Author Archive for M. Toole

Quality of Rum to Improve

(Latino News Briefs – Montrose, Colorado – December 27, 2014)
Baby steps to normalization may allow outcast, quality
Cuban rums to grace American palates, grab share of market

(Havana) A warm-up or meltdown in United States–Cuba relations may signify overdue diplomacy to some but more likely recall a kaleidoscope of petty Cold War events, center stage since Fidel Castro was rebuffed by Dwight Eisenhower during a post-revolution trip to Washington in April of 1959.

An end to a 50-year economic embargo and the reestablishing of embassies is just a start to what experts say threatens to redefine Cuba and crush what has become a self-sufficient, yet fragile culture. Big changes are in store, some good, some not.
One of the big ones is the presumed availability of exotic Cuban rum, acknowledged as the best in the world. It is a development that would most certainly cause the quality of rum to improve here in the U.S.
Following an Obama Administration announcement that the two countries will seek a normalization of relations a bevy of Presidential pretenders and self-serving politicians let out a howl. It was the same howl that we heard after the overhaul of the Immigration Policy, or following the implementation of Obamacare, or the bail out of General Motors, or the murders in Bengazi, or the choice of a White house dog, or the fashion and manners of the President’s daughters, or the First Lady’s attempts to promote healthy diets in schools, or elusive birth certificates, posh vacations or the employment of executive privilege…or Jimmy Carter’s return of the Panama Canal to Panama in 1977 for that matter.
Now happier howls are resounding over the likelihood of access to Cuban rums previously banned in the United States. It could easily be argued that this previously illegal sugar-cane concoction might soften the response from even the dead-in-the-wool Cold Warrior.
“Every quality anejo rum has its genesis in Cuba,” said a Miami purveyor of exotic cordials and elixirs, “and has since 1539 when a royal order of Spain formalized rum production. “All of the Nicaraguan rums first originated in Cuba while most rums from other Central American countries draw recipes from that island nation. Although it is often more difficult to corroborate, most fine rums found in Colombia and Ecuador trace their origins to Cuba too. Many of the wealthy Cuban exiles would prefer to lose the tag “Cuban rum” due to a class distinct distaste for the current government on the island but the first drops derive from Cuban heart and soil.”
Mass-produced rums may now go the way of the dinosaur like Communist vodka and a slew of sage-based frontier sweet wines that all but disappeared from American shelves of following the French Revolution.
Critics of the recent diplomacy say a warming of relations vindicates what they call an immoral government in Cuba. Isn’t this like the vindication of China, Saudi Arabia, Israel, Turkey, and Wall Street for humanitarian offenses in the light of trade entitlements.
“The practice of ignoring the fox in the henhouse while stealing pies cooling in the window must terminate if we are ever going to get along on this increasingly crowded planet,” offered Jane Jane, of the Baseball for Rum Coalition, which endorses the importation of Cuban rum to the United States and the establishment of a National League baseball franchise in Havana. “Most politicians here are far more interested in personal fortunes rather than solutions,” she stressed.
Another angle suggests that the Cubans do not want us. Already the government there has taken steps to protect Cubans from destructive mass marketing and Yankee strip malls. Meanwhile America’s corporate bullies drool with the prospects of new markets open so near our borders.

 

Che lines up a putt in Havana in 1962

 “Ours is a fragile culture honed in the shadow of the embargo, the necessity of manufactured car parts and prevalent food shortages, drenched in tropical sunshine and the whiff of a smooth cigar,” said Wanton Perez, a spokesman for the Coconut Alliance in Santiago de Cuba. “We must take inspired steps to protect the Cuban people from the menace of mindless strip malls and death food consumerism.”

In a show of sincerity Cuba will donate a mature King Palm tree to the White House lawn while President Obama is sending his old Toyota sedan to Cuba.
“Most Cubans are not familiar with these newer, computerized, fuel-injected engines, but given a few weeks they will figure it all out,” said Perez. “Let’s face it, the lines on one of these boxy models just don’t stand up to a ’57 Chevy or a ’58 Buick.
Regarding the King Palm gift Perez expressed hope that the tree would survive cold Washington winters.
“I guess nobody thought of that,” she smiled. “But what’s most important is to take things one day at a time and with moderation. The Cuban people want goods and services for so long denied them. This silly squabble must end. America must move on into the 21st Century. Saludos! God help our integrity when cruse ships call. “ – Kashmir Horseshoe

Reporter Missing After Rum Commercial

(Port-of-Spain, Trinidad—December 12. 2014) Arbitrary tourist and heralded scribe, Mel Toole, is still listed as missing after a three-day filming of a local rum advertisement. The filming, which began Thursday, featured several Americans, including Toole, swilling large quantities of the local hooch under the tropical sun.
“After about thirty takes we noticed the talent was getting a bit weary,” said director Avery “Rock” Parvenu, who claims to have once worked with Oliver Stone. “Then Toole simply vanished.”
The missing subject, 119, still carries a legitimate Colorado driver’s license. It is feared that he may have rented a car and attempted to drive back home. Police are combing all Caribbean ports along the way.
“If he’s on his way home, he’s probably easy enough to detect since he always drives on the wrong side of the road,” said sister Belle Toole, who left her job at a Thornton slaughterhouse to rush to her brother’s relief.
“I don’t know how many times I’ve pleaded with him to stay in his trailer,” she whined.
Toole is a retired circus performer who, among other accomplishments, once ate thirty live chickens in less than an hour and later almost jumped the Black Canyon in a mini van.

Velcro Foods Hit Market

Special to the Ouray Pigeon — December 12, 2014
Move over GMOs. An enterprising food brokerage in Malfunction has successfully produced edible Velcro that will be employed to improve a multitude of products already available to consumers.
Mesa Foods, a division of Carnivore Guru America, has reportedly perfected a long existing biodegradable substance that, when sprayed on burritos, omelets and burgers will help them sty together during the often tedious process that runs full circle from hand to mouth. The yet unnamed and secret material, akin to stickem and other organic adhesives has been tested on mice, monkeys and right-wing Republicans since last March.
“The results were conclusive,” said Efram Pennywhistle a recognized foodophile. “The animals had no trouble keeping their entrees together.”
Appearing at a supermarket opening in Mack Pennywhistle told an attentive audience that the future holds many surprises in mass marketing and bothersome packaging, which will feature lower-grade Velcro as well as artificial flavors, color and aroma.
“The big boys could give a rat’s ass about the comfort and health of the average shopper,” laughed Pennywhistle. “All this showmanship is there to satisfy legalities and protect them from blowback when they kill someone. All the warnings in the world will not bring back common sense. All the safety regulations will not make people safer.”
Mesa intends to delve into the mysterious world of food sculpture embracing troublesome creations such as crepes and onion soup. After initial tests these and other often-troublesome menu leaders will become staples in the American diet thanks to the application of enlightened chemical therapy.
“These foods will do more than stick to your ribs,” said Pennywhistle. “They will help the body grow new ribs.” – Arthur Choke

“Trace” Defined by State Ski Concern

(Monarch Pass— December 12, 2014) The ski industry today has made further commitments to end abuses in daily snow reports by defining the term “trace”. In a bitter internal investigation, both the Brotherhood of Snow Makers and the Utah Defamation League have agreed to set standards for further use of this and other long employed lexicons.
“According to the present jargon, “trace” has been determined to be measurable accumulation over .016588 of an inch,” said Amanda Bumpe, a former French calendar model, turned telemarker after the Bosnian conflict. “That benchmark is easily determined by multiplying the current acceptable blood alcohol level for motorists by the number of skier days in a week. That figure,” she continued, “is then subject to at least eight percent tax and freeze dried according to rigid USDA requirements.”
A ski industry spokesman welcomed the determination, saying that it will help offset the cost of purchasing white gold from the Russian Black Market, which has a reputation for short cords. A major agreement is pending which would send a growing surplus of Colorado realtors to the former Soviet Union in return for snow futures.
“Anyone ignoring our criterion when estimating snowfall is nothing short of a damned liar,” said Bumpe.

Gov’ment warning placed on fast food

(Montrose)—December 12, 2014) The United States Food and Drug Administration has extended a warning as to the consumption of fast food within its sovereign borders. The caution advisement, a major breakthrough according to consumer protection advocates, states simply that eating this type of food will lead to health problems, shortened life span and massive weight gain.
“We may just as well drop the “s” from fast food and call it fat food,” said Melvin Toolini, of the USFDA. “In addition to the health caveat most of us here are also concerned with uniformity and laziness within our population. We see people acting as robots, sliding into drive-throughs, repeating their behavior, feeding their kids this crap,” aid Toolini. “It’s a law that children must wear seat belts because they are deemed too young to make their own decisions with regards to life threatening situations. What do you call eating this product?”
Consumers will soon see printed warnings on cardboard packaging, chicken buckets, and wrappers. If they choose to eat the stuff anyway the gov’ment is off the hook.
“What will we do with all the veteran fast food junkies when they get old and the effects of their diet start coming back on them?” posed Toolini.
It is unlikely that this development will have any immediate affect on the eating habits of the country over the long run social scientists and nutritionists feel it may cut back on health problems associated with poor eating habits. One critic of the plan, a population control advocate, condemned the warnings as another ploy to keep people alive longer.
“We have too many people now,” said a spokesman for Eat Yourself to an Early Grave. “And we have too many warnings out there. What ever happened to the concept of natural selection and the strong surviving the weak. It’s even in the Bible. A greasy taco or a chicken wing from hell are great population control devices.”
Another opponent of the campaign suggests that the gov’ment has embraced the concept of fast food as a method of repression and containment.
“Elements within that framework have been experimenting with mind control for decades,” said another unreliable source. “It only stands to reason that encouraging uniformity and repetition will create a population that can no longer make choices when confronted with the big picture. It’s a bullet-proof concept. Why would the feds abandon this philosophy in favor of public benevolence?”
– Fred Zeppelin

A SOMEWHAT BEAT NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

‘Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the castle
Not a hep cat was stirring
It was just too much hassle.
(Most of us had been down at Golden Gate Park all day diggin the music and were too wasted .)
The stockings were flung on the floor and the chair
Grab me my pants, there’s a party somewhere.
(Despite chronic fatigue the cat upstairs was making some kind of racket but soon he’ll be cool since his woman gets off work by seven.)
The horn men were nestled with notes in their heads
While visions of reefer waltzed with second hand threads.
(Word of the street has it that the North Beach Good Will has just received a new shipment of duds, the kind afforded by unemployed jazz musicians.)
And momma come home to see all this crap
She settled his brains and I don’t hear no rap.
(As expected the lady upstairs arrived home at the usual time and found her man engaged in extra-curricular diversions with an assortment of new friends. A gunshot. Another.)
When out on the highway there arose Dharma batter
The straights cruised on by engulfed in their chatter.
(Why do you want to show up to work everyday when there are places in this very galaxy that you have never been?)
Away to the window I flew like jack flash
Pulled down the Venetians, securing my stash.
(I wanted to see if the cat upstairs was alive or dead but I thought I’d better hide my stash before the North Beach Gestapo started asking a lot of questions.)
The moon and the rest of the ash-ridden snow
Convinced me that midday was too late to go.
(This place is nowhere. With a little luck and the right boxcar I could be in Mexico City for the New Year.)
When what to my wandering mind should appear
But San Francisco’s finest from the front and the rear.
(Somebody in the building must have called up the heat when they heard the shots. They were everywhere, responding in their noted Zen vigor in this neighborhood infested with home sapiens of the discarded variety.)
At my door an old sergeant, with stick of the night
I can’t wait till morning…it’s exit…stage right!
(My duffel bag lay packed in the corner. Once on my back it was out the door leading me to more tolerant horizons.)
More rapid than accurate I headed uptown
Grabbed a bus for the freight yard and waited around.
(The midnight train ride down the coast to LA would be a cold one but I could sleep on the beach in Santa Monica in the morning.)
A weathered old brakeman called out in the rain
If you’ve got ample dollars you’ll be riding this train.
(The tired, old drunk wanted some bread for letting me ride the boxcar. I promised him some Mexican grass and offered him a hit off my Thunderbird and, cursing, he wandered off.)
As wilted, dry leaves before hurricanes fly
I am one with the boxcar, fused to the Pacific sky.
(Finally headed toward Southern California, I polished off the wine and fell asleep despite the chill and the cold metal floor.)
So up through the mountains cola coursers they flew
With a cargo of nothingness as their time clock punched two.
(We hit the Coastal Range in the middle of the night as the full moon made another cameo appearance.)
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The brakeman, another…resenting my spoof.
(The railroad cops didn’t appreciate my travel arrangements for the evening and when we stopped at Salinas they tossed my ass off the iron beast and into an unlikely Christmas Eve.)
As I brushed my self off and was turning around
Down the tracks dragged a hobo not making a sound.
( I had just seen this bum down in the Tenderloin last week. He was snoring away in a skid row hotel lobby, too drunk to make it up the stairs to his two-dollar flop.)
He was dressed all in rags from his head to his foot
His clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
(A bad dream Kris Kringle in the freight yard of America’s last brush with authentic culture?)
His meager belongings he had thrown in a sack
He smelled like a junkie and let out a hack.
(His personal hygiene didn’t improve with closer proximity.)
His face was one wrinkle, all haggard and hairy
He clung to Wild Roses and a jug of sweet sherry.
His droll, little mouth was drawn up like a bow
The fuzz on his chin as gray as winter So-Ho.
He rolled up two skags, “To you I bequeath”
The smoke pouring out from his cave on no teeth.
(The cat had played out his future in baggy pants and shoes force marched through an alcoholic haze.)
His poker face deluded, a bad loser still game
He choked when he spoke but he spoke just the same.
Uncapping his prize he delivered a belt
And I grabbed for the bottle, in spite of myself.
With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Out there in hell’s freight yard the hobo dropped dead.
(Time had run out for this earth-bound angel who had never spent Saturday mornings mowing his lawn in the suburbs or driving kids around in a new Ford Station wagon.)
I picked up his dreams, locked tight with no key
Next stop: Potter’s Field for this snarled refugee.
(A watchman helped me cover him and called the cops. There would be no heartbroken relative to identify him, no one to cry at his grave.)
Then catching the time, I watched for a freight
Skillfully boarding, make LA by eight
Back on a boxcar, I slept on my duffel
Agonized at the thought of that wino’s last shuffle.
But desolation’s despots on angles take toll
One long ago Christmas deep deep in my soul.
– Paradise Stolen, 1959