Ask The Ghetto Shaman

by The Ghetto Shaman • August 24, 2012

Dear Ghetto Shaman,

Most Shamans refer to their spiritual tutelage. You, on the other hand, are infinitely vague about your shamanic schooling and sordid past.

Sincerely,

Bob Frantzen

Albany, NY

Dear Bob,

Fine. I was first introduced to the plant intelligence under the guidance of my master, one Chief Bum-a-smoke Shitstorm, of the Kennedy-King Projects over in Newberry. I was initiated on Ibogaine substitute (possibly nutmeg) and ayahuasca substitute (possibly skunked malt-liquor). The plant spirits told me to quit my job, live on the streets, and teach my people. Thankfully, I was one step ahead of them…already fired, homeless, and quite verbose.

The Ghetto Shaman

by Mick Zano • August 23, 2012

Durango, CO—Reaching the fabled city of Durango could mean only one thing, we’ve arrived at the last installment of this important four part Colorado series on the para-abnormal. Durango literally means “water town”—which recently spurred Watertown, NY, to officially change its name to Durango, because the Mayor said, “It sounds way cooler.” Besides, Durango has like, what? four brewpubs? What the hell does Watertown, New York have? Water? Yeah, I wouldn’t’ drink that.

Truth be told, I imbibed waaaaay too much my first night in town to do any proper para-abnormal investigating. Damn you, Lady Falconburgh’s and your thirty some-odd taps of malty magic! But I’m going to let you in on a little secret, that’s never really stopped me before. Thus the Body Shot Banshee Debacle at the Dubliner and the infamous Jagermeister Yahtzee séance over at the Weatherford Hotel.

After some research at the Embassy Irish Pub (good Guinness pour), the Google Gods revealed three haunted hotels in Durango…looks like, surprise, surprise, they may all have bars. And I am going to bet all three have a menagerie of dead animals hanging on the walls as well. For those of you not familiar with my work, check out my three other Rocky Mountain stops on this important quest, here, here, and here. Remember, my theories involve either taxidermically emanated manifestations or beer-related-apparitions also known as ecto-pilsner formed phenomena. Confused? Go back and hit here, here, or here like I told ya’s, and try to keep up! I have been hard at work pushing the boundaries of known science…down an elevator shaft.

Day 1 of the investigation:

At nightfall, after my Lady Falconburgh’s barely experience, I decided on hitting the General Palmer Hotel. I marched up to the front desk and demanded to see the General, thus ending any chance of gaining access to the premises. Okay, maybe I’ll hit the Palmer tomorrow. I then approached the front desk of the Strater Hotel more tactfully and demanded to see General Palmer! Thus ending any chance of a proper investigation there as well. That’s when I decided to go to bed and pick up the investigation first thing in the morning—when hopefully a different staff started their shifts.

On the way back to my hotel, however, I discovered an old creepy cemetery on the edge of town and decided this was the perfect place for an EVP session (electronic voice phenomenon). I hoped some local ghosts might make their presence known. Then, after about three hours, I realized this is the place that manufactures the tombstones. No one is actually buried here.

For F&*^’s sake!

Playing back my EVP sessions, I did manage to catch the haunting sounds of Jimi Hendrix and Stevie Ray Vaughn…and the rest of the second set of the band playing over at Steamworks Brewery. For those new and aspiring para-abnormal researchers out there, never Guinness and ghost hunt.

The Palmer Hotel:

Off to a slow start in Durango, for sure, and I didn’t want to repeat the mistakes of the previous night. After making use of the hotel exercise room and a breakfast consisting only of Wheaties and vegetable juice…Okay, I’m lying. I can’t do this to my reader (that’s not a typo; there’s only one of you). Suffice to say, I behaved…ish.

First stop was Carver’s Brewery—a truly great way to start the day. Then, when they take away your breakfast plates away, you can go, “I’ll have a stout please.” Talk about the breakfast of champions.

The day was spent doing typical tourist-like-things (TLT), but as soon as the sun went down I headed back to the General Palmer. Good, the young lady from last night isn’t working the desk. This time I used something called couth. I approached the front desk inconspicuously and then demanded to see General Palmer! Kidding…not this time. I asked politely if I could take some pictures…but I never said what floor, heh, heh.

There are a couple of stories on line about the General Palmer. One couple allegedly checked out at 2 AM after being awakened to a ghostly apparition hanging in the middle of the room and yet another staffer kept hearing someone calling her name in one of the rooms. Ask your doctor if Zyprexa is right for you.

No ghost orbs around any of the peacocks in the lobby. This further supports my theory that orbular manifestations are mammal-specific-phenomenon (MSP). I checked the painting of the elk on the second floor landing, just be sure…

Nope, nothin’. Okay, I really didn’t think I would find an orb around a painted elk, but there’s such a thing as a control in scientific experiments. And they are the group always fighting the diabolical schemes of Chaos (sorry, a Get Smart flashback). No other taxidermically emanated manifestations appeared in my images of the lobby or the upper floors.

The image below is another intriguing piece of evidence. It clearly shows the ghostly image of the guy who couldn’t gain access to this hallway on the third floor. The damn door was locked.

Back at the Discord Paranormal Research Center (aka, Winslow’s basement), we were able to digitally enhance this picture and solve this intriguing puzzle. Boo!

The Palmer Hotel through glass, enhanced

It was me all along. Meanwhile, the young lady at reception said she never had any weird experiences during her employment at the hotel.

“Oh, really,” I said, and then chose that moment to dump my beer on my head and drop my trousers.

Okay, I didn’t really do that but I thought about it. She also said her colleagues were just discussing the sheer lack of interesting ghost stories in their hotel. Curious. This establishment had animals, but no bar that I could get to. There were also no ghostly orbs anywhere. Hmmm. My mind is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought, cascading into a waterfall of creative para-abnormal theories…What movie?

The Strater Hotel:

The Strater is a 112-year old hotel in the heart of downtown Durango. The upper floors are allegedly the most haunted, which makes absolutely no sense as the bar, the Diamond Belle, is down on the first floor. There are no hanging animal heads anywhere to be found, but the bar is really cool. If I were ghost …

Two ghostly orbs behind the bar. Check. Right about now, you might be wondering if I’m getting hinky again and PhotoShopping this stuff…nope. These were two orbs captured over the bartender’s head. They’re within easy reach of the liquor and some very nice microbrews as well. I guess people just need to know where to look for ecto-pilsner type poltergeists.

There was also one orb in the lobby. Maybe it was trying to check in and hadn’t made it to the bar yet. Shit, there’s one up on the second floor too! That’s a nice one. I don’t know what this ghost thinks it’s doing, but it’s nowhere near an animal head or any kind of alcohol…hold the phone, I do have a flask of gin in my right breast pocket. Hmmm. Is it manifesting via the energy from my gin? I’m going to have to start carrying booze on all of my ghost adventures. It’s so obvious— the spirits need a spirit medium.

I think the two social orbs in the bar have the right idea. It was about 9 PM on a Friday night and the Diamond Belle was hopping. I looked again at the very distinctive orb on the 2^nd floor and frowned. Maybe this spirit wasn’t 21 when it died? So sad.

I questioned a couple of the staff in the lobby, but it sounded to me like the official word for the Strater staff is on’tday entionmay ostsghay. Man, I love that Pig Latin Generator. How did we ever carry on all the important work before the Google? I headed back into the Diamond Belle to get some Ska Stout and contemplate my para-abnormal thesis.

The Rochester:

The Rochester Hotel turned out to be the least accessible to non-hotel guests. The bar is only open to the public for two hours a day and bartender was too busy during that time, so I never got a chance to interview her. To make matters worse, she was positioned right by the stairs as well, like a guardian cherubim. So I had to wait for her to hit the bathroom before I could continue my investigation upstairs.

This orb appeared in an upstairs room. Yikes, there’s no bar and no animal heads. Yet, keep in mind, the orb appeared during the day when the bar is open for business. Hmmm. We have found some orbs to support my ecto-pilsner theory, but I did not find any taxidermically emanated manifestations during this entire investigation.

Despite completely striking out back in Silverton, the bar room at the Grand Imperial Hotel certainly contained the most hanging animal heads. Staff there felt it was the most haunted room in what sounded like one of the most para-abnormally active hotels on my trip. I found orbs all around the animal heads at the Western Hotel in Ouray. The General Palmer had animal heads on the walls, but no alcohol for them to manifest. Even the staff claims the hotel is very inactive. Also notice the one interesting story from the Palmer (from online). A ghost showed up, so a couple checked out of their room at 2AM. When do the bars close in Durango? 2AM. Hold the phone! What if the animals themselves are the entities using the ecto-pilsner to manifest? Ecto-pilsner is energy, not yet recognized by science, created during the brewing process. (I thought you said you were going to go back and read my other posts?) This combines both of my important theories into what I now call my taxidermically emanated ecto-pilsner manifestations theory. I used the Google again to see if any other research suggests ghosts are simply animals that like booze.

As it turns out, Dr. Seuss, years ahead of me, actually summarized both of my theories in one para-abnormal masterpiece.

It’s from one of his lesser known works: The Deer Needs a Beer, a Brew that is True. Remember the chug-me puke-me from that one? Consider this case solved…ish.

by Dave Atsals • August 22, 2012

“Ahhh, irony”

by Mick Zano • August 21, 2012

Xiangyin, China–General Tso, a man famous for his oriental deep fried chicken, is being sought in the disappearance of several #17s from the menu at the Jade Fountain over on 4^th Str…umm, to be honest, Zano hasn’t submitted anything in awhile. He’s fallen off the radar again and, to complicate matters, so has the Ghetto Shaman. If I didn’t know any better, I would say it’s a Bruce Wayne/Batman kind of thing. But I‘ve seen both of these cats in the same place. The last time was at our company Christmas party back in 2010. I got them both very nice pen sets that turned out to be pencils. Besides, back to the Batman analogy, I’m afraid neither one of them can be described as mild-mannered. I think with Zano and the Shaman, it’s more like if Robin had a sidekick…and then Robin’s sidekick had a sidekick. That’s getting close to capturing the essence of these bananas, who, apparently split. See? These are the jokes I write when the main writers go MIA.

I really don’t know where this project is going anymore. I can’t control these people. Submission and deadlines are passé. Try envisioning the Marx Brothers on acid and you begin to understand the herding cats-type, Herculean task I deal with on a post-to-post basis. Really, it’s more like if the Marx Brothers hung around Cheech & Chong for a couple of “sessions” and then went to the Amazon together to gnaw on some hallucinogenic roots. Yeah, it’s something like that…only more out of control.

I am seriously considering going with my original idea—a psychiatric food blog. Stay with me here. So if you’re depressed, I’ll have a series of culinary recipes designed to offset some of those specific symptoms. Are you a little manic because of a bi-polar disorder? Try my Depakote Devil’s food cake. A little hyper? How about some Ritalinguini and clam sauce? Are you hearing the voices again? Try my famous chicken Thorazzini. I think it could taste great and really cut down on the mass shootings in this country. If my writers don’t resurface soon, get ready to order some of my FDA-approved psychotropic suppers!

by The Crank • August 20, 2012

On one sunny, hot as the hinges of Hell, day here on the surface of the sun, I was alone on the showroom floor. My cell phone rings. I see it’s ‘home’ so I pick up expecting to hear something like a ‘I’m home from work. See you soon, honey,” kind of thing. Well, not so much.

Instead I hear, “Honey, we have a problem.” The rest of my month would never be the same. It started out relatively upbeat. We were going up to Flagstaff to see the Cardinal’s training camp and to catch a meal with Zano and fambly at the Japanese knife-fling-y place.

She said, “There’s a note from Ozzy our neighbor. He apparently had to shut off the water main to our house as he saw water running out of the garage onto the street from under the garage door. The whole house is wet. Come home NOW!”

Ah, well, uhhh, lets see. First I’ll call the boss and let her know I’m closing early as I am all alone. I’d better put a note on the door. I’ll go lock the side door. As I run to the side door, keys in hand, I see a terrifying sight. Coming towards the door is an elderly couple. Have you ever seen Tim Conway when he does his old man impression? You know, the foot-shuffle at .00003 mph? That was a tad Jeff Gordon compared to these two. Since I wasn’t about to lock the door in their face (which would have been funny, in a Pythonesque sort of way), I let them in. They want new kitchen cabinets. They wanted to “walk” around and look at the displays. Oh gawd. I wanted to pull out our hand truck if it would speed them up.

I call the boss. “Can someone come here quickly?” I got the slowest…what…no? “Oh well, thanks anywho.”

As I stand with the couple, answering questions, I am visualizing terrifying things. Cats doing the backstroke thru the living room. Wet electronics. 113° and No A/C. And, above all, a simultaneously wired and overwhelmed spouse.

After the longest 40-minutes of my life, they bid me goodbye and slowly exited the building. I hit the lights and locked the door the second the last shuffle cleared the door. With my metal knees popping like driving over bubble wrap, I jumped into the Ram, and made it home in 50-seconds. Having power beneath your foot is a welcome thing when you have to be in two places at once, and the Hemi ‘flew’ me home as I watched the fuel gauge drop before my eyes. As I entered the house, I started to make a mental note of the things I saw. Note to self: a mental note isn’t worth the neurons it is written on. I’m old, and there just isn’t any more room on my ‘mental white board’ to write anything else. From now on I must use paper.

My first question to her as I saw my wife standing there in full Def-Con five panic mode was “Are the cats ok?” She seemed bewildered why I would ask that. After all, didn’t I have E.S.P. and already surmised how the problem didn’t affect them? I could, though, tell which areas of the carpet were water-logged just by watching the cats go to the bedroom by way of…like-Wisconsin.

My wife had already called a plumber, and his Buttcrackness was already en-route. I walked into the garage and saw where the water came from. A valve on the back of my water filter/softener had blown, spraying water over the two bags of white tile grout I put beside it. Then said water, milky white by now, slowly roamed throughout my house. Thru the laundry room, the living room, the master bedroom and master closet.

“I have to call the insurance company,” I said. I called them and surprise surprise, I got a hooman. I asked if they had a local water abatement team they worked with. They said they would have them call me. The plumber arrived and told me he can loop around the system and restart my water for the low price of $306.18. “Don’t even fucking ask,” I said, “Start!”

The water in the Azirona area is hard. It’s some of the hardest water on Earth—liquid concrete as it’s known by my neighbors. It’s like taking a shower in sea water, which has only one benefit: when you fill up the tub, turn on the shower, and play ‘submarine incident’, it’s slightly more realistic. Suds are, as of now, a thing of the past. The maker of the water system came a week later and replaced the offending part at no charge, then he fucking CHARGED ME to re-hook-up. “$200.00! You want me to pay you when your machine has caused thousands of dollars in damage to my home?” The straight faced answer was…well…yes (actually “si”).”

The abatement team arrived that first night and life as I knew it was over. They methodically went through the house with Star Trek-like technology, measuring the wetness of everything. Sheetrock had to be removed, base moldings, carpet and padding. Vanity cabinets moved away from walls, toe kick covers trashed. When that was over, in came the fans. Yes, the Fans. Nine green industrial type wind machines capable of reversing the rotation of the planet, along with three de-humidifiers. As they plugged them all in, one by one, I saw the lights dim. I went outside and watched the electric meter as it sped up to near light-speed. Like in Space Balls it eventually “went plaid.”

Making noise like the machine that awakened Frankenstein. I fought back the impulse to shout, “It’s alive!” It was spinning so fast it seemed to get translucent like it was winking in and out of our dimension, like Dr. Who’s Tardis just before it disappears.

I could just see the white-coated nerds at Aridzona Power leaning over the monitors and jerking off like they were watching internet porn as my kilowatt usage went stratospheric. It wasn’t till the team went to leave that I heard the rest of the news. It was Friday night; they said they would be back on Sunday night to retrieve the evil green blo-jobs.

I learned to read lips that weekend while watching TV. The good thing was that one really didn’t need sound to watch the Olympic Women’s Beach Volleyball. I especially studied the hand signals intently. Sleeping was just not gonna happen. I was up for about 72-hours that weekend. I get in such a lovely mood when I’m tired. They named me The Crank on a good day. The phone would ring and I would answer: “WHAT!” Yeah, I was a real peach by Sunday night. I “helped’ them out with the machines. Tossing them like so many trash bags, seeing how good they were at catching them. In point of fact, these kids did an amazingly good job of stopping the damage, treating the wet areas for mold, and drying it all out. It must be a thankless job. So I didn’t thank them.

The cats had to be sequestered in a non-affected bedroom, and were convinced that they had in fact done something hideously wrong and were being punished for it. “Uh, that wet spot is too big to be us, boss.” I joined them from time to time just to keep them company and feed them. Have you ever seen cats beg? It wasn’t nice. Dogs are used to begging. They have made it an art; cats, not so much. You could tell they were new at it. They weren’t very good. Every time I would go in the room, they would try a new position, a new meow. I could just hear the old black female as they huddled before my next entrance: “Listen furbag, you get on the dresser upside down and put your paw out like this, while I look up from the floor and do the big-sad-kitty-eyes thing. That should do the trick.”

While I got used to the constant headache and drone, the bare floors and the clothes being in new-fun-to-find places, my lovely wife was having none of it. It wasn’t pleasant. I, of course, needed to be reminded every 30 minutes for 3 days of what has happened and how awful it all was, lest I just happen to forget. I was a bachelor for many years before marrying my wife. This was still luxury compared to conditions I have lived in before.

I could feel the loss of privacy with strangers going through the house, and the dirt and dust that followed the abatement. It was bad for us both, but after a few days we begrudgingly accepted it as a temporary state. If it wasn’t for an alert neighbor who knew how to shut off the water main, I would be in much worse shape. He saved me, big time. As of now, after meeting with the insurance adjuster, I am in the middle of getting the insurance company to give me a realistic amount of cash for me to make it all right again. It will take time, but it will be even better than before. It has to be-gulp-I promised my wife. It’s my job.

Crank (twitch-twitch)

P.S. A note to the local H.O.A (home owners association):

The fact that my cul-de-sac is now the fifth largest lake in Aridzona, I should have been your first clue I had a flood. There was lots of garbage, some things that can not be replaced had to be discarded, mementos and such. I put it all out days before they took it. Get a fucking life please, you fucking control freaks. One of my neighbors uses the curb as the place to store his three pails and has for many years. May I humbly suggest fucking with him? If I see you in that shitty little grey car of yours taking pictures again, my Ram will earn its name and make Long Island-style road-pizza out of you.

All our Luv,

The last soggy house on the left….

by Mick Zano • August 19, 2012

are they a precursor to Mothra?

by Mick Zano • August 16, 2012

Haunted Silverton: A Grand Imperial Poltergeist

Silverton, CO—Onward to part three of my epic four part series on the Ghosts of Colorado. My wife and I pulled into Silverton after surviving the treacherous “million dollar highway.” They probably should have spent a little more than that and put up some flippin’ guardrails! In some spots, veering your car just a hair beyond the fog line means certain death. Silverton, meanwhile, is a quaint little place…at least from a distance. When you get closer it starts to look like Sanford & Son decided to go into the western town business. I tied the old Impala to a hitching post and found the first brewpub for some much needed “research”.

I only had a few hours to spend in Silverton, so I had to work fast. I remained confident, after all, I am a professional. I keep repeating that over and over again, so people will start believing it. Hey, it works for Fox News. After eating a terrific bratwurst and downing a nice hefe over at the Silverton Brewery, I Googled Silverton and Haunted. There were no ghost stories about the current establishment and, Steve, the barkeep, suggested I hit the Sheridan Inn in Wyoming (sorry, flashback joke).

The main place in town sporting spooks was reported to be the Grand Imperial hotel. Upon entering the lobby, I immediately felt a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. It turned out to be the bratwurst. Sometimes it takes the trots to connect the dots. Kidding, that was the best brat I’ve had in a long time! Must have been the hefe.

The hotel receptionist’s name was Cathy. During her many years of working the front desk, she reports having many strange encounters (present company excluded). She’s convinced the place is haunted. Some nights, while working alone, labels disappear only to be returned later, pens go missing, and lights flicker on and off. Cathy denies any illicit drug use, but, when I handed her a cup, she refused to submit to a urinalysis.

Apparently, a three day investigation by a group called Haunted Dimensions discovered 16 separate entities haunting the building. Since I am now making a name for myself in certain small paranormal circles—dots really—I should be able to find at least that many. Heck, this was going to be like shooting wolves from Palin’s helicopter!

The ghost of a doctor named Luigi is said to still haunt the room he shot himself in, and the ghost of actress Lillian Russell is said to hum her way through the historic halls. Russell died in Pittsburgh, but it actually makes sense she isn’t there. Do you blame her? When I asked about the most haunted spot in the building, Cathy pointed to the bar/restaurant adjacent to the lobby. One night, while completely alone, she thought the ghosts were moving all the furniture around the restaurant. After absorbing this new information, I handed her a small Ziploc baggie and a scissor, but she refused to submit to a hair follicle drug test as well.

For those of you who haven’t read my Telluride or my Ouray installments of this important series, please read them now. There’s going to be a test. What Cathy told me was not surprising. It fit nicely into both of my two main theories regarding the para-abnormal. My first theory involves a strong correlation between ghost sightings and alcohol, or the sudsular apparitions theory (SAT). The main premise involves ghosts manifesting through a grogular energy as yet unknown to science. I refer to this substance ecto-pilsner. My second, equally compelling theory, suggests that animals tend to haunt places where they were viciously decapitated and then hung on walls like trophies. This phenomenon tends to only occur in species beyond the evolutionary development of fish and birds. Mysterious orbs appeared near a bear, a mountain lion, and a deer during my last investigation in Ouray. But you know that, because you went back and read it, right? Right? Would you pee into this cup?

According to Cathy, the most haunted room in the Grand Imperial Hotel happened to contain most of the dead animals and all of the booze. This fits snugly into both of my theories. Hmmm. Just like the Flying Wallendas, things were really starting to fall together.

Upon further questioning, Cathy does not believe the elk head in the lobby is one of the 16 spirits who reside in the hotel. I took several pictures of the beastie, but came up orbless. I’m still not giving up on that theory; it’s sound, well, no less so than any of my other theories.

She also told me one of the ghosts is named George Foster, which also happens to be the current owner’s name. How convenient. When he starts haunting the place, the ghostly pair can have a great time messing with mediums. No, really, the other George gave you the astral wedgy. Honest.

After completing my interview, Cathy was nice enough to let me explore the rest of the hotel and take as many pictures as I wanted—provided I put away the breathalyzer.

The image above is an intriguing picture. There’s an inexplicable white beam shooting diagonally across the frame from the third floor. Our research team back in Philadelphia later identified this anomaly as something called light, which entered through a window in the form of a stream of photons that originated from our sun. Wow is right! This beam of photons reached the Earth in about 7 minutes, traveling at the speed of…er, I danno sound? I failed science. This is important stuff, though, for sure.

To the far left of the image above, the clear outline of an apparition can be seen. It appears to be of a woman dressed in contemporary clothing and cleaning room six. After re-checking in with reception, Cathy informed me it was actually just one of the employees cleaning room 10. Whereas she is not a dead spirit haunting the 2^nd floor, we can’t rule out that she won’t be haunting the building some day. I’m running wraiths round you logically.

As I’ve already explained, I did not have a lot of time in Silverton, but I was determined to give this important investigation my best effort. The Grand Imperial Hotel is allegedly teaming with ghosts and it’s teaming with dead animals on the walls. There had to be a connection. I reviewed all of my images, but no ghosts or orbs were evident in any of my pictures. Cue up the PhotoShoppers, Mr. Winslow. They’re going to be needed back on the job soon.

Also, there’s tons of activity in the barroom. Remember, 16 ghosts are said to roam these halls. So I counted all the animal heads on the wall between the restaurant/bar and the lobby. There are 22 in all. I subtracted the one fish and the five birds—as I’ve determined only mammals have souls—and what did I come up with? Sixteen. 16 animal heads and 16 spirits. Eureka! Damn…I forgot to DVR that shit.

Alright, so 16 and 16. The dead animals are at it again, just like in Ouray. This would be irrefutable para-abnormal evidence…er, if I had counted correctly. I was one off…F*&^ing hell!

I never did find these ghost hunters from haunted Dimensions online, so either I got the name wrong or they were rank amateurs without a proper website. In their defense, not everyone can be as sophisticated as The Daily Discord’s para-abnormal research team. But I really felt back in my element during my investigation in Silverton. I’m used ghost stories completely devoid of any and all evidence. Whew. I was beginning to worry I was becoming a real ghost hunter. Then I headed to Durango, where doubts and (gulp) evidence would resurface again like the Ghetto Shaman on To Catch a Predator episodes.

by Mick Zano • August 15, 2012

“I’ll remove these when Cookie Monster can eat what he wants!”

by Alex Bone • August 13, 2012

The Dumpster behind Comic Con—In an unprecedented move, the Geeks of America have united under a common banner. Their ultimate goal is revenge against all the people who plagued them through high school. The Geeks took time away from their coveted Las Vegas Comic Con to hatch an ingenious plot—which was quite a sacrifice as Scarlett Johansson was due to appear in her Black Widow costume and later Leonard Nimoy was going to recite Hobbit poetry in Johansson’s Black Widow costume.

Yet, instead of sitting in on all this fun, the Geek alliance compiled an impressive list of over five-hundred thousand bullies who had picked on them. Across the board, each of them will be asked to beat themselves up until they have bloody noses, or loose teeth, or at the very least call themselves girlie men in public.

Other ‘crimes’ have more specific demands. For instance, if a bully gave a Geek a wedgy, the Geek is allowed to own his wife as a sex slave for a week. Breaking someone’s glasses is a ten thousand dollar fine. Those who knocked over lunch trays will be forced to sleep in a bog naked until they are hungry enough to eat their own ear wax. You get the idea.

Of course, in the face of these extreme and very silly demands, these former bullies were planning to unilaterally refuse to comply. This all changed when the Geeks informed the world that, if their demands are not met, the World Wide Web would be forever crippled. They must have serious connections with its inventor, Al Gore.

General Mitchum agreed to be interviewed by the Discord, mostly because we have Geeks of our own. If he refused to talk to us we were going to demand he wear a bikini filled with fireworks and light them all off while singing every song from ABBA Gold.

Alex Bone: “General Mitchum, is shutting down the internet possible? And if that happens will the government step up to supply affected areas with free porn?”

General Mitchum: “I’ve learned to not put anything past Geeks. The Geek is the new super soldier. The modern Captain America is named Gilbert Poindexter. He holds a net-pad and can down terrorist pod-locations faster than I can reload an M-4.”

Alex Bone: “So are you saying we will have to bow to their demands? And what about that porn thing? I have a concerned friend.”

General Mitchum: “Yes, I’m afraid we have soldiers rounding up the people on these lists as we speak. Everyone who ever gave someone a purple-nurple is having their butt shaved as we speak. We already have enough ass hair to fill an airplane hangar. Not sure about the porn thing.”

Alex Bone: “Hairplane? What? Anyway, is there any threat to U.S. security?”

General Mitchum: “Perhaps, but it could certainly be much worse. If George W. Bush was still commander and chief we’d be in for it. He’s currently being forced to wash ten thousand pairs of soiled underwear in stilettos. Luckily for us Obama is categorized as a Geek and no charges have been levied against him yet.”

Alex Bone: “Good to know. Will there be any repercussions against the Geeks? And is there any chance you could loan me a Black Hawk?”

General Mitchum: “Sure, you can have Marion Hossa. He’s still injured anyway. Just remember to see to it he hangs himself by his jock strap from a flag pole for a good hour. He’s on the list.

Alex bone: What about the fighting back against the Geeks part?

General Mitchum: Are you kidding? These are IT types. If we fight back we’ll all have viruses falling out of our malware. This isn’t the world I grew up in, where a man could give someone a nuggy ambulance and the only thing they’d say back is ‘yes sir’ while handing over their lunch money. It was a simpler time.”

Alex Bone: “General, I just got a text from my Geek friend and he says you have to give me a Black Hawk…of the helicopter variety. And apparently you are only allowed to eat pinto beans for three months.”

General Mitchum: “Son of a bitch!”

So I need to wrap this up because I’m about to take a long flight. Hmmm…where to go first. Bald Tony and Max Chaos live in Vegas…hmmm. First Vegas and then maybe onward to Crescent City. The beaches are so nice this time of year. And then…

Oh, shit…I have to what? Crap.

by Mick Zano • August 11, 2012

Scholar Claims Stonehenge Created by Natural Forces

Brugge, BE—Dr. Sterling Hogbein, of the Hogbein Institute and Lube, stunned the archeological community today by speaking at an important conference in Brugge, when he was not invited to do so. For his antics, the Police Fédérale in Belgium have detained the good doctor and are planning to deport him to either Syria or to a pirate ship off the cost of Somalia.

Before security could intervene, Dr. Hogbein addressed the scholarly audience. He said, “I have proof Stonehenge was formed by rain, wind, and fire. The site is a geological anomaly created over the last 17-million years by volcanism and other natural forces. And I have 100% proof to back my claims!” He then chugged the remainder of his bottle of Evan Williams Kentucky Whiskey, hurled the empty bottle at the nearest security personnel and was finally dragged off stage.

One archeologist who witnessed the spectacle said, “When he was being escorted out, he shouted something about buggering the Loch Ness druids. I would have liked to have heard more about that, but Rain, Wind, and Fire? Weren’t they just that funky American band from the seventies? How could they have created Stonehenge? Preposterous. We’re pretty sure the site is older than that.”

Dear Ghetto Shaman,

Did you watch the Olympics? If so what was your favorite event? What games would you add?

Zeus from Athens

Dear Zeus,

You’re supposed to ask one question, not three, buuuut since you’re a God. Look, there’s some sort of cognitive disease associated with nationalism these days. It shouldn’t be true, but it is. You cheer for your country and the IQ points slide off like clothing on one of my Barely Legal Kundalini Cruises. I would watch the Olympics if they added Shamanic games like naked soul retrieval, astral belching, or long distance Reiki Robotripping.

The Ghetto Shaman

by Mick Zano • August 9, 2012

Ouray’s Western Hotel: A Very Brady Slaughter House

Ouray, CO—Part two of our compelling four part series takes us to Ouray. The town is about as scenically situated as our last Rocky Mountain sojourn, Telluride. These days I only do sojourns. You want an adventure vacation, go with Cokie McGrath. She’ll have you climbing the Matterhorn by lunchtime. Luckily, the Matterhorn in Ouray is a cheesy motel and I’ve already been on the roof…with a beer.

Ouray is not called ‘the Swiss Alps of America’ for nothing. I believe it’s because of their rich & creamy hot cocoa. We arrived in the one horse town to the news of a mudslide back in Telluride. I like to stay one step ahead of Mother Nature, the bitch. Alex Bone told me the last time he was in town a flashflood washed away all of his beverages. After a thorough search of every puddle and pool in the San Juan Mountains, he recovered only one beer. He cried. Apparently he had started with more.

For starters, my wife and I decided to hit a small coffee shop in town. There, I Googled Ouray, Colorado ghosts, and then the haunting echoes of Ri-co-la. My initial web search revealed only a barrage of tasteless pornography. Oh, this isn’t my computer. Whew, I thought I was in the wrong town…or the right town depending on one’s mood. Really, dude? Amputee porn?

Then we checked in. As it turned out, my glorified motel is nestled not only between the towering San Juan Mountains but between three of the most haunted places in town: St. Elmo’s Hotel, Wright’s Opera House and the historic Beaumont Hotel. As a seasoned professional, I obviously snagged the perfect base from which to explore all three of these paranormal hotspots. Or, one could argue, I managed to pick the only non-haunted place on this block. It was a shame I never set foot in any of them.

Prior to starting our para-abnormal research, I decided on a good hike to get the blood pumping. The Cascade Waterfalls are just outside of town. However, due to a combination of the elevation and O’Brienitis, a rare Irish pub-induced condition (IPIC), my wife and I were unable to hike the arduous ¼ mile to the base of the falls. It took us two days not to make the trek. I knew we were in trouble after the first night, when we had to set up a base camp on the north side of the parking area. We did manage to get a nice picture of the waterfall outside of our motel, though, which I’m sure is just as spectacular.

Besides, you can see the falls just fine from the bar.

The next step was to walk around town to get a feel for the place. So we beat up an old woman for her Rascal scooter. The first structure that cried out “haunted” was a place called the Western Hotel. The hotel hadn’t shown up on my last Googling endeavors, but my instincts are never wrong. Amputee porn? Really?

We decided to eat dinner at the place as the menu had food on it and we were hungry from a long day of not hiking. While waiting to be served, I hit the non-amputee porn section of Google. Sure enough, there were two stories. The first claimed the hotel’s cash register was haunted (this claim was made by one of their skinnier opiate-dependent employees) and the other involved the apparition of a woman frequenting the grand staircase (looking for her stolen Rascal?).

While waiting for my Rocky Mountain oysters to arrive, I interviewed the desk clerk. He turned out to be the owner, Greg. About five years ago his wife (he requested we leave her out of this, so we’ll call her Marcia) was doing some chores. No, this isn’t the Hawaii, cursed amulet episode. I know…that’s my favorite too. But as Marcia approached room seven, the door opened of its own accord. Greg explained the front part of the building sags, so this isn’t that unusual. But, just as she turned back toward the hallway, Marcia’s laundry basket chose that moment to go tumbling down the stairs to the first floor. Alice the maid is going to be pissed! Luckily, Marcia blamed the incident on Jan and/or Cindy.

All interviews in my paranormal posts are actual accounts. I never lie or exaggerate any part of someone else’s story. Occasionally Brady Bunch excerpts may surface out of some innate need to be moronic, but otherwise I tell these anecdotal tales and they’re usually the only noteworthy tidbits of “evidence” in my investigations.

That was all about to change…

Much to the annoyance of the other patrons, I started snapping numerous pictures of the barroom, the hotel lobby and the grand staircase. After focusing most of my energy on the waitress…er, I mean the staircase, I got nothin’. Not even a phone number.

When I rejoined my wife at the dinner table, I was both shocked and saddened to see ghostly orbs all over my pictures. Shit! This is a joke ghost adventure. What was I supposed to do with actual ghostly orbs? This never happens. We PhotoShop our evidence here at The Discord, damnit! This is an example from my investigation of the Pioneer Saloon in Nevada, Ghost Writers in the Sand.

Now that’s some fake ghost hunting magic, that is. Here’s my first picture. Sadly, no PhotoShopping necessary. You can take the night off, fellas.

Then I realized, they’re probably just the ghosts of the mountain lion and the deer forever locked in some type of eternal National Geographic battle in the hereafter. Then to my further horror, my ridiculous theory gained further credence when I zoomed in on some of the other animals in the establishment. Geesh. I was going to need another hobby. There were orbs around the lion, the tiger, and the bear, oh my!

So, yes, I was focusing on the heads of these other animals and found more mysterious orbs. At least there was nothing around the swordfish. That would just be wrong. Oh, shit, is there a small one by the swordfish too? No, it’s just a smudge of paint on the trim. Fish do not have souls…but what if they did?

The next night we returned to the Western Hotel, because…ok, to be honest O’Brien’s Irish Pub isn’t open on Tuesdays. Damn you O’Brien’s! You’re dead to me. Dead! Well, we needed to come back to the scene of the orbs anyway. I had to know if fish have souls. So I spent all evening holding the world’s first swordfish vigil. I used 28 triple-A batteries, two candles, two camera memory discs, and I took hundreds of pictures of that swordfish. And I never did get that waitress’s phone number.

Thanks to my efforts, I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt that fish do not have souls.

So Christians, if you happen to have sex and impregnate a swordfish, you can have that controversial procedure. It’s ok, God understands. Well, he won’t understand why you had sex with a fish, but first things first.

As bizarre as this investigation ended up, I think this case is solved. The seemingly mild mannered, yet crazed Brady Bunch-wannabe guy…hey, I should have tried to pull off his mask. He could have been Mr. Jenkins, the caretaker. I hate it when I blow the Scooby-Doo ending. Anyway, the owner of this old spooky hotel must have murdered countless animals. He butchered them in the basement, decapitated them, and then hung their grisly remains on the walls as trophies, the sick bastard. Apparently, the animals are still not happy about this. This doesn’t just solve this case; this closes a whole chapter of paranormal research. Mammals have souls, fish do not.

Now here’s my second theory:

What if these are actual people-ghost-orb-thingies (APGOT)? Look at where they’re hanging out: around a bar. This further supports my sudsular generated apparitions (SGA) theory. I couldn’t find the old lady on the staircase, why? Because stairs are f-ing boring, that’s why. A good pub, now that’s a poltergeist party. My best picture was of three orbs right over the bar. Sorry, I couldn’t work the third one into a joke. Ghosts like to haunt their old haunts—places where fine alcoholic beverages are served. And the beer selection here rocks, particularly the bottle selection. Perhaps ghosts themselves manifest through some type of a brewular substance…ecto-pilsner?

Where did the haunted cash register story take place? The cash register is behind the bar. Where are most of the orbs? Behind the bar. Where is my research going to land me someday? Behind some bars.

Ecto-pilsner…I like that.

by Pierce Winslow • August 8, 2012

See? The GOP really hasn’t learned a fucking thing.

by Mick Zano • August 7, 2012

Paterno Statue Replaced with First 80-Beer Drinker at Zeno’s Pub

State College, PA—Penn State University announced its replacement pick for the recently dismantled Joe Paterno statue. The Dean of the University, David H. Monk, announced his institution’s decision to honor the first Penn State fan to ever drink all 80-beers at a favorite local watering hole, Zeno’s Pub.

“The decision wasn’t easy,” said Dean Monk. “We also considered the dude who mooned the ‘87 graduating class from the Old Main clock tower. And then there’s always the first guy to throw up at the Rathskeller back in 1958. What a mess. See? There’s still a lot to honor here in Crappy Valley.”

When asked why the University failed to choose the Rathskeller for selling the most Rolling Rock cases in a single day, Monk replied, “We considered that, we really did, but they kind of lost me by breaking the Guinness Book of World Records with a beer other than Guinness. Who the hell drinks Rolling Rock? I’m supposed to be proud of that?”

Instead, Penn State ultimately chose Zeno’s first man to go ‘Around the World in 80-Beers.’

Dean Monk added, “We’re honoring the first guy to ever accomplish this feat. He’s the first name on the first plaque among an ever-growing line of winners lining that pub’s southern wall. It’s been a standing tradition here at Penn State for decades, unless you try doing it all in one night…in which case, you won’t be standing. I learned that one the hard way, heh, heh.”

When asked for the name of the man, Monk replied, “I don’t know. It’s on the statue and it’s on that damn plaque. Can’t we just get passed this shit now and play some foosball?!”

With Penn State unable to participate in football anymore, scholarships are now available for those who excel at the foosball table in the back room.

by The Crank • August 6, 2012

There are sixteen widely used terms today that invoke nausea in me every time I hear them. I would like them from this moment forward stricken from all political discourse. Once one of my ‘16 forbidden phrases’ (similar to Carlin’s seven dirty words) are used on TV, or in print, they take on a life of their own. These are terms I never want to hear again. I’m sure I speak for everyone, and by everyone I mean six people, when I say please stop!

Here they are, in no particular order:

Outside the box

If this saying were to have its way, we would ALL be thinking outside the box, which would mean that inside the box would be a very lonely place indeed. I envision Zano sipping a specialty coffee alone in a room starting a political party. AND, if everyone thought outside the fucking box, then to be different one would have to think inside said box. Ponder that one. It’s a ‘sound of one hand farting’ kind of thing.

Fiscal cliff:

There is no fiscal cliff, unless we are taking about Road Runner and the Coyote. That cliff is followed closely by an Acme safe to the noggin. There are only stupid people making stupid decisions with other people’s money based on their bullshit agendas or the lining of someone’s pockets. That’s not a cliff, it’s an indictment…or at least it should be.

Civil rights

There are only MY civil rights. There is no YOUR civil rights. If I want it, it’s a right, if you want it, tuff shit. But what if YOUR civil rights oppress ME? Yeah, see what I mean? It’s all bullshit. A regal word has been reduced to birdcage liner. Beaten to death like a Syrian rebel.

Racist

See above. You can not disagree with anyone not of your exact color. Nope, not ever. Can’t. Why? We say so, that’s why. No reason. Dr. King is surely whirling dervishly inside his mausoleum hearing that word made so meaningless, after so many have died for it.

“Hey Joe, we got nuttin’ for a comeback on his last campaign ad.”

“That’s ok, just call him a racist.”

It is what it is

Just what the fuck is it? Is this another Clinton definition of is is thing? Couldn’t it be what it’s not? How about what it was? I know, it’s what it’s gonna be. It makes me want to smack the shit out of people who say it. Then you can quote this back to them when they ask why I did it. Sorry, many, it is what it is. Hey, but I did call 911.

At the end of the day

Yeah what? The fucking sun goes down. We all fall asleep.

(See also) When all is said and done. Another stupid phrase. Please. When all is said and done, you shut up and do nothing? Is that what it’s supposed to mean? Now, let’s put these two together.

“When the sun goes down and we fall asleep, we shut up and do nothing.”

Very profound.

With all due respect:

Graciously excuse me please while I jam this twig in your eyeball. Permit me, kind sir, to throttle you within an inch of your life. When someone hears this, their sphincter involuntarily clenches up. It’s like when I read a Zano feature.

Viral:

STDs are viral. Mad fucking Cow is viral. Videos are not. “I must have touched the railing and got this video from someone.” “Oh, I got a bad video and now it hurts to pee.” I hope it doesn’t last too long. Why don’t you just rub that ointment you got from the clinic onto your YouTube and call me in the morning?

Epic fail:

This fucking phrase is an epic fail. Every time I hear this, it’s like drinking a Slurpee too fast. I get brain freeze, or as they call it NY, Bloomberg Syndrome. Until something fails, there is no way to know in advance of its demise, epic or bleepin’ otherwise. Just say what you mean:

“I hope your idea fails so grandly that many people get hurt and you spend the rest of your life in prison.”

Wow factor

You mean to say impressive, right? Then why not just say it? It makes you sound somewhat intelligent, unlike using the words ‘Wow factor’, which over the course of time seems to have lost all of its….ahem.

A-ha Moment:

This phrase signifies the dumbing down of the English language at its finest. Kind of like when Hugh Laurie has that spaced out, faraway look, when he’s just discovered the cure for something. Or, when I’m looking through the my trunk for my lost car keys and suddenly realize the sound I heard yesterday—the one that seemed kinda’ funny at the time—was, in fact, my keys sliding off the trunk lid onto the road…only to be immediately run over by a truck. Now, whenever Dr House has that look, I scream out “holy shit, the keys fell off the car!”

Man-up:

No. What if I’m “sensitive”(code)? Then what, Mr. Masculine know-it-all, huh? Why don’t you put on your big boy suspenders and stop using this. Oh, and stop using that one too.

I’m just sayin’:

If I was writing, I’d be just writin’. If I was cooking, I’d be just cookin’. Of course you are just saying…unless, of course, you’re simultaneously writin’ and dancin’. That would be very different, now, wouldn’t it? I’m just multi-taskin’? What you really mean to say is that you think what you said is true, but you won’t go to war over it.

Racial Profiling:

Israel does it very effectively. If I’m looking for an Arab terrorist, I make sure to feel up every old white woman, especially the Nuns, and the children with red hair. Sorry, but they should put up jumbo pictures of all eleven 911 terrorists in every airport with a sign saying, “If you look like this, we want to ask you a few questions.”

Politically Correct:

What you mean is that your testicles are tucked WAY up inside your body, and you do not wish to offend anyone on earth-simultaneously-with a word, gesture, or a non-verbal cue. It’s called the profound pussification of society, which has now proven to be fatal to said society.

Any questions?

The Crank

by Pierce Winslow • August 5, 2012

Romney Having a Hard Time Relating to Voters

Note to self: kiss the baby, don’t crush

by Mick Zano • August 4, 2012

Obama to Unveil his "Turn Your Guns into Food Stamps" Program

Washington, DC—People in the heartland might need to cling to their guns and their Bibles a little tighter, because President Obama told the press today, “I’m takin’ em, bitches.” Mr. Obama hopes it’s not going to be ‘from their cold dead hands’, but told the press “whatever it takes.” He is offering food stamps for all guns turned peaceably into authorities—regardless of their condition!

All of the guns will then be shipped to Mexico as part of “an important conspiracy operation thingie.” Obama told reporters, “All the nefarious details of the program have not been ironed out yet, but I can tell you this, it will be sufficiently sinister and will somehow involve socialism.”

If re-elected, Obama plans to use Bush’s expansions of executive power to enact all kinds of revenge laws. “I will overturn the 1^st and 2^nd Amendment, just because. I will send Justice Scalia on that one way Dutch Mars mission. I’m going to tax everything from air to some of the smaller particulates and components of air. And wait until those gasbags on the right get a load of my fart tax. Methane emissions are a big fart, er…a big part of global warming. I also intend to balloon the deficit so that it can be seen from space. Then I can sit up there and have plenty of time to think about other ways to ruin small businesses. Oh yeah, and I’m going dismantle the Vatican brick by brick with help from my friends over at the Muslim Brotherhood,” said Obama.

The Discord’s Mick Zano added, “All things considered, it still sounds better than Romney…especially the Scalia part.”

NPR is now suing the Discord for using the phrase ‘all things considered’ without permission.

by The Ghetto Shaman • August 3, 2012

The Ghetto Shaman,

Do you follow politics? If so, what party?

Indigo Montoya (YKMFPTD!!!!!)

Dear Indigo,

I lead politics, I don’t follow anyone. Except maybe that one chick, but I was eventually acquitted. And I like to hit all parties whenever possible. Politically, I am a member of the Transcosmetic Party. I have no idea what that means, exactly, but I came so close to understanding it one night on a disturbing combination of mescaline and malt liquor.

The Ghetto Shaman

P.S. And it took a team of our finest here at the Discord to interpret your acronym. Well done, sir! Luckily we have several Princess Bride fans here on staff.

by Mick Zano • August 2, 2012

Haunted Colorado or Rocky Mountain High-Ya-Yay

Telluride, CO—The first segment of this epic four part Haunted Colorado series begins in one of the coolest towns in the country. And, at an elevation of nearly 9,000 feet, Telluride is so cool there’s still residual snowpack…in July. The town is named after the mineral Tellurium, which was used to enhance the hull-plating during one of the Enterprise’s missions threw a particularly hazardous region of space known as The Expanse. Or, maybe it’s named after that Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy character. Ok, I don’t really know, but I have posited two plausible theories so lay the hell off.

Some of you may have noticed how our para-abnormal research team here at the Discord only investigates alcohol-friendly-haunted-sites (AFHS). I’m developing an important theory. Ghosts tend to manifest only in places where good ale is served. Paranormal activities seem strongly linked to the brewing process. In fact, my controversial theory on sudsular generated apparitions (SGA) is gaining considerable support from the Paranormal Research Society, or at least my last email from them sounded less hostile. Baby steps, Mick, baby steps.

Only my wife would accompany me on this historic journey, as Alex Bone was unable to convince his parole officer of the importance of this truth seeking quest. And my other partner in crime, Bald Tony, has recently de-evolved into a sloth-like creature, completely incapable of lifting pen to paper, or even ass from couch. I am officially demoting him from ‘Vegas Great’ Bald Tony to ‘Vegas Meh’.

This might come as a surprise to some of you, but I don’t always do my research before arriving in any given town. My instincts are my greatest asset. They almost never fail me and by ‘almost never’ I mean always.

The last couple of miles into Telluride there’s a 15-mph speed limit, so we lost a day just driving into the place. I guess the average resident is on an elementary school level and might jump out in front of my Impala at any moment. We parked outside of town—as walking proved much faster—and then schlepped ourselves and our equipment to the first place of interest, the Sheridan Hotel.

After casing out the joint, I opened my laptop and Googled ‘Haunted Telluride Sheridan’. Damn, this very hotel is the most haunted place in town. Hundreds of apparitions were filmed here! See, it’s all about instincts. I completed my research and saddled up to the bar, where I proceeded to ask the bartender about the ghost of Wild Bill Cody and of the hotel’s first manager, Miss Katy, and of the Indian chief who is said to still haunt the second floor. The guy had no idea what I was talking about. Perplexed, I returned to my laptop where I quickly discovered I had Googled the Sheridan Inn in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

For F*&%’s sake!

Don’t Guinness and ghost hunt, people. Just sayin’.

After taking a moment to collect myself, the investigation continued. After all, I am a professional. Ahh, here we are. It’s called the New Sheridan Hotel. It was built in 1891 and promptly burned down in 1895. The last hotel burned down, fell over, and then sank into the swamp, but the fourth one stood up (sorry, I have PTSD — Python Traumatic Skit Disorder). It’s truly an absurd condition…Pining for the fjords?! See?

After burning down in 1895, the hotel was rebuilt the same year and has been open for business ever since…so, umm, new? That’s stretching the word new to the point of absurdity. She turned me into a newt!…Sorry, my condition flares up at the worst possible Time Bandits (1981).

Anyway, 1895 doesn’t seem horribly new to me, unless we’re talking about geologic time. So I guess everything post Miocene is new.

The image below was taken in a room off the back of the bar at the Sheridan (The Colorado one, not the Wyoming one—my zoom lens isn’t that good).

This is one of our most intriguing pieces of evidence to date. No member of our research team could explain what we were seeing in this image captured in the bar room—that is, until my 12-year-old daughter explained the picture was taken on ‘landscape’ mode and not, as she would have suggested, using ‘night shot’. We can’t completely rule out the possibility these lines are demonic in origin. They could still be forces created from an energy as yet unknown to science…we just mostly ruled it out.

Night shot, check .

I took the picture below from a small gaming table on the second floor. Our research team was initially intrigued by the red glow above the door. We spared no expense to have this image digitally enhanced by NASA.

This picture, too, is not proof of any paranormal activity, but it is good to see that the Sheridan management team is keeping up with all of its fire and safety codes.

The dark and compelling image below is of my wife. The horns are simply a reflection of the photo flash in her hair. I can assure you her real ones are much larger. The bluish eye-thing is either a reflection off her librarian-style glasses or she’s been possessed by a Smurf. I’m sure it’s one of the two.

Well, after sending all of my findings to Discord Research Headquarters in Philadelphia, I was promptly told the rest of the trip would not be funded. Bastards! How could you do this to me, Winslow?! …even after all the further evidence…like when my wife tried ordering the Smurf & turf.

Sorry about that one. I’m under a lot of pressure here. Thank god for those little blue pills. Unfortunately, I could not find any other haunted spots in Telluride, despite entering every place where fine ale is served. Here is a summary of my other investigations:

O’Bannon’s Irish Pub –When I’m in one of the most scenic towns in America on a picture perfect day, I like to climb down into a dank basement pub. But I’m not well, but we’ve already established that, right? A nice Guinness pour. There were no shamrocks on top of the foam but, no worries, if you drink long enough, you’ll start seeing them. No ghosts though.

Smuggler Joe’s—The weather took a turn for the worse and not five minutes after arriving at Joe’s a lightning bolt knocked out the power. Perfect time to take pictures! If the batteries on the camera hadn’t died. 17 beers on tap….seventeen! Now that’s a brewpub. I couldn’t sample all of the brews, mostly because the cash register needed power. I had other business in town anyway, like hitting Telluride Brewery. Despite the darkness, no ghosts.

The aforementioned Sheridan Inn is also an atmospheric place to enjoy an imperial pint of Guinness. I believe it’s in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

But notice how all of the places I frequent serve alcohol. I think that’s beyond random chance….er…

Dear Mr. Winslow,

Admittedly, this investigation was not my best work. But I stand by the important work I do here. A major breakthrough is coming—a paradigm shift or tipping point that will prove, once and for all, that I should seek professional help.

Mick Zano