Author Archive for M. Toole

TOOLE COMPLETES INDEX TO WEBSTERS

(Gunnison) Pop scribe Melvin “Don’t call me Earl” Toole has reportedly finished work on an condensed index to Webster’s New Unabridged Dictionary. The task, exhaustive at best, is expected to drastically change the way people use reference materials.
“How many times have we heard “How am I expected to look up the spelling of a word in the dictionary when the problem is that I don’t know how to spell it?'” asked Dr. Ephram Pennywhistle of the Ouray Word Institute. “Now, with the ready index by one’s side he can rely on the index to help him on his way. The work is nothing short of genius, utter consummation with linguistics, a full-dress accomplishment without parallel.”
Sources at Webster called Toole’s efforts “the ultimate exercise in redundancy” adding that they would take steps to protect their thesaurus and other reference compendiums from further literary raids by Toole.

Underground Seminar in Second Year

Ouray) The immensely popular Spend the Summer Underground Seminar is about to kick off its sophomore year according to organizers here. The 12-week work/study program will begin at the bottom of the Idarado Mine on Red Mountain Pass and, over the summer will wind its way through miles of tunnels culminating with a wine and cheese picnic in Telluride Town Park on Labor Day.
“I thought I’d miss the sun,” said Troy Babyfatte, a suitcase designer from Moline who participated in the program last summer. “The food was above board and the daily classes were stimulating but the TV reception sucked.”
Sponsored internationally by Hard Rock Tolerance Ventures, the summer-long agenda may offer weekend pilot programs at Camp Bird, Smuggler and Funnyside.
“The problem with sessions like these is once our students get down two hundred feet or so they don’t want to come back up,” said one instructor. It’s a clear case of “How you gonna keep ’em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paris” syndrome.
At press time there are three slots open for the summer. One is first class, the others are tram.
“Either way it’s a mucking good deal,” said Babyfatte.
– Uncle Pahgre

LOCAL RANCHER SELLS OUT TO BOVINE INTEREST

(Montrose) A local ranch concern, determined not to sell land to developers, has sold its holdings to his cows. In quite a innovative move, the 800-acre site has been legally transferred to what lawyers equate as employees.
“One hears of companies selling out to its workers,” said Warren Glick of the lawfirm Mortsern, Hamill and Glick. “The Toole familyy has simply expanded that concept and have unloaded it on their cows. Sure, the animals don’t have any money of their own but with quiet transfers of funds, some storefront commerce, a few commodity exchanges and a bundle of tax free maneuvers a family that once could not afford new shoes is now living off the interest payments.”
The Melvin Toole family had been ranching in the Uncompahgre Valley for over a hundred years. Although as pioneers these hardy folk faced hardships and turmoil these didn’t seem to compare with the current financial situation. The temptation to deal off sacred holdings to suburb builders weighed heavy on their minds.
“We’d rather deal with a locusts or drought than the current market reality,” said Belle Toole from her redwood porch swing on Spring Creek Mesa. “You figure the math. We sell a chicken for a dime, some food brokerage cuts it up, packages it all nice, and sells it for five bucks. Now I didn’t shine at math,” she stressed, “but it don’t take an abacus to figure out who’s getting screwed.”
As a result of the current squeeze the Tooles no longer hold deed to their property but it’s still in the family, sort of.
“The principal stockholders (cows) have voted with their feet and hired my husband, Melvin, to be CEO of this place, said Ms Toole. “In essence he calls all the shots because he has the key to the haystack. As long as these investors get fed they don’t squawk. It’s an incredible parallel to what goes on at corporate board meetings all over the world.”
In addition to the convenience of a “home-owned” agricultural operation there are definite tax advantages in bovine-run ranches.
“Let the feds and the county determine visible assets in the herd,” said Toole. “Let the banker foreclose on a bunch of Herefords. Let them try. Unlike humans these animals have rights. We’d have the ASPCA, the Humane Society and a host of other animal protection groups on their butts before the sun went down for the day.”
Toole added that the cows seem to have a new found pride due to the transfer. She says unexcused absences have decreased and worker apathy is also on the down trend.
“We have suspended the time clock and pay overtime in vacation credits,” said Toole, and the cows seem happier, better adjusted than ever. It’s amazing what one can do with a little sharing, a little creative financing.”
In addition to operating their employee-owned ranch Mr. Toole makes asparagus accessories and Mrs. Toole runs a topless tiki bar at Colona. – Suzie Compost

People who reject underwear live longer – report

(Lake San Cristobal) People who don’t wear underwear live an average of five more years than those who regularly don the restrictive apparel, a three-year study says. Whether it’s the underwear itself or simply the thought of another layer of clothing, those who embrace skivvies seem at a greater risk of heart attack, stroke and even the common cold.
“Quite frankly we were surprised at the results, “said Olga Droors, a former underwear manufacturer who once thought design could conquer all. “We came up with wild and slutty fashion and the results remained the same. It’s all about comfort and people who spend the day out of constraint create less stress and fewer uptight moments.”
Droors added that she was not thrilled with the results of the report since it affected her professional life but agreed that today’s population had spoken.
“Where this leaves the multitude of underwear makers and this employees is anyone’s guess. Principles here say that enough people will continue to wear underwear to avert an economic collapse in that sector,” she said.
“Is this just some kind of twisted free expression or a valid fashion statement?” asked Velour Campbell, a lingerie designer who has embraced Nascar and ice hockey in his themes.
“I don’t expect the whole industry to come crashing down just because some minimalists decide to go au natural,” he gulped.
How this will affect the concept of wearing clean underwear in case one gets into a wreck or is arrested was not clear at press time.
The study, which admits to a 30% error factor upfront, was conducted at night at a nude beach during a Victoria’s Secret (the Wal-Mart of sexy underwear) fashion show.

– Signelle de Bushe

WENDY PREGNANT, RESTAURANT CLOSED

(Montrose) The local Wendy’s Restaurant will be closed indefinitely due to the surprise pregnancy of its pig-tailed owner. The freckle-faced slut was not available for comment. Sources here are suggesting just who the father might be.
“It’s very, very difficult to say who she has been with over the winter,” said a fry cook who claims to have been out of town since December.
Conjecture has it that the father is either the Burger King, Col. Sanders or Ronald McDonald. Since Wendy is a minor all or some of the suspected daddies could face criminal charges.

The Frustrations of a Silly Farmer

There are “good” farmers and there are “bad” farmers. There are efficient producers and inefficient producers. There are handsome ranchers and there are ugly ranchers. On occasion one can even point out a wealthy grain grower and contrast him with one of tightened circumstances. Rarely however, search as you will, can there be found a truly silly farmer. This is a story of one of that spare breed. Sure, everyone breaks clods, but did you ever do it with your forehead?
To begin with, Merle came from the city. Strike one. His most profound thought about earth was that it got you dirty despite all precautions. Strike two. Strike three, the ignorance of the fact that man, weather and land are not always compatible, could have been the telling blow, but Merle was not one to run away should some odd misfortune settle down on his fields or farmyard. For this fellow, this Merle Tugley, was above all else, silly. He knew you needn’t wet down your brother-in-law before you turned him into a 5×7 shed but he was willing to try any interesting method.
There was the day he spanked the tractor. It broke down in mid-row and, livid Merle wanted to put it over his knee but knew that that would be a crushing burden. Instead he thrashed it with his bare hands right where it sat, spitting vituperatives downwind. He melded this dramatic tragedy into a type of domestic romance by forthwith marching back and slugging the plow several times.
The following summer, on a Thursday, Merle and his wife, Winnie, were sharing a plate of sweet gophers when Lochinvar, the teenaged moose the Tugleys called their oldest son burst in the door carrying the boar which he used for weightlifting practice. For an instant Merle considered removing the cheese he had rubbed on his mandolin but refrained and sat calmly waiting for the breathless Lochinvar to explain himself.
“There’s a guy at the gate who wants to see the farmer, I guess that would be you,” said Lochinvar pointing at his father. The heir-apparent then stepped into the pantry and began opening a can of asparagus with his teeth.
Merle trudged out to the gate, stopping once along the way to adjust his eyebrows and asked the stranger, “In what way may I be of assistance?”
“I’d like to see your calves.”
Merle sighed. “You’re the third one this week. All right, come along.”
He led the stranger to the barn and they entered whereupon Merle seated himself and then pulled up his pant-legs.
“Well, there they are. Fine pair of calves for this far north the agrologist says.”
The stranger hesitated and then knelt and examined Merle’s calves. He chuckled slightly and then looking Merle full in the face said huskily, “Victorian. Your thighs are probably Tudor. Goodbye.”
“Bloodsucker,” thought Merle as he strode back to the house.
One day Merle was out at the woodpile splitting infinitives with his dictionary for the winter supply when Winnie came rushing up to him, wiping her wet hands on the collie. She moaned, saying. “Your aunt is keeping that groundhog in her hair again. You must talk to her. I can’t stand the chirping and you know I’ve always been mistrustful of a woman who feeds her coiffure.”
“It was you,” Merle intones, “who stopped her from picking rocks. You know that’s always been her hobby.”
“I stopped her, and you agreed at the time, because one night her hernia bounced off our bedroom wall and struck my collection of ornamental muskrats. Smithereens.” The troubled woman threw up her hands at this memory and struck a subsidized magpie that was flapping by.
“All right, I’ll talk to her but first give me a smooch.” Winnie closed her eyes, lurched forward and planted her lips on her husband’s open left eye. He reared back, pawing his face while Winnie turned and went back to the house. Merle was accustomed to this. He remembered several instances of poor aim (not all of them uncomfortable). Once, when Winnie was particularly amorous she lunged at him and with a subsequent crash kissed an Armenian in the adjoining unit of the motel in which they were staying.
Clarissa, the Tugley’s twelve year old daughter, could be a trial. She wanted to become a nurse and to this end would often rise at 3 a.m. and, while Merle and Winnie slept, bandage her father so completely that when he awoke in the morning he would, half dozing, think he had either entered nirvana or that his muscles had been removed during the night. She went to school all week and then on Saturday mornings explained logical positivism to her family who offered her tiny arguments in favor of the relativistic morality of stunning your MP with a two-by-four. She considered everyone other than her girlfriends Lou and Miss Libberull, the teacher, to be cretinous oafs who have trouble perceiving even the evident fact that horses are next to godliness.
Clarissa enjoyed sponging the pigs and could watch for hours as Merle pumped money into the machinery. She and her father would go for long walks where he would point out to her the difference between a weed and a shaft of grain (“the weed is like a little muscle-man,” Merle would say, his teeth gritted) or they would observe the wildlife happily until a black or brown bear approached them dragging a scarred attaché case and requesting with gestures the Merle sit down and discuss his life insurance needs.
One fine fall morning Merle was out harvesting when Winnie gave birth to Albert, the Tugley’s youngest. He remembered that he discerned the “pop” all the way from the house while he was steering the combine and almost drove it into the side of the old kosher restaurant that sat noisily in the middle of his best wheat field. Merle rushed back to the house to find Winnie and the baby arguing over what the tiny Albert would have for supper.
Now, at five years of age, Albert still argued over his diet. He most enjoyed dallying about the yard, eating dirt, bark, insects and other assorted delicacies, his mother not far behind slapping his hands and dredging his mouth of this and that. His parents didn’t know it but Albert could have digested northwest Manitoba if given the chance. His mother dreamed that some day her little man would grow up to be a writer, perhaps becoming the editor of the county weekly. Albert had not such ambitions but wouldn’t have minded explaining to anyone his recipe for beetles-in-mud.
Merle could have found a good hired hand. Instead he took on Manny; “Not short for Manfred,” Manny told Merle one day, “but for ‘Man-do-I-feel-good,’ ” the hippie hired hand explained. When there was work to be done you could always count on Manny. He would be either out in the fields picking weird mushrooms or in his room above the garage reading some novel with his eyes closed. He slept a good deal and was known to have once become splendidly recumbent on the buffet table for the entire weekend of a Protestant Businessman’s Retreat when he worked as a waiter in the city. He enjoyed sniffing gasoline fumes and could walk right out of his overalls when called to dinner. Every year he threw his back out at harvest time and then threw his front out in the spring. He threw his top out when there was fencing to be done and then his bottom when asked to paint the barn. Finally Merle would throw him all out. He came back each time claiming he had forgotten his feet.
Merle was almost always an optimist. One day Harold Swuggert stopped by wanting to boot somebody in the head and instead, just for the fun of it, told Merle that a plague of locusts was expected. Merle studied a moment and then said, “Well maybe they won’t be hungry. Besides, Albert could eat them.” He read Bottleby’s prognosis one year and decided to plant eucalyptus trees. Winnie marveled at the way Merle could mash sugar beets under his arms when the crusher broke down. He massaged the cattle regularly and was finally able to throw Lochinvar a distance of at least seventeen feet. He heralded the birth of piglets by facing the sun an giggling thanks to the porcupine god, ending the dissertation by singing, “Swine you very much,” while he tossed his dentures high in the air.
Winnie, too, was happy with her life on the farm. She could now fillet a badger and was able to vacuum around the kittens when she cleaned up the barn. She loved to cook and her specialty was chickens stuffed with beef and a venison garnish, with ham on the side. She always made sure her family had enough to eat. She entertained thoughts of becoming a “new” woman and one day decided to take a course entitled “Micro-economics and the Desirability of Sewing Your Own Pantsuit,” but decided against it when Albert broke out in scarabs. She enjoyed the odd bit of lust and could always find a market for her needlework.
Merle and Winnie would sometimes go to the city for a little holiday and a couple of games of “For God’s Sake Look Out For That Car!” They would check into a hotel and order drinks from room service until Merle got slightly tanked when he would list for Winnie all of the Czars of Russia since 1247 A.D. They looked at each other in a different light during these excursions; Merle seeing a beautiful temptress and Whinny perceiving Merle as a leader of, at least, John Diefenbaker’s stature. They would slide into the hotel bed each night and wake up in the morning on the other side of the room. The farm was a distant oasis that nourished and nurtured and held close to itself everything precious to them, except for Lochinvar’s new Hi-fi.
Ah, farming. Is there a better life? Probably not. Except perhaps for the business of buying and selling exotic kitchen appliances.
-Merle Kissack