Author Archive for M. Toole
Paradise Copyright Contested
(Crested Butte) It appears that another nasty fight is in the wings regarding copyright violations connected to the use of the term “paradise”. The squabble centers around who, if anyone, owns the standard and how and if any restrictions can be enforced.
In Colorado alone over 2,000 locales claim to be “paradise” but most have never filed for the copyright. Here in the Slate River Valley, Crested Butte has been employing the name/identity since Chuck Wirtz was a boy. Now, due to newly introduced litigation the town may be banned from using the description.
Yesterday attorneys at Morstern, Hamill and Glick filed suit in district quart claiming that their client, Emil Turlo, of Maybell (Colorado) owns sole rights to the above said concept. Furthermore, they insist, communities and organizations currently infringing on his property are liable for fines and penalties so as to be determined by the findings of a judge and jury.
Turlo, a retired physician who once lived in Crested Butte, would not return phone calls because he is too old to operate the dial.
“Anyone can clearly see that Crested Butte, and not Maybell, is paradise,” said a BOZO member who pledged to fight. “We won’t take this matter lying down,” she said. “The matter has already been handed over to our attorneys. I can’t believe someone could be so self-absorbed that they would make a big deal out of this.”
The unidentified BOZO member then rushed off to oversee the construction of what has been described as a system of trenches, built around her home aimed at keeping local bears from peeing on her skunk cabbage and blue bonnet bushes.
In last night’s town council meeting a proposal that the town save attorney fees and let Turlo have the rights to paradise was vehemently shouted down.
“Why should we relinquish our right to the concept? Isn’t there something about grandfathering in the state code. We’ve been paradise for a long time,” explained one councilperson who favors a confrontation. “Can you imagine how much it will cost to print new stationary and ski brochures? What are we going to call Paradise Divide?”
Attempts to provoke a class-action suit against Turlo have yet to pick up steam. Many of the 2000 plus communities that currently use the term paradise have yet to reply to a questionnaire mailed out Thursday. At present legal funds have been collected at card tables from in front of the post office and private investigator has been hired to dig up some dirt on the 112-year old Turlo, who now lives over in Mack.
“It’s hard to find any dirty secrets since the man has not left his double-wide since 1973,” said the shamus. “We’ve interviewed everyone in Maybell and he’s as clean as a whistle. Besides, paradise is a state of mind and we’re not comfortable walking all over such an ethereal, delicate notion as this.”
Pro-paradise elements in the town say they’ll hire “other investigators if the present one doesn’t have the stomach for the work.”
Although Turlo can no longer use the phone, his attorneys say he is only going forward with the suit so as to ruin other people’s fun this summer. A pre-trial hearing is set for August 3.
WOODEN INDIANS APPREHENDED
(Ouray) Police here have concluded a roundup of local wooden Indians who may pose a threat to the peace and prosperity of the community. The often elusive culprits, including the defiant Cruton and his running mate Crow Feather, are in custody as of this morning.
The clever statues have for years been present each day on the street staring at tourists, loitering and otherwise promoting havoc, according to the authorities.
“Last month we received a report that one of the wooden Indians had spit on the street almost hitting the chamber jeep,” said an arresting officer. “Later that same day one of his cronies glared at city workers bust laying new water lines on Main Street. That was enough for a preliminary investigation.”
Meanwhile in upscale Ridgway, police officers remain parked outside of the local bar waiting for wooden Indians to emerge after a few drinks.
“It’s tough to determine who is in violation of the law,” said one officer since the state keeps lowering the legal limit as to percentage of alcohol in the blood. “These wooden Indian types just stare out of the windshield and say nothing. Why just Tuesday we nailed a suspected drunk who turned out to be dead sober although his blood/sap count was well over the line. – Melvin Toole
TOOLE SHOTS DAZZLING 19 ON DOS RIOS COURSE
(GUNNISON) Fairway wizard, Melvin Toole has shocked the golf world by recording a course record 19 over the weekend. Flaming his way through the first nine without a hitch, Toole’s drive on 17 just wouldn’t drop, rolling around the hole three times before stopping on the green.
Caddie Simone Simone told The Horseshoe that many in the gallery complained of neck injuries after watching the spiraling motion of the ball go round and around the on the lip of the cup.
“If it weren’t for that disastrous 17th he would have been perfect,” said the caddie. “Lots of golfers spend years just trying to break par. They take lessons, buy expensive equipment and get ulcers over such a silly game. Remember: It was invented by the Scots, who had been clearly exposed to yesterday’s haggis.”
This was only Toole’s second time on a golf corpse, having played the Montrose Course (recording a 22) Thursday. If he keeps up this fiery pace he will have to be considered the top contender in the Fairway Pines Bazooka Shoot slated for the Thirty-Fifth.
Appearing in what has become his trademark attire: a stunning red crepe blazer with matching whipped cream argyle suspenders, impressive asbestos chaps, your everyday competition flippers and a rigidly flumed stovepipe hat, Toole told reporters that his secret is to relax and hit the ball as hard as possible.
“Often I close my eyes right at the point of contact or aim for another golfer,” smiled the linkster. “The pro here says that as soon as I can get around to buying some irons my game should continue to improve.”
Toole said he took up golf because he likes to ride around in a the little carts drinking beer. He said the game reminded him a lot of croquet except that it wasn’t quite as painful being hit in the forehead with the golf ball. – Rocky Flats
Medical Notes: GENE LINKED TO STATESBORO BLUES
(Mao Clinic) Researchers here say they have isolated a never before detected gene that may have a lot to do with a medical condition known as Statesboro Blues. These particular blues, made famous by a host of black musicians in the 30s and 40s, is said to affect the central nervous system often causing in-grown toenails, scurvy, chronic pediculosis, the gout, and other maladies due to temporary geographic disorders.
The gene, at first almost undetectable, was discovered while scientists here were examining a crate of raw oysters under a microscope. The oysters were earmarked for a fundraiser.
“We thought maybe a piece of lint or some hair had forced its way onto one of the slides,” said a hospital source.
“We were about to eat lunch,” said Dr. Godfrey Daniels, a former physician at St Roscoe’s Memorial Carwash and Bad Food Bank in Bland Junction. “Someone noticed that our supplementary shipment of “angels on horseback” had been tampered with. We then stuck one of the edible bivalve mollusks under the microscope for further scrutiny and the Statesboro gene was quickly identified.”
Preliminary research indicates that there is a link between heredity and attitude, or, as one scientist proclaimed: “The inclusion of raw oysters in the diet may offer very positive options.”
“We were all certainly a lot happier after consuming the oysters and the vodka martinis didn’t hurt either,” she chuckled.
Called the “most important breakthrough in genetic research in over a decade” here at Mao, sources indicate more significant data may support these findings in the near future.
Isolation of genes is quite complicated and most people wouldn’t like all that horseradish,” said Daniels. “Now let’s go to lunch.” – G. Roscoe Lovinggood
The Uninvited Wedding Guests
The day started as most summer days high in the Elk Mountains. The early hours featured blazing sun, then sparse clouds arrived for lunch. Today was the day that Rudy Triglavic would marry Irene Sulek. Relatives from Baldwin, Pittsburgh, Elkton and parents from Croatia and Slovenia were in town. The night before was filled with merry making and the following morning everyone was moving slow.
At 1 pm the families met at Queen of All Saints for the ceremony, the I dos and the you dos and then the rice…and another party. The reception was held at the home of Hugo Prespa, superintendent at the Daisy Mine. Guests included miners and their families from the Keystone, the Standard, Jokerville and Smith Hill Mines. Although competitive underground and in the taverns (with names like the Bucket of Blood Saloon and Kochevar’s) most were having a great time listening to polkas, to tunes on the gusle. They stopped mid-sentence to watch as the bride and groom engaged in the traditional wedding dance. There was prase roasting on hot ash, cevapcici and culbastija and lots of wine. Thoughts of the Sava ran through the heads of the more recent immigrants to North America.
It was quite the scene that July day in 1899, just months before 1900 would come calling. Rudy Triglavic had arrived in Crested Butte three years before. He was a quiet man who worked hard. His family ties to the old country had been tarnished by political conflict. In a country divided into distinct regions ruled by the Byzantines, the Austrians, then by the Ottoman Turks it was not hard to make enemies. The Triglavic family had been staunch supporters of Francis Joseph in the hopes that the Austrians would create a Slavic nation like the Magyars of Hungary had won some years before.
Josip Triglavic, Rudy’s father, had even talked of leaving Slovenia. Things were not so good there for the supporters of the Hapsburgs in the dawn of nationalism. The anarchists were busy, the climate was ripe for what would be World War I. Josip had been mocked by fellow villagers because he insisted that the Austrian monarchy should be recognized as legitimate rulers of his country. There were threats on his life and on the life of his son, Rudy, who had served in Italy with the army and had even attended the university at Innsbruck. When Rudy left Europe, rumors were the residue. Had he informed on a Croatian nationalist in Zagreb? Someone had. Rudy was gone. He was a monarchist. Conclusions were drawn.
A contingent of nationalists, comprised of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes had sought to throw off the Hapsburg yoke and create a new country. They were led by a man named Draza Petrinja, a charismatic Croat from Dalmatia. Seeking to take advantage of the weaknesses of the Austrians, who had recently been defeated by the Prussians, the French and the Sardinians, the movement flourished. Along the Adriatic, especially in cities like Trieste, nationalists were openly hostile to anything Austrian. With promises of aid from Italy, they plotted a full scale revolt in the fall of 1896. Suddenly, in August, without further provocation, Austrian troops swarmed along the coastline forcing all of Dalmatia to heel. Petrinja and others were arrested and imprisoned in Carinthia. The revolt was crushed.
The entire Triglavic family, along with other supporters of the Hapsburgs, was suspect. People had looked for a scapegoat. But that was years ago. Surely the family could find reprieve from old world struggles in the Rockies.
Two cold men stood at the fringe of the reception. Each had a glass of wine in his hand. They smiled cordially although nobody knew them. Each family thought the two were guests of the other. Maybe they were friends of the bride from Ljubljana, where many Suleks still lived. Maybe they worked in the mines. Were they cousins from Pueblo? Maybe they were the caterers. At any rate, they spoke the right language and were welcomed graciously by both families.
“Which one is he?” whispered the taller of the two men.
“I can’t tell from this photograph,” was the answer. “We’ll have to wait him out. Someone will drop his name, then we’ll do our business and be gone.”
“Watch the wine,” smiled the first. “We don’t want to miss. Let’s just take it slow and strike when the party is in full swing. Surprise is our best weapon. It shouldn’t be long before most of the men are well on their way to a good drunk.”
The party went on all afternoon with much dancing and drinking. Then, at about 4:30 there was a toast from the father of the bride, Amill Sulek. The cake was cut. The band played on. It was at that moment that the two intruders first realized which guest was Rudy Triglavic.
“He’s the groom!” gulped the first. “He’s the damn groom. They didn’t say anything about shooting a groom…”
“Just relax,” whispered the second man, biting down on his lower lip then swallowing a healthy slug of wine. “We haven’t made ourselves known and there’s still time to finish our business. It’s not like we’re going to shoot the traitor at the altar.”
Both men stood silently, confused as to what action to take. This turnabout had taken the wind out of their assassin sails. They had no way to consult with the people who had sent them all this way to kill Rudy Triglavic. The powers in Dalmatia had no way to know they had sent two executioners to dust off a bridegroom.
“We can’t just leave,” offered the second gunman. “If we go back without completing our mission we could end up dead too. You know how much they want this Triglavic. We have no choice. We have to give them their pound of flesh, satisfy the vengeance.”
The assassins took a seat, smiled sweetly to someone’s grandmother and were presented with a piece of wedding cake. They ate quietly until the band struck up another polka.
“The powers back home want revenge,” started the first man. “They order us to retaliate for what was a betrayal. They give us steamship passage and pistols. They give us a picture…It doesn’t even look like this Triglavic. They tell us to shoot him. They didn’t say it would be on his wedding day.”
The second gunman smiled, “They wouldn’t know the bridegroom from Archduke Ferdinand. They just want vindication. All we have to do is provide them with a body. I’m not about to shoot the groom. What do you think?”
After pushing the last piece of cake into his mouth the first man sighed, “Then let’s give them one.”
After further consultation the two decided that they would pick out an acceptable victim, one different from the groom. They scanned the reception looking for the proper target. After several circles the taller man nudged the other and gestured toward an irascible crank of a man who was disrupting his corner of the festivities by arguing with his wife.
“He’s just about the same size,” quipped one of the gunmen.
“Cantankerous looking fellow,” winked the other. “Who’s gonna miss him.”
The two plotted the attack and their escape as the wedding party grew more merry. They wanted to wait until they had a clear shot, for the right time. When several of the ladies herded the children into a nearby pasture for games, they drew their pistols and fired. At first the party was not interrupted. The guests turned and thought the noise was part of the celebration. When the victim fell to the ground it became apparent that something was very wrong.
The assailants calmly holstered their pistols and disappeared as the crowd gathered around the mark, who was propped up on one elbow, talking to himself. A doctor was summoned and the victim was pronounced quite healthy with the exception of a bullet wound in the forearm and a bump on the head, suffered in the fall.
“Did we get him?” said the first man to the second as they rode furiously up Kebler.
“I aimed low, you aimed high. He must be dead,” said the second.
* * * * *
Weeks later the two gunmen returned to Dalmatia and announced that they had concluded the business at hand. Everyone seemed satisfied that a score had been settled. There would be more revolts, more trouble in the Balkans, a World War to distract them. The matter was considered settled.
Five months later as winter began its occupation of the East River Valley the Triglavic family received a small card. Josip, who had stayed in the United States to avoid the troubles in his country and to see his grandchildren born, opened the letter. He didn’t recognize the handwriting or the first names on the card.
“It says these people here are sorry for interrupting the wedding reception,” he frowned. “Do you really think it’s from the same men who shot your cousin in the arm? Why would they send a sympathy card? They never even brought a gift.”
– Rex Montaleone
Old General Joins Peace Corps
(Halifax) General Kashmir Horseshoe has reportedly joined the Peace Corps according to a report filed here Thursday. Close aides say the 147-year-old publisher “seeks to build up a little credit in the eternal lottery before he embraces the Strawberry Path to eternity”. Horseshoe’s first post is here in Nova Scotia where he will teach Commonwealth hockey fans how to sell newspaper advertising to sea gulls.
“It is the salvation of capitalism at the grassroots level,” said young Melvin Tool, a long-time whipping boy who will make the trek to Canada with Horseshoe. Armed with a breakfast machete and 50 reams of Canadian bacon, Tool will act s chauffeur while collecting puck samples.
If the impromptu team is successful in the said endeavor they will then secure porters at Pugwash and journey inland through New Brunswick to the St. Lawrence waterway. They will then begin the tedious search for mythical caches of rare Canadian lager, hidden from explorer, Pierre Gaultier “Mickey” de Varennes by Acadian folk hero Francois Labatts in 1707.
Synthetic Poison Ivy Produced
(Gunnison) Student scientists at Western State College have successfully created synthetic poison ivy (Rhus radicans syntheticas) in a secret botany lab in the high security basement of Taylor Hall. It is not known when or if the man-made plant would be introduced to the local ecosystem but a spokesman said the project had been undertaken during the winter so as to provide obvious options. Natural poison ivy does not flourish in elevations over about 6000 feet.
“We had to develop a particularly tough strain so as to ensure a thriving species up here in the Rockies,” said Dr. Augosto Paramus, a convicted hemp tiller sentenced to 20 years public service in the WSC Botany Department back in 1973. “Otherwise, what is the point in manufacturing the plant at all.”
