Author Archive for M. Toole
American Tune
I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered
I don’t have a friend who feels at ease
I don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered
Or driven to its knees
Oh, but it’s all right, it’s all right
For lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the road
We’re traveling on
I wonder what went wrong
I can’t help it, I wonder what’s gone wrong
-Paul Simon, 1973
TRUMP TARGET OF BROOKLYN VENDETTA
Donald Trump reportedly stiffed a waiter at Sheep by Barashka in Brooklyn back in 2015 and it has not been forgotten. Not even close. As if this sitting president didn’t have enough to worry about these days he is being trailed, taunted, shadowed and harassed by several Russian syndicates that call Coney Island and Sheep’s Head Bay their home turf.
Locals here say that if they catch up with him it may not be a pretty scene.
Stopping short of calling their actions a vendetta, three waiters and a chef (Trump insulted the food too) have ben methodically planning to get even for years. It is common knowledge that honor takes the front seat and Trump was tied up in the trunk, according to a Russian proverb.
Eyewitnesses , many of whom have disappeared, (mostly older people with heavy Russian names) contend that Trump acted belligerently and tried to leave the restaurant without paying his bill. One of the waiters then chased him but was held back by body guards. It was not clear if the bill was covered.
“If he paid the bill he never tipped,” said one of the staff who still works at the eatery. “What an insult! We don’t forget this kind of behavior and have been biding our time. Our borscht is the best in New York and our golubtsy is to die for.”
Sheep by Barashka (little Barbara) long ago denied that there was a score to settle preferring, at least in public, to put them matter to rest. Sadly, many veterans on the staff still bristle when someone with orange hair walks in the front door..
“He hasn’t been back,” said the chef. “We remain on watch for him or any of his minions who will be escorted promptly out. With all the wonderful customers we have enjoyed over the years it is a shame to see one bad apple throwing around his increased weight.”
It was not known if this recent action would complicate a rumored application via the White House for a request for political asylum in Russia. It was not clear if the desired petition traveled through prescribed diplomatic channels or if it named names. Vladimir Putin, president of Russia did not return our phone calls seeking information on recent diplomatic functions or new sanctions yet to be levied by the Senate.
-Alfalfa Romero
Cowboys Must Register Horses
(Montrose) Local cowpunchers in Region Zen have until October 31 to register their mounts or face stiff penalties. According to a recently adopted ordinance this effects all breeds including donkeys and mules but not burros or jack-asses.
At present sheep, goats, cows and poultry remain unaffected unless they 1.) are used for herd control 2.) engaged in racing 3.) riden to town on Saturday night 4.) exhibit behavior linked to hoof and mouth or mad cow disease. Local leaders say they need to get a handle on just how many horses live in the area while critics call the move “a slow side-saddle sister to the yet another unneccessary census.”
Either way, the law is the law and compliance is demanded or animals will be confiscated and sent to dude ranches or even glue factories in the Philippines. Horse owners can register at any county court house, local feed store or in the Wal-Mart parking lot. The procedure is much like registering a car. One simply stands in line, writes a check and goes home with a meaningless slip of paper. Fees (taxes) are determined, like vehicles, by the age of the horse.
A 20-year-old sway-back will cost far less than a two-year-old stallion or brood mare. Quarter horses (compacts) will run about 80% of the ownership fees for a hay-guzzling Thoroughbred or an Arabian. Appaloosas and Pintos will be charged on the basis of composition, weight and fuel capacity.
Persons wishing to employ the controversial gelding discount should mail in requests to Horse Flesh Tax, Dept. of Bits and Harnesses, 26 Hackamore Lane, Cimarron Beach, CO. Remember to include the code or we will throw your application in the trash.
“We realize that registering one’s horse seems cumbersome, like saddling a philly for some of the younger cow punchers,” said Muriel Maunge, of the newly created agency, “but it has become a necessary part of rural life. After all, how can we issue licenses if the horses are unregistered?”
Maunge, who has never been on a horse, preferring small dogs and tropical fish, says her department will not rest until every horse is registered.
“We make no exceptions,” she snapped. “Why if I had the chance I’d register Pegasus…or even Trigger himself.”
For a related piece dial up
“The Gelded Age – Humans Surrender the Precious Gift of Rational Thought.”
By G. Peter Gatsby, Testosterone Brothers, Boston.
O’Toole whacked upside the head by a “shooting star”
(Colona) It’s summer in the Rockies and anything can happen. Why just the other night our associate editor collided with what local astronomers say was a shooting star.
Actually the star collided with O’Toole sending him senselessly shooting through a drift of man-made snow, frightening a crew of mule deer, and leaving residents wondering what else is on the agenda.
“I was just out in the yard feeding my marmots when Wham! I was forty feet to the south. My knees and elbows took the worst of it and the sudden flash did nothing for my cell phone reception or my attitude.”
O’Toole is currently under observation at St Roscoe’s Drive-Through Clinic in Mañana. He is reportedly hoping he has enough miles, loyalty points, coupons, bingo credits or bonus stamp books to pay for the stay.
Legend has it that anyone hit by a falling star could expect great wealth and fame throughout his or her lifetime. Sadly, we could find no distinct reference to this legend much to the chagrin of the red-blooded target.
Although quite rare, accidents and confrontations involving heavenly bodies and people do happen. Experts tell us that meteors and rogue gravitational debris are more common dangers but that an occasional shooting star could be a threat to a continued lifespan.
“The incident in no way launches O’Toole into some elite group nor does it signify anything supernatural or mystical,” said a neighbor who reminded us that the scribe has survived shark attacks, high altitude lightning, several marriages and a run of bad chorizo since moving to Colona in 1912.
“He’ll be back puttering by the weekend,” said the neighbor. “There have been all kinds of things falling out of the sky around these parts since last winter. We figured it was the lack of moisture.”
– Gabby Haze
Visiting our Civil War battlefields
In recognition of the 160th Anniversary of several major battles in the American Civil War, Lake City residents Sam and Matilda Heartfelde traveled to Chancellorsville, Virginia; Vicksburg, Mississippi and Gettysburg, Pennsylvania to view the once heavily contested terrain. Little did they know that we installed a secret listening device in the ash tray of their Flexible Fleetwheel Lamsteed Kampkar so as to keep close tabs on their conversations for the three week trip.
Week One: Chancellorsville, Virginia.
We pick up the action upon the arrival of the Heartfeldes:
Matilda—“If Union general Hooker would not have been so hesitant and had showed some calm under fire, standing firm rather than retreating to the confines of the town, he might have easily defeated Lee who had already split his undermanned army and could not have had the punch to knock out an overwhelming force,”
Sam— “Nonsense. Hooker was simply being cautious and adopting a defensive position. Look at the Confederate casualties and you will see that he was right. The South may have won the day but at a terrible cost of men and supplies.”
Matilda—“You think that just because you caught a few History Channel segments you are some expert. It was my relatives who fought while yours bought their way out of inscription.”
Sam—”And that was probably the last honorable thing any of your worthless relatives accomplished since…
Matilda—My family fought a Celtic war for the glory of the South while yours hid behind mother’s apron just like you. I must have been out of my mind to marry a man who has no sense of history much less a sense of the present. I must have been mad to think I could spend three weeks on the road with an imbecile. You sleep on the pull out couch tonight.
Week Two: Vicksburg, Mississippi
Sam—”Sure is hot this morning.
Matilda—”No it isn’t. It’s balmy for this neck of the woods.
Sam—The thermometer on the camper says 95 and its not even noon.
Matilda—That thing isn’t accurate. I told you not to buy the cheap one. What’s up with the air-conditioning? It doesn’t seem to be functioning.
Sam—Oh I forgot to refill the freon. I figured we could rough it for a few days in honor of the men who fought here.
Matilda—What a stupid idea. Don’t ever do that without asking me first.
Sam—According to this map the siege began in May and six weeks later the Rebels surrendered giving the Yankees control of the Mississippi and effectively splitting the South in two.
Matilda—History always looks simple to simple minds. You just love to hear yourself talk, don’t you. Your knowledge of this battle could fit inside a bottle cap and your choice of campsites is particularly annoying. Look how far we are from the bathrooms.
Sam—But we’re self-contained
Matilda—In your dreams. You forgot to flush the system and it’s backed up, moron. I’m spending the night in a hotel and far away from you.
Sam—Good. I won’t be here when you come back.
Week Three: Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
Matilda— If Lee would have adopted a more defensive position from day one he might have won a victory instead of having to high-tail it back home.
Sam—Maybe,
Matilda—What do you mean Maybe? It’s clear that charging into a fortified position with fewer troops is a recipe for military disaster.
Sam―Not always.
Matilda: Oh, I see you’re still pouting from Vicksburg.
Sam—I am not pouting. II’ve never pouted in my life. If I did it wouldn’t be over the likes of you. I’m just tired of listening to you go on about things you don’t understand. I’m sick of the way you dress. Your food stinks, you wear too much makeup and you snore.
Matilda—You’re one to talk. You scurry around in those bib overalls with that stupid Rockies’ hat, with chew spilling out the side of your mouth. You never had the least bit of ambition and your dog is worthless.
Sam—Your dog ran away.
Matilda—No she didn’t. You purposely ran her over with the car.
Sam―That’s not true. I was watching out for your mother in the driveway when that dog started yapping…
Matilda—Don’t blame my mother for this. She was right about you. No backbone. No integrity. The poor woman has been depressed ever since I married you.
Sam—Why don’t you just shut up and watch the battle reenactment. Maybe a stray bullet will find you and I can enjoy the rest of my life in peace.
Matilda—Why must you be so hateful. Oh no…look at the gas gauge. You forgot to get gas! We’ll be stranded.
Sam—There’s enough gas to get back to town. If not, you can walk in for fuel. Maybe you’ll shed a few pounds in the process.
Sam and Matilda will present a slide show of their wonderful trip at the Lake City Armory this fall.
LAWN THERAPY SAVES THE DAY
A lot of my friends think I’m a moron because I spend countless hours working in my yard. Some say I’m anal-retentive because I like a nice lawn and flourishing trees. I say it’s the best therapy around when it comes to relieving stress. Imagine spending four to six hours quietly watering one Russian Olive bush or hauling leaves and branches to the dump in plastic garbage bags! It certainly gives one a feeling of insignificance in comparison to nature and the cosmos.
The trick is to get an early start. Usually I have my riding mower revving by 6 a.m. (5 a.m. on the weekends). If there’s pesky weeds or crabgrass to deal with, I get up before dark. Always attack at dawn. I forget who said that, but it’s darn good advice for the lawn enthusiast. While some guys are out playing golf or sleeping off a good drunk, I’m up to my butt in grass clippings. What a feeling. By mid-morning it’s time to move the sprinklers if I’m up to it, then a light lunch.
After lunch we move into the more technical aspect of healthy lawns maintenance although a wee nap might help promote
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