Posts Tagged ‘Bernie Keebler’

Otis Nixon: 1955-1989

November 3, 2015 Leave a comment


By Bernie Keebler

By Bernie Keebler


Infamous Lankville lurker and Daily News columnist Otis Nixon did not die in 2014 as previously reported but actually died in 1989, sources are now confirming.

The News regrets the error.

Nixon was allegedly walking through a field wearing a fake beard. Witnesses state that he tripped on the beard and broke his neck. His body was then blown into the forest and destroyed. Later reports indicated that Nixon was blown into the forest and destroyed a year prior in 2014. No beard was involved.

Otis Nixon died in 1989.

Otis Nixon died in 1989.

However, an analysis of Lankville death certificates now indicates that Nixon died in 1989.

Otho Ump, who penned the false obituaries, had been placed on administrative leave. He was found guilty yesterday of spreading false information and sentenced to 65 years in prison.

“Justice is served,” noted Detective Gee-Temple, who was the first to arrive to the trial.

Editor-in-Chief Marles Cundiff issued an apology to Nixon’s family.

“He [Ump] really looked like a reporter with those suspenders and cigar. I admit, I was completely fooled.”

The cause of Nixon’s death is a matter of speculation although several family members indicated that he, “was deeply affected by certain Eastern Lankville philosophies, grew progressively more insane, began practicing magic on stones in his backyard and finally wandered off into the mountains.” His body was never found.

Bernie Keebler has been placed in charge of obituaries.

Where Have All the Pumpkins Gone? Lankville Facing Severe Pumpkin Shortage

October 12, 2015 Leave a comment
Bernie Keebler

Bernie Keebler


Pumpkin crops are down 95% this year, credible pumpkin sources are reporting.

“The big cardboard pumpkin box at the pumpkin place was real low,” noted local pumpkin buyer Wayne Gross. “And then, there was really just one thin layer of pumpkins and then below that were these monstrous oblong gourds.”

Gross claimed he had to punch several people in the face, including women, and challenge another man in order to come away with a pumpkin.

“It was rough. It was war out there.”

Barlow Foods, owner of an estimated 95% of the canned pumpkin market in Lankville, believes it has enough canned pumpkin to make it through Thanksgiving, but the short harvest means it will be tight.


Gone are the pumpkins.

The bulk of Lankville’s pumpkin supply comes from the Sugary Plains, which suffered heavy rains, dump fires and rabbit gnawing throughout the summer.

“We’re very, very disappointed in the pumpkin farmers of the Lankville Sugary Plains,” noted CEO John Barlow. “We won’t have much reserve stock if any at all. We’re looking into alternative ideas for holiday pies.”

Presidential candidate and gourd expert Dr. David Hadbawnik has already stepped forward with several solutions involving gourds.

“People shouldn’t dismiss the gourd as a decorative fall item. It has always played second fiddle to the pumpkin, just because the pumpkin is big and round but the gourd can step in easily and fill the shoes of the pumpkin. Pumpkins don’t have shoes obviously but…you know what I mean.”

Hadbawnik became confused and had to look at several photos of pumpkins online before he became confident of his assertion.

Meanwhile, Lankvillians are encouraged to peacefully resolve their pumpkin problems.

“Pumpkin lots will be putting out signs notifying the public if they no longer have any pumpkins,” said Detective Gee-Temple, who was called to over 30 pumpkin lot incidents yesterday. “We ask that the public please respect these signs and move on to procuring other decorations for their porches.”

BREAKING: Presidential Candidate “Sturdy Teddy” Has Been Shot

October 1, 2015 Leave a comment

tragedy 2016

Bernie Keebler

By Bernie Keebler

2016 Presidential hopeful Sturdy Teddy has been shot, sources are confirming.

The independent “Mountain Party” candidate was attending a dough butter breakfast rally this morning when shots rang out, witnesses are reporting.

Sturdy Teddy was whisked away by handlers and his whereabouts are currently unknown. The shooter has not been identified.

Mountain candidate Sturdy Teddy.

Mountain candidate Sturdy Teddy.

“We are investigating,” noted Detective Gee-Temple, who was the first to arrive at the scene. Someone appears to have accessed the gymnasium via a series of wide-open doors at the back. The individual appears to have been familiar with firearms. He had a lot of them. We’ve put some cones out.”

Gee-Temple pointed at two cones floating in a large puddle of blood.

“It all happened so fast,” said supporter Rod Ump of the Low Western Outlands. “We just hope Sturdy Teddy will recover. He was really starting to climb in the polls.”

Sturdy Teddy, 41 and unmarried, was placing 4th in a recent National Poll behind President Pondicherry of the Party of Moderation, David Hadbawnik of the Gourd Party, and Ric Royer of Hell.

“He was a man of few words,” said a supporter ominously. “But, clearly, that was speaking to the people of Lankville.”

The dough butter breakfast rally, a Mountain-area tradition, features dough and butter pressed between two flat sheets until golden-brown. The sheets are patterned to give the dough and butter its characteristic shape, size, and surface impression. The dough and butter breakfast can be traced to the Lankville Middle Ages when sheets typically depicted images of great Lankville Lords.

The traditional dough butter breakfast rally generally features large laminated folding tables with a 5/8″ thick, solid-core top coated with a scratch-resistant surface. Occasionally, economy tables are used which feature a plastic or polyethylene top. Regardless, both options feature fold-up dent resistant legs which make for easy cleanup.

Drink options include little “drink barrels” with a “peal-top”, popular in mountain areas. The drink barrels come in a variety of flavors including orange, blue, green and white.

“It was a nice event,” said Ump, who was helping to close the rear doors of the gymnasium. “Lot of food left. Lot of food.”

Government Seeks to Close Funeral Home

August 11, 2015 Leave a comment
Bernie Keebler

Bernie Keebler


Request for an injunction to prevent the Three Kings O’Great Centre of the Divine from practicing the profession of funeral directing, was filed in Small Circuit Court yesterday by the Lankville Board of Funeral Directors, Embalmers, and Memorial Flower People.

The suit was signed by the Attorney General.

It was alleged that the defendants, Mr. and Ms. Lakely Beaches, are not licensed to practice funeral directing and, notwithstanding this fact, the firm has been supervising funerals for profit, have “prepared human dead bodies by means other than embalming”, and sold funeral supplies including caskets, plots, and sad musical instruments.

Mr. and Mrs. Beaches claim they have done nothing wrong.


Shenanigans at the Three Kings O’Great Centre of the Divine?

“We have a good, honest, family funeral home,” noted Mr. Beaches, who was interviewed while en route to pick up a sandwich and a body. “The government is sticking their noses in where they don’t belong, as usual.”

The Board, however, noted that the Three Kings O’Great Centre of the Divine lost its license in 1985. A request for restoration and reactivation was denied in 1988, 1994 and again in 2012.

When asked why it took thirty years to affirm the lack of proper licensing, the Board noted, “We’re just buried in paperwork over here, Bernie.”

The case is expected to be heard later this month. The Three Kings O’Great Centre of the Divine has been closed until further notice.

Station’s a Gas for Area Youths

July 7, 2015 Leave a comment
Bernie Keebler

Bernie Keebler


There is a gas station in the Eastern Lankville Small Ponds Area that is described by its operator as “a financial disaster but at the same time a success.”

Located at the crossroads of the small pond community, the station, a faded white and orange concrete block building, bears the name “The Chariot Lodge”.

And the operator doesn’t grumble about car crazy youths hanging around- he encourages them.

“We needed a low-key ministry that was also a gas station to reach out to the youths of today,” noted 54-year old founder Rev. Plants Meulens, who has been minister of the nearby Small Ponds Church (located inside the mall) for the past six years.


Chariot Lodge owner and operator Plants Meulens (he’s the guy in the car).

Meulens says that the need became critical a few years ago when a large proportion of the Small Ponds Area contracted venereal disease.

“There was a ton of venereal disease. [President] Pondicherry even called at one point asking me what was going on. He said- why do you have so much venereal disease, Plants? I had nothing to tell him.”

“There were also a lot of fires around that time,” Meulens added.

His idea of starting a teen-age service station was supported by five other churches inside of malls.

“The clergymen really loved it because cars and youths just go together. But you don’t hear so much about cars and venereal disease although maybe sometimes, I guess,” Meulens noted.

Just Loafin': Area Youths Keither Turley and Gina Quaint.

Just Loafin’: Area Youths Keither Turley and Gina Quaint.

A non-profit organization was established and the Chariot Lodge was leased from a local decorative ham concern for $1200 a month.

The lodge quickly became a favorite hang-out of Small Pond Area youths.

“They love it,” said volunteer adult supervisor Mrs. Annette Bounds. “All kids are worth the effort. If you can keep them in the office of a gas station rather than out there getting venereal disease, well, then it’s all been worth it.”

Detective Gee-Temple noted that the Bureau of Probes responds to far fewer calls in the Small Pond Area.

“We have very little trouble with the Chariot Cabin [sic]. Plants has done a real good job up there.”

But the operation is not without problems points out Rev. Meulens.

“We’ve had some damage to some of the pumps, we don’t have any advertising budget and there is no toilet,” Meulens said. “Plus, we’re a complete financial disaster just oozing money because we have to depend solely on charity.”

“If all the parents of the kids who spend their time here would just buy some gas…” Meulens added before suddenly stomping off into some weeds. When he returned, the reverend noted, “if that happened, well, then maybe we’d go from the red to the black.”

Paisley Elected Treasurer

April 24, 2015 Leave a comment
By Bernie Keebler

By Bernie Keebler


Loaff A. Paisley has been elected treasurer of Lankville.

The 35 year-old Paisley is an Eastern Hills resident. He has been in the cattle feeding business for 13 years.

“I met Loaff when I had some cattle to be fed,” noted President Pondicherry, who oversaw the election. “Actually, I ended up being completely mistaken. I didn’t have any cattle. But it was a happy accident because I met Loaff. I encouraged him to run for office.”

New treasurer Loaff Paisley.

New treasurer Loaff Paisley.

Paisley defeated incumbent Scancius Power by a tally of 935 to 716. 99% of Lankville did not turn out.

“It was not a compelling election,” noted political analyst and Lankville Daily News columnist Lloyd Byas-Kirk. “Also, there were a lot of other things going on that night. There was a quiz bowl for talented youth, the malls were open late, there were a number of challenges. As usual, debilitating fear of anything outside also played a part in the paltry numbers.”

Paisley earned a bachelor’s degree from the Eastern Hills Easier University and is a member of the Lankville Cattle Bureau. He also serves as assistant treasurer of the Koala Bears and Walnuts Club.

He and his wife, the former Tebbie Raines, are the parents of five children.

“I’m pleased at the results,” said Paisley, in a prepared statement. “For far too long, my opponent Mr. Power, has abused the wallets and purses of our people. I’m asking Lankville to buckle their seatbelts and find the exit. There is one exit and it’s right here.”

Paisley pointed at himself.

He will assume office in early June.

Area Racks Now Featuring Balloons

January 8, 2015 Leave a comment
By Bernie Keebler

By Bernie Keebler


Area racks are now featuring balloons, sources are confirming.

“Yes, we’re witnessing quite a preponderance of these “balloon racks” noted local analyst Gene Shelby, Jr., who made use of air quotation marks in his utterance. “You can find them generally at the end of long aisles or sometimes near restrooms. They come in variety packs– in other words, one can attain a diverse quantity of these “balloons” that, when “inflated” will reveal a manifold series of shapes, colors and sizes.” (Shelby utilized air quotation marks again).

The balloons are affixed to free-standing racks such as this one.

The balloons are affixed to free-standing racks such as this one.

“I’m pleased about it,” noted Lankville business magnate and former mall-dweller Ric Royer. “As most are aware, I have had a complex relationship with balloons in the past. Yet, I still welcome their appearance. We had several racks at the mall!” (Royer became very loud at the end of his last sentence before abruptly ending the interview).

Sources are conflicted as to who owns the racks.

“We are not exactly sure,” stated area grocery store employee Gary Sparklers. “I lock the door at night and open the door in the morning. Sometime during the night, they are restocked. It’s mysterious and confounding.”

Sparklers was suddenly shoved into a large display freezer which was then tipped over. He is currently recovering at a local hospital.

“Data indicates you’ll be seeing more of these “balloons”,” added Shelby, again utilizing air quotations for reasons unclear.

FEATURE: Getting to Know Fingers Rolly

December 7, 2014 Leave a comment
By Bernie Keebler

By Bernie Keebler

In the past few weeks, the world has become entranced by the writings of Lankville Daily News reporter Fingers Rolly. And yet, I always found myself wanting more. Who is Fingers Rolly? What are his thoughts? Can he even be known?

I made the long drive to the Lankville Desert Region to find out.

Fingers Rolly lives on a patch of desert surrounded by a natural arrangement of lovely pincushion cacti. His home is a series of old aluminum trailers that have been shoved together in a fanciful manner, thereby creating a rather large structure. There are the remnants of succulent gardens along one edge and a well-tended gravel walk but the land itself is cracked and brown, pulverized into dust by a relentless sun.

The road simply ends at Mr. Rolly’s rambling home; it goes no further. A tremendous amount of dust kicks up as I pull to a stop. Upon alighting from the car, I detect a strange sound that suddenly changes in timbre. Whereas at first it had sounded mournful, now it sounds almost demonic. I realize that it is the famous desert howling of Fingers Rolly.

Will he even answer the door? I ask myself. “If he’s howling, you can forget about it,” said an anonymous source, whom I probed for information about the mysterious writer. “You’ll have to try another day.” But I am resolute. I quickly change into a finely-tailored suit (I had been wearing some workout short pants and a lightweight shoulder harness) and make my way to what I presume to be the front door.

The demonic howling suddenly stops. Nothing moves. No sound can be heard from within. “Fingers?” I call out. I tap again at the door and it suddenly swings open. I can perceive only shadows from within.

I enter a mysterious room. There is a living room set (leather sofa and chair, cowboy motif) but large hand-painted plywood signs are stacked neatly against them. I flip through the cracked and warped messages, clearly punished by the desert sun– NO! GO AWAY! LEAVE! I DO NOT WANT YOU! I cross to a bookshelf– more signs stacked on the dusty floor, more strange pleading edicts to persons unknown.

The howling comes again– this time low and somber. I move towards it. It is lighter here– a filthy kitchen stacked with old tins and bottles, covered with a deeper layer of dust. And in a kitchen chair, I find the great writer. He is shaking and moaning. He almost appears to fall asleep at times, then suddenly bolts upright and lets loose a vile stream of profanity.

I gently put my hand on his shoulder and he turns around. He is sweating and his clothing is filthy and ragged. On the cluttered table before him, I find some stationary from a long-defunct hotel– Fingers Rolly is working on his latest article.

“Will you speak with me?” I ask. I find a chair on the opposite side of the table. There is an ancient tractor transmission before me, resting on a yellowed newspaper.

“Didn’t you see the sign you…you little asshole?” he says in a voice that, I am immediately convinced, is possessed.

Before I can respond, he begins howling again, then cursing wildly. This goes on for four hours straight. As the light begins to fade, I interrupt and offer to prepare dinner. Fingers looks up– his face seems his own now. “Go ahead, you fucking asscake. Who’s stopping you?” He looks back to the window but I can tell he is grateful.

I search the dusty cupboards for our meal.


Fingers gnarls at his dinner; he has a strange habit of putting food into his mouth sideways and hunching over his plate protectively.  Suddenly, he will bolt upwards in his seat and, remaining completely still, will gaze for an interminable period at something far off and distant out the window.  Then, he will slowly return to his meal.  For Fingers, eating seems a completely pleasureless experience.

I ask him about his last job.  “Physical education,” he blurts out.  “God damn desert high school.  No fields to speak of, just that cracked brown whore dirt.”  He spits on the floor.  “For a time, I enjoyed it.”  “How so?” I probe.  He stares at me.  Then: “It was fun to torture the unathletic children.  But then I’d have to go into my office to fill out grades or something and even with the blinds shut, I knew that god damn desert was out there, mocking me.”

He takes a long, steadying drink of coffee.  This is a rare, lucid moment.  I know it will not last long.

“Then, I took to sleeping under the gym bleachers at night.  I could no longer use facilities because, standing there, I could see that asshole desert out the window.  So, I started going under the bleachers.  The principal called me in after a few weeks.

“What did he say?”

Fingers Rolly

Fingers Rolly

“He said, Fingers– he said, we like some of the work you’re doing.  You’re making important strides in teaching the fatter, unathletic kids how to wear their gym shorts.  But we can’t have this moaning and screaming at the desert.  And now that we’ve learned of this expelling of waste beneath the gym bleachers, well, I’m afraid that’s the last straw.  So, he kicked me out on my ass.”

“What did you do?”

“I went home and made up two signs– I still have ‘em, in there in the living room.  Then, I took up a post here in this very chair and started screaming at that sonuvabitch.  That cracked, god damn sonuvabitch…”

He gets up from the table (his rugged gait now marred by age) and starts towards the back door with a shotgun.  I stop him.

“There’s nothing you can do, Fingers,” I plead.

He breathes rapidly but stops at the counter.  He removes his hat and looks at the floor for several moments, blinking.  He seems near tears.

Then, suddenly, his face changes completely.  The transformation is stunning.  FFFFFFUUUUUUCCCCKKKK   OFFFFFFFF he moans slowly.  He tries to strike me but I duck out of the way.  He moves to his chair and begins the deeply unsettling desert moan broken by occasional moments of vile profanity.  I keep out of his way as best I can.  “At this point, he’ll start tearing the kitchen up,” warned a journalist friend.

I dig in and prepare for the worst.


The low moan continues to dusk.  When the desert disappears in darkness, the face of Fingers takes on another stunning transformation.

“There’s them cake hunks in the icebox,” he says aloud.

Indeed, I find a creased and rumpled bakery container filled with asymmetrical hunks of cake.  I push them gently onto filthy plates.  Fingers begins eating almost before the dessert is even before him.

“They had this guy come out and he bought up the earth beneath us,” he comments.  Indeed, an enormous plot of desert land had recently been purchased by the heirs of Ferdinand Buntz, mallows king of Lankville.  Rumors, none verified, were flying around the region.  “What do you think he wants with that land?” I ask.  “The land is an asshole.  What would you do with an asshole?”  He pushes his plate away and then onto the floor.  It lands in a pile of garbage.

“Tell me about your wife?” I ask.  It’s a dicey question; Fingers’ bride had died decades before.

“She was in the stenographers pool at the high school,” he responds in an even, quiet voice.  “They gave her a little cubicle and I used to go in the cubicle and talk to her.  Lovely girl.  Very fat.  But lovely.  She looked like a gibbous moon.”

“And then you moved here, to the desert?”

Fingers slowly shakes his head.  The sweat is pouring off him.  I bear witness to the rising vitriol.

MOTHERFUCKKKKKKKKKKERRRRRRRR.   He gets up and grabs the shotgun again.  I stop him.

“Rest.  Rest in the chair,” I command.  He does as told though I notice that his face has changed again.  I decide to press.

“Why?  Why do you hate the desert?”

But he will not answer.  He is gone now.

For want of something to look at, I find a small stack of old gas station road maps in a heap of floor garbage.  Many are of the desert region.  Opening them, I find a thick series of crude markings in various inks with arrows leading to the margins and annotated with a mysterious combination of letters and numbers.  These markings are virtually impossible to explain so I pocket one of the maps so that it may be photographed later.  It is reproduced here for the first time.

Gas station road map of Desert Region with Fingers’ strange markings.

Gas station road map of Desert Region with Fingers’ strange markings.

Then, I am surprised by the distant sound of a motor vehicle.  Lights flash across the windows.  It seems to be coming surprisingly fast– the crunch of boots on the gravel outside causes me to freeze where I stand.  Then I drop to the carpet and attempt to construct a hiding fort out of blankets and pillows.  They are outside the door now.Hours pass.  My curiosity is insatiable.  I quietly move to the living room and, with the faint illumination of a cellphone, look through the signs again.  Moving to the coffee table, I begin sifting through the mass of papers and letters (many never opened).  Yet, there seems to be no key that I can stick in a keyhole, turn, and, by the rotation of moving cylinders, pin tumblers and so forth, unlock the mystery.

“Flatten them,” someone says.  Boots crunching again, then the sound of my tires being slashed by a knife.

“You jus’ let me know when you’re ready,” the same man says.  It is in monotone; a brutal voice without mercy.

I throw off the blankets and pillows and make a beeline for the backdoor.  I pause only for a moment as a deadly shotgun blast bursts through the wood frame.  It seems to have come from nowhere; almost silent, faintly sibilant.

Then, I am running across pitch black scrubland, away from the house.  A booming roar of an engine starts up and I am now being chased by a raging pickup burying everything in its path.

This may be my end.

Bernie Keebler is currently missing.

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