Dave Atsals

I’m Running for President!

Dave Atsals

Hickville, PA—I, Dave Atsals, Daily Discord contributor and bartender, have formed an exploratory committee.  Today, I throw my hat and all other articles of clothing into the ring.  My leadership is needed, for no one is better suited for the job at this critical juncture in human history—at least no one else came to mind at the all-you-can-drink poker game last night.

My platform will be one of openness and will be available to my constituency, at least the cute ones, any time.  Goal number one will be to attack the deficit.  But this war on the deficit will be primarily a police action, handled mostly through intelligence agencies and targeted predator drone strikes.  On the deficit home-front a national lottery will be created—a big assed one—not like that three-state Powerball dipshit.  The proceeds made will be used to eliminate the budget deficit.  Best of all we will not need to pay money out to any of the winners, they will be paid with time.  Jenna Jamison has volunteered time with any of the male winners.  Female winners will be blessed with a few hours of yours truly (oh, and all the homely ones are to report to Mick Zano). 

The energy crisis and child obesity will be my next attack.  All fat children, in order to play video games, will have to pedal a bike to make the energy to run said game.  All extra energy will be used to offset energy usage.  To further incentivize the peddling, maybe the zombies in the video games should be real.  Lazy kids should probably stick to reading instead.  Our children will either be smart, fit, or eaten by zombies, all the while solving our energy crisis.   I was even thinking of ‘a zombie in every pot’ for my slogan. 

These brilliant, yet simple, ideas are just the beginning.  This country will not know what hit it, besides recessions, tornadoes, and Tea Party rallies.  My presidency will signify the dawn of a new enlightened age for mankind…or the Mayan shit’s going to happen.  I’m sure it’s one of the two.

Dave Atsals

Pennsylvanian Women Swept Away by Aliens

Dave Atsals

Central, PA—It seems my region of Pennsyltucky has been invaded by aliens.  Not men from Mars, not arsenic-thriving Mono Lake Monsters, not illegal aliens from Mexico.  These are the most nefarious invaders of em’ all, Southern Gas Workers.

The heart of Pennsylvania is, apparently, rich with gas deposits—not the Pokey McDooris variety, the more harnassable kind (sorry).  At first, all was well as people in my rural-type community were getting paid close to a thousand dollars an acre just to sign away the gas rights to their land.  Of course, if anyone struck gas a percentage of profits would be earned as well.  This added a short term boom to the local economy, which I personally capitalized on by downing plenty of gas co. funded beer.

“I hear tell you got your gas check, farmer Fred.  How about buying another round there, Sparky?” 

You see, most large land lots around here typically have a 300 dollar hunting cabin or trailer parked on them, which you can’t see from the road through their auto graveyards, of course, but they’re there all right, theoretically.  But now local farmers and families with land were carrying around wads of cash for the first time since the first Yuengling deposits were discovered in the Appalachians.  Just imagine people with names like Sheepy, Beef, and Scooper walking around with rolls of Benjamins.  It certainly helped out the local jerky and beer entrepreneurs.

Small groups of men then started coming into the area to set up testing devices to apparently check where underground gas deposits were located (the readings on Pokey’s ass were off the chart).  I actually believe this whole thing is a farce.  Most of these guys are Texans here to scout out our women.  They must have somehow discovered our secret.  You see, most of the women around here are pretty good looking, approachable, and many are about as complicated as bubble gum machines, although mine usually ends up rolling around the floor a lot.  The gum balls…what did you think I was talking about?  Find another metaphor, Winslow, I’m a busy man. 

Then the drilling started on every front.  We’re back to gas again, geesh, perverts.  Workers showed up by the hundreds, digging gas lines, destroying roads, polluting water, driving up rental rates to the point normal people can no longer afford apartments, and most importantly they were drilling, yep—wait for it—our women folk.

Now when I say that some women around here are kinda…well, there’s two types, over easy and hard boiled.  So, to a 6’2″ good looking, skinny, hard labor muscular, smooth talking, money to blow, southern accented, gas worker type, it’s like shooting dish in a—I could use another one of them metaphors, Winslow.  Thanks. 

Unfortunately I’m a short, middle-aged, beer-bellied, over-hyphen-using, balding-fella without the burden of anything resembling political correctness, which is why we can have this frank discussion today.  AKA, I’m only a little bit better looking than the average Discordian. Oh, and easy, to me, means shelling out cash by the pint, and then picking up the room tab over at the Super 8. 

These southern aliens are harvesting our women by the droves, and pitching woo with them at every bar, motel, and traveling camper around.  They’re taking them to fancy Hotels to do their adulterous coitusessness.  Even with their stocked wallets, Beef and Sheepy don’t stand a chance.  Dave Atsals and his Operation Motel 8 plan can forget it.

These aliens are alone, and lonely even though many left their wives and kids to move to these rural “boom” towns.  Booms happen here now when someone F’s up.  These are decidedly worse than the Pokey McDooris variety.  Wife and kids at home apparently do not bother their local single women expedi-tit-ions.  That’s a pun; they happen. Damn a semi colon now too.  I better wrap this up.  Bottom line, we normal fellas, even ones with extreme wit and e-zine-blogging prowess, are shit out of luck. 

But I have a plan—a sneak attack of sorts.  It involves a one way bus ticket to Texas.  I hear the women there are lonely and their husbands are sending them lots of money home.  See you at the Motel 8.  We’ll leave the light on for ya.