Author Archive for M. Toole

Complicado, pero rudimentario

Me río de lo que es gracioso.

La tristeza me hace llorar.

La locura por todos lados

hace gemelos de mis emociones.

Prefiero reír que llorar,

cerrar una ventana pero no la puerta.

Diplomat Forced to Cook Turkey

(Hodeida UPS) Recently kidnapped and then released U.S. diplomat, Haynes Mahoney, was abducted solely to cook a traditional Thanksgiving dinner for Yemeni tribesman according to a State Department release. Although certain items were scarce in the remote desert region Mahoney, drawing heavily on culinary training absorbed in Georgetown, managed to provide his hungry captors with turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce and a delightful marshmallow-yam concoction.

     After dinner they drove him back to his hotel, set him free and hurried back to an undisclosed oasis to enjoy several pumpkin pies baked by Mahoney in a dutch oven that morning.

     “What we’re dealing with here is a band of Islamic fundamentalists who would never consider going out for dinner on such a day,” said government spokesman, Perewinkle R. Parvenu. “We’re just relieved that they didn’t get indigestion and that our associate is safe.”

     It was not clear at press time whether the United States would reciprocate by bombing Yemen or inviting the tribesmen over for dinner after the holidays

  -Merv Ditchwater

Jericho Bob

by Anna Eichberg King

     Jericho Bob, when he was four years old, hoped that one day he might be allowed to eat just as much turkey as he possibly could. He was eight now, but that hope had not been realized.

     Mrs. Jericho Bob, his mother, kept hens for a living, and she expected  they would lay enough eggs in the course of time to help her son to an independent career as a bootblack.

     They lived in a tumble-down house in a waste of land near the steam cars. Besides her hens Mrs. Bob owned a goat.

     Our story has, however, nothing to do with the goat except to say he was there, and that he was on nibbling terms, not only with Jericho Bob, but with his friend, Julius Caesar Fish, and it was surprising how many old hat brims and other tidbits of clothing he could swallow during a day.

     And Mrs. Bob truly said, it was no earthly use to get something new for Jericho, even if she could afford it; for the goat browsed all over him, and had been known to carry away even a leg of his trousers.

     Jericho Bob was eight years old and his friend, Julius Caesar Fish, was nine. They were so much alike that if it hadn’t been for Jericho’s bow-legs and his turned up nose, you really could not have told them apart.

     A kindred taste for turkey also united them.

     In honor of Thanksgiving Day Mrs. Bob always sacrificed a hen which would, but for such blessed release, have died of old age.  One drumstick was given to Jericho, whose interior remained an unsatisfied void.

     Jericho has heard of turkey as a fowl larger, sweeter and more tender than hen, and about Thanksgiving time he would linger around the provision stores and gaze with open mouth at the array of turkeys hanging head downward over bushels of cranberries, as if even at that uncooked stage, they were destined for one another. And turkey was his dream.

     It was springtime, and the hens were being a credit to themselves. The goat in the yard, tied to a stake, was varying a meal of old shoe and tomato can by a nibble of fresh green grass. Mrs. Bob was laid up with rheumatism.

     “Jericho Bob!” she said to her son, shaking her red and yellow turban at him. “Jericho Bob, you go down and fetch de eggs today. Ef I find yer don’t bring me twenty-three, I’ll…well never mind what I’ll do. but you won’t like it”

     Now Jericho Bob meant to be honest, but the fact was he found twenty-four, and the twenty-fourth was so big, so remarkably big. Twenty-three eggs he brought to Mrs. Bob, but the twenty-fourth he left sinfully in charge of the discreet hen.

     On his return he met Julius Caesar Fish, with his hands in his pockets and his head extinguished by his grandfather’s fur cap. Together they went toward the hen coop and Fish spoke, or rather lisped (he had lost some of his front teeth):

     “Jericho Bob, tha’th a turkey’th egg.”

     “Yer don’t say so.”

     “I think i’th a-goin to hatch.”

     No sooner said that they heard a pick and peck in the shell.

     “Pick!” a tiny beak broke through the shell. “Peck!” more break. “Crack!” a funny little head, a long bare neck, and then “Pick, peck, crack! before them stood the funniest, fluffiest brown ball  resting on two weak little legs.

     “Hooray!” they shouted.

     “Peep!” said the turkeykin.

     “It’s mine!” Jericho Bob shouted excitedly.

     “I’th Marm Pitkin’th turkey’th; she laid it there.”

     “It’s mine, and I’m going to keep it, and next Thanksgiving I’m going ter eat him.”

     “Think yer ma’ll let you feed him up for thath? Julius Caesar asked triumphantly.

     Jericho Bob’s next Thanksgiving dinner seemed destined to be a dream. His face fell.

     “I’ll tell you wath I’ll do,” his friend said, benevolently: “I’ll keep him for you, and Thanksgivin’ we’ll go halvth.”

     Jericho resigned himself to the inevitable, and the infant turkey was borne home by his friend.

     Fish. Jr., lived next door, and the only difference in the premises was a freight-car permanently switched off before the broken down fence of the Fish yard; and in this car turkeykin took up his abode.

     I will not tell you how he grew and more than realized the hopes of his foster-fathers, nor with what impatience and anticipation they saw spring. summer and autumn pass, while they watched their Thanksgiving dinner stalk proudly up the bare yard and even hop across the railroad tracks.

     But alas! the possession of the turkey brought with it strife and discord.

     Quarrels arose between the friends as to the prospective disposal of his remains. We grieve to say that the question of who was to cook him led to blows.

     It was the day before Thanksgiving. There was a coldness between the friends which was not dispelled by the bringing of a pint of cranberries to the common store by Jericho, and the contributing thereto of a couple of cold-boiled sweet potatoes by Julius Caesar Fish.

     The friends sat on an ancient washtub in the backyard, and there was a momentary truce between them. Before them stood the freight-car, and along the track beyond, an occasional train tore down the road, which so far excited their mutual sympathy that they rose and shouted as one man.

     At the open door of the freight-car stood the unsuspecting turkey who looked meditatively out on the landscape and at the two figures on the washtub.

     One had bow-legs, a turned-up nose and a huge straw hat. The other wore a fur cap and a gentleman’s swallow-tail coat, with the tails caught up because they were too long.

     The turkey hopped out of the car and gazed confidently at his protectors. In point of size he was altogether their superior.

     “I think,” said Jericho Bob, “we’d better catch ‘im. Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. Yum!”

     And he looked with great joy at the innocent, the unsuspecting fowl.

     “Butcher  Tham’th goin’ to kill ‘im for ‘uth,” Julius Caesar hastened to say, “And I can cook ‘im.”

     “No you ain’t. I’m goin’ to cook ‘im,” Jericho Bob cried resentfully. “He’s mine.”

     “He ainth; he’s mine.”

     “He was my egg,” and Jericho Bob danced defiantly at his friend.

     The turkey looked with some surprise, and became alarmed when he saw his foster-fathers clasped in an embrace more of anger than of love.

     “I’ll eat ‘im all alone!” Jericho Bob cried

     “No you sha’nt!” the other shouted.

     The turkey shrieked in terror and fled in a circle about the yard.

     “Now look yere,” said Julius Caesar, who had conquered, “we’re going to be squar. He wath your egg, but who brought him up? Me! Who’th got a friend to kill him? Me! Who’th got a fire to cook ‘im? Me! Now you get up and we’ll ketch ‘im. Ef you say another word about your egg I’ll jeth eat ‘im up all mythelf.”

     Jericho Bob was conquered. With mutual understanding they approached the turkey.

     “Come yere; come yere,” Julius Caesar said, coaxing the bird.

     For a moment the bird gazed at both, uncertain what to do.

     “Come yere,” Julius repeated,  and made a dive for him. The turkey spread his tail. Oh, didn’t he run.”

     “Now I’ve got yer!” the wicked Jericho Bob cried, and thought he had captured the fowl, when with a shriek from Jericho Bob, as the turkey knocked him over, the Thanksgiving  dinner spread his wings, rose in the air, and alighted on the roof of the freight-car.

     The turkey looked down over the edge of the car at his enemies, and they gazed up at him. Both parties surveyed the situation.

     “We’ve got ‘im,” Julius Caesar cried out exultantly. “You get on the roof, and if you can’t catch him up there I’ll kitch ‘im down here.”

     And with the help of the washtub, an old chair the older Caesar’s back and much scrambling Jericho Bob was hoisted on top of the car. The turkey now stalked solemnly up and down the roof with wings half spread.

     “I’ve got ‘er now,” Jericho Bob said, creeping slowly after him. “I’ve got yer now, sure, he was softly repeating, when with a deafening roar the express train for New York came tearing down the track.

     For what possible reason it slowed up on approaching the freight-car nobody ever knew, but one fact remains that it did just as Jericho Bob laid one wicked paw on the turkey’s tail.

     The turkey shrieked, spread its wings, shook the small black boy’s grasp from its tail, and with a mighty swoop alighted on the roof of the very last car as it passed, and in a moment more Jericho Bob’s Thanksgiving dinner has vanished, like a beautiful dream down the road.

     Now what became of that Thanksgiving dinner no one ever knew. If you happen to meet a traveling turkey without any luggage, but with a smile on his countenance, kindly send word to Jericho Bob.

     

Las ninfas del bosque necesitan ropa de invierno

(Gunnison) Unas cuatrocientas ninfas del bosque que habitan en el valle de Gunnison se encuentran en una situación desesperada debido a la falta de ropa de abrigo, según se ha revelado hoy. A pesar de que el invierno se está acabando, las ninfas, a menudo decadentes, siguen en peligro debido a que las temperaturas nocturnas descienden hasta muy por debajo del punto de congelación. Los vestuarios frágiles y desgastados, la falta de leña y la disminución de los suministros de alimentos complican aún más este grave asunto.

Las ninfas, que suelen estar asociadas a las tardes de mediados de verano y a los encuentros eróticos con personajes célebres como Pan y Baco, se encuentran fuera de su elemento cuando soplan los vientos fríos. Los expertos están consternados por el motivo por el que las ninfas no vuelan simplemente al sur y evitan el mal tiempo.

“Estas ninfas no solo son procrastinadoras, sino que también son muy testarudas”, dijo el Dr. Efram Pennywhistle, Director de Hadas y Cosas Salvajes de la Universidad Estatal Occidental de Colorado. “Son todas unas holgazanas. A ellos les encanta observarnos desde la espesura del bosque y están obsesionados con las acciones de los humanos, pero huyen cuando se les acercan”.

Las ninfas, descendientes de ángeles caídos y pucas inmigrantes, han sido objeto de la curiosidad masculina desde el siglo XIX. Rara vez vistas excepto en las noches perfectas de verano, las ninfas han visto su número reducido en los últimos 50 años debido a la contaminación y la expansión humana.

“Si tienes la suerte de ver una de estas hadas, evita el coqueteo obvio y no intentes atrapar una, ya que no sobrevivirán en cautiverio”, dijo Pennywhistle.

Cualquier persona interesada en donar ropa y equipo para clima frío debe traerlo al campus de WSCU claramente marcado como For The Wood Nymphs para que no caiga en manos de estudiantes conscientes de la moda u otros segmentos menos necesitados de la sociedad. Ten en cuenta que las prendas holgadas funcionan mejor, ya que tienen en cuenta de manera más efectiva la envergadura y las capas.

– Sergio Jingles

Mouth Marbles on the Range

Finally! Adult American history classes now forming. Understand your own history before it gobbles you up. Find out what they didn’t tell you about the US in school and become a real patriot for it. Coursework covers slavery, genocide, labor wars, racial immigration, coffin ships, disappearances of Chinese laborers in the San Juans, causes for the Mexican and Civil Wars, Reconstruction, Robber Barons, Jim Crow and the emergence of political parties (not the kind one wants to attend).

Box 19865, Rifle. Pry your knowledge and comprehension out of the dark ages. Geography tutors on site too. Register at the Multi-Events Center at the Cathedral of the Perennially Stunned today!

 

60,000 ways to win at Jingo Bingo Tuesdays

at The Somme VFW, Gladstone.

Flapjack recipes from the Great Beyond.

Sole fare in heaven is pancakes

and crepes on the holiday weekends.

Believe it!

 

Late scores:

Godiva Society 5    Polar Bear Club 1

Canned Thought 4   Bud Lite 3

Fashionable Fact Check # 611

 1859 was not the first year that saw Americans peeing more inside than outside. It was actually 1869 with the invention of the Henway Pulster Correction Device and Corned Mesh-Halter. The heavily weighted plunger worked fine until the start if the American Civil War when it became apparent that insufficient septic constriction up the line was not easy matter down the line. Four years after the conflict, old data was flushed in lieu of new findings that tipped the scale in favor of those who preferred the indoor facilities. Other important pioneer fetishes listed under pioneer fetishes by another cover.

 Peewits: They are a subfamily of medium-sized wading birds which also includes the plovers and dotterels. The Vanellinae are collectively called lapwings but also contain the ancient red-kneed dotterel. A lapwing can be thought of as a larger plover.

“When was the last time you will felt yourself floating up high in a cloudless sky wearing nothing but a Barbie lampshade and padded knee socks? Never. Almost nothing trickles down, fool. The rich hoard it. Why do you think the sky is so blue? Why do you think their kids are rich?”

– Henny Penny in Trickling Down Your Peewit Femur and Other Poems, Testosterone Brothers, Boston.

 

 

The Brave, New World of Hay Bales

Several weeks ago I went on-line and purchased 4 bales of designer hay as a birthday present for Bessie, my favorite Paso Fino mare. It was Amazon or EBay or some such robot retail entity.  Since then I have been the recipient of a dozen or more emails but no hay yet.

The barrage of emails first congratulated/informed me that the order was “received”. Then they confirmed all of that again in another email. The number I had been assigned was #77776298474637.

I refused to memorize it and went on with my daily chores.

The next day I received a notice that the package was “ready to send” then the next day that it was being “processed”.

In no time another email arrived in my inbox saying the item will be sent on a given day with promises of puny credits if it is not at its destination by a certain date.

Big News Today! They are sending my goods to me and Bessie. Maybe they still have a chance to be here in time for the birthday party (She’s 20).

But not to be. The next email outlines options for tracking the package.

And more emails came stumbling. One apologized and told me the delivery would be a few days later than the original date. Another asked me to confirm my zip code. A third told me my hay was now in the hands of UPS or Fed Ex and that they would handle the transfer.

Another email warned me that the items ordered could be delivered in separate containers.

When I had all but given up on the order I got an email saying that my tracking number had changed and that the item in question could not be delivered to a post office box.

Finally yesterday (her birthday and all) I was informed that the item I had ordered was sold out. I should have bought local. Now I’m headed to town for candles, paper hats and some organic oats laced with molasses, a favorite of Bessie since she was a colt.

From “The herd life ain’t no good life – but it’s my life”

– by Gabby Haze