Future Revealed to Ashland Oregon Politicians: Not a pretty sight. Or site.

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 49  December 30, 2020

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“The unexamined life is not worth living.” – Socrates

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Article Number 3 by guest reporter FuchsiaWoman.

 

January 1, 2021 – The mostly maskless New Year’s Eve party at the Ashland Springs Hotel continued to be a display of special City Hall folks/associates drinking, eating, dancing, back-slapping, spreading falsehoods, screwing up the government, destroying public trust, and partaking of indulgences paid for by the taxpayers of Ashland, Oregon.

 

 

As the stroke of midnight approached, about-to-be-retired City Councilman Rich ‘I’ll call anyone I want a racist” Rosenthal felt the pangs of becoming more irrelevant as the clocked ticked away. What could he do to gain more attention? More adulation from his Band of Merry Mischief Makers?

Rosenthal cornered Councilwoman Stefi Seffinger and asked to borrow her wedding ring.

“What the heck for?” Stefi asked.

“For a prop,” Rosenthal replied. “I promise to return it one of these days.”

“Is this what the white male patriarchal structure wants me do?”

“Absolutely!”

Rosenthal galloped to the stage–not Usain Bolt speed, but not bad for an old-thinking white guy. He grabbed the DJ’s microphone and hollered to his girlfriend to join him. She giddy-upped to stand by her man.

Under the twinkling Disco Ball, Rosenthal adjusted his bolo tie and dropped to one knee. He looked into the adoring face of his latest paramour and said:

“It’s your lucky day, sugar darlin’! Will you….”

WHOOSH!

As he did previously, Gustav the Ghost of New Year’s Future grabbed Rosenthal by his rodeo belt buckle. Up into the firmament they flew for an otherworldly adventure of what the future holds for this BuBu.

When they landed, Rosenthal sunk into a dark cloud, watching his life unfold below. It can only be described as unfortunate–which was ironic as “unfortunate” is one of Rosenthal’s favorite words–especially when decrying the journalistic integrity of an independent newspaper reporter.

Now it was Rosenthal’s turn to cry. Like he was bingeing on a Netflix sci-fi series, here’s what he saw:

In 2021 he remarried.

In 2022 at a Re-Elect Trump Rally he accidentally stepped on the toes of a rich and powerful member of a car-selling family. As a result he lost his job at the City of Medford. Made him wish he had voted against permitting the chopping down of 18 trees on a Lithia Park property.

Seeing the advantages obtained by salesmen, he went to work for a small water wrangling company. The ethically-challenged nature of the operation reminded Rosenthal of his life at City Hall–what he termed “the good ol’ days of being bad.” But due to dismal prospects for advancement; no perks; no good-looking secretary; and no one to boss around, he quit after a year.

Rosenthal secretly cheered his future self. But he told himself he would never be desperate enough to work for Jensen. Must be a trick, he thought.

“No, it isn’t,” Gustav said. “It’s reality. And there’s plenty more.”

In 2023 Rosenthal watched his messy divorce unfold. He had to bolt! Not as fast as Usain Bolt–but not bad for a dude wearing Crocs. Traveling out of town Rosenthal ran into a traveling circus. He felt instantly at home.

 

 

And was instantly hired–for jobs such as feeding the lions; cleaning up elephant poop; selling popcorn in the Big Tent; and stuffing himself into the clown car on an as-needed basis.

He loved the myriad of scams perpetrated on innocent customers–to relieve them of their hard-earned money to enrich the circus crooks.

Ever the go-getter, Rosenthal reached his professional peak in 2025 when he was promoted to head operator for a harrowing ride called “Excursion to Hell and Back.” Which is literally where it went. Rosenthal felt comforted there because the miserable, agonizing, tortured souls inhabiting the place made him feel better about his not-quite-as miserable life.

Rosenthal on the cloud watched his future self read limericks written on Hell’s walls,  like:

In Ashland there’s a putz named Black

Citizens call him City Hall’s sad sack.

The loss of women’s jobs he guarantees

Along with public service and trees.

He functions only if the good-ol’ bros have his back.

Both versions of Rosenthal laughed at that one. Rosenthal (on the cloud) remembered Black’s bamboo monstrosity death memorial garden in Lithia Park. Always was a boneheaded idea, Rosenthal thought.

“Then why didn’t you say anything at the time?” Gustav asked.

“The Mafioso Don would have punished me. Severely. In City Hall men were never to be criticized. Only women.”

“So you protected your image instead of doing the right thing?’

“Sure, what’s wrong with that?” Rosenthal said.

Gustav’s neon eyes flashed at Rosenthal–who started to quiver.

“Because wrong-doing is what gets you into Hell!“

“I just work there,” Rosenthal scoffed. “Nothing permanent.”

“Rich ol’ buddy, you’re on your way to end up there for eternity.”

Rosenthal sniffled. Maybe I just need a career adjustment? he thought.

“No, you need to examine yourself–your thinking, your actions, your values–and make adjustments to them.”

Gustav yanked Rosenthal off the cloud; threw him onto a frozen lake, where he landed with a bone-crunching thud.

“Oww!”

“Welcome to Dante’s Tenth Circle of Hell. Get up and meet the Green Demon!”

 

 

The demon spit fire and phlegm at Rosenthal. The Crocs melted to his feet causing searing pain. But Rosenthal was too paralyzed with fear to move.

Gustav told him:

“You think it’s painful now? Wait until he’s your future boss–if you continue your wicked ways.”

Back on the dark cloud Gustav presented more of Rosenthal’s sorry life to him.

In 2026 Rosenthal watched himself remarry–a contortionist in the circus. He looked happy. They divorced in 2028. (What the hell? Rosenthal thought.)

He remarried in 2029–a trapeze artist; divorced again in 2031. In 2032 he married the bearded lady. It was annulled in 2033 after Rosenthal figured out that “lady” wasn’t biologically correct.

In 2034 he proposed to one-half of the “Sassy Siamese Twins” circus act. She declined. The other sister told Rosenthal that he might have better luck with the organ grinder’s monkey Bernadette, who was not yet betrothed. And not particularly particular.

It was Rosenthal’s turn to decline. He couldn’t stand any more rejection.

“Do I ever find true love?” Rosenthal lamented.

Gustav rolled his eyes.

“What do you think, Prince Charming?”

In 2035, while Rosenthal was taking a coffee break at the bottom of his ride in Hell, he saw another limerick:

There once was a schlub named Slattery

Who required large amounts of flattery.

To be in his good graces

One had to sing his praises,

And watch his head get fattery.

Rosenthal smiled. His missed the old gang of gangsters–and realized he no longer had friends in Ashland. He used to send emails to “Dear Friends” — bashing female Ashlanders without basis of truth. He thought Ashlanders liked that kind of stuff.

Good thing he was accepted by the circus crooks. They understood him.

Coincidentally in 2036 Rosenthal ran into Dennis Slattery, who had nothing but time on his hands (since his departure from the city council) so he went to the circus to kill an afternoon. He could not believe his good luck seeing his previous partner-in-crime Rosenthal taking tickets for the Excursion to Hell and Back ride.

 

 

They bro-hugged.

“Whatcha been up to?” Rosenthal asked.

“Nothing,” Slattery said. “Not a darn thing. The Mrs. is still working at the Chamber of Commerce–which changed its name to Chamber of Self-Enrichment, since the chamber never did advance commerce. Blah blah blah… We’re millionaires, courtesy of Ashland tax-payers. But I have no one to talk to about me. Blah blah blah…I got the boot from the Santa Claus gig. Kids complained I talked so much about myself I forgot to ask them what they wanted for Christmas. Damn brats! Blah blah blah….”

Rosenthal wished he could turn off his ears.

“Worked briefly at the Uproot Farms House of Horrors–shoveling out the pig sties. But the owners complained my conversation was giving their livestock Mad Pig Disease. Blah blah blah…”

To silence Slattery, Rosenthal said:

“Jump in, Dennis. I promise you the ride of your life.”

Even though Rosenthal knew the seatbelt wasn’t long enough to buckle Slattery in place, he pushed the “go” button anyway and sent Slattery rattling down the long dark tunnel into the underworld.

Slattery thought he was experiencing the best computer-generated effects he had ever seen–a green ghoul; a snarly three-headed dog; human creatures buried up to their necks in a frozen lake.

It never dawned on him these scenes were real–even when Gustav appeared and told him so–and to pay attention to his future. In 2040 there would be a Stromberg Administration Reunion in the bowels of Hell. It would not be a pretty sight. Or site. It was to be Judgment Day for those who made life in Ashland a hellish existence for average citizens. Some would be instantly banished to the Hades Hall of Damnation; others were already there. For the convicted, there would be no reprieve. No release. Only punishment. Forever.

At the end of the ride Slattery laughed telling Rosenthal about the reunion.

“Whooey, whoever made up that ride has a wild imagination!”

Rosenthal was smart enough to know that there was nothing imaginary about this future scenario.

“Yeah, right, Dennis. See you in 2040, pal.”

Rosenthal had seen enough of his future. He asked Gustav to transport him back to the New Year’s Eve party at the Ashland Springs Hotel. Gustav dropped Rosenthal back onto the stage. After party-goers cheered Rosenthal’s proposal–which was eagerly accepted–Rosenthal said to his intended:

“We gotta make this work. Or else.”

While dancing to Stayin’ Alive (not bad for an antiquated BuBu wearing melted Crocs), Rosenthal wondered how many of these peeps would get Gustav’s message.

He understood the consequences. Would they?

Or was it too late for him? Or any of the whole damn bunch to be summoned to the Stromberg Reunion?

Stay tuned…

 

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Up next:

More Gustav. More BuBu adventures.

A list of Mayor John Stromberg’s pardons — including himself.