweet. Cats have a sense of pride in their personal appearance. Cats are clean-cut and attractive. Cats are athletic and fit. Cats smell like personal liberty. Cats are undoubtedly conservative.

Conclusions: Dogs are drooling, pea-brained Socialists which have undue influence over their masters, often causing them to adopt their dependent and slovenly ways. The commissioners of this study, Cute Kittens Against Socialism, strongly cautions its readers against falling for the whole “cute, fuzzy, cuddly puppy” scam. It is a contrivance by Leftists in media and culture who simply want four-legged, pathetic Socialists infiltrating every home in the nation. Don’t buy it. Cats are man’s best friend. Cats are freedom’s best friend.

by Marjorie Haun 


September 10, 2016

“Somewhere in the depths of solitude, beyond wilderness and freedom, lay the trap of madness.”
― Edward Abbey, The Monkey Wrench Gang

“The Monkey Wrench Gang” was written by Edward Abbey, the man many on the Left consider the Walt Whitman of the environmentalist movement in the West. The book details the misadventures of a crew of angry, misfit ‘environmentalists’ who seek to ‘protect’ the wilderness and rivers of southeastern Utah. The Monkey Wrench Gang resorts to criminal acts, such as vandalizing–monkey wrenching–various pieces of heavy equipment, to stop big, evil corporations from despoiling nature by building roads, dams and whatnot. Earth First, Earth Liberation Front, Green Party prez candidate Jill Stein, and others were likely inspired by Abbey’s book to use environmentalist activism as justification for destroying public and private property. But some have taken the ‘monkey wrench’ strategy to new levels in the cyber-connected world.zindagoat

Kieran Suckling, the vile director of the Center for Biological Diversity, recruiting an army of Internet trolls, effectively monkey-wrenched the characters and motives of ranchers protesting the unjust imprisonment of the Hammond family in Oregon. Suckling, and his malcontent cyber storm troopers used Twitter trolling, hateful attacks on Facebook and media smears in a somewhat successful campaign to brand the peaceful ranchers as ‘domestic terrorists.’ His lesser compatriot–and admirer, Chris Zinda, also participated, using his own version of social media monkey-wrenching. This Suckling wannabe was recently exposed by Rangefire Magazine, for his own, very personal, very angry campaign against efforts in the West to disentangle lands and resources from the control of aggressive and overreaching federal agencies.

Zinda’s villains include, but are not limited to; ranchers, cows, cowboys, Mormons, Utahans, politicians, bloggers, loggers, truckers, county commissioners, Oath Keepers, people with personal firearms for self-defense and hunting, people who ride ATV’s (whom he calls ‘wreckreationists’), people who read and cite the Constitution, people who believe in God and the Constitution (whom he labels ‘theoconstitutionalists), Cleon Skousen, the Bundys, Republicans, Conservatives, conservative women, corporations and of course, the Koch Brothers. To Zinda, all of the aforementioned are ‘seditionists.’


Zinda is biased in favor of big federal government. His household income depends on it. Zinda’s wife, Heather Whitman, works for the increasingly controversial Bureau of Land Management (BLM) and most recently served as the director of the BLM Color Country district office in Iron County, Utah. If, for instance, the BLM were downsized and Ms. Whitman lost her job, Zinda might have to give up his position as a ‘homemaker.’ It’s also worth mentioning that Zinda is a regular contributor to the antisemitic Counterpunch webmag.

Originally from Appleton, Wisconsin, Zinda was himself a federal minion and worked for the National Parks Service in California and several other states. While in Alaska, he was arrested for 4th degree assault.

More bizarre still is his history of misdemeanor ‘impersonation.’ Although these days Zinda is not coy about press attention, his favored Internet troll commentator identity is “Zinwhit.”

Zinda moved to New Harmony, Utah, from Oregon last September, a few months after Whitman took her position at the Color Country BLM district office. Whether Ms. Whitman was simply transferred to Utah, or driven out because of her husband’s activism is unclear. It is clear, however, that Zinda was on the rampage long before moving to New Harmony. Shortly after moving to Lakeview, Oregon in 2010, Zinda went to war with the town over a geothermal energy project. A few years later he vilified a biomass energy project the little town had hoped would boost the local economy.  “Thank god he’s gone,” is the reaction he expected from the people of that part of Oregon when he moved. Apparently he anticipated, perhaps even relished, the thought of becoming a martyr to his own agitatin’.

A post on Ripoff Report appears to be an attempt to warn the people of Utah about the ‘radical’ activities of he and his Bureu of Land Management employee wife.

Having successfully monkey-wrenched the economy and working folks of Lakeview, Oregon, Zinda probably felt like the big gorilla when he moved to Utah a year ago, following Ms. Whitman’s transfer early in the summer of 2015. But the monkey crap really hit the fan for Zinda when he single-handedly derailed a patriotic children’s concert to be held at the Western Freedom Festival as part of Iron County’s Western Heritage Days. This is an excerpt from my expose’ of his activities as found in WatchdogArena.

Following the abrupt decision by officials in Utah’s Iron County School District (ICSD) to cancel a performance of Hope of America by 5th graders that was to be featured at the Western Freedom Festival (WFF), Watchdog Arena has discovered that this decision resulted from the complaints of one man with a vested interest in defaming the upcoming event, because his wife is the BLM manager over that region of Utah.

On October 1, Watchdog Arena reported the 5th grade choir controversy which made national news. Citing an article from the Salt Lake Tribune, we were lead to believe that ICSD cancelled the performance in response to “negative feedback from parents.” Watchdog Arena also communicated with ICSD School Board member, Becki Bronson, who said she and other officials had concerns about “the political agenda” of the Western Freedom Festival, which we reported, saying:

The ‘negative feedback from parents, it turns out, came only from Chris Zinda, who used his social media platforms to amplify his hoot to a roar sufficient to intimidate ICSD into cancelling the kids’ concert. My article goes on:

At 1:15 a.m. on Sept. 23, Zinda sent the following email to ICSD President Michelle Jorgenson, other school officials, Southern Utah University’s Vice Provost for International Affairs Stephen Allen (the university where the festival will take place), and the following Utah newspapers and broadcasters: The Spectrum, St. George News,David NoyceMatt Canham and Kristen Moulton of the Salt Lake Tribune, KUTV News, Fox 13 Now News, the Deseret News and KSL News.

An ICSD official was able to confirm to Watchdog Arena that no other parents logged complaints about the WFF, and that the concerns of Stephen Allen arose from the email Zinda sent to him. A scanned document provided by ICSD also shows the only phone call to the district regarding the district’s involved with the WFF was from Zinda.

After a year of grumbling and throwing proverbial sticks and stones at the folks in and around southwestern Utah and southern Nevada, word comes from a highly reliable source that Zinda’s wife is being transferred back to Oregon. Little detail is available about Ms. Whitman’s latest destination as a BLM administrator. I’m pretty sure the people of Lakeview will find the news of the pending transfer most unwelcome. May God help them should Zinda once again touch down in that struggling town.

One Iron County, Utah local, who shall remain anonymous, said of Zinda’s looming departure, “The locals here will rejoice. He’s trashed a lot of good people here, it’s really sad.”

But a change of location does not necessarily change a man. Chances are, Zinda will continue to tilt at the Cosmos and all things contained therein from his Twitter account, Facebook page, antisemitism-spattered pages of Counterpunch, and other crank soapboxes he may happen upon. In the end, the Monkey Wrench Gang was hounded by the law and scattered, having become victims to their own malfeasance. As a warning to my friends in Oregon. Don’t let this guy monkey-wrench your lives.  9/10/16


The purrfect cat

“But the cat came back the very next day. The cat came back, he just wouldn’t stay away. They thought he was a gonner, But he wouldn’t stay away. Oh, the cat came back!”

“Oh, there he is again, our little friend.  He just keeps coming back.”   The voice of the secretary at my school is exceptionally sweet for someone with the vision and hearing of a raptor. “Who? What little friend?” I peered out the glass doors trying to figure out who was this recurring entity. “The cat. Every morning he joins the kids when they come across the road at the crosswalk, and he goes back with them at the end of the day.”  Then I spied the cat sniffing the grass around the roots of a gigantic sycamore tree.  He was an elegant fellow, festooned with long, ginger-colored fur, his feathery tail unfurled as he jauntily followed some children to the basketball courts. By day three this pertinacious puss had become a campus celebrity.  He effectually owned the place.  He would wander the playgrounds, saunter into classrooms, or the gym when the opportunity arose.  He was a dear young tom.  Teachers and students alike could pick him up, flip him onto his back and scratch his tummy without preamble.  He purred loudly and nuzzled with pleasure.  This cat was the purrfect cat.

The approach of the weekend made the kitty caper a little problematic.  He would cross the street apparently to return to the trailer park at the end of the school day.  But the office manager at the park had been interviewed about the cat and they knew nothing of his comings and goings or of  his people.  It appeared that he had been dumped or abandoned.  So when Friday afternoon rolled round I became uneasy about just leaving our ginger ragamuffin to the whims of the weather and his own wanderings.  Vehicles were filling up the parking lot, the bus loop was teeming with traffic, and cars were whizzing back and forth on the two major streets that frame the campus.  I loathed the possibility that this tender-hearted tomcat  might meet his end underneath a car or bus, or that he might trek to less hospitable environs, never to be cuddled again.  I scooped him up, in the middle of his afternoon preening, his legs stretched out like a ballerina en-pointe, as he licked his tummy, and took him to the office where I told our secretary that the cat would probably not be back on Monday.

Sitting on a couch in the atrium was a little boy who had missed the bus was waiting on his mom to pick him up.  He was about seven and his face was wet with tears of distress.  I sat down next to him and said, “What name do you think we should give this cat?”  The little boy’s sobs were hard and strained and he could not answer. “Well, I think we should call him Aslan.” I took his hand and placed it on the cat’s back and drew it down in a soft stroke.  A little smile creased his eyes and popped out his forlorn cheeks.  “Do you know why I think we should call him Aslan?”  I asked as he wiped his face and shook his head side to side.  “Because he keeps coming back!” Aslan is the central heroic character in C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia books.  Aslan is the King and Creator of the realm of Narnia and he takes the form of a resplendent lion.  Aslan is the Christ figure who, in a not-so-subtle fashion, is resurrected from death in The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. This powerful reference to Christian theology was fully intentional on the part of C.S. Lewis.  Aslan leads the Narnians against the forces of evil.  He is the epitome of wisdom and royal grandeur.  And if Aslan must leave for a time, he always, always returns to protect and inspire his subjects. Monster and Princess are my two other cats, both past their primes, persnickety, and preoccupied with napping.  But when Aslan came to my home he melted into its surroundings as if he had always been its sovereign.  My cats were mildly put-out, but the interruption in their routines was barely worth noticing.  They twitched their noses a bit and returned to their kneading and kibbles.  I daily searched the classified ads for notices of a lost kitty that fit Aslan’s description.  I called the animal shelter and reported that I was harboring a stray.  And for three days I waited with no response and no leads.  Aslan had graced us with his loud purring.  He had draped himself across every piece of comfy furniture in the place.  And, most charming of all, he had bonded with my aged cockatiel.  Aslan would stare at the scraggly bird and the bird would stare back, seemingly mesmerized and completely in love.

There was another teacher at my school who had shown an interest in the Christmas kitty.  She had no pets and lived alone with her young son.  And as much as my family had come to love Aslan, this young, divorced teacher, would grow to love him more.  He would be the perfect companion for her.  I had my daughter drop the ginger kitty off at the end of the school day and I presented him to this young teacher as she was lining her kids up for dismissal.  “Merry Christmas cat!” I announced as I placed him in her arms.  Her cheeks were ablush and her eyes were moist as I departed her classroom. Every once in a while a humdrum day hatches out an occasion of wonderment, a moment in which all goodness, love and meaning crystallize in a revelation of truth.  This time it came in the form of a stray cat, a guileless feline, who embodied, through his enduring affection, and his given name, the spirit of Christ at Christmastime.

Liam Neeson is the voice of Aslan in the Narnia movies.  He was apparently attempting to appease all, and ended up standing for nothing, when he spoke the following regarding the Lion; “If all I knew about The Voyage of the Dawn Treader came from the general press conference I attended after the Premiere in London last week, I would come to a pretty startling conclusion: Aslan is like Christ, but could just as easily be like Buddha or Mohammed.”  I would expect more from a nice Irish lad like Neeson, but he does, after all, work in an industry that persecutes Christians and Conservatives as a matter of practice.  So I have to credit Disney and 20th Century Fox for bringing the first three Narnia movies to theatres.  Of course it all makes financial sense to make some of the best-loved children’s fantasy tales into a theatrical series.  Parents and kids alike flock to see these family-friendly, uplifting and timeless stories.  And, are you listening Liam, the Christian message is not lost in the movie making.

This time of year has a way of yielding up little treasures; not trinkets in boxes or stockings, but remembrances of why we bustle, and sing, and celebrate Christmas.  The persona and spirit of The Lord, Jesus Christ is the essence of these treasures.  A treasure may appear in the form of a story penned by a former atheist who became a key, unapologetic Christian author of the 20th century.  Such a treasure may be in a little smile that surfaces through the tears and panic of a little boy as he strokes the fur of a contented and comforting kitty.  Such a treasure may be the gesture of giving something which one has in abundance to another who lacks, even the company of the world’s best  feline sidekick.  And the most impressive treasure of all may be in the innocence and trust borne by a stray cat into over 400 human hearts at an elementary school is Colorado.

Aslan, the cat, the lion: abandoned, betrayed, left alone, left for dead, like the Savior.  Still Jesus Christ bears a perfect love, an innocent optimism, and a regenerating hope into the hearts of all of God’s children.  He is the treasure.  And like an adorable orange cat, and an exultant  lion King,  He too will come back. A message of the light and love of the Living Christ from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

…But today my burden is light and sweetly scented. It is Joseph’s wife, Mary, young and gentle, and her words in my ears are like music compared to the clanging and pounding of the builder’s craft. Joseph has put away his tools and seated Mary upon my back, and we have set out for a far city. This is my first journey away from home.


I am Lazaro. My master, Joseph the carpenter, gave me the name “Lazaro” when I was a colt and he was not very old himself. It means “God has helped.” Perhaps he knew that I would need a little help from God each day, to pull the sledges stacked with timbers, and the baskets on my back heavy with carpenter’s tools and nails. But today my burden is light and sweetly scented. It is Joseph’s wife, Mary, young and gentle, and her words in my ears are like music compared to the clanging and pounding of the builder’s craft. Joseph has put away his tools and seated Mary upon my back, and we have set out for a far city. This is my first journey away from home.

From my birth I have lived in Nazareth. When not in Joseph’s service, I like to roll in the dirt and bray at the crows that patrol my feeding trough.  I watched as Joseph and his pretty wife, Mary, became friends, and grew in love. Now, with child, she pats my neck and encourages me on while singing a nursery song. The paths out of Nazareth are worn, but rocky. My feet, unaccustomed to long travel, are already sore as Joseph searches for a grassy place to spend the night. On a verdant hillside we make our camp. It is spring and shepherds lead their flocks to folds beyond the hills, carrying the new lambs across their shoulders, silhouetted against the squinting sun. Mary and Joseph are quiet as he sits next to her under a tree. His hand traces the shape of her round belly before the kisses her good night.

I awake when a lark hops around in the grass close to my muzzle, plucking up grubs. I bray loudly to startle the lark. Joseph cries, “Lazaro, you foolish beast. Be quiet!” But Mary has awoken and she says, behind a soft giggle, “silly donkey.”

How long we must walk, I do not know. How many days, we can only guess. The food and water in my packs have already grown lighter, but Mary, sitting upon my back with one leg folded in front of her large belly feels heavier than the day before. I plod a narrow trail up the rim of a high plateau. I’m not a mountain donkey, I am of the plains and fields and village roads. Joseph grows impatient. “Get along Lazaro! Mary cannot wait forever!” Suddenly, Mary leaps down and tells Joseph, “I will walk. He’s a small donkey, and my legs need to move and the child needs to stretch. He’s growing as impatient as you!” In Mary’s voice there is life–a mastery of enjoyment–rare to one so young as she. Her sweet voice impels me to pick up my pace. My legs ache, my rib cage heaves with great breaths, but up I go, for many hours and many miles.

“Lazaro, stop!” Joseph’s voice jars me to a halt. I look back and see that Mary is kneeling, one hand on her belly, and the other hand cupping her forehead. “Lazaro, come back. Mary can walk no farther.” I hear Mary’s voice, so tired and worried, “My time is growing near.”

Joseph heaves her upon my withers and looks back in the direction of Nazareth. “I shouldn’t have brought you…” Mary stops him with, “Shhhh. I will not be without you, nor will the child.” We trundle to the top of the rim, and there on the other side of the hill is the largest valley I have ever seen. I see smoke from a few distant fires, wadis and copses of trees, but mostly space. There is water, I smell a spring that runs down the hill to the valley below. I snort and bray to tell Joseph that here, there is refreshment for Mary.

We go on. Another day, another sunset. My flanks quiver with the exertion as I kneel down to lie on my side when finally we rest. Joseph leaves Mary to find wood for a fire, and while he is gone, Mary begins to weep. She puts her arms around my neck and buries her face behind my ears and through her stuttering sobs I hear. “Oh Lazaro, you are only a beast, but I cannot let Joseph know how afraid I am. I feel a great burden. My child is coming very soon, and here we are on the plains. Bethlehem is so far away. Oh, donkey, I feel alone with such a great task. What will happen should I fail?” She holds me fast, stroking my neck and weaving her fingers through my short mane. I take her robe in my teeth and tug gently. I want to tell her that my name, Lazaro, will be my promise that God will help us get to Bethlehem. Otherwise, she may forever call me ,” foolish beast.” She calms, and wipes her face and straightens her robes when Joseph returns with some sticks for a fire. I nuzzle her belly as she stands, and she laughs gently and goes to Joseph and holds him as if she will never let go.

The morning light reveals Mary’s face, serene but tired. Joseph looks worn, his hands calloused and cracked, and his back stooped. The spring from the hills has grown into a rushing stream. The water is cool and sweet and I crop the watercress and grasses along its edge. Mary washes the sleep from her eyes, and Joseph fills the water bags and drinks his fill before we continue on toward Bethlehem, the early sun warming us. We pass the great city, Jerusalem, and travelers pour onto the roads.  Some are young like Joseph and Mary, others old, some walking, some riding asses, and a few Roman soldiers patrol the peopled trails. Two Roman horses, their masters stoic, pass me, they snort, then they pause. They look at me with disdain, but their eyes soften and heads lower when they look upon Mary. A soldier commands his horse onward. The horse goes on, reluctantly. A walking man, old, lame, his eyes pale with blue clouds of blindness, traveling with his son, nears my side. His face turns to Mary, his sightless eyes lock on her form. The old man feels for my mane and grabs it so that I may guide his way for awhile. Mary speaks gently to him. “Sir, are you going to Bethlehem?” “Woman,” he answers sheepishly, “you would speak to me?” “Of course. We are but travelers on the way to Bethlehem. You may walk with us if you like, but we must make haste for I am with child and my time is nearing.”

The old man grabs my halter and yanks at it to stop me. “Woman,” says he, “the child you carry…He is a king.” Crazy old man, I think. Mary is the wife of Joseph, the carpenter, and the blind old man thinks she is a queen! But the old man persists. “Woman, God be with you. God bless you. The child in your womb…He…is the chosen one…the Messiah.” Mary does not rebuke the man, though she should because he appears to be drunken or mad. The Messiah! I am a carpenter’s beast, and to think that I could carry the mother of the Messiah on my back. Who would believe such a thing? “Good sir,” says Mary, “God be with you as well. We must hurry on, apace.”


Another day. The noise of the roads troubles my ears, the strange smells from the travelers fill my nostrils, and the flies make saltlicks of my eyes. Mary is silent. Joseph is silent except when he asks for directions from passing strangers. Dust gets into our eyes and throats, and my body is breaking down with weariness; a weariness I have never before felt.

I hear it before I see it, a viper in the road, sunning itself. But my brain is slow and I react before I think about where I am and the burden on my back. I begin to rear up at the sight of the snake, but then I remember Mary. I stop myself, but my back hoof catches on a rock, and my weight falls up on my fetlock. I stand quickly, but the pain is great. Mary grabs my mane as Joseph runs to her to help her down. I fall heavily on my rump as pain blazes up my leg. No! I think to myself. No!

“Joseph, He is hurt! Did the snake bite him? Will he die?” Joseph calms her, “No, he is not bitten, but he is lamed. He cannot walk.” There is fire in my leg. I bray for the pain, and I bray for the dark thought that I have failed Mary and Joseph, and my promise that God will help us get to Bethlehem has been broken. I am a foolish donkey. I am a broken donkey. If Mary was a queen of the Romans or of the Jews, I would probably be a dead donkey!

Joseph paces back and forth along the trail. He finds the viper and lifts it with a stick, flinging it far off into the brush. Mary looks at him strangely. “I shall not kill the snake, it is not guilty of a thing. And I shall not kill Lazaro, though he is no good to us. I must find a place to stall him, and a family to keep you, Mary, until I can meet you upon my return from Bethlehem.” Her words shake me with their power as she reproves her love. “No! No, you shall not leave me. We shall not leave this beast. There is a promise in his very name, there is a promise in the Name of the Child, Emmanuel, that God will be with us, God will help us.” Mary speaks through hard tears, “I believe the promise, Joseph. We shall ask God to heal his leg. Lazaro can be made whole. I know it. Please Joseph, pray with me in faith to heal this beast.”

My donkey brain, convulsing in pain and fear, is calmed as Joseph takes Mary’s hand, and they kneel beside me, Joseph’s hand on my tortured leg, their heads bowed in quiet prayer. I stop braying and close my eyes to listen. There are pleas, there are tears, and Mary and Joseph are talking to God as if He is beside them, like a Father come to their aid. Everything is peace and dark. I awake, for I have fallen asleep. There is an aching in my rear leg, but the fire of pain is quenched. Mary gives me a handful of sweet dates, and I am revived.

I stand, and now, acquainted with sorrow and pain myself, I recognize the same in Mary’s eyes. I walk a few steps. Soreness, yes, but I can walk. Can I bear the weight of Mary and the packs? I stop and look back at her, and grunt, “Get on, let’s go.” Joseph once more lifts her upon my back, and my mind is cleared of all thoughts of snakes and pain and stinking travelers and Romans on arrogant steeds, for the lights of Bethlehem begin to appear as we round the crest of the final hill.

The hills outside of Bethlehem are watched by shepherds with many sheep. They fold their sheep, but some stand dumb, looking to the East. Joseph looks to trace their gaze, and a strange smile comes to his face. We hurry on. Mary is quiet in her thoughts, her breaths fewer and deep. Many people are upon the roads. Some have set up camp along the paths. There are makeshift shops, coopers, potters, farmers and others have set up a bazaar for the travelers coming to Bethlehem from all directions. The smells are strange to me, there is filth on the roads, strange languages, and grumblings about “Herod,” and “Caesar,” and the hated “publicans.” When we enter the city the noise crowds upon my donkey ears and both Mary and Joseph gasp at the sight of so many people, many who are strange and dangerous looking. “Where will we stay?” Joseph answers Mary with, “I will try to find an inn. I didn’t expect…I didn’t know there could be so many people in the whole world, let alone Bethlehem.” I bow my head and watch my feet as Joseph leads us on. I must trust him, for my urge to bolt is strong. Dogs nip at my legs, cats, chickens and little children run along the streets. And it seems that every house, every inn, every space within the little town of Bethlehem is filled with travelers. Some of them stop for a moment to gaze, like the Shepherds, at the Eastern sky. Mary cries out, and we move.

Joseph goes to an inn, it is filled. Another, and there is no room, even the stalls along the streets are crowed with people bedding down for the night. We reach the far side of Bethlehem, and there is a last inn. Mary whispers to Joseph, ” We must stop. The child is coming whether we have a bed or not.” Joseph steps away from us and knocks hard upon the door. A tired man answers, a cacophony of sound and smell  come from behind the open door. “Sir, my wife is with child, and we need a bed. We cannot wait. There is no other place. Please!” The man ponders Joseph, steps out from the door and looks at Mary. His face grows pale. He runs back into inn, then returns with a woman and a boy. “I am Avda, this is my wife Hasna,” a boy of the age of Joseph when I first worked for him joins them, “and my son, Nahor. There is no room in the inn.” Hasna speaks to Mary, “This is no place for you…” Mary moans and a look of stern anger tightens Joseph’s face, but the woman continues, “… The travelers are filthy…” Nahor chirps, “…and stinky!” Joseph looks to the plains outside Bethlehem, “But where shall we go? Our child will be born this night! Can’t you help us? Just one bed, PLEASE?” Hasna, goes to Joseph. “There is a better place for you, a quiet place, without the dirt and noise of the strangers. Nahor, lead the beast to the stall. Avda, get a broom, I will fetch some robes.”

The woman orders us and we obey. On the edge of the city, within its rocky cliffs is fixed a cave filled with straw and feeding boxes for animals. Chickens roost along the mud shelves, a few ewes with new lambs rest in a corner, and an aged ox stares curiously as we enter. Avda sweeps and gathers out the old straw as Joseph helps Mary off my back. Nahor brings fresh straw and piles it up for a bed in the corner, Hasna lays some robes upon the straw and takes Mary by the hand and helps her to lie down. She again commands her husband and son, “Avda, bring water, Nahor, get more straw and meal for the beast, and put it in the manger. This young woman will bear a child within the hour.”

With sweet straw in the manger, I munch happily, save for the cries coming from Mary. The innkeeper’s wife lingers near Mary, and calms Joseph with words of instruction which I do not understand. But Mary’s cries are hard to bear. They are cries of deep distress, her body is erupting in agony, and I ache with her, I mourn the hardship with her. My burdens have been heavy to bear, but the coming forth of Mary’s child is a new and fearsome things to me. I wander out of the cave and stand on the path outside. The sun is a thin strand across the Western plains, but it is light, such as mid-day. Such a long day, I think, in my simple way, and the hours drag on so. But the day is night and a star in the East, so bright that it casts shadows, is defying the sleeping sun! Strange, very strange. I bray at the star, and see that I’m not alone in my wonderment. The people of the village have gathered outside their homes to gaze up. They murmur, some fearfully, some in reverence, and some kneel, whispering something about a “sign.” Mary’s cries grow quiet, and there is soft speaking in the cave, and then, the keening cry of a newborn babe! My masters’ son cries and Mary laughs in her soft fashion, thanking God that her hour of extremity is finished. “Praise God! Glory to God!” cries Hasna. Joseph is weeping softly, Mary and the baby wrapped tightly in his arms as he rocks them gently.

Avda and Nehor appear again. They bring food that smells delicious. “Here I have some bread for you Joseph, and a bowl of warm pulse for you, Mary. Eat and be strong,” says Avda.  Joseph thanks them and wolfs his bread. “Would that we could do more for this child. Hosanna! Glory to God.” Avda and Nehor try to linger but Hasna urges them back to the inn.

I think to myself, so many strange things; a strange light, a village girl mistaken for a queen, an innkeeper’s wife crying out as if the Messiah himself has appeared! I am weary, and the aches of the day creep into my muscles. I lie down by the opening of the cave. The chickens, sheep, and old ox are strangely quiet, peace and darkness overtake my donkey brain and I sleep.

“He is here! Wake up, wake up! The angel of the Lord has told us, He has been born.” I awake as lads run up and down the village roads, banging on doors and calling to the people. “The King has been born. The star! Come see the star, for it is the sign.” The villagers are restless, for the strange star, brighter far than a full moon, has disturbed their sleep. And now these lads are using their shepherds’ crooks to knock upon doors and call out strange words. The lads begin to gather near me by the cave. They whisper, “Can you see him? Is the mother pretty? Does the baby look like a king?” Patient Mary sits up on her bed of straw and lifts the tiny babe so the shepherd boys may gaze upon him. They are nearly silent, but for some deep sobs and whispers of, “Praise be to God! Hosanna in the highest!”

What of this king? The babe is a carpenter’s son. Mary is an ordinary girl. What is this all about? But as I, Lazaro, ponder upon these strange things in my simple way, I remember the old man upon the road, the blind man who talked of a king carried in Mary’s belly. He talked of a Messiah. Could it be true? A healing prayer that took away my lameness. Is Mary the mother of the promised Messiah? Is Joseph the chosen father of the Son of God? As I think about these things a great warmth enters my heart. The desire to worship God consumes me, and with irresistible joy I step onto the road and bray, in my own language, “Praise God! The chosen Messiah is born! I am His beast! I carried the mother of the King of Kings on my back! Glory to God in the highest. Hosanna to His name.” A cock fluffs his neck feathers and joins me in praise, crowing loudly. My braying wakes the sheep and ox. The chickens begin to cluck, and from the stable cave there arises a joyous noise as the world of animals joins in worship of the Newborn King!

“Lazaro! You mad beast! Quiet now, Mary must rest,” comes Joseph’s voice from the cave. “It’s alright, Joseph. He knows. Lazaro and the other animals know, just as the shepherd boys know. This is Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”

I hear Mary and Joseph talking and so, hush my braying. The cock settles down and the hens return to their nests. Mary calls to me and I step softly toward the manger from which I had earlier eaten sweet straw. The babe, wrapped in swaddling robes, opens his eyes and makes a strange sound. I snort, and he smiles. “Lazaro, you silly beast,” Mary speaks to me in the same gentle tone which has always pleased my ears, but now with utter certainty and consummate love, “you kept your promise to me and my little family. You carried us here, to Bethlehem. Thank you Lazaro. I know that God chose you, you silly donkey, to help bring His Son into the world. Never again shall you be called ‘foolish beast.” I watch, my head bowed, a sweet peace warming me through, as Mary and the babe fall asleep. Joseph leaves the cave to do the business which brought him to Bethlehem. He rubs my neck vigorously and says, “Lazaro, you have proven yourself. Wait and watch here until I return in a little while. You are a beast with great heart. Now keep Mary and my son safe.” I will, Joseph, I will, I think in my simple donkey way, I will because God is with me.

by Marjorie Haun  

Ladies, did you ever find yourselves strangely attracted to the rugged virility of Yukon Cornelius? Get all the dirt on him and Mrs. Santa here. 5 Newly Uncovered Weird Moments in the History of Christmas!


The “Green Pants Revolt”

5. Scientist will tell you that penguins are endemic to the Southern Hemisphere, but that’s not the whole truth. In 1827, penguins of all sorts were driven from the Arctic in what has come to be known as the “Green Pants Revolt.” Penguins were once found in dense populations at the North Pole, attributable in-part to Santa Claus’ daily deliveries of smelt, shrimp, and Cracker Jack (a penguin favorite) to the bustling colonies. The sleep-deprived elves, relegated to a scant 3 hours of sleep per night due to a rigorous schedule in the toy factory, complained to Santa that the squawking birds were keeping them up at night. Legend has it that Santa urged the elves to be patient until they could take their annual post-Christmas junket to Cancun, but the irritable elves had other plans. In a midnight raid the elves captured the penguins, boxed them up in chicken crates, and sent them, via slow boat, to Patagonia. And that, kiddies, is why there are no penguins at the North Pole.

No Forgiveness for Mrs. Claus?

4. What is the origin of Santa’s jolly “Ho, ho, ho?” The year was 1950 and a dauntless Arctic frontiersman named Yukon Cornelius passed through Christmas Town while filming a documentary titled, “Finding Bumble.” The ruggedly handsome Yukon Cornelius lodged in the guest house located on the grounds of the Claus manor. Finding the warm hospitality of Mrs. Claus irresistible, he stayed on as a gamekeeper. Tabloids of the day speculated that Santa and Mrs. Claus were experiencing marital problems, and that she found excitement and really great sex in the hairy arms of Yukon Cornelius, thus fomenting a scandal of polar proportions. Overcome by wanderlust following the Christmas rush, Cornelius packed up his video equipment and left in the dead of a January night. Mrs. Claus, heartbroken, and Santa, depressed and beset with eating disorders, sought marital counseling. It is believed that they made amends and renewed their vows in a Las Vegas ceremony, and that Santa’s jolly “Ho, ho, ho!” was heard for the first time in the days following the Claus/Cornelius affair. One must wonder, however, whether Santa’s “Ho, ho, ho” was the exclamation of a happy man, or the rumblings of a bitter old fellow who just couldn’t seem to forgive his wife for errors of the past.

Bindlestick’s Camel

3.The year was zero, and a caravan of nomadic Wise Men were traveling from the Orient, westward to the Mediterranean region then known as Judea. The organizers of the caravan, Hopscotch, Bindlestick, and Flapjacket, all wise kings from Eastern countries, rode patiently atop their dromedary beasts-of-burden for months. Following an exceedingly bright star that appeared night after night, they made their way toward the place where they believed they would find the King of Kings; the prophesied Son of God. Bindlestick’s camel, however, had an odious weekly ritual of announcing that it was Wednesday by repeating, “Guess what day it is…” and carrying on in a most annoying fashion until, near madness, one of the wise men would scream, “It’s Humpday!” Somewhere on the plains of Syria, Bindlestick’s camel met an unfortunate end when Hopscotch, having reached the end of his proverbial rope, choked the poor beast to death precisely at 11:59 p.m. on a Tuesday night. The Wise Men entered the land of Judea minus one camel, but having rescued their sanity.

Santa Psyops over Germany

2. The Allied Forces had invaded Europe and were beating back Hitler’s Army, and freeing millions from the oppression of the Nazis. It was the spring of 1945. But Hitler’s propaganda machine was still going strong and Germans felt confident that Der Fuehrer would win the war for the homeland. The American Office of Special Services (OSS) planned to conduct a massive psychological operation (psyops) in German cities and villages that would cause the people to question Hitler’s ability to lead them to victory. The OSS, the forerunner of today’s CIA, created pamphlets to be dropped from the skies over Germany, but conventional aircraft would be detected and possibly engaged by the enemy. A silent, nighttime drop was required, but there existed no airplane, at that time, sufficiently quiet to go undetected.  Clive Weedle, a savvy young OSS agent from Humptulips, Washington, decided to give Santa Claus the call, and assign the dangerous mission to him and his intrepid team of flying reindeer. Santa, being a supporter of the Allied Forces and a freedom-loving patriot, accepted. During the dead of night in mid-April of 1945, in the silent skies over Germany, Santa, his team of flying reindeer, and three elves dropped, from an altitude of 1,500 ft., 20,000 pamphlets, complete with colorful illustrations, which said, Hitler ist ein Daumenlutschen Transvestit! Translated: Hitler is a thumbsucking transvestite! History informs us that the devastating pamphlets dropped by Santa had a profound psychological effect upon the German people, especially those in Hitler’s inner circle. Just days after the Santa psyops pamphlet drop, Hitler killed himself inside a fortified bunker in the heart of Berlin. It is said that when his body was recovered, he was wearing a bra, panties, fishnet stockings, and pumps which belonged to his wife, Eva Braun.

Santa Claus at Valley Forge

1. Valley Forge served as quarters for George Washington’s Continental Army during the brutal winter of 1777. Despite the fact that most of Washington’s troops had been good little boys during the months before that terrible December, they were disqualified from Santa Claus’ delivery route because of age restrictions. But Santa was concerned about the fledgling republic for which the Americans were fighting and he wanted to help without breaking his own rules. George Washington, exhausted and disheartened by the unspeakable conditions at Valley Forge, took to the drink and was spending his hours lolling about, drunk, in the livery stables. Alarmed, Santa Claus took a sabbatical during the peak toy-making season, to fly down with a few trusted reindeer and have a heart to heart with the general. Concerned that the men would give up if their leader lost his hearty optimism and faith, Santa donned Washington’s uniform and sat in his stead for a few days. Santa tended to the men, and dined alongside them, eating their typical fare of cabbage and vinegar soup. The team of reindeer flew George Washington to Mount Vernon for a much needed weekend with Martha. Upon his return, Washington asked Santa Claus in what manner he could repay the kind deed. The story goes that Santa simply asked the sober and reinvigorated leader of the Continental Army to promise that once they had won independence for the colonies that he would establish a nation where people would be free to live their lives and produce lots, and lots of children. Santa then introduced the general to an old friend from Prussia, named Friedeich Von Steuben, who proved instrumental in Washington’s eventual victory over the British. George Washington took the tales of the secret meetings with Santa at Valley Forge to his grave, and the lone witnesses to the events, Martha Washington and General Von Steuben, provided only cryptic indications in their diaries about how Santa helped win the Revolutionary War.

Things are not all merry and bright at the North Pole. Rumblings of revolution among Santa’s Elves are causing unrest, and Santa’s Chief Elf is planning insurrection. Watch what happens when our favorite fire-breathing, Capitalist, psychotherapist chicken, The Little Red Hen, offers a frustrated short guy a little elf-help advice.

2lrh egg

Setting: Doctor Little Red Hen’s office

Characters: Doctor Hen, Collywobbles the Elf (foreman of Santa’s Workshop, LLC)

Doctor Hen: Bug, bug bugaawk, welcome Mr., uh, Cablewaders.

Collywobbles: That’s Collywobbles, COLLYWOBBLES!

DH: Oh my! Why so testy, Mr. Wollycobbles?

CW: Are you messin’ wit’ me, hu, chicken? Don’t mess wit’ me, you’ll be very sorry.

DH: Excuse me for a minute. Bug, bug, bugaaawwk, bugaaawk. (She reaches underneath herself and pulls out an egg) Mess with who? Are you trying to threaten me? (throwing the egg violently at the elf’s head) Take that you little shit!

CW: OOOOWWW! What the…dammit! You hit me with a friggin’ egg!

DH: Sit down, and take one minute to tell me why you’re in my office, threatening me. Do you think you’re tough, you runt?

CW: Okay, lady, er, Ms. Chicken, I get it. I’ll just sit right here.

DH: My name is Doctor Hen, Little Red Hen if you want to be formal. You pay me for an hour of my time not to threaten me, intimidate me, or vent your hatred in my general direction, but to gleefully accept my guidance and advice on how to make yourself a little less loathsome.

CW: (wiping egg off his face) Yeah, I get it.

DH: Why are you here?

CW: I’m a little low, you know, feeling kinda heavy.

DH: Well, you’re abnormally short, and pretty fat. You should feel low and heavy. Do you have any feelings other of the expected self-loathing that is natural to someone as squat and unattractive as yourself, Mr. Cobbywaddles?

CW: Wow, you are one tough broad.

DH: Very good. That’s the first thing you’ve gotten right so far. Now that you seem clear about my boundaries, go ahead and tell me, what problem brings you to my office?

CW: Well, ya see, things aren’t going so well at work. There’s a lot of tension. A LOT of tension.

DH: And, where do you work?

CW: Well, this is all very top secret stuff. Can I trust you?

DH: Depends.

CW: Please don’t let this get out. If I blow Santa’s cover…erp!

DH: Oh, Mr. Clobberwadder, I think I understand now…are you an elf? Are  you one of Santa’s helpers? Bugaaawk! Hot damn! I have an elf in my office. HA!

CW: Oh geeze, Mrs. Doctor Chicken, please don’t let this get out. It would be really bad for us…us elves.

DH: No need to worry. I suspected it anyway. Who the hell else wears pointy green slippers with bells, and speaks like Richard Simmons sucking helium? So, tell me about the tension at work. How does it make you feel?

CW: Believe you me, it makes me feel very, very pissed. You see, I’ve been kind of agitatin’ the other elves, you know, reminding them that Santa…uh, the large fat guy who employs us, doesn’t pay us what we’re worth. They’re all gettin’ shafted by big fatty, and they don’t even realize it!

DH: Reality Therapy is one of my specialties, so let’s get real. You are extremely short, fat and malformed. You have a voice so irritating it gives me a rash just to hear you talk. Think about it, who else would hire you? SERIOUSLY! Santa Claus is your god-send. You would be working in the circus or in production at MSNBC if it wasn’t for the kindness of the old guy.

CW: Oh, you don’t know the half of it. Let me tell you about the hardships I endure for San…ugh…I can barely say his name without gagging, Santa! I sew the button noses on teddy bears. Day in, day out. My back aches, my fingers are calloused, and all I get for my effort is $32K plus benefits. Who can raise a family on that, hu?

DH: And…how many weeks a year do you work for Mr. Claus?

CW: Umm…

DH: Out with it!

CW: From the end of October until January 11.

DH: Ten weeks! TEN CLUCKING WEEKS! You have it really good elf, perhaps you should leave before I change all of that.

CW: But, what about my problems?

DH: Uh, hu. I have to be straight with you, Mr. Clabberwaffle, workplace issues are not my field. I help people with their psychosocial issues. You come to me whining about getting shafted by your boss when half of the country is unemployed and 60 million chickens are on food stamps, and you want sympathy? Ain’t gonna happen. I’ll be nice and just charge you for half an hour. Please pay nurse Henny Penny on the way out.

CW: No, no, uh, Doctor Chicken lady. This ain’t really about workplace issues. It’s about my innermost feelings about making more money per hour for the toil I put in to make frigging toys day and night. Can I tell you something?

DH: Shoot.

CW: Me and the other elves…we’re planning a walk-out the day before Christmas. Shhhh. Very confidential.

DH: Were you born an idiot, or did your mother use your head to tenderize her minute steak?

CW: An elf labor strike is the only way to get Santa to pay attention to the injustices of his work conditions. An hour for lunch is too short. We want fresh donuts in the break room. It’s only fair. And bigger bonuses. Yes! BIGGER BONUSES!

DH: You should be wishing for bigger penises.

CW: Hu?

DH: Excuse me for a moment. Bugaaawwwk. Oh, look at that, I dropped my pen and I must bend over to pick it up off the floor. Buugaaawwwk, buugaaww, buu, BUUGAAAAWK! (while stooping over, an egg shoots out of her butt with great force and hits the elf in the head)

CW: OUCH! Son of a…what the…holy just shot a frigging egg out of your butt and hit me in the head! That hurt!

DH: Good! Now, sit still while I slap you around a bit.

CW: NO! Please, no! Look, I just came here looking for a little emotional support. This is a very stressful time!

DH: Stressful? Look, punk, I know your boss. He’s a friend of mine, we go waaay back. Now, Santa Claus knows stress. Think about it you pea-brained puke. The happiness of every child on the planet is on his shoulders. Every year he visits every hopeful kid in the world, and NEVER disappoints. Sure, some kids get toothpick dolls and some kids get ponies, but everyone gets something, all thanks to Santa. All he asks from you, you little maggot, and the other elves–who are paid very well, by the way–is ten weeks of effort to make the world a happy place for one little night. Santa is no young man. He’s old, very old. He has aches and pains, he’s a little forgetful, but he loves all those little kids, and you know what Mr. Collywobbles, he loves you too. Now suck it up. There’s nothing wrong with you but your crappy attitude and union membership. If you want a little elf-help advice from me, I say drop them both.

CW: Yeah, I guess you might be right, Doctor Hen. To be honest, maybe I’m not cut out to be an elf.

DH: What would you do if you didn’t work at Santa’s Workshop, LLC?

CW: My real passion…um, I’m a little embarrassed.

DH: It’s okay, tell me what you want to do with your life.

CW: Ballroom dancing. I really wanna teach ballroom dancing.

DH: Hmmm…Let me tell you a true story. Now this was a long time ago, you probably hadn’t been hired by Santa’s Workshop, LLC, when this happened because you obviously lack that old-timey work ethic, but hear me out anyway. Santa had a little elf who, though he worked hard and never complained, really didn’t fit in with the whole toy-making thing. You could say he was a misfit elf. His name was Hermey. Now this elf suffered in silence, while is real passion boiled inside him for years, maybe centuries. You know what this little elf really wanted out of life?

CW: Uh, Hermey? No, what did he want, Ballroom dancing?

DH: Dentistry, oral surgery, anything having to do with mouths. He loved it; pulling teeth, fillings, veneers, root canals, bleaches, crowns, implants, you name it! He even did some work on very large mammals…but that’s a story for another time. Anyway, Hermey repressed his desires for a while. After all, he was treated well, fed, housed, paid an excellent wage, and given good benefits by Santa’s company. But eventually he had to follow his dreams of Dentistry. He took a risk and left the workforce; no agitatin’, no planned walk-outs, no union shenanigans, no “Elves of the World Unite” bullshit. Hermey tendered his resignation, Santa accepted it, tearfully yes, but he loved Hermey like a son and supported his career move. Hermey eventually married a pretty little elf named Angina, fathered 10 or 20 elflets, moved to Orem, Utah, and now runs an international chain of dental clinics, “Bumble Dentistry, Inc.”

CW: Mmm…sniff.

DH: Why the tears? What are you feeling right now?

CW: Oh, Doctor Hen, I feel so…so empty, like someone just cut out my heart.

DH: Those feelings are appropriate to the moment and circumstance. Think about it, you’ve lived your life being an asshole. You should feel bad.

CW: I don’t really know what to do. Now that I think about it, Santa’s Workshop is really a pretty good company. I mean, he sizes everything to us elves, and every Friday Mrs. Claus make a homemade feast for us to eat during lunch break. Maybe I’ve been petty, ungrateful. But…the other elves might mock me if I come back to work…different.

DH: Trust me, you couldn’t be anymore “different” than you already are, you’re an elf remember. Let me give you a little more advice. No more of the “Community Organizer” crap. No more whining and moaning about how hard you have it. No more hating the Jolly Old Elf who takes such good care of you. You’re going to go back to work, tell the other elves what an ingrate you’ve been, work through your contract with no walk-outs or agitation, and you’re going to do the best job you can for Santa and all the little kids he works so hard to make happy for one day. Got it.

CW: Okay, Doctor Hen.

DH: Do all these things with exactness and a good attitude, and come back to see me on January 12th. I know this guy named Arthur Murray, he’s an old friend. I’ll set you up with your ballroom dancing dream.

CW: Really? Oh my gosh, Doctor Hen! That would be so wonderful.

DH: My pleasure. You’re a changed elf, Mr. Collywobbles. Now go and do something nice for Christmas.

CW: I don’t know if you realize it, Doctor Hen, but I think you’ve saved Christmas.

DH: Bugaaawk, thanks. But it’s not the first time. Back a few years ago I had to do an intervention when Mrs. Claus got just a little too chummy with Yukon Cornelius, but that’s a story for another time.

by Marjorie Haun  12/11/13

‹ previous posts
Search ReaganGirl
Newest Posts
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
The Truth About Islam
Networked Blogs

Hi, guest!


WordPress SEO fine-tune by Meta SEO Pack from Poradnik Webmastera