Toni Buckley Dockter – Founder; Publisher; Editor-in-Chief; Distribution Manager;
Intrepid Reporter; IT Guy; Coffee Girl
email: fwepub@aol.com www.fuchsiawoman.com
MOTTO: When telling the truth is a revolutionary act.
All editorial All social commentary All for the common good
Issue Number 47 – December 18, 2020
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“Sooner or later everyone sits down to a banquet of consequences.” – Robert Louis Stevenson
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Publisher’s Note – Meet our new reporter: FuchsiaWoman.
We proudly present her first article written exclusively for the Outlandia Gazette.
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January 1, 2021: A New Year’s Eve Party was held last night to honor Ashland Oregon’s City Hall Mob Syndicate — a gang of self-serving thugs (city officials/associates). They gathered at a secret location (Lark’s) behind closed doors to eat, drink, and be sloppily merry at taxpayer expense–in spite of a raging pandemic, rising unemployment, and housing crisis in this adorable little town. The majority of attendees were maskless because they claimed that VIPs don’t have to follow rules. A banner on the wall read: Peons worry. VIPs party.
The soiree’s main purpose was to provide a back-slapping opportunity for Mafioso-R-Us to congratulate themselves on a job well done. This included another year of:
* perpetuating a kakistocracy;
* hoodwinking the public with a lack of transparency–about such things as hiring a City Manager and a Fire Chief;
* engaging in unscrupulous activities like using the City website or email system to promulgate falsehoods;
* devising idiot ways to spend taxpayer money like building a new City Hall;
* over-spending the budget;
* ignoring social, economic, and safety issues;
* disregarding Ashlanders’ voices–unless they wave around a $1.2 million check;
* displaying an overabundance of cluelessness and preoccupation with paychecks and perks;
* disparaging or demolishing any citizen who questions their questionable governance.
For awhile it seemed too many Ashlanderss inadvertently bought into the destructive white male patriarchal autocratic structure–ensuring old-thinking white men stayed atop the Totem Pole of Power. In Ashland this system eroded enough to produce a “Change the Status Quo” mandate at the ballot box.
But the old-thinking white male club will not go gentle into that good night. Outgoing Mafioso-infatuated Mayor John Stromberg hasn’t the inclination to do the proper thing: honor the will of the people. Taking his cues from the another Mafia-infatuated despot, Stromberg is throwing hostility and adversity, flunky appointments and funky schemes into the road to muck up a smooth transition and successful beginning for the new administration.
That’s not about doing what’s best for Ashland. It’s about doing what’s best for a bunch of creeps who think Ashland exists to benefit them.
During the Stromberg administration grievances piled up. However, daring to voice an opposing opinion could result in a firing/a recall/excessive utility bills/a police wake-up call at 3:30 AM.
Or any of the following:
* Being called a racist and “low operator” – Outgoing Councilman Rich “Darkest Day!” Rosenthal.
* Being labeled as “unhinged” or “sleazy”- Curtis “Sneaky Man” Hayden.
[Interesting factoid: Based on Hayden’s over-use of these two words in public discourse, he received a blistering citation from the Roget Foundation, along with a copy of their thesaurus and instructions on how to use it.]
* Being subjected to an old-white-man meltdown with craziness squirted around, such as “bald-faced mendacity, distortion…this cannot stand…must condemn…” – Councilman Stephen “Water Wrangler” Jensen.
* Being subjected to another old-white-man meltdown: “Your writing stinks; you misuse words; Ashland is no place for satire…” and “I would love to get together with you and have a cup of coffee.” – Outgoing Councilman Dennis “The Bloviator” Slattery — whose current project is trying to remove someone who does not kiss his portly ass–which a source revealed has gotten so big like his swelled head he can no longer fit into his Santa Claus suit.
* Being subjected to a Mafia Madame’s jabberings: “Oh my God a $2000 donation is so much money I must send a letter to criticize anyone who opens up their wallet for anyone but me and scold these people in the newspaper while quoting my pastor and telling them they need ‘correction’ and to ‘take a breather’ even though I never will!!!” – Councilor Tonya “I really am a Graham Cracker which is not a racial slur but I pretend it is so I can pocket more political donations” Graham.
* Being accused on-line of a federal crime (without a smidgen of proof) of sending a fraudulent political postcard in the mail.: “The Docktor (misspelled) is all over it.” – Linda “The Gadfly” Adams.
* Reading in the newspaper: “Men cannot be recalled because their feelings will get hurt. I advocate for the recall or firing of women only. Especially those who don’t bow down and kiss my Don Corleone ring.” – John “Can I please star in Godfather IV” Stromberg
* Watching a Zoom City Council meeting (12/15/2020): “I relish the title of ‘consigliere’ that Mayor Stromberg has generously bestowed upon me. I have endeavored to my utmost ability to uphold the mobster mentality that this title deserves.” – David “I know it is illegal for a city attorney to interfere/participate/advise in any city elections but I do it anyway because I can and no one will stop me and if asked about it under oath in a deposition I will say I don’t recall” Lohman.
This egregious behavior can only be tolerated for so long before eventually all hell breaks loose.
Which is exactly what happened in Ashland.
The Gods of the Underworld–who are responsible for supervising whatever the Hell is going on everywhere–were appalled at the City’s hellish conduct. It was making their jobs harder. Everyday the Underworld Gods would complain, “Now what fresh Hell is going on in that City Hall-created hell hole? It has got to STOP!”
Hell was already filled to capacity–mostly with crooks, swindlers, bigots, liars, perverts, climate deniers, felons, bad police; white supremacists; hackers, Trump allies, and spineless GOP nincompoops. The Gods needed to keep out the riff-raff for as long as possible. How many more pitiful agonizing souls can you shove into fire and brimstone before the place turns into absolute bedlam. The wailing itself is excruciating.
The Gods didn’t need this extra aggravation!
They called upon their pals:
* the Divine Assembly of Mount Olympus;
* a Host of Angels in Heaven;
* the Super-Duper Society of Super-Duper Heroes Dedicated to Fighting Evil;
* the American Association for the Eradication of Rats, Snakes, and Politicians from City Halls.
The Gods asked for suggestions how to stop the diabolical deeds by Ashland’s government–before this conglomeration of miscreants would be knock-knock-knocking on Hades’ door.
The pals agreed:
“Send in The Ghost!”
“The Gotcha-Man always gets his man!”
“He can scare the Hell out of anyone!”
Thus entered the Ghost of New Year’s Future, Gustav. His mission: To infiltrate the New Year’s Eve Party and ‘work his way’ on party guests.
Gustav’s first victim was lame-duck Mayor John Stromberg, who used to babysit Bugsy Siegel and once shined Al Capone’s shoes. (He received a $5 tip thus making it the highlight of his life. Stromberg fancies himself the Don of the Ashland Mafioso. As a result, City Hall employees; elected officials; vendors; contractors; organizations; etc. are required to pay homage to him–-or else.
The loyalty oath to Mayor Stromberg and NOT the people is Ashland’s biggest dirty little secret.
While Stromberg was pigging out at the all-you-can -at lobster buffet, Gustav snuck up from behind and grabbed him by the collar of his Members Only jacket. “Yo, mean old creepy white guy, you’re comin’ with me.”
WHOOSH!
Stromberg was zapped out of the party and transported up and away into the icy night-time sky for the ride of his puny little life. He tried to scream for help but his mouth was so full all he could do was spit out lobster shells and dumb questions:
Stromberg: “Who the eff are you?”
Gustav: “I’m the only one who gets to swear in this scenario. So clean up your profane brain–or else. And my ‘or else’ is a million times more powerful than yours.”
S: “Who are you?”
G: “My name is Gustav. But you can call me G-Man.”
S: Is that short for ‘Gangster’?”
G: “No, Ghost. And also: Gotcha. As I gotcha by the balls and you’re not going anywhere ever again unless I say so.”
Stromberg tried not to sound like the panicked wuss that he was.
S: “But where are we going right now?”
G: “You’ll see.”
Just for fun, Gustav zoomed through the dark and stormy sky in a zig-zag fashion–ziggy up and zagging down at accelerating speed. It worked. Stromberg vomited $350 worth of hors d’oeuvres and wine. Now he only felt dread in his stomach. And for good reason…
Flying over Grizzly Peak Gustav let Stromberg go. Downward he spiraled–mimicking his professional and political career since 1980. Stromberg noted to himself the irony of a grizzly death on a mountain named Grizzly.
CRASH!
S: “OWWW! ”
Stromberg‘s marshmallowy body rolled down the rocky range and came to rest upon a stalagmite poking him in the butt. Another “Owwie!”
Gustav hovered above Stromberg--glaring at him with neon-colored eyes. Stromberg didn’t have the balls to look the G-man in the face–or budge an inch no matter how painful the stalagmite penetration was.
Gustav howled like a gale-force wind. “Listen up. I’m not repeating myself. Here’s the honest-to-Gods-of-the-Underworld truth.”
“You have the wrong personality for leadership. You incite derision–not respect. You sicken staff because you discount honesty, fairness, equality, and collaboration. And yet they remain silent out of fear.”
“You are nowhere near as smart as you think you are. There’s a dossier on you–a prerequisite for entering the Underworld. Besides every awful thing you have ever done, it contains the exact count of your brain cells. And frankly I’m amazed at this point you can even tie your shoes. Which is probably why you’ve recently switched to slip-ons.”
“You have the craven mindset of a two-bit hustler. You love secrecy. You love wielding the hammer of power. You have been known to harass; connive; distort; intimidate; and prevaricate to get what you want. ”
“You have no real friends. Only a cabal of sycophants, toadies, bootlickers, worms, imbeciles, puppets, bamboozlers, wacko’s, and councilors who exist to pump you up so they can get what they want.”
Stromberg wished Gustav would shut the hell up. But instead Gustav kept giving him hell.
“You are full of bluster but no substance. All hubris but no class.”
“You are a disgrace to your office because you have no understanding what public service means. Your role is not to be a dictator. You are a servant of the people. But instead you and Consigliere Lohman have created a punitive culture in City Hall.”
“You and your cronies have contributed to a toxic atmosphere in Ashland that repels nice people, quality government professionals, self-respecting women, parents, business people, peaceniks, college students, artists, minorities, and tourists. That is NOT the formula to produce a thriving community.”
“You are a misshapen blob of protoplasm who has never evolved into manhood. It is one thing to humiliate yourself. It is another thing to embarrass your family. That is your business.”
“But when you destroy the democratic fabric and community spirit of a delightful little town like Ashland you are the epitome of a fiend who deserves to spend eternity in Hell.”
“And and much as I hate to contribute to the over-crowding problem down there, hang on tight. You are about to see your future.”
Stromberg gulped. “G-Man, can you remove the stalagmite?”
“Hell no!”
The rip-roaring trip to Hell took less than a minute–but to Stromberg it seemed to take a lifetime–which in the metaphorical sense it was. He heard the demonic growls before he saw It.
G: “This is Cerebus–a three-headed dog with a serpent’s tail and lion’s claws. It guards the Gates of Hell. It is in a perpetual nasty mood. If you don’t change your wicked ways, meet your new boss.”
Cerebus leaped on Stromberg and started chewing the stalagmite. Stromberg felt lucky that was all Cerebus was chewing.
The air of suffering; the sounds of agony; the smell of anguish; the feel of fiery death weighed on Stromberg’s scared-out-of-his-wits mind. He thought, maybe he should give decency a try?
BOOM!
Gustav yanked Stromberg away from the hellhound. Back into the sky they soared. Stromberg didn’t want to know what Gustav had planned next. He felt completely wretched–like the world was closing in on him and the air was sucking out of him. Was this what it felt like for City employees or elected officials when he conspired against them and orchestrated their demise?
SPLAT!
Stromberg landed on his rear end. The stalagmite disappeared into who knows where. But the searing pain gave Stromberg a clue.
Gustav: “Recognize this place?”
Stromberg: “Of course. It’s the lobby of the building where we have our City Council meetings.” Stromberg noticed the photo of himself on the wall. He made a mental note to get a bigger one installed. If he ever made it out alive, that is.
G: “Pay attention! We’re going doomscrolling. You may think that no one will know you ended up in the devastating depths of Hell. You may think you have gotten away with your despicable and dismal tenure as mayor. But the town will catch up to your malfeasance. Little by little your reputation will become as blackened as your soul roasting in the bonfires of Hell. Notice your current photo.”
“Here’s what it will look like in 2022.”
Gustav informed Stromberg: “By the way, in 2022 your protege Tonya Graham will suffer a landslide defeat in her re-election campaign for City Council–because of her association with you and copying your same repugnant political style. The same goes for your mentally-and-morally-challenged sidekick Stephen Jensen. One of them loses to Biome and the other loses to the Bent Bicycle Wheel Sculpture. Ashlanders rejoice!”
“Here’s your photo in 2024.”
Stromberg wanted to slump against the wall. But his backside was too tender.
Gustav continued, “By the way, also in 2024 your protege Tonya Graham loses the mayoral race. She received 5 votes. Later two voters claimed they accidentally colored in the wrong bubble on the ballot. Even Cathy Shaw didn’t vote for her–because Tonya’s association with Cathy’s political consulting firm, Attack Dog Productions, was giving it a loser reputation.”
“Here’s your photo in 2026.”
“At this point you are no longer allowed to step foot inside City Hall. People ignore you on the street. Paranoia sets in. Sometimes you think they are spitting on you.”
Stromberg hung his head.
“Here’s your photo in 2028.”
“At this point no one remembers anything about you except your sinister nature. Here’s your photo in 2030.”
“At this point your legacy is so trashed that historians claim you were a semi-human gargoyle with no redeeming qualities. On the positive side, no one can remember your name. You are referred to as the ridiculous Don Corleone Wannabe.”
G: “Then this becomes your picture–for about twenty years–until it falls off the wall and is thrown in the trash.”
G: “No one can tell if it’s a douchebag; a colostomy bag; or an enema bag. But it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Stromberg squirmed. Not just because the stalagmite was ripping him a new one. But the half-ounce of pride he still possessed made him recoil at his pathetic existence as a crime boss. How did he not know that being a faux-mobster was such a bad thing?
The last destination: a banquet table piled high with consequences. Gustav threw Stromberg into the middle of it. “Deal with it,” he barked. “Your future is in your hands. No one can help you but you.”
Gustav disappeared into the ether–headed back to the Ashland City Hall New Year’s Eve Party–looking for the next victim to receive the Gustav treatment.
Stromberg collapsed, started weeping. Was it too late to change? He thought about Cerebus. He never did like dogs…hmmm…
He secretly vowed to clean up his act and the mess he had made of the City of Ashland and repent his vindictive ways.
Did he succeed? Only time will tell. After all, the Road to Hell is paved with good intentions…
THE END.
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Publisher’s Note: FuchsiaWoman will be back in the next issue. She will report on all the folks mentioned in this article and their futuristic adventures with Gustav. Up next: Rich Rosenthal.
In addition, FuchsiaWoman will report on the people at the Ashland New Year’s Eve Party who refused to wear a mask–and why.
Lastly, she will report on the many limmericks that were scrawled in the men’s port-a-potty in Hell. Someone down there has a great sense of humor!
Stay tuned…