Archive
Return to Hoover Island Part III: By Dick Oakes, Jr.
By Dick Oakes, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
File photo
I recover from my horrendous beating just in time to meet with Tucker at the palace. Still, he keeps me waiting over an hour.
I am ushered into a gigantic, nigh-empty ballroom. A piano stands in one corner and a tiny child’s chair opposite. I think about the chair, dismiss it and wander across to the piano. The Oakes family has never possessed even the faintest hint of musical talent– my vagabond father once constructed a makeshift violin out of a tree stump and some rubber bands. It is said that the abysmal noise that ushered forth put the entire valley into deep consternation and later, of course, he was murdered– the tree stump violin broken beside him.
I tickle the ivories a bit. Less than a minute later, the butler enters the ballroom, looks at me, looks down at the keyboard and says, “Sir, if you don’t mind, please…” I sigh and move to the windows.
In the side yard, some nudes lay sunning in the grasses, others frolic in the gardens. They run the gamut– some forms that, though of age, appear to be just blossoming into womanhood; others already sporting gorgeously developed bosoms. A hose is suddenly produced and the girls begin squirting each other directly in the chests and laughing innocently. It is just at the moment when I can take no more that the butler fetches me to see Tucker.
I am led into a different part of his vast chambers– here is the famous Hoover Island library, full of texts utterly obscure to the Lankville scholar. “Have a look,” says Tucker, who is wearing a marvelous light green robe and his bejeweled crown. “This shelf in particular are all titles pertaining to our historical embracing of nudity”. I scan the spines. Leaning Over Nude in the Workplace: How to Love the Unseen Places, An Account of the Knackers of Northern Hoover Island: 1728-1931 (3 VOLUMES), Crucible of Combat: The Bushes of Hoover Island. I nod politely.
Tucker leads me over to another exceedingly small chair while he rests on a bejeweled throne. I take out my notes.
He puts up his hand.
“I’ll have you know that we’ve given the Pondicherry Association one week to resolve their issues. Otherwise, Hoover Island will withdraw their franchise, ban all incoming flights from Lankville and you will not hear from us again for perhaps another four hundred years.”
I fumble. I have no such press report.
“No, no, you won’t find that in your press,” Tucker laughs. It is though he has read my mind. “The hubris of your Lankville does not permit such a story. After all, the dear bellicose citizens of Lankville would not take kindly to being threatened by such a meaningless place as Hoover Island.” He laughs again, louder.
I attempt to follow up but Tucker will not permit any further talk of hockey. He asks me of my evening and I explain the events in the oceanside bar. He smiles.
“There is a social covenant here that prevents a man from asking another man to move his nutsack out of view, even if it is jiggling side to side in the manner you have described,” he explains. “Whilst on the dancefloor, you need to train yourself to observe the jouncing, animate papayas in a less-carnal manner. Of course, you should leer, but leer with the aim of further understanding. This is how we achieved such peace here.”
I ask him why he is never nude.
Before answering, he reaches beneath his throne and produces a plastic barrel of orange puffs of a cheese variety. He unscrews the cap and eats several in quick succession.
“It is important for the monarch to be clad differently. There are many people on Hoover Island who have seen me nude on special occasions and, of course, I have schtupped many citizens, which requires nudity but whilst in state, I do appear in my costume.”
It seems fruitless to continue down this avenue again and I try to divert the conversation back to hockey but to no avail. Tucker does promise a review of the island’s main hockey arena in the coming days.
“I want you to continue to get used to the nudity. Focus on the asses of Hoover Island. Let me know tomorrow if you notice something peculiar.”
Tucker’s handlers suddenly appear and he is led away. After awhile, a butler escorts me out.
Dick Oakes’ series will continue in future issues.
An Interview with Ric Royer
Larry “God” Peters recently visited with Ric Royer at the Foontz-Flonnaise Home of Abundant Senselessness.
LP: I understand that you wish to be called by a new name.
RR: In the name of goodwill, it is best that I be known as Vapors.
LP: OK.
RR: No.
LP: OK. Tell us your thoughts on the lockout.
RR: Cold weather calls for cozy accessories. Best to use a graphic scarf as a finishing touch.
LP: What has become of your mall house?
RR: I believe they turned it into a Teppo Numminen’s Baby Pantry. I get the circulars. Actually, I get three or four different ones a day– sometimes they shoot through my window as if pushed by someone who has climbed a ladder in order to gain admission to my room.
LP: Anything else?
RR: I saw that you pulled up in a station wagon. Do you have any soda in there?
(The interview ended in deep confusion)
An Interview with Shane Meyer’s Aunt Pam
By Brock Belvedere, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
File Photo
The Lankville Back-Printed Journal of Great Whines had a chance to sit down with Shane Meyer’s only known relative, who asked to be identified as “Aunt Pam”. The meeting took place in a dim basement hallway that smelled vaguely of educational chemicals.
BB: Do you think your nephew really perished in that tire house explosion/fire?
AP: He was a strange child. He had an odd way of staring directly through someone.
BB: Were you surprised when he made a fortune in fried plantains?
AP: Yes. He had no interests outside of semi-professional man wrestling.
BB: It’s well-known in the hockey community that you were quite a dish at one time.
AP: I was compared often to different actresses that appeared in certain specific films.
BB: Tell me about your bosom, as in, your bosom in its prime.
AP: I remember the exact day that I realized it had fallen. We were at a country fair and I was standing by a gigantic, industrial popcorn frier. My late husband commented on the seriousness of the frier and someone mentioned the amount of kelvins. I looked down and it hit me then.
BB: Do you have anything else?
AP: I make yarn Christmas ornaments. I sell them.
The interview sort of just slowly collapsed then. Nothing else was said.
Musings of a Decorative Ham Man by Chris Vitiello
By Chris Vitiello
File photo
During certain times of the year, our concern offers a stunning decorative ham that appears already sliced. I will place this ham for you on your table or near to your sofa, lounge chair or futon, if that is how you choose to live your life. A white plate is placed beneath the flawless slices– I advise on two or perhaps three slices at most. We then will provide a quart of “Vitiello’s Special Lustrous Juices Supplement” (extra charge) to enhance the effect.
And people will say, “my goodness, look at that freshly-sliced ham.”
And you will say, “indeed, yes.” And then it will be your chore to divert their attention away from the ham– it being entirely decorative, of course.
Return to Hoover Island by Dick Oakes, Jr. (Part II)
By Dick Oakes, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
File photo
I do not have an audience with Tucker until the following evening. I decide to sample a little of the Hoover Island nightlife.
“Take me some place hoppin,” I tell the taxi driver. He turns around and nods and I notice that he has tiny red eyes. This rattles me slightly. Still, within moments, he pulls up to an oceanside restaurant bedecked in colorful bunting. “You’ll like it,” he says, holding out his hand. I tip him generously while noticing that his eyes have suddenly devolved into the color of rust.
The place is packed– half the patrons in the buff. I order a whiskey and soda from the bar and survey the goods. Lot of gorgeous T&A to be seen but some guy with a hose-like schlong keeps dancing into view. I walk over and explain my outlook on the situation and he quickly recedes into the background.
Moments later, the bartender comes over.
“I saw what you did there. You must be from the mainland.”
“Yep. He was fouling up the scenery.”
The bartender politely smiles. “All of the people here are scenery. Makes no difference if we’re talking about giant gazongas or a set of smooth, milky-white nads. It is all beautiful.”
“Why don’t you stick to serving drinks and I’ll stick to deciding what I want to look at, pal.”
He smiles again in a patient, almost-grandfatherly way. “Whatever you say, my friend.”
After awhile, I get pretty lit and then I suddenly have to urinate terribly. I cross the thumping dance floor, nude bodies rubbing up against me and enter what appears to be an empty restroom. The door closes and in the mirror I suddenly notice the bartender. He has a crowbar in his hand.
“I will teach you now about beauty, son,” he says.
I remember taking the iron across the skull and then nothing after that.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: Near the Barrens
By Ric Royer (c/o the Foontz-Flonnaise Home of Abundant Senselessness)
File Photo
I came upon two picnic tables filled with snacks and beverages. Removing the shockingly bright pink plastic cover, I find a tray of cheeses covered in bees.
“There are no bees,” I say aloud.
A man appears from behind a fence. “There are no bees,” he assures me. “We’ve got Trisbicuits (editors note: a popular cracker) as well. You can find them in that blue container over there”.
I curse lightly under my breath. Why put a container of cheese on one table and the Trisbicuits completely on another? It’s stupid, it’s poor planning, it’s insensate. I decide then to eat my fill and then overturn both the tables, spilling everything onto the moist grasses.
Someone comes up behind me and touches my shoulder. My mouth is stuffed with cheeses and Trisbicuits and I have always found that this condition makes it hard to turn around. The next thing I know I am being led by this unseen figure into a grassy lowland, across a field covered with giant green tree balls and into a small wooden church of nearly immaculate appearance. I am handed a leaf of corresponding literature.
This church was built for servants but never consecrated. The builder, Ms. H-Jumps, was suddenly beheaded during the First War of the Depths and the building was permanently shut by her grieving staff. It is open now especially for you.
My name was written there but it was horribly misspelled.
I was led to the first pew. I stared at the pulpit. Some large cards and an easel had been placed there. Everything was half-wrapped in flaking brown paper. A small portable radio had been left on the floor– it’s middle had been crushed by something heavy and unforgiving.
I became terribly bored, then horny, then incontinent. Nothing could be done. I waited for a week there but nothing further happened.
I made my way back up the hill and saw the man with the two tables of snacks. I punched him in the face and nicked a tray of bee-covered cheeses. I walked out into the road and eventually accepted a ride with a tiny redhead in a vintage station wagon.
She is driving me back to the barrens.
Royer Committed to Insane Asylum
By Clifford Griffey
Contemporary Junior Chronicler
File Photo
Terrifying Bat GM Ric Royer has been committed to an insane asylum for the second time in less than a year, sources are now reporting.
Royer was removed from his mall house and driven to the Foontz-Flonnaise Home of Abundant Senselessness some time this afternoon. The circumstances leading up to his incarceration are currently unclear.
“I know he issued a big pile of steaming donkey shit today,” said Interim commissioner “Inner Hammer” in reference to a “Royer Experience” published in the Lankville Afternoon Catalog of News and Word Puzzles. “Other than that, he seemed fine the last time I saw him.”
Royer was an inmate at Foontz-Flonnaise for nearly four months at the end of the 2011-12 Pondicherry season.
The Terrifying Bats have not yet issued a statement.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Barrens
By Ric Royer
File photo
It was a rough patch of weedy asphalt where there had once been a restaurant. Beyond, there was nothing. The last man before the barrens told me this:
It was a restaurant with a red roof that was shaped like a sort of blocky hat. They had a little fireplace in the center and they put starlight mints on your plastic check tray at the end of the meal. They sold flat dough discs that sometimes had sauces and meats on top. I don’t remember what they called it. It was a long time ago.
I looked around his filthy ramshackle house on the edge of nowhere, the edge of the barrens. Everything had gone to hell. There were fifteen cats that wandered in and out of the morass. He sat on a stiff wood chair in one corner of the kitchen. There had not been a woman here in fifteen years, maybe twenty.
“Give me something, something to take out there,” I said. He vomited a little. “What’s in them tins?” he then asked, pointing to the filthy, littered counter. I stared hard at the three tins. I looked back at the man.
“You would not have fared well in the olden times,” he noted. Then, he died.
I took all his food and headed for the barrens.
***
The sky was grey though it was warm. A mild breeze blew. I suddenly grew very horny. But it was the barrens. There was nothing that could be done.
Later, I came to the crest of a slight hill. I could look down upon another ten miles of the barrens, ebbing at the distant horizon. I began to grow mad.
***
Flat Dough Disc Hut. Time seemed to be moving very quickly. I knew though that it was the Flat Dough Disc Hut. I had once won a contest for reading. My prize had been a trip to the Flat Dough Disc Hut. The last one before the barrens, now gone.
***
One ribbon, one trophy. The two achievements of youth. Gone. Where does one dispose of trophies? And who disposed of it? It was not me. I would have kept the trophy. Forever.
You keep things in the barrens.
***
I’ve been in the barrens now two years. I cannot find my way back to the old man’s home. Food is brought. It’s a man that walks down a staircase. The staircase ends, I supposed at the time, in heaven. I know that to be wrong now. This man, he brings the food. I recall having a fairly non-existent credit score.
***
Barrens.
Brief Transmission Established with Pumpkin Tits GM “Nick”
By Dick Oakes, Jr.
Special “Space Canard” Correspondent
File photo
Extremely brief radio transmission was established late last night with “lost” Pumpkin Tits (formerly 17s) GM “Nick”. It is purported that “Nick” is still stranded somewhere in “outer space”. Dick Oakes spoke briefly with the oft-maligned executive.
DO: What’s the scoop, dick?
N: It’s been a harrowing four months. I…I think Karl Saffran is dead.
DO: You know your club is now called “The Pumpkin Tits”?
N: I…I can’t…I’m just trying to find food, shelter…it’s…I’m trying to get back to earth.
DO: All the players are locked out. You ain’t missing much, you crazy fuckhead.
N(begins sobbing): Please, you must help me. I will give you my coordinates…
DO: What do you think about all the new expansion clubs?
N: I…I have no idea…
DO: What do you know? Why the hell did I stay up this late?
Transmission suddenly broke off.
Decorative Hams Ordered for League Offices
By Commodore Evans Emmurian
Staff Writer (Occasional)
File photo
Several crates of Vitiello Decorative Hams arrived yesterday to Pondicherry Association league offices, according to witnesses.
“They brought a crate to each department,” said secretary Meg Majors, who works in the “Pondicherry Advancement” offices on the 7th floor. “We weren’t sure what to do with them exactly, so we put a bunch of them in a center of the conference room table and then we piled the rest in a bathroom closet.”
“The directions for placement were unclear,” noted legal adviser Bill Jumpers-Hole. “And there were thousands of them all told. The building is now crawling with them.”
When asked if disposal was an option, Jumpers-Hole said, “absolutely not. We are all collectively bound to these hams.”
It is unclear who placed the order and calls to 24-Piece Men GM and Decorative Ham magnate Chris Vitiello were not returned.
“You get tossed around to a lot of different operators,” said Majors, who sported firm, high melons and a round, pleasing slice of business out back. “Many of the operators seem to be crying or are sick. There is mass confusion, even hysteria. Ultimately, you hear the screams of many people and the line goes dead. I have no idea what’s going on.”
“We’ve got a lot of hams here,” said Majors, who began pressing her mounds against her desk. “Doesn’t mean, though, that there isn’t a little more room for more meat.”
Minor and Emmurian quickly disappeared into a bathroom and the interview was ended prematurely.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Grey Horde Creeps
By Ric Royer
File photo
I was half asleep on a chair that had been shoved violently into a corner. The hall was dark, cold and cavernous– they had left all the tubas on the floor and a couple of music stands had been kicked, bent in half and then set on fire.
I had not been invited. I had been across the street, sticking up a gas station. The old counterman was trying to make idle conversation as he filled the sack with cash. “I got a paneled staircase that goes down to a paneled basement,” he nattered. “We keep canned goods down there, behind a couple of western doors. It’s a whole different room for the canned goods, you understand. I keep the dry goods up top, on a shelf.”
I saw the limos pulling up in front of the great hall, the elegant figures alighting from the back. And I especially noticed the women.
The old counterman continued on. “About 25 years ago, we fixed up some grey linoleum on the floor for my son. He was having a party and we…” I cut him off. “What’s that over there?” I asked, grabbing the sack. “They have dances,” he said. “Dances for the Fraternal Bears Club.” “Right. Thanks for nothing asshole,” I said. I pushed over a rack of balloons out of pure malice.
As I crossed the busy intersection, I first got wind of the creeping grey horde. It was coming in from the west, forming a discordant tableau against the tall buildings and the advertising signs. Somebody, far away, went out into the street in his wife-beater and took a shot at the horde with a pistol. He was devoured instantly.
I waited in back of the hall and jumped a half-drunk suit as he walked by. As he lay unconscious, I swapped out our clothes. For some reason, he had a laminated card that showed color photographs of different soups. I found his ball ticket in the breast pocket.
I waited on line. Just as I was about to go in, I took a glance backwards at the creeping grey horde. It was closer– perhaps a mile off now. There was just the beginning of what became a deafening roar.
I hung around the coat check. There was a petite brunette there– not selling it too much on the tits but Grade-A on the ass. I watched her work for awhile and then, during a lull, I decided on a gambit.
“Fuck this shit,” I told her. “You need better.”
“You’re so crude,” she said, in a timid, innocent voice. Her face flushed red.
“I know a hotel. Might as well baby, the creeping grey horde is here.”
She suddenly grew very white. She knew it, we all knew it.
“What about the coats? The hats?”
“Fuck that, baby. They’ll all be gone soon enough.”
I decided I didn’t feel like blowing my score on a hotel room so I did her in a room off the main hall. Then we smoked some cigarettes and listened to the music next door.
“That was…intense,” she said. “It was…lovemaking.”
“Yeah, baby,” I said, as I spat against the wall. “I really menaced that ass.”
And then we suddenly heard the horde and the music stopped next door. The building began shaking.
Well, it ended up that everybody died but me. They died in a strange way– the creeping grey horde just came straight through windows and doors and grabbed them up, including sweet-ass.
The horde left me there in that hall.
Musings of a Decorative Ham Man By Chris Vitiello
The Greater Lankville Presenter of Certain Types of News is pleased to present a new series by 24-Piece Men GM and decorative ham magnate Chris Vitiello.
File photo
One morning, after a pleasant fall of snow, I sent a letter to someone with whom I had decorative ham business (he was buying 10 hams for his daughter’s room). In my letter, I failed to mention the snow. The reply was amusing: “Do you suppose that I shall take any notice of what someone says who is so perverse that he writes a letter without a word of inquiry as to how I am enjoying the snow? I am disappointed in you.”
The author of that letter is now dead (he was mauled by cubs) but even after all these years, that trivial incident sticks hardily in my mind.
ACCOMMODATIONS
When staying in the Area Beyond the Outlands, pick the Murray. Friendly, creative staff, delightful beds, curtains. Phone Far Outlands 5-6712.
LANKVILLE DAILY NEWS: IN BOOK FORM!
The book is gone. It will never return. We hear stories but they are likely false. We live in the woods now. We make fire with a lighter that we found in the street. It was crushed by a truck but, somehow, perhaps through some intervention that is beyond us, it still works. We are waiting. We are waiting.
Original Pondicherry Association News promotional advertisement (2009)
TONIGHT ON TV! RICHARD AND THE POSTMAN REUNION SPECIAL!
The Hit program from the 1970's returns to Lankville TV tonight on LBC!
ADULT ADVERTISEMENT
Women all over Lankville are just sitting at mammoth computers waiting to hear from men like you! Just insert a floppy disk, write a (non-sexual) message and let the sparks fly! (Computer not included).
ADVERTISEMENT
A Vitiello Decorative Ham makes a great gift. Show that you care today.
BANDED DUFFELS ON PALLETS
Assorted colors. Whatever you want to do, man. Call Lankville Falls, 3247.
BRIAN SCHROPP IN THE LANKVILLE DAILY NEWS
The most important cuisine articles ever written.
CANDY
Jipps Co. Full Service Candy Counter! Our alert girls will push gummy drops into special paper sheaths, engage in restrained pleasantries and explain chocholate-to-nougat ratios. Call Central Lankville 3614.
CAT PHOTO
In compliance with Lankville subsection 11:16-4.
CHAMBERS CO. HAND DRILLS: When Electricity is Not an Option
When electricity is not an option consider the Chambers Company hand crank drills. Perfect for use in tight spaces, on distant islands or for drilling holes in fences to see TITS. Call 4-2309.
EMPLOYMENT
Big Ed's BBQ Shack is looking for a part-time waitress. Someone who doesn't nose around and ask a lot of difficult questions. Call Lankville Rougher Area, 5-2100.
EMPLOYMENT
Nuts, Ah! is looking for an experienced nut-handler. Experience with bagging nuts also important. If you break the nut sack, the nuts will drop onto the floor. Come in person for application to Twin Removed Pines Mall. NO CALLS.
FOX FOR PARTIES
Hire the Poetry Fox for Your Child's Next Party. Reasonable rates. Writes poems, dances, will not stand for any shenanigans. Call South Lankville 2009.
The funny stories of Dick Oakes, Jr. have thrilled millions. Look for them today in The Lankville Daily News!
GELSINGER’S ALLURE CLUB
Topless, bottomless wonderland. Mysterious back rooms. Carpeted entirely in astroturf. NO CALLS.
GREBOV BROTHERS TELESCOPE COMPANY
The Grebov Brothers are Lankville's finest purveyor of telescopes for astronomy enthusiasts. Substantial 4.5" apertures and fast f/4 focal ratios provide bright, detailed views of solar system targets like the Moon and planets, as well as wide-field celestial objects like nebulas and star clusters but also TITS.
GUMP PENETRATES
Only in The Lankville Daily News
HADBAWNIK HAUNTED STAIRCASE COMPANY
The Hadbawnik Company is Lankville's #1 installer of haunted, brush-littered staircases. Friendly non-foreign staff! Call Western (Outer) Lankville, 2154 or 2198 today.
HADBAWNIK HAUNTED BRUSH PILES!
The Hadbawnik Haunted Staircase Company is now offering haunted brush piles for use on your staircase. Create eerie, supernal ambiance. Allow the brush to blow haphazardly in the wind, creates fear, foreboding. Call our friendly staff of white people at Western Lankville, 2154. Brush piles may contain other forms of yard debris.
HEY! WANT A MONKEY?
Hey! Want a live little monkey? They do cute things like climb into pumpkins. Call "The Captain"- Central Lankville Hills, 5264.
HOME DUMP Your Neighborhood Hardware Store 16 Lankville Locations!
Weekly Special: Primitive Forged Hooks. Buy 4, Get a Can of Paint. Or Maybe Not. You'll Just Have to Find Out.
INFLAMED BY STARS AND BLOOD
Lankville's Premier Science Fiction and Horror Magazine Now Appearing in The Lankville Daily News!
JOHNNY PADRES, OPTICIAN
Lankville has been relying on Dr. Johnny Padres for their optical needs since 1973. We offer a full service family eye care center and provide examinations for glasses and contacts and have a large display of designer, traditional and innovative eyewear for both regular prescription eyeglasses and sunglasses all of which will enable you to see TITS better. Call Lankville Business 2618-2.
LIFE LESSONS FUNERAL HOME
Life Lessons Funeral Home has been helping Lankville with dead people since 1932. Contact Eddie or Stummins, Lankville Business, 5-2161.
LOOK AT THESE BEAUTIES!
Really some of our best ever! Have you ever seen anything like it? Call Kelly (male) at Lankville Sound 2615.
MISSING
Missing: adult penguin. Christ, I just let him out in the yard for one minute and now he's gone. Responds to the name "Richard". Call Lankville Eastern Outlands, 5-6213.
NOW PLAYING!
The Unhinged: A New Film by Tom "Vapor" Rayford. Crisp Street Cinema, Eastern Lankville
PINEAPPLE CITY: A New Way of Being
Pineapple City is a new way of being, feeling and having your shirt off. Located in the distant, barren Lankville Pines, Pineapple City is now accepting applications for sheds. Call PINES, 2-5771.
THE PUZZLER
In the pie chart above, what segment represents a certain specific strata of the general population?
REAL ESTATE
Little shed for sale. With door, mailbox, dirt plot. Site of multiple murders but don't worry, they happened around back. To inquire, come to the shed. Go around back.
REAL ESTATE
Four acre lot in Eastern Lankville Cove Area. Price reduced! Site of a fireworks display in which several people fell out of their lawnchairs and died. Locals believe it haunted but that's crap. Call Cove 2751.
THE RECKONER EXACTRA 2.0 : A Danny Madison Product
It's Your Time: CALCULATE
SARAH SAMWAYS: CONTRIBUTING FEMALE
Exclusively in the Lankville Daily News (and some other papers).
SPEAKING ENGAGEMENT
Robin Brox will sit around and get progressively more intoxicated while listening to this other broad natter on about something. LANKVILLE REGIONAL AUDITORIUM, August 4, 11PM.
SPEAKING ENGAGEMENT CANCELED
The Dr. M. Chambers speech and candy-making event has been canceled again following Dr. Chambers' sudden collapse into some baskets. New date TBA
TRAVEL TIPS by Randy Hammers
The Kum Back Inn in the Lankville Desert Area has long been serving road-weary travelers. They feature a restaurant (with cocktails) and two spacious conference rooms. The Kum Back boasts 65 units-- each including window dressing, some chairs and a larger chair (seats two smallish children), a bed with orange comforter, a plastic trash can, clever paintings, and a windowless door. TV also available in 17 (sometimes 19) rooms. Most of the rooms are air-conditioned. Oscillating fans available upon request. Illuminated carports will protect your vehicle from the vicious sudden dust storms that often overtake the Desert Area and the wild thieves that occasionally parade across the landscape like some unmentionable horror. Call now at TU-0780 and ask for Bud or Karen (married).
UTILITY YARD SHEDS
The Lowinger Brothers offer great utility yard sheds at low prices. This one is haunted. Call Lankville Port Area 1072.
VACATION PACKAGES!
Spectacular vacations in campers by little mountains. Your cares will melt away but you will have to be careful of that shack (pictured). A lunatic lives there. Call Mercantile District 2711.
WRESTLING TONIGHT!
8PM, Southern Lankville Man-Arena. Featuring Ric "Wild Boy" Tipps (green trunks).
ZACH KEEBAUGH INVESTIGATIONS
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LETTER SACK