Token Ward Democrat Occupies Bishop’s Storehouse

(KAYSVILLE)

In a move that has many in the neighborhood puzzled, token ward democrat Steve Boswell has been occupying the Kaysville, UT, Bishop’s Storehouse on 300 West Street for over three days and two nights, as of Wednesday.

Boswell, the only liberal-leaning member ever to exist in his Kaysville stake’s boundaries since its 1894 inception, took to camping out on the lawn of the building after hinting to fellow ward members on Sunday that he was going to “take on our own Goliaths.”

“Well,” a scruffy, weather-beaten Boswell said, while fixing a tent stake that had popped out of the building’s frost-covered front lawn, “I wasn’t doing much at home and I was all jazzed about the whole Occupy Wall Street thing. I just wanted to show my support. I didn’t have the gas money, or the car, for that matter, to make it to Salt Lake, so I just decided to go local, you know?”

Asked why he chose the Bishop’s Storehouse, Boswell responded, “I was just looking for a retail establishment of some sort, you know, a symbol of capitalism’s hold on our consumer-driven society. The only thing close enough was the local grocery store, but they have pretty tight security in their parking lot area and I didn’t want to get permanently kicked out of there – I have to shop somewhere, you know? The storehouse was here and I just decided that it isn’t where you are exactly as it is what you stand for.”

Sister Marsha LaGrue, a Church employment specialist and part-time custodian at the storehouse, first noticed Boswell when she came to meet another person referred to her for job assistance. Boswell, who was huddled in his tent for shelter from the biting December wind, exited his temporary domicile and, holding a sign, chanted loudly across the lawn.

“I think I was shouting something about how the banks and mortgage brokers should pay back the money they stole from us, the American taxpayer. Or it may have been something about Afghanistan. I don’t remember.”

“I couldn’t hear what he was yelling. The breeze was really gusty and kind of blowing his voice away. I thought I had left my car lights on or something, but then I saw that he had a tent pitched on the grass and that he was holding a sign. I think it had a big ‘OBS’ on it, whatever that means.”

Continued LaGrue: “I then noticed that it was Brother Boswell. I’m not in his ward, but I’d helped him try to find employment a few months back, before he stopped looking for work. I called the stake president and he said it was okay for Brother Boswell to have his tent there as long as it moved it around to avoid killing the grass.”

When asked if he thought it was inconsistent to target an establishment that fed the poor and sought to find people gainful employment, Boswell replied, “Yeah, I know about that, but at least here I can stay in the tent, go home and feed the dog every day, and sometimes Marsha brings out a doughnut for me. Besides, maybe if I stay around here long enough, I’ll hear of a job opening – something to go along with my cultural anthropology degree, you know?”

BYU Fan Missionary Seeks to Convert Athlete with 4.4 Speed

Avid longtime Cougar fan Elder Arnie Shelling has made it clear that he is looking for a certain type of convert: ones with at least 4.4 speed, amazing hops, and dominant athleticism.

“It won’t be as easy here in the country,” said the new Georgia elder, currently serving in the densely forested rural area near the South Carolina border, “but I’ll be alright if I can somehow work a transfer to Atlanta.”

While his companion, a Boise State Bronco fan, would prefer to tract in every neighborhood for a variety of souls, Shelling has made the pair knock on doors mostly in the projects and in the neighborhood adjacent to the local high school.

“That’s so I can scope out the local talent without looking like a creeper,” he said. “We asked the coach if he needed volunteers to get water for the team, or whatever. He just laughed and said they had girls for that.”

Shelling, who didn’t qualify for BYU due to a middling high school GPA, is determined to help the cause in other ways. “Yeah, I went to Weber State for a year before my mission, but I’ll always be a Cougar inside. Wildcats? Whatever.”

Shelling’s plan includes a four-part strategy: 1) find an adaquately talented prospect; 2) convert the prospect’s family; 3) extol the virtues of BYU’s “legendary” football and basketball prowess; 4) inform Coach Bronco Mendenhall when the prospect has been converted and properly cultivated.

Though the plan is detailed and Shelling is focused and persistent in his search, he hasn’t seen any fruits of his labors thus far.

“Yeah, we baptized a couple old ladies last month and we are set to baptize a family of six that a member family knew, but neither of their two boys have an athletic bone in their body. I’ve seen them play at the church after scouts and they’re horrible.”

“The way I see it,” said Shelling, checking the phone book for the address of the local YMCA, “if BYU wins a national championship in a major sport, then all sorts of sports fans will flock to the Church. Then we can worry about the kids and the old ladies and stuff.”

EDITORIAL: Seagulls Don’t Get the Respect, Handouts They Deserve

by Bernie the Gull

Hey buddy. I noticed that you’re having fun there with your young family: adorable Joshua, sweet Kendra, little Mary, Gad, Franklin, Brigham, and Naphtali. Yep, this is a wonderful park where you can really relax and eat in peace between the parade and fireworks.

I also noticed that you told your cute little ragamuffins to not feed the seagull ‘cuz it would encourage other “trash birds” to fly over and spoil your Pioneer Day.

Not that a trash bird’s opinion matters, but I know something about the pioneers too. If it wasn’t for me and my buddies grabbing them foul-tasting crickets a few years back, you wouldn’t be here enjoying, what is that, potato or pasta salad? That’s because your great-great grandfather would have either starved or eaten frozen cricket-soufflé himself  for Thanksgiving if we hadn’t saved that crop of his.

Isn’t that worth a morsel of your bologna sandwich? How about a sliver of that cheese cake your wife is holding there? I’ll even take some of that jello salad over yonder, though it’s mostly empty calories.

So what is a little poop on your minivan compared to your forbearers huddling in their little hovels eating pinecones and pieces of boiled saddle bag? Just think of the winter of 1848 the next time you choose to be stingy with what looks like a succulent lunch.

Are those Cheetos? Say, I love Cheetos. Just one, huh?

See that family under the pavilion, the McAllister’s? They threw me a whole half-slice of rye. They aren’t even from Utah. Their families are from Minnesota and weren’t miraculously saved by my trashy ancestors.

You think I enjoy the degradation of picking through the garbage bags behind the Chuckorama? Yeah, the choice is mine, alright: between the moldy lettuce and the sun-hardened mayonnaise crusted on to the pavement.

Look, I don’t even have any friends, okay? Nobody is going to be encouraging anybody if a scrap is thrown my way. Truth is, my ancestors ate bad cricket on that very famous of days and died before the could disgorge themselves. I know, I didn’t want to bring my personal history into all of this, but I’ve been emotionally crippled for quite awhile and I could really use a hand.

Say, those cookies look awfully tasty. Yoo-hoo, over here, no teeth to rot, heh heh. Come on!

Okay, fine, be ungrateful. I didn’t want any of your delectable brownies or juicy-on-the-inside-but-crunchy-on-the-outside chicken wings anyway.

So, ah, which minivan was yours, did you say?