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Trump Fanning the Flames at the RNC


Contributed by Scud Langley

Cleveland, OH – In a lesser covered event last week at the Republican National Convention, presidential nominee Donald Trump implemented a fairly unconventional method of weeding out attendees who were not behind him 100%.

As Mr. Trump walked onto the stage with the aid of a fog machine, he pressed a button on the podium that opened a sliding panel on the wall behind him that revealed what looked like a large furnace with golden inlays.  As the applause began to die down, Mr. Trump addressed the crowd and said,

“Now that I have accepted the nomination for president of the United States, we have to unite to defeat Crooked Hillary (TM)!… (applause)… However, frankly there are some Republicans out there who have not been treating me very fairly ok?  I’ve heard that there are some losers who would rather vote for some failed career politician instead of me… (boos)… I know… I know…  That’s no way to win, so here’s what we’re gonna do:  I had this magnificent furnace built by some wonderful people and let me tell you, it’s really terrific.  We will ask everyone to pledge loyalty to the campaign and whoever decides they still don’t want to be loyal to us, which would not be very smart, will be escorted into the furnace… (applause)… Thank you… Thank you… We’re gonna win, that I can tell you!”

There were no reported attendees thrown into the furnace towards the end of the convention, but after Senator Ted Cruz spoke and refused to offer a full-throated endorsement of the Trump campaign, a few large men in black suits came up and began escorting him towards the furnace.  Though it is unclear exactly how, Senator Cruz managed to survive the ordeal.  Some witnesses claim that they saw something like a son of man standing next to Cruz as he began to walk into the furnace but these reports have been unverified as of the writing of this article.


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Woman Murdered, Soothsayers Sued

The North American Soothsayers Union released a statement today in response to a wrongful death suit, filed by the Ternbauer family, that of an Ohio woman who fell victim to a murderous conspiracy in March. Local attorney Jacob W. Gernstwald, gave a statement from the courthouse steps, saying he had ample evidence that Mrs. Ternbauer “was being completely ware on March 15th, on advice from the NASU.  However, having not been warned about March 16th, she was not being ware on the following day, and consequently fell victim to the host of conspirators.  We find this gross negligence on the part of the NASU to be unacceptable.  Had they said sooth about more than just one day, Mrs. Ternbauer might still be with us today.

While declining to comment on the specifics of ongoing litigation, NASU spokesperson Janet Behrman did say that, implicit in her organization’s message, has always been the extension of ware being to include a reasonable margin of error.  “Experience has shown us,” she explained, “That the vast majority of people who hear sooth, are ware for several days surrounding the Ides, and this same vast majority was not in fact, murdered this year – a testament to the effectiveness of our members if there ever was one. While it would be regrettable for a warned person to fall victim on March 16th, it is within the margin of error.”

Despite those strong words from the Union, sources reported the official statement on the NASU website to read, “Beware.”

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The Glass May be Half- Full, but It’s Broken

CHALTSWATER, OK – On most days, the town of Chaltswater is a quiet place where not much happens.  Moms go to grocery stores, old men go to the barber shop, kids skip school to steal chickens to sell on the black market – your usual small town fare.  But once a year, thousands of people descend on this sleepy little town to participate in the world championship tournament, of the fastest growing sport in south east Oklahoma.  If you’re thinking soccer, or table tennis, think again.  If you’re in Chaltswater on the first weekend after the second Tuesday in April, you’d better bring some leather gloves and Neosporin, because  you’re in Broglass world.

From its humble beginnings in the junkyards and landfills of the Arklatex area, competitive broken glass picking has swept the tri-state area like a prairie dust storm.  For the uninitiated, Broglass is a timed event, in which contestants collect as much as they can in sixty seconds, of various glass vessels, which have been dropped from a height of six, eight, or twelve feet, depending on the class.  Contestants are assigned a vessel at random through a lottery system.  Whiskey bottles and Mason jars are common, with the occasional interior home lighting globe, hand mirror, or analog TV screen.  Once the item has been weighed, it is dropped by an official on a step ladder,  form a pre-determined height, again depending on class.  As soon as the glass hits the ground, the fuse on a pop rocket is lit, giving the contestant only about five seconds to survey the shatter spread before the pop signals the start of the one minute he will have to collect the broken pieces.  At the end of one minute, collection stops,  the collection is weighed, and a score calculated based on the percentage of the original weight collected, and the difficulty of the spread, and size of pieces collected, with higher scores given for a wider spread, and smaller pieces, respectively.

I spoke with Doyle Miller, a local truck driver, and this year’s gold medal winner in the twelve foot class. He could barely contain his excitement, gesturing wildly with his slightly bloodied hands.

“Well I tell you what, when I drew that Maker’s Mark bottle, I had a good feelin.  They usually make about a ten foot shatter with plenty of them little-tinys so you can really rack up on the points.  Fact bui’ness, only a redhand¹ could loose with a Maker’s Mark, so I knew I was gonna do good.  But then she didn’t shatter like usual, it was kindly more like a dad-gum forty-ounce malt liquor, and it don’t git no worse’n that.  But when I heard that pop, I knew there weren’t nothing left but the pickin, so I just took off like a scalded dawg.  Hey, all I know is, when that timer went off, I had my lucky tube sock stuffed, son she was about to come loose.”

As we were speaking though, a little of the dark side of the sport was revealed.  A fight had broken out as the results of the six foot class were being announced. There were accusations that Gloveco, a local manufacturer of protective hand gear, had unduely influenced the judges in favor of their team, a member of which had won. A flip-flop clad, middle-aged woman known as “Wandalee” was leading an angry mob, armed with anything dangerous that was readily available; which in this case, unfortunately consisted of, as you can imagine, broken shards of glass.

Doyle said we’d have to catch up later, and he called for “Baby Doyle,” his mulleted eight-year-old son, who brought a tube sock full of broken glass for each of them. As they headed for the rumble, Baby Doyle stopped, turned around, and offered me his sock. “Mister, you can come git some of this if you want. Mama always says we gotta share.” I declined, but this small gesture of kindness definitely warmed my heart to this sport and its people, and I will never forget it.

-Steve Dbrockavitch





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Wisdom from Ransom Langley

Contributed by Scud Langley

Somewhere in East Texas – Occasionally my uncle, Ransom Langley will offer his thoughts on current events and give his wisdom and insight into which direction our country should go.  In the area of the current debt crisis, he had this to say:

I used to know this guy down south of Kirbyville who’d give a man a nickel apiece for nutria rats.  Now back in those days, you could take nutria rats down to the courthouse and get 3 cents a quarter-weight.  A man that would give 5 cents apiece was hurtin’ pretty bad for some nutria rats so me and my brothers were more than happy to take his money.  Anyway, this one time while I was heading down to the banks of the Neches river to rustle up a few nutria rats, I spotted a guy sitting on a bucket with a raccoon in his lap.  I spotted a purple Crown Royal pouch in the coon’s hand so I asked the man,

“Excuse me, mister.  What do you figure that coon’s got in that satchel.”

He replied,

“Don’t know.  Haven’t asked him.”

A coon had swiped my daddy’s tobacco off the back porch a few weeks prior and I figured the odds of finding another coon with such a pouch were pretty slim.  I asked the man,

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask that coon a few questions about his satchel.  A similar lookin’ coon stole my daddy’s tobacco and I’ve been looking for him ever since.”

He was more than happy to oblige because stealing a man’s tobacco in those days was a shootin’ offense.  As I started over his way, he jumped up in a yaupon bush and threw the pouch into the river.  Now you don’t just stand there and watch your daddy’s tobacco float down the river without doing something about it and I knew my daddy wouldn’t be too happy to find out his tobacco went swimming downstream while I stood there like a slack-jawed idiot.  I quickly dropped my trousers and dove in after it.  When I finally got it ashore, I opened it up and to my surprise found 2 squirrel pelts and a bottle of Epsom salt.  I asked the man,

“Now, if he knew there wasn’t any tobacco in that bag, why did he go on and toss it into the river when I came at him?”

The man replied,

“Well, you know how squirrel pelts get.  If you don’t keep ’em moist and rub in Epsom salt every couple of days, you might as well forget about making a good coin purse.  Ol’ Rusty here was afraid you were gonna take his squirrel pelts and let ’em get all dried out.  I can’t say I blame him the way you were carrying on.”

I didn’t make much money that day.

– Ransom Langley

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Bear Maulings Sweep PFN News Headquarters

Contributed by Scud Langley

Broken Bow, OK – A rash of severe injuries have plagued PFN News Headquarters in the past two months, leaving employees scratching their heads.  Several have been treated for lacerations and deep bruises and many have threatened to quit.  Ted Mosely, chief editor of offline content had this to say:

We’re all confused and saddened by these recent events.  Doctors say the injuries are consistent with bear maulings, but no bear maulings have been authorized by PFN News or any of its subsidiaries.  We intend to hire a very expensive private investigator to get to the bottom of this issue.

This issue remains, as of yet, unresolved.

In other news, playground equipment has been added to our onsite bear range so employees can bring their children during lunch.

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“When I See Horns, Katy-bar the Outdoor!” – Seldom Lavergne

Contributed by one, Seldom Lavergne
Finally, the long awaited weekend is upon us.  Most Outdoorsmen have struggled through the last 11 months, unable to fulfill man’s most basic need – to kill an ungulate.  Due to the concerns of “ecologists,” “hippies,” and probably “pharmacists” too, man is no longer free to pursue and slay any deer that crosses his path, at any time of year, by any effectual means relevant to the situation.  We’ve all heard it, it’s the same old song every time.

“Oh not in April!” they say.  “You might hurt the flowers.”

“Oh not in June or July, it’s so hot, we might sweat in our panties!”

“Oh not in August!  So much death already with the leaves, must we add to it?”

“Oh not in September, in a Kroger parking lot, with a trebuchet*!  They would never do that in Finland.”

Blah, blah, blah, waah, waah, waah.  That’s why babies never get to be president.

Nevertheless, when the clock strikes midnight on opening day, you can bet I’ll be there with bells on.  And at 12:01, if you hear a bunch of bells ringing, you’ll know Outdoors just happened

*I’ve looked at ever law on the book and there is actually nothing illegal about killing deer with siege weapons.  I did contact Kroger’s customer service department, but did not get a response.

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Joe Usual

Here at PFN News, we care about the little people, the simple man, Joe Usual.  To that end, we like to interview random peasant folk from time to time.  Here is a great quote from a man named Vanderbilt Gershner whom we met in a Dairy Queen in Monticello, Arkansas.

“This is a story my father told me when I was twelve:

Son, when I was your age,  The Times was harder.  Seriously, since that time they have decreased the thickness of page and the overall paper density by 35%.  I know that’s true because when I encounter a small rat in the hearth in the evening and, after enjoying his company for a time but growing weary of his less-than-rapier wit (I believe the wit of most rodents I would liken to a steak knife at a franchise restaurant at best), I throw the sports section at him and he scurries about like a rodent is wont to do, I notice that the sound of the paper hitting the stone does not frighten the canaries in the way that it once did. 

The Times was so hard back then, lawn gnomes and single-paned storm doors lived in mortal fear of the paper boy.  I know this is true because I am facebook “friends” with a retired paper boy from Oklahoma

You know son, the one who the other day posted this delectable bit of gossip:

So I was talking to a man on the street about a bicycler in Norman, OK [who I believe said something along the lines of, “There is a man who rides his bike to University every day, and I think as he drove by he said, ‘While I am still doing fat math and lazy internet research from my recliner, On average (according to my bike riding app(lication (Caleb))) I burn 260 calories every day on my bike to and from work (approx. 6 miles or so).'” but i can’t be sure] and I noticed that he smelled funny. …aaaand the world exploded.

Yes he’s the one.  He’s the most trustworthy retired paperboy I’ve ever known.  In fact, I take down his every word when we speak and have it engraved in marble on my back porch – the future delight of some anthropologist no doubt.”

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