Perhaps it was a moment of psychiatric paralysis, perhaps out of sheer boredom from lockdown, but Mayor J. Van Cannaby, City Council, and Chamber of Commerce have started the year on a new foot: with the goal of redoing “all measurements” that govern our lives, from distance to volume. Following a Friday night virtual bong-binge with other town leaders, wherein the new structures and labeling were hammered out, a “measure” passed unanimously at 4:20AM in the morning with anyone still conscious to vote.

Although popular due to “tearing down of outdated institutions,” the revolutionary change is already gaining opposition from various parties who will see their own distribution points radically affected. For instance, all liquid-volume measurements will be refactored from fractions of gallon or liter systems into four main categories: sips, swallows (aka ‘swals’), swigs, and the optional and variable “chugs” to scale. Commercial productions must recalibrate. “I just ruined a recipe that called for a swal of vegetable oil,” said baker Rordon Gamsey, “But who’s to say my swal is the same as the next person? Do they realize how much I can chug?” 

In another case, a traveler ran out of gas on a trip because the road sign had been changed to read "Resinville: 6 Jaunts." The account seemed to verify the prescient warnings of council-member Jeanie Barnes who had wondered aloud, “What if people completely misjudge the length of a ‘jaunt?’"

Meanwhile, the Ways and Means Committee slipped a provision into the bill to flip the entire polarity of monetary value in order to save on costs. Now, the most expensive things will cost mere pennies, while trivial crap will cost billions apiece.

If that’s true, then the richest 1% are now the poorest simply by owning money, while the penniless should be able to buy up mansions by the dozen. “That’s great news for me,” says local banjo-strumming wastrel Tim Litscher. “I ain’t got shit.”

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What’s up dudemankind? I’ve been pretty much losing all my extra money on crypto these days, so I asked my bud, who’s making bank, like, how does he know when it’s best to buy? And you know what he told me? That he goes to a pyromancer! Now that I think about it, he was probably joking, but get this: It’s real. It turns out, you can just, like, tell the future by lighting shit on fire. Not only that, but it’s my new job! That's right, today is my first day as a pyromancer. Wish me luck!

Can you believe it? I didn’t even know pyromancer was a job. Online I found this forum that was like, people saying they’d totally go to a pyromancer, but there weren’t any in the area, and I was thinking, are you kidding? There’s serious money to be made here! Just one problem, like, what’s a pyromancer? So I did a bunch of research, read a bunch of websites and got certified. And then I scraped together all the change I could find in my apartment to get a double-line, 1-week classified ad in the local newspaper. Success, here I come!

What? Not familiar? If you’re new to divination I totally get ya. Yea, pyromancy. Turns out, it’s a thing, and not only that but like, so are auras and crystals and all that. Have you heard of that kind of stuff? ‘Cause it’s a lot to repeat, and I was only like, half-listening to the girl at the head shop. Lotta information! But then, like, another dude I cheefed with down by the river said, he’d totally go to a pyromancer over a fortune teller any day of the week. Especially because he could easily, like, light a blunt while he watches the pyromancer.

But not just any chode can become a mage, otherwise we’d all be trippin’ on Fourth of July! You gotta be certified to be a true pyromancer, at least that’s what the brochure said. I went to a little specialized school in an old auto-shop (don’t worry, people were extremely covid-aware, like the whole staff wore ski-masks). I burned myself a ton, like, can you see how my left eyebrow is just growing back in? But man it was worth it.

My certificate is coming in the mail, but I got the temporary diploma, retro-printed on an original dot-matrix printer. I was going to frame it, but I schlepped it up on the wall with some duct tape at least. Now it’s time to get some wood and charcoal or sticks and put them in the old grill kettle I got propped up on bricks in the backyard. I figure, get some lighter fluid, let the hot embers roast, and then spray it with some Pam when I do the conjuring and such. 

I think I’m ready for customers! Definitely ready for some visions too (I just puffed through a half-gram of some gnar ros). Last night my buddy came by and we built a bonfire to practice but we ended up burning one of his eyebrows off too. And I think I saw a vision of him getting some groceries, which ended up happening later on! So it’s not some sort of, you know, sham. I’m not a con artist.

Anyway, I better go check my voicemail. This is exciting! Who would’ve thought. After a half year on the job search, I finally found my calling. This is the dream, sittin’ around, playing video games, waiting for customers to come by, so I can light my garbage on fire and tell them the funky stuff I see while I smake. It’s perfect, duders. Let’s just say the holidays came early for ol’ Hugh.
 

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Bethany Johnson has a knack for pasty, vanilla nothingness of non-color. So apt, that the Cannatown Museum of Very High Art will feature a collection of her work beginning next Friday. 

“This off-white just…strikes you,” said Willy Filkerson, avid collector and editor of Uninteresting Art Magazine. “It’s startling, it’s emotional, it’s passionless, it’s hateful, it’s cathartic.” 

The work, mostly photos of walls, sheets, and paper, explore the very essence of what it means to be a human. Her portraits have been featured everywhere from Tunisia to Berlin, gathering international acclaim along the way. Critics have hailed it as everything from disturbing and delirious, to downright devious and psychologically-manipulative. Yet, the artist seems to take everything in stride.

“I try to pinpoint the moment on camera, when rainbow, and off-white intersect, but just slightly on the off-white side,” Johnson wrote in her latest published work, A New Level of Dull.

A growing following of enthusiasts have adopted the movement, and crowds to her shows are notably swelling in number. “There’s just something about the colors she captures,” says CMVHA director Carmen Simon, “It’s just so devoid of life, that it has absolute purpose, like dark matter. Or NPR.”

Johnson first started in the art world as a purveyor of beige, putting together nearly two full photo collections of primed drywall and men’s khaki pants. But a series of traumatic events forced her to take residence in an upstate apartment where she fell in love, then betrayed, by the color of her newly painted ceiling. “I sought to expose the very hues of drudgery surrounding us all,” she later explained.

No matter the emotional angle, collectors are hooked on her art. “It just goes so well with my furniture,” remarked Filkerson. 

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As a backlog of cargo ships in Cannafornia’s southern port reached a historic high this week, the supply chain crisis overwhelming the country’s busiest port complex turns out to be the fault of Jim, assistant manager and last man with the keys to the container yard. Jim is, and has been, scouring his home and tracing his steps for any sign of the facility keychain that he reportedly lost roughly a month ago, on the walk home from work while smaking a caviar blunt. It was the only key to the port.

On Thursday more than 420 cargo ships were still waiting to unload shit-tons of containers outside the port in Los Ganjales. The backlog continues to sit idle in the water, expecting to create a holiday bottleneck that will likely prevent all sorts of goods from hash to toothpaste, from entering the country even until next summer. The entire infrastructure and failure, are on Jim.

“We even had a copy of the key, which he lost at the laundromat just a couple days prior to the incident,” said freight manager Rhoda Miles. “I told them he would lose it again.”

“He’s lost every key he’s ever held,” she added.

State and national leaders have pledged to expand the search for the keys, mounting chains of arm-locked volunteers, scouring the sidewalks and byways between the port’s employee lounge, and Jim’s house fifteen blocks away. Locksmiths have been called in, however, most of those specializing in non-electrical retrofit systems are unable to leave their nursing homes for extended periods of time. Jim has also ransacked his house 15 times to no avail.

“These issues affect everyone all the way from the person on the boat to the buyer at the end. This affects anyone who wants to smake their explosive Phnom Penh, or get new hand-crafted mountain vapes, or use basic stuff like food and undies and designer presswood furniture,” said Pete Budder, transportation secretary. “Fudge Jim. I’m just saying what’s on everyone’s minds. I’m sure he’s a nice person, but you know, fudge him.”

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BREAKING - A giant 34-foot statue has been erected in the community of Fezziwig, Authorities report, but no one knows how it got there. The monstrosity, sculpted from what appears to be Cheez Whiz, is in the shape of an anatomically-obtuse giant boar. The monument was not announced to or by city officials, who say that the mere size of the pedestal alone suggests a construction crew worked through the night. Yet nobody knows who paid for a crew of such magnitude, or who coordinated what appears to have required nearly 200 volunteers to lay the final layers of Whiz straight from cans, assuming they were, at minimum, shaping the detailed contours of the hog’s bristled hair with plastic knives and sharp sticks.

“When we woke up this morning, there was the statue, greeting the citizens for the morning commute,” said city manager Brenda Hawthorne. “But when it comes right down to it, nobody really filed any paperwork to build a statue there, much less 30 feet tall and made of a foul, synthetic cheesy goo.” Yet, it wasn’t so much the strange effigy near the townsquare, as the celebration that followed, that was, in all other ways, completely unexplainable.

Almost immediately at dawn, a crowd gathered around the statue. In addition to novelty photographers, other vendor booths quickly sprung up to hock tshirts and other boar and Cheez Whiz keepsakes, to accommodate the almost immediate stream of sudden tourists descending upon the scene. By 9 a.m., an extensive tent city sprawled for blocks and press vans came pouring in from other suburbs.  

Authorities say they were further perplexed by the somewhat spontaneous parade that ensued at 9:30, complete with at least three marching bands, a few floats, official Grand Master and fire truck. “We’re not sure where the bands came from and it wasn’t even one of our city fire trucks” said Hawthorne, adding, “the whole thing took us entirely off-guard.”

Residents reacted with surprise, some pleasantly, some, not so much. While dozens spontaneously showed up dressed in full boar costumes and cheered, at least one subset of the crowd--portly men with boxes of crackers--were not happy. "It’s spoiled Whiz, we can't even eat it," one lamented.

Although no group has claimed responsibility for the monstrosity, Hawthorne believes investigators will be hot on the trail soon. “We’re assuming it’s some kind of local frat, even maybe a cult that worships Cheez Whiz,” she said. “Or at the very least, someone with steady access to dump trucks of the stuff. Seems like that might be an important clue.”

According to local historian John Kaiser, an organized group is likely not to blame, other than a random few, energetic and blazed cityfolk. "It’s probably just a couple of people who got ripped on a Saturday and stormed the town center to erect a huge statue from ten metric tons of sprayable-cheddar. It's happened before, long before our time, but this is history repeating itself.”

“The question is, what to do with that much lukewarm cheese gravy,” he added, “before the next sunny day covers the whole hill in nacho sludge?”

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National dudeflation remains higher than anyone ever anticipated going into the holiday season. Cool dudeflation rose .420% in November, adjusted for seasonal swings but far worse than previous months, the Bureau of Boring Statistics reported Thursday. 

Rising prices on hats and VR’s contributed to at least half of the increase, while prices for mancave furnishings and subscription shaving kits also climbed. And an index that tracks new nuggersh prices roses 4.20% over the quarter, making the biggest jump since the middle ages. The increase in hoverboard costs, and earbuds, is also worrying, says economist Carol Lott. “People paid extra for inflatable hot tubs last year,” she wrote in a note. “To help, the government gradually phases in nuggersh increases over time. But it’s about to become a huge freakin’ source of dudeflation right here on Main Street.”

Stripping out live rosin and micro-fiber underwear costs--both which tend to be more volatile--prices rose 4.20% over the same period, the same rate as in September. But not everything in Cannatown got more expensive. Trolley tickets, for example, keep getting cheaper. The price index for fares dropped 75% over the last year. That’s not great for Trolleys, and it’s happening even though demand for bell-incessant, slow-moving, open-air travel is recovering from the worst of the pandemic, and largely, a century of irrelevance. So it goes.

"How did we get started on Trolleys?" asked Lott. "Oh yes, we were talking about our grandfathers. Sorry for the tangent."   

With the explosion of dudes and dude-related stuff, perhaps due to generational shift, today's broconomy is in a greater peril than it's ever been, and many wonder how long it will sustain under the pressure. 

"Soon we'll reach a tipping point as far as dudes go," said Lott. "We might fix labor shortages and growing expenses for materials -- but when it comes down to it, the broconomy depends on dudes bein' dudes."

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Oh my gawd, did I just hear Denise right? Did I understand her correctly, that all the food over on that entire taco bar is “medicated”? Like, with heavy THC? Oh my gawd you guys, are you telling me, I just ate a half-plate of a nacho mountain, two crispy rellenos and a chimichanga, and my entire weight in sopapillas, and it was all hopped up on delta-nine? Holy jalopies, gals! Why didn’t anyone tell me? I would’ve liked to know that the freakin’ buffet was infused!

Did nobody hear my little story about having to eat dinner at Carl’s parents’ house? They served lukewarm cod! And in the morning the leftovers that lugnut brought home stunk up the whole fridge, I couldn’t even be in the kitchen! And then I had to skip lunch, running to the bank between the massage and jazzercise. Didn’t anyone see me ravenously eating over here like my life depended on it? I was making up for 24 hours worth of meals in one! Nobody?

Gawd, girls. I just wish someone would’ve told me, “Hey, by the way, this food is all packed with a ton of cannabis!”

Can’t you agree, Gina, that you’d probably be pretty pissed if you were about to lose your mind? I don’t have time to trip right now, do you? Oh, you only ate half a churro? Good for you, that’s great Jennifer, I ate four servings. Aw, Jeez. I don’t even know where I put my car keys and jacket. But I should probably get them from the coat room and put it all together and then find a safe place to sit. Or maybe I should try to make it home first, before all this kicks in. That’s not a bad idea. How long ago did I order those sopapillas? Where'd my watch go?

Did you just play the trumpet? Geez, Linda, who does your nails? You’re talking loud, what did you say? Oh no, it’s kicking in? Oh, cupcakes, girls, it’s kickin’ in. It’s kickin’ in. It’s too late to go home, ladies. Gina, thanks for this makeshift helmet. And Linda, for grabbing my purse--I’ve got it safe and I’m sitting on it. Ooh, tiddles, I may need to go lay down in the broom closet. Oh Tiddles ME. Tiddles me sideways. 

Did you have the el pastor? I know it’s pork, but is it, like, serene? Gina! Gina! Gina! Did you have the El Pastor?  It seems like there was something bothering me a few minutes ago. Hmm. Do you think they’re bringing out any fried ice cream? Hello, Margaret? Anyone? Where are we? What are we doing right now? Oh my gosh, gals, look at the spread! They have sopapillas!

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The zodiac, demystified.

Aries - The whole world would be awestruck to know you’re wearing an Apple Vision Pro, except maybe the person you’re operating on. 

Taurus - It’s not the Star Trek jumpsuits disorienting your colleagues, but that thing where you cut out the fabric to expose your hairy pits.

Gemini - You can’t get high off one hit on a Sprite can just minutes before your sister’s big wedding, but dadgummit, you’re gonna try.

Cancer - You can finally admit it. David Bryne dancing makes you physically nauseous. 

Leo - Making out with a flag doesn’t necessarily mean you love that country, even if it did have your baby. 

Virgo - Well, lucky you, you’re apparently the only one in a zillion people who gets utterly and unexpectedly chubby on Ozempic.

Libra - As the spaceship floated over the fire hydrant, you were filled with wonder about how they got the water in that hydrant. 

Scorpio - As your blind date is pointing out between hurls, not everyone is a fan of your “natural odors.” 

Sagittarius - You will begin to develop gills from sitting too long in the inflatable hot tub.

Capricorn - Your best friend may be a giant brain in a tank, but at least there’s no way he can steal your wife and house this time. 

Aquarius - The Pantene Pro-V is really making a difference. Too bad you can’t show anyone your four-inch pubes.

Pisces - You almost fooled them, and you would’ve gotten away with egregious estate fraud, if you weren’t trying to sell a cardboard house.

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A dark cloud hung over Cannatown School for Puppeteering this week, as the doors shuttered by authorities, have kept both pupils and the larger public at bay since last week’s annual Winter Showcase turned violent. Investigators are still trying to get to the bottom of a feud between two warring factions of puppets that came to a dramatic climax at the otherwise typically-serene performance.

Reports from some pupils say tensions have been growing among the factions for weeks--even within the factions themselves. Others say the school fostered an atmosphere of survival and dominance, pitting puppets against each other. A string of roller-pin assaults, kidnappings and other strange events had led some school officials to consider canceling the Showcase altogether.

There are two major gangs of puppets within the school, notably the Woodland Creatures, led by an old wolf-like puppet named Meatclaw, and a group of farmers and laborers organized by “Granny,” reformed witch, and aged matriarch of the village, who had campaigned for their allegiance in scouring the Woodland realm. 

Their homes burned and some members torn graphically apart, Woodland survivors, led by Meatclaw, vowed to destroy the village once and for all. Despite the well-orchestrated and rehearsed showcase of puppetry, Friday’s performance quickly veered off-script in the second act as a backstage fist-fight poured out from behind the curtain. 

Puppets began clobbering each other and cursing, all of them gripped by madness, despite protests of teachers and audience members screaming in terror.

In dramatic fashion, the two gang leaders met in a penultimate duel at the height of the uprising between the groups, sparring in front of the crowd, with mics blazing such that their soliloquies echoed throughout the performance hall. All eyes were glued on the two, as they grotesquely fought to the death -- Meatclaw, attempting to devour the Granny, who did her best to beat him senseless with baking utensils. 

In the end, both adversaries had perished before officials arrived. Granny had been nearly devoured whole, leaving only remnants of ragged wool garments. The wolf, likewise eventually died from internal bleeding, sobbing quietly to himself in his final moments, in what was described as “some of the most haunting melodrama in the history of puppetry.” Even more chilling, was that  the two foes were related, each donning an opposite hand of the same puppeteer. 

Officials are unsure if the school will reopen.

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Don’t pretend ya’ didn’t see me. You were lookin my direction since you walked in the room and I was showin’ the stanky dank to Rollo. That’s right. I got that Purp. You been enjoyin’ her smooth aroma. And I’m tellin’ you right now, son, smells ain’t free.

I shouldn’t have to tell you that! Where you from anyway! You’re in Cannatown Proper now, Jimbo. You never hearda Purp? My name’s Purp. I’M Purp. P-R-P, PURP. I’m the fella that’s listenin’ when you start askin’ Homes here what he’s got available in a violet hue. Violet hue? That’s like askin’ a grey duck who’s a goose!

See everyone ‘round these parts just says, “Purp?” Then I say “What, you need Purp? I got that Purp. I got that Purp right here.” But this ain’t just any Purp. This is like a swig of pure mash. Picked on the edges of Grape Gorge. Hand-picked! P-R-P, Purrrr-urp!

See, that’s why smells ain’t free.

And I saw you treatin’ your shnoz to a couple whiffs. Pull out that cash, son, I also accept bullion--gold. New customer, old customer. Smells ain’t free, not never.

Y’all need that Purp? I got that right here.

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