Good news for once, folks! During the initial construction of the ethanol plant, a completely intact earth lodge was unearthed, and it was chock-full of Native American tobacco smoking provisions. The Rulo Historical Society now has the authority to stop the corrupt city council’s plans to build a multi million dollar ethanol plant in downtown Rulo! This very well could have been Nebraska’s first smoke shop folks! Rulo was an important stop on the Missouri River to trade and buy provisions for the long trip up river.
Any hew, now that the Ethanol Plant is kaput, local Yoga Guru Jerry Lee Jenson III hopes to be able to sell Delta 8 Synthetic THC products at his Yoga Studio/Juice bar gazebo. The city council is not able to enforce a ban on Delta 8 due to the 2018 Farm Bill which changed the game for hemp and its cousins. It says that hemp-derived cannabinoids are not controlled substances!
The Rulo arts council has lined up quite the grand opening party for the Yoga Studio/Juice Bar Gazebo. Not only do we have a Alan Jackson impersonator but we have a Garth Brooks tribute show lined up as an opener! Experience classic 1990’s country the way you remember it! All proceeds go to the Rulo Art’s council Beautify Rulo initiative for the performing arts.
Music
Shit I had no idea about this album “Songs for Drella” until https://substack.com/@blazintommyd
turned me onto it the other day THANKS DUDE!
“Songs for Drella is a 1990 studio album by Lou Reed and John Cale, both formerly of the Velvet Underground; it is a song cycle about Andy Warhol,[1]”
Lou Reed and John Cale - Small Town
“When you're in a small town
My father worked in construction
It's not something for which I am suited
Oh, what is something for which you are suited?
Getting out of here”
Delta 8 “synthetic weed” now available at the Rulo Library!
Ye Ole Red Brick Bed and Breakfast
Friday Night - Catfish dinner and Coors light special $9.99
Saturday Night - Karaoke and Delta 9 gummy sampler $20 bucks at the door!
Sunday Morning- Tri faith Sunday service for all. Free admission.
Poetry
Black Stone Lying On A White Stone
César Vallejo 1892 –1938
I will die in Paris, on a rainy day,
on some day I can already remember.
I will die in Paris—and I don’t step aside—
perhaps on a Thursday, as today is Thursday, in autumn.
It will be a Thursday, because today, Thursday, setting down
these lines, I have put my upper arm bones on
wrong, and never so much as today have I found myself
with all the road ahead of me, alone.
César Vallejo is dead. Everyone beat him
although he never does anything to them;
they beat him hard with a stick and hard also
with a rope. These are the witnesses:
the Thursdays, and the bones of my arms,
the solitude, and the rain, and the roads. . .
Way back in the day, on a July Saturday night, my high school buddies were out smoking dope on the gravel roads north of town. They had just finished up a hard day spraying noxious weeds for the county. Meanwhile, I was stuck working the evening shift at Victory Village Assisted Living, conversing with the spoons and forks as I washed them after dinner. Enjoying a free dinner with the old folks a perk of the job.
Just as I was cleaning up, Mr. Nelson arrived to pick up his uncle, Mr. Wheeler, to take him out on a evening drive to the old home farm place. This was a weekend ritual for the both of them. I recognized Mr. Nelson immediately; he had been my favorite middle school English teacher. He often talked about his firsthand UFO sightings and often let us watch old Twilight Zone episodes instead of assigning actual homework.
Anyways, as I was saying, my good buddies were way out on the gravel north of town, smoking ditch weed, listening to "Dark Side of The Moon" or Sublime’s greatest hits, just soaking in the moment, hanging out, enjoying the warm countryside with the windows down, best buds forever, not a care in the world.
When suddenly, they passed a truck flipped over in the ditch. And in the middle of the road, in the summer twilight there stood Mr. Nelson, the UFO enthusiast English teacher from middle school, frantically waving, looking pale and worried.
Mr. Nelson had gotten out of the truck to open a gate. His elderly uncle scooted over to pull the truck through the gate. But not having driven for years, he slipped heavily onto the gas pedal and floored it into the ditch next to the gate, flipping the vehicle and nearly missing Mr. Nelson. Well the boys were absolutely blitzed out on that dankity dank and the Floyd and the Sublime. This was defiantly not on the agenda for a chill Saturday night drive. What the fuck was Mr. Nelson doing out here in the middle of no where?
Well the boys snapped out of it quick pulled over and sprang into action. Mr. Nelson waved them over to the flipped truck and the boys did everything they could to get Mr. Wheeler outta the truck. One of the boys even called 911 despite having a car full of dope smoking provisions.
Well the cops and paramedics came in a hurry but there was nothing they could do for old Mr. Wheeler. Mr. Nelson was very sad for what had happened and often blamed himself, but he was also very proud of the boys who did everything they could to help. Godbless ya boys!
Jim
New location just south of Rulo!
The Best Prank Call and Perhaps the Best Thing I’ve Ever Created.
Well folks, as we all get older, we often think back to our glory days - high school, college and what have ya. Some people reminisce about winning the big game, or winning the title of homecoming king or valedictorian. But when I think back to my peak, it was this prank phone call I made to the Falls City Spirit Shop back in 2000. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. I really don’t think anything I ever do will top this.
Gary
“I don't got a town car.
Oh, you're full of it.
No, I don't.
Are you serious?
Yeah.
I bet you've already sold someone, huh?
And you just don't want to sell it to me, huh?
Uh-uh.
I don't got no town car.
So what do you got down there, huh?
I got a 64 Chevy pickup, a 94 F-150, and I got my motorcycle.
No town car, huh?
Nope.”
Dear Editor,
Why was the "New Church of Dudo" shunned from Rulo's Tri-Faith Sunday morning service at the Ye Ole Red Brick Inn? Why don’t you stuck up goodie goodies except the the second coming of Dudo as a legitimate faith? On many occasions i’ve heard this publication slander us as “New Age Weridos” You all will pay the ultimate price when judgment day comes and mother earth is recycled behind Dudo’s comet. We are watching you Jim…………………
Dear Editor,
Despite its name, the Primo Gazebo Call Center is not affiliated with legitimate gazebo manufacturers or retailers. Instead, it operates as a fraudulent entity, preying on unsuspecting individuals seeking to purchase “Gazebo Insurance”.
After my grandpa had a gazebo installed by “Primo Gazebo”, he received a predatory phone call from one these call centers inquiring about the state of his recently installed gazebo. The gazebo was not installed correctly and so was in disrepair after a straight line wind blew it over. The call center offered my grandpa “retro active insurance” on the gazebo. This insurance never paid grandpa a fucking dime! The call center employs various tactics to deceive consumers mostly the elderly, including false advertising, misleading sales pitches, and deceptive pricing strategies. See photo below.
😎🤙
You so are fuckingly irreverently incorrigibly hilarious that I have to wonder if you have purchased round the clock paramilitary protection insurance, or at least a kevlar wetsuit and skull cap?
Re UFOs, once upon a warm, pretty spring April day in Boulder, Colorado, my 3rd wife, a licensed clinical social worker, a friend of ours, also a licensed clinical social worker, and her about then 10-year-old son and I were sitting on our side porch. I looked up for some reason and saw a flattish white oval-shaped ship parked beside a cloud about 100 times its size. The ship was just sitting there, minding its own business, which became my business. I told them to look up at it and they said, “Yeah, right, Sloan!”, and they did not look up. I asked them again to look up at it, and the same thing came back at me. The ship darted behind the cloud, and I told them that, and heard, “Yeah, right, Sloan!” The cloud then began to be stretched across the sky like a very wide airliner vapor trail, and I told them what I was seeing and for them to look up and see it, too. “Yeah, right, Sloan.” About a year ago, I dawned on me that that was my cue to go inside our home and pack my bags and hightail it. Had I done that, it might have saved me a whole heap more heartache and money than when a few years later that particular lifetime did a nuclear meltdown.