Author Archive for M. Toole

ANOTHER GROPPO APOLOGY

We have grown tired of extending these seasonal apologies to Groppo the Elf and his battery of attorneys but in the spirit of the holidays we will reach deep and try to un-ruffle a few feathers once more. First of all, allow us to set the record straight.

The short piece appearing in the November issue lambasting the elf and his heritage was, admittedly in bad taste. Moreover we really never had lewd photographs of Groppo dancing with local politicians. The prints, as it turns out disappeared the night before this issue was to be put to rest.

We were forced to substitute a story about the much maligned Spar City de-lousing effort and some color pictures of Melvin Toole hanging Christmas lights at the one of our burgeoning number of local prisons.

Repeated references to Groppo’s alcohol abuse were presented only in context so as not to endanger the reputations of thirsty citizens who often imbibe with elves, gnomes and fairies over the holidays.

Accusations that the elf’s physical stature and mental capacity are the result of his diet of chocolate-covered bombardier beetles, hoarded crawfish Twinkies and strained swamp grass digested while growing up south of the airport in Kenner, Louisiana, is true. Our further deductions can be verified by consulting the sister-in-law of his late dietician, and therefore shall not be introduced in this piece.

Feeble attempts at collecting damages from this publication by the family of Groppo are unfounded and backstabbing . We never said that his immediate family are drug addicts, only that the current climbers on his squalid family tree were pathetic junkies and weak substance abusers. We never really said they were “juicers” either since most no doubt distill their own juniper, corn, potato and barley juice and swill on the porch, thus their public behavior, although suspect, cannot be chronicled.

Never mind all that. Let’s shake hands and part as friends, Groppo. After all you’re really no worse than most of us, especially when viewed through the rose-colored filter of the Yuletide. – Editor

WAL-MART GIRL (to the tune of Surfer Girl)

Little Wal-Mart, consumed one

Credit cards come all undone,

Can you hear me

Can you, Wal-Mart Girl?

I have watched you from afar

drag you fat butt from your car

Don’t you get it,

Don’t you Wal-mart Girl?

Saturdays, we shop together

at the Super Store

In my pickup I will take you

straight to aisle four.

What you buy is no one’s business

on your shopping rounds

Better that you skip the check-out

and loose twenty pounds.

Now I say from me to you

I will make your charge card due

You don’t need it

You don’t Wal-Mart Girl.

– Kevin Haley, with apologies to the Beach Boys

Kids Must Declare Gifts

(Ogden, UT) Children are no longer exempt from service at the hands of Internal Revenue Service. As of midnight, December 24 all kids receiving Christmas presents must determine a fixed value to the gifts and declare them on the appropriate IRS form.

This departure from past considerations comes as a result of increased defense spending under the heading War On…(fill in the blank). Gifts that are appraised at over $100,000 fall under tax relief bill #49939928-QP and require no new tax. Expenses incurred by those in the top 2% in annual income are fully deductible.

Juvenile evaders are warned that cash gifts fall under the category of tips and must also be declared. Children returning or exchanging presents will be liable only for the highest priced item. Coal, like last year, is a flat 10% deduction.

Barking Jingle Bells Dog Retires

(Crested Butte) The hound who for years has entertained hundreds with his rendition of barking Jingle Bells has retired and moved to Crested Butte. The carol, which can be heard over and over on mainstream radio during the holidays, was formatted in 1962 by a group of expatriate veterinarians allegedly looking to get back at society for cutting them out of the lucrative dog food market.

Back in the Sixties pet foods had not yet made up 30% of the GNP and the industry allowed upstarts to compete. Then, in just months, the giant conglomerates began to control the flow of kibble and cornered the market leaving people like the these angry veterinarians in the dog house.

The tune, barked in cords to the popular Jingle Bells, has been accepted as part of the Yuletide hype right along with Deck the Halls and Silent Night.

“We don’t appreciate crude animal sounds interrupting the flow of our holy Christmas,” said Rev. Phil Pharisee fondling his collection basket. “It’s irreverent at best. Besides, nobody in Bethlehem remembers Jingle Bells in the manger.”

Many holiday revelers say it is quite appropriate to have a dog barking Jingle Bells since there were lots of animals hanging out at the manger at the famous birth. Others say the whole concept of a Christian holiday was stolen from the Pagans who has celebrated the Solstice for thousands of years before the Catacombs.

The dog, named Sparky due to his obsession with fire trucks, will reside at an undisclosed duplex on Maroon Avenue between the fire house and the marshal’s office. Although is retirement is said to be ample he has already passed the Colorado real estate test and hopes to catch on with a local agency after the holidays.

He has promised to perform a holiday duet with either the Dali Lama or Dolly Parton whichever comes to town first. Other town dogs, craving attention at all times, were reluctant to comment on the celebrity dog’s arrival. Some concluded that he was a pampered mutt while others sized him up as an activist fighting against the present leash laws in the town. – Small Mouth Bess 

Discovery of Giant Fly Swatter Bodes Poorly for Mankind?

Archeologists examine the giant fly swatter found in Oh Be Joyful Basin Saturday.

(Crested Butte) The unearthing of a massive fly swatter in Oh Be Joyful Basin Thursday may indicate the god’s displeasure with man according to spiritual and scientific experts here. Arriving on the scene almost immediately after the find, local religious leaders expressed grave concern while the scientific community shouldered computers and scrambled for answers.

Oh Be Joyful, for centuries the chosen haunt of Greco-Roman, Norse, Hindu and Native American gods, due to its unsurpassed beauty and a remote location relative to the 21st Century. Artifacts such as oversize smoking pouches, XXL lingerie and exotic footwear have been dug up over the past decades by grazing cattle and local hippies but the fly swatter development lends a dark and ominous twist to these and other archeological puzzles in the Elks.A similar find near the Venetian city of  Chania, in western Crete was verified in 1961. Paleontologists believe that the Minoan culture, which worshipped an assortment of gods and goddesses, may have attracted jealous Mount Olympus gods as early as the 20th Century BC. It was not clear to educated diggers there if the gods came to Crete to punish or to party.This fly swatter, made in the United States in about 1937 was of good quality balsa wood and glazed netting compared to the Oh Be Joyful vestige, which was made in China of cheap, flimsy plastic.

“While both of these discoveries are impressive to say the least it is virtually impossible to tell who was who and what was what where gods are concerned,” said Dr. Efram Pennywhistle of the Dark Canyon Institute. “Whether they planned to use the weapon/swatter to exterminate pests still isn’t clear nor is any indication of who or what they considered to dwell in that category of living things.”

Beautiful Oh Be Joyful Basin near Crested Butte.

Another scientist from Rocky Mountain Biological Weapons Institute at Gothic echoed the same appraisal.

“We know that the ancient gods preferred to deal with mortal man in the most expedient, and often fatalistic, manner while the more modern Judeo-Christian gods (along with thousands of man-made saints) appear more gentle often choosing to lure their prey before lowering the boom.”

Both agreed with local clergy and holy men who say the finds are without equal.

One clergyman from Baldwin went further saying that the discovery may indicate the coming apocalypse. He insisted that sinners repent and the good folk give money and pay attention.

“This is no fossil,” cried one zealot who roams these mountains in nothing but a goatskin and Broncos cap. “This is the Coming! The war gods are angry! They intend to destroy the pests!”

The site of the Oh Be Joyful excavation, which now stretches 40 miles to the Sawatch Range, originally resembled a large broken campsite with leviathan logs surrounding mammoth fire pits, accentuated by huge rocks which, according to scientists, were put in place by more than wind, rain and general erosion. The monster fly swatter has not been moved from its resting place for fear of damaging what could be a link to the mysteries of eternal life.

Local authorities are concerned over potential violence since legendary war gods like Mars, Zeus, Thor and Odin are known to camp in the basin. Although incidents and contact with humans is rare, police remain on red alert (as compared to green alert?).

“We don’t want any tourists to get squashed by angry gods,” said one officer. “Generally locals know enough to avoid infuriating bears, lions, moose and even gods in the back country but our visitors are often overwhelmed with excitement in seeing a beast and forget that they can be dangerous. The haunting question remains: Why would the technology have been developed and brought here if someone wasn’t  planning to use it? I imagine humans are a lot easier to hit than flies,” he frowned.

Another resident expressed certainty that the gods are there.

“My dog Hades have seen footprints for years but they were often covered in snow and hard to identify. The we saw the decadent ones! We saw them one night dancing around the fire swinging the giant fly swatter back and forth in some sort of ritual,” said an Irwin man who demanded anonymity. “They chanted about the intruders on the earth and the talk wasn’t kind. I treated the episode like I would treat a face to face with a bear and quickly scampered down the mountain to the reasonably secure confines of Gunsight Trail. If you don’t believe me, ask Hades.”

Cynics say there is no reason to worry and that the swatter is probably some sort of divine athletic club or fanning device. Many say the gods have every reason to be angry at humans for the way they have taken care of the planet and for the treatment of their ancient ally the bear.

These ancient gods are not about to crack omelets at this time,” said one eggnostic. “They are waiting for something bigger when they can make the final impact.”

The area surrounding the discovery has been cordoned off indefinitely.

“We heartily suggest that despite the winter weather persons skiing and snowshoeing in the basin exercise extreme caution if they happen on to large beings up there. Don’t buzz around pestering anyone, landing on their food. Biting is out of the question entirely. We don’t know what to expect yet but we’d like to avoid cleaning up a mess. Winding up on the wrong side of a fly swatter cannot be a pleasant way to spend a sunny afternoon.”

– Susie Compost

The Beer Pilcher of Granada

The Hotel Alhambra occupies almost a block right in the middle of the Granada, across from Parque Central. The terrace potential here is high even if the service is the slowest in all of Nicaragua. After a day roaming dusty streets, followed by a swim with the freshwater sharks along the Las Isletas del Mar Dulce (Lake Nicaragua), a cold Victoria beer sounds like heaven.

The hotel terrace offers shade, well-worn comfort, cheap drinks, great local cuisine and an engaging (May I practice my bad English on you?) staff. It is the ultimate perch from which to observe the nightly neotropical parade in a fascinating city bent on forgetting decades of economic and civil strife, compounded, sadly, the policies of my own country.

The brightly painted walls of yellow and blue are accentuated by hordes of ancient vines, orchids, and vivid hanging flower baskets. The high ceilings, abstract art in chipped paint, create a subtle vertigo while the ceramic acoustics of the tiled palace chime the melodious Guardabarranco and Carlos Mejia Godoy.

The entire patio is one step up from the street and is encompassed by an imposing rail to keep the great unwashed from bothering the paying customers. Expanding the radius are struggling palm trees, the nearby lake, horse and carriage operatives, the aroma of frying fish, loud music, walled stucco houses, skinny dogs, pleasant people and crowded passageways wrapped around a 16th Century cathedral.

Delirious traffic in dilapidated chariots circles around and around the park acting out some mad petroleum mating ritual, horns keeping time with a torrid, indistinguishable beat.  Across the avenue enterprising venders sell anything from hash pipes to baby alligators. They have long ceased daily commerce and have headed home for the night. I have been warned to avoid the park after these hawkers have gone. Already a seedy element has emerged, preparing to propagate business after dark, intent on another crap shoot of drug sales, petty theft, outright robbery, muggings and chronic drunkenness.

Poverty and tourism have never melded to anyone’s satisfaction.

But I’m on the proverbial sunny side of the street or so it seems with the combo-neon and florescent patio lights turned up to fine print levels. A world away from the park, I enjoy another Victoria with a snifter of 12-year-old Flor de Cana  rum, arguably the best rum in the Free World (which of course does not include bad ol’ Cuba). The British couple sitting to my left is much impressed with the pungent black bean and garlic soup (another treat from evil Cuba) while three local merchants smoke trophy  puros (cigars), offering me one which I accept with a short referendum on my provenance. At the far end of the terrace banister are thee laughing tourists from Managua, who have accumulated at least 15 bottles under their table, an effective method for calculating beer purchases.

That’s when I spot him. He stands out from the others. This guy looks the rough, crude menace but somehow less threatening from afar. He’s big for a Niacaraguan. He meticulously picks through the treasures in the park’s austere trash bins, discarding pieces then angrily kicking over the can. Underprivileged  garbage, dissipated fruits of the poor displayed in skeletal wire and grungy bins. I saw him sitting on a bench at the plaza talking to himself earlier. On second examination he appears almost harmless compared to some of the other toughs that circulated here. Just another shabby street man eyeballing the hotel porch. I look away yawning, stretching, ordering another beer.

He crosses the street but fades into the shadows only to surface at the far end of the block. Passing slowly by the terrace after several reconnaissance missions he suddenly swoops down like a parched falcon grabbing a glass of beer off the British table and drinking it in a gulp, setting the glass carefully down afterwards. He sets his sights on another beer, from the merchants table this time, and slams it down as well, gently replacing the bottle on their table. He then runs off happily between the alley’s hourly hotels, the abandoned language institute and the designated pickpocket staging zone.

I laugh to myself not wanting to appear entertained by the intrusions. The merchants do not appear particularly perplexed peering over at me with that only in Granada look, sans surprise. They shake their heads. The Brits are at first amused, then irritated, then amused again. Their eyes wander the terrace searching for some logical explanation, finding none. Is he part of the all-inclusive experience?

Moments later I catch his movements back along the rail. This time he grabs a bottle of Victoria off the Managua tourists’ table and drains it. That tipsy table is not quite sure who drank what. They call the waiter who comes running with one of his fellows and they throw the beer thief to the ground with the fury of Volcan Mombacho. Nothing personal…but he is fouling up the sacred serve and volley of gratuity. He escapes and returns to the badlands of the park and looks at us yelling, “Beer belongs to the people!”

I have to admit I am enjoying his antics with every cold Victorian that goes down. The waiters apologize to the victims and replace their beers. They even brought me a free beer after I expressed outrage and threatened to write a bad review on the place in The San Juan Horseshoe en los Estados Unidos. No one seems all that ruffled.

But this beer guerrilla is the real deal. This stalwart boozehound, this dry debunker, this macquerau guzleir may be more than what meets the eye. He’s a force. His clownish persistence cries out to be recognized. The man is a talent. The cat burglar of cold beer!

He doesn’t try to steal beer from me. Perhaps I could be trouble. Perhaps there are easier marks. Considering my sense of fashion and attention to hygiene that particular evening the man probably figured I too stole what I have and was intent on drinking it. I have actually had street people come up to me in South America and offer me their coats on a cold night. Maybe we are kind or at least kindred…

I finish another beer and move to the relative safety of a table next to the kitchen door where I can chronicle the action while avoiding future larceny. This bullish pilcher won’t get my beer.

“He won’t be back,” a waiter announces brushing his hands of the incident. “He won’t dare pull that stunt again.”

Yes he will.

I watch as the conversation returns and beers disappear down appropriate throats. The table I vacated is now occupied by three Nortes with backpacks. They order Victorias and quesillos (braided Mozzarella cheese served in a warm tortillas swimming in onions and cream) and sit back innocently while noisy hookers come out for a stroll. Hunched behind them is our beer thief himself, who is now spouting on about the glories of Sandino right there in ultra-conservative downtown Granada, trampling on nostalgia, and interrupting the colonial ambience of it all. I order another beer, ignoring his gaze but watchful, digging in for the rest of the performance.

The curtain reopens with the same sly grin, the slithered walk, the thirsty demeanor. He promenades by the terrace once more, the dirty, demented hops high jacker. He grabs a beer off the Norte table and drains it with the refined movements of a jaguar. The backpackers are stunned and in the momentary chaos he takes anarchistic license to drink another, without spilling so much as a drop. Then its the same delicate trademark return of the bottles to the table where they had been.

“Down with capitalism!” he cries as the cook and several bouncers grab him and roughly toss him into the street oblivious to freebooter traffic, jagged cobblestones and road apples. One of the burly men then punches him lightly, exhorting a muffled threat. He is gone.

Stunned, the Brits and one of the local businessmen join me at my redoubt by the kitchen. We are all now completely regaled by the heists. The tourists from Managua call it a night and the backpackers sit clutching their beers. I quietly indulge in my good fortune. I have yet to fall to these pranks. I feel cocky and worldly, bullet-proof and quite sophisticated. We order food, paella, avocado salad and fried plantains. The talk turns to the country’s turbulent past and hopeful future.

The British couple applaud me for my attentive vigil in the face of dangerous beer snatchers. The merchant does too inviting me to her shop the next day.

A traveler such as you who pays attention has nothing to worry about when visiting Nicaragua,” she smiled.

“When I am in unfamiliar terrain I try to remain alert,” I smiled back, showcasing my lunchroom Spanish and my alleged survival instincts.

“You have to appreciate the man’s persistence. There is a man who knows what he wants and how to get it,” I jive.

The conversation stopped upon further commotion in the kitchen. Moments later our beer man was hurled through the swinging doors to the floor chased by the owner and the bouncers. They were sweating and did not appear amused. He had apparently been hiding in the freezer knawing on a side of beef and breaking eggs against the side of the cooler. Despite his near strangling and his bouncing off the concrete floor he was still moving.

He looked up at me pathetically. I didn’t know what to do or think. Here’s this poor thirsty creature about to get his ass kicked who couldn’t give a damn either way. Sad. A tragic world…Just another day in the life…

Then with one desperate grasp he laughs and grabs my beer from the table and, despite his unfortunate horizontal posture sucked it dry.

“My beer!” I cried, as our ardent guest of dishonor was then most indignantly escorted out the front to destinations unknown. Smiles emerged as our dinner arrived.

“I certainly hope all this beer stealing doesn’t create some international incident,” says the merchant. “We’ve had enough problems with your country over the years,” she chides.

“Can I buy you a beer?” laughs one of the Brits. “That was a Victoria, right? They are really quite popular tonight.” – Kevin Haley