Author Archive for M. Toole

WORLD IS FLAT SAYS KANSAS EVANGELIST

(Dodge City) A somewhat respected television evangelist, Reverend Philip Pharisee, has shocked his flock by declaring that the world is flat. The announcement came in the middle of a sermon delivered at Church of the Undivided Plain in nearby Spearville. Pharisee remarked that it is refreshing to see ancient articles of his well-watered imagination backed up by physical law for a change. He added that any fool, even a secular humanist, only need look out of his window to know the real truth.

Pharisee, a major proponent of secession in Southwest Kansas, went on to add that the entire concept of Columbus discovering America was nothing but a cheap real estate scam.

“If he really discovered America why won’t he return my phone calls!” shouted Pharisee, working up quite a sweat by now. “If you cynics out there don’t believe me you can ask the Man in the Moon,” he warbled.

Congress OKs Fist Fights

(Warshington) The United States Congress today passed legislation that makes fist fighting legal within the confines of 50 states. The somewhat controversial decision came after three hours of filibustering on campaign reform and the legality of tobacco products.

Here’s what happened: During the last half hour segment of the debate, just as it appeared that some agreement might be reached a senator from South Carolina took a swing at a senator from California. It had something to do with the former’s failure to support a recent bill on illegal immigration. Then a senator from Maine, angry over the weather, landed a left to the chops of a senator from New Mexico.

Old wounds opened. Black eyes closed up. Ohio fighting with Texas over the minimum wage, the much respected senator from Mississippi sucker punching the honorable senator from Oregon. Unresolved conflicts over foreign affairs exploded while petty jealousies and back-room concessions led to more fisticuffs.

Before long the situation turned into a brawl with the sergeant-at-arms up to his butt in blood and broken bones. The doors were secured, lobbyists ejected. “Somebody pull the plug on C-Span before the voters see this!”

When the gold dust had settled the entire senate was a wreck. Gangs of elected officials, armed with clubs fashioned from furniture and dining room silverware glared at each other across the chambers. Then, much like the way the fracas began, it ended leaving an ashamed legislative body wondering how to cover its esteemed posterior.

Finally a freshmen senator from Hawaii grabbed the gavel and called for order. Quiet descended as the entire senate attempted to blend into the curtains, to crawl under established protocol.

“Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their nation,” typed a court clerk. “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog!” shouted a response. Soon the entire body of elected representatives had rolled up its shirtsleeves and was actually making progress, acting on legislation that had been tabled for months.

“Sometimes you just got to break the ice,” said Senator Oral Noise, “or a few noses and teeth to get the ball rolling. Most of us spend 90% of our time campaigning. We forgot how much fun it is to hang out in Washington and make new laws.”

After the remarkably functional session, the minority whip suggested that the senate adopt fist fighting as an integral part of negotiation, at least within the executive committees. The head of the Ways and Means Committee echoed approval saying fist fighting should be named the National Sport, replacing pro wrestling or Nascar.

“We may have to make a few hospital runs but we certainly get a lot more done,” said Noise. “Maybe we should apply our new discovery to the population as a whole.”

There you go…Noise’s motion, quickly seconded was passed by an astounding majority. Approval in the House appears to be no more than a formality. Then it will go to the President’s desk.

“We expect the President to sign the bill into law,” said Noise. “He’s always looking for some chance to show that he’s a tough guy with the oil and gas lobbies. Who knows, perhaps he could convince the Israelis and Palestinians to embrace fisticuffs as a viable way to solve their conflicts.”

Critics of the legislation say the senate only passed the bill to legitimatize its own embarrassing deeds. They say the Haymaker Bill, as it is now being called in liberal quarters, is unfair, primitive and violent, and has no place in civilized society. Others say tolerating a few fist fights is a matter of states’ rights and that the feds should stick to building missile defense systems and honing illegal taxation techniques.

“Back in the 1700s if one man insulted another he could legally slap the offender in the face and challenge him to a duel. Sure, people got shot but we didn’t have a lot of road warriors flipping off fellow motorists. Maybe if we kept this kind of philosophy alive we wouldn’t have invented nuclear weapons,” snorted Noise.

Proponents of the measure hope that it will placate European nations who have been critical of capital punishment in the U.S..

“Maybe they will again see us as kissing cousins who prefer to take a misunderstanding outside and avoid making a scene at the big dance,” said one senator. “We are still at the beginning stages and will need to establish the specifics regarding what is appropriate behavior and what is a fair target. What’s important is that a simple swing has provided a laxative for a long constipated institution. As Americans we should all connect!”

While the proposed legislation wanders about in checks and balances cyberspace, members of the senate will attend anger management seminars in the morning, view John Wayne movies at lunch break and spend the afternoons on the speed bag. – Kashmir Horseshoe

 

FIRED FOR INSUBORDINATION, BLIND ROOF READER FILES DISCRIMINATION SUIT

Colona) A recently dismissed blind proofreader who now turns out to be deaf as well, has filed a discrimination suit against the San Juan Horseshoe. Agnes Stope, who worked in the above capacity since 1977. alleges that the paper, which employed her despite her blindness, fired her after finding out that she couldn’t hear a canon go off in her bedroom.

Her legal action asks for fiscal compensation but not reinstatement. Lawyers for Stope, 101, did not elaborate saying only that they were asking for an undisclosed sum in what is “clearly a case of discrimination on the basis of physical encumbrance”, a crime in Colorado.

A spokesman for the newspaper, commenting without prompter, said, “We kept Agnes on for much longer than we should have considering her challenges. Most papers have clear policies regarding the employment of handicapped persons. She would have been canned in a heartbeat in most news rooms.”

Conjecture has it that Stope was simply misplaced on-the-job and forgotten in the board room 30 years ago and nobody on her side of the workingman’s desk wanted to tell her that she was no longer useful.

“She’d come to work on time every day and just sit quietly until the paychecks rolled around,” said fellow worker Avril Souze’. “She didn’t bother anyone. For most of the 37 years she commuted from Howardsville where she successfully operated a family smelting plant and sold peanuts on the train.”

According to a flock of reporters employed at the paper, Stope, from the very beginning,  habitually ignored all orders and requests on the part of management and as a result no one in the front office could tell that she was losing her hearing. Her blank stare became “a standard, synonymous with the paper’s one-dimensional masked allegiances and curt, provisional  aloofness.”

Principles at The Horseshoe say that her audio disability was preexisting which exonerates the employer of liability. They point out that other problems may have existed at the time she was hired but were never disclose by the applicant.

“She took the job knowing full well that she was xenophobic, olfactory-challenged and unable to distinguish between bright colors,” said a management source. “In addition she had severely in-grown toenails, bad teeth and arthritic eyebrows. It is certainly to her credit that she never missed a day of work but our entire relationship was built on false pretense.”

Stope’s attorney acknowledged that his client had a history of maladies prompting his legal adversaries to call for a complete roster as an indication of pre-trial cooperation.

“Agnes could no longer engage her taste buds after a brutal fist fight with several Basque uranium miners at the Little Chef Saloon in 1981,” confided Souze’. “Her sharp speech impediment should have been obvious enough to merit further investigation, as well as her missing right leg, lost during the siege of Madrid in 1936.”

She also suffered from a acute prune face, cauliflower ear and artichoke heart.

Detriments aside, Stope never took on penny from the McGovernment. She is celebrated in the Guinness Book of World Records, not for her hindrances, but for her extravagant collection of paper clips which she would drop in a prearranged pattern all along Red Mountain Pass every morning so as to find her way back to San Juan County that night.

“We respect her independent demeanor,” said the Horseshoe spokesman. “I remember years ago when her colleagues took up a collection to build her a double-wide handicapped parking space right in front of her cubicle. Rumor has it that she never found the spot and subsequently didn’t parked there.”

“Lot of damn thanks I get for all those years of loyalty,” spat Stope who would not comment further on the proceedings.  – Kashmir Horseshoe

COACH EXPLODES

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so that he seemed a geyser of displaced energy from the first quarter on. And he was quite a sight on that rainy, frigid Friday night in November, watching from the sidelines as we demolished Waterson’s first team. We had barely began to digest their third wave of hopefuls as the second half began.

“We been talking trash to you all night,” said one burly lineman, “and you don’t pay attention. You boys just aren’t intimidated,” he shook his head. “What’s the deal?”

I motioned toward the sidelines where Coach Demeritorious paced back and forth. He was dressed in a short-sleeve white shirt, sporting a black tie with training table soup stains. He wore faded slacks reflecting the frugal salary paid him by holy mother the church. Parochial sports. His spikes connected him to the planet. He had no coat or hat and in the sub-zero drizzle he looked like a popsicle, slowly thawing and then freezing back up often at the speed of light.

“Look over there,” I gestured to the overweight lineman in a mud-covered jersey.

“Whoa,” was all he said. “That man looks mad.”

“You should see him after a loss,” I smiled, knowing full well that I’d only experienced that pleasure once in my three years as a soldier of his terrible swift sword. “He’s never said a word to any of us in conversational tones. He just yells and paces and frowns. I wonder how his kids survive.”

“He wins football games,” said the lineman as the time out ended and players shuffled back to the huddle for another assault on the patchwork wall of humanity, by then begging for the game to end.

It’s really too bad that some folks attain a level of success and can’t enjoy it. It’s neurotic. It’s obsessive. It’s like finding oneself counting tiles in some nightmare men’s room at the end of the road.

“Ready – set – 21 – 66 -Red. Hut – Hut – Hut!” barked their quarterback like the death chant of a warrior, outflanked by his own shaggy militia. His artillery long quieted by countless assaults by fresh cavalry.

“You’re not hitting,” said Coach Demeritorious, now working himself into a frenzy. “You’ve got to hit!” he screamed.

We’re up by the lopsided score of 56-0 and the man’s concerned with esthetics, with the cosmetic application of fundamentals.

“We’ll play this fourth quarter as if it’s the entire game,” he jerked. “There is no score. There is no score up there on the board. Anyone sandbagging will run laps on Monday till they drop. Anyone not playing full tilt will ride the bench against Chaminade next Friday,” he raged. Do I make myself clear?

By now most of us were breathing a sigh of relief that soon we would be cruising with our girlfriends in Ford and Chevy chariots. To the victors go the spoils even though it would be only cokes and pizza since the sexual revolution of the Sixties had not made the front cover of Time, even though in was already 1966.

I looked up into the stands to catch a glimpse of my father, who would congratulate me after the victory, touching on every tackle, celebrating every sack, sharing the triumph as just one more feather in the cap of the conquering hero.

“It’s great,” he would say, “but it won’t be so easy next week.”

As the fourth quarter snailed to an end Coach Demeritorious stopped dead in his tracks, his knees wobbling, his hand to his throat. No one went to his aid for fear of reprisal. We backed away and watched as he hit the hard cold ground of Southern Ohio.

“…that it’s only a game,” my father would say and if you hope to get into college you’d better pay attention to…”

And then, all at once like a Fourth of July in some distant galaxy Coach Demeritorious exploded. He didn’t spew or rattle or tremble. He blew up. Horrified we stared as he burst, erupting, then fizzling out as an ambulance arrived to collect his pieces, which were now scattered all over the field.

This wasn’t the half-time show.

At the memorial service the assistant coaches talked about his winning record, his dedication to football, his accomplishments on the field. I looked over to his family. His son didn’t cry. He tired wife just stood there stunned, anxious to get the thing over with and get on with a life minus a tyrannical knight without a chink or detectable humanity in his glowing armor.

No one whispered a sentence relating to Coach Demeritorious that didn’t contain the word “football”.

The next day’s paper featured a whole section on the deceased coach. He made the front page, the sports section and the obituary page all in one. Sadly, he would be remembered as a pit bull with a clip board and a whistle. He might have been remembered as a good man with the right intentions. Even sadder, he would quickly be forgotten.

The next week, prior to the Chaminade game our new coach calmly laid out the game plan in the locker room.

“Let’s pick up where we left off last week,” he said, “and play this one for our fallen coach. Play hard and have fun. We’re a better team. We’re ranked fourth in the state. We deserve it.”

– Kevin Haley

Information Factory Indicted in Dumping Case

 Bosses at the sprawling Ajax Info-Source Plant, closed down for repairs in October, have been charged with an assortment of infractions including discharge of progressive ideologies, fielding broken promises, charting faint rainbows and failure to replace spent fuel rod cells.

Its operators are reportedly perplexed over the incident saying they have no cosmic debris to discard since their operations are clearly organic.

Software pollutants, cerebral contamination, insufficient data bases are highly  toxic and dangerous for public consumption say government officials who have pledged to push the indictment.

“We will not have this kind of blatant disregard for the status quo in our own backyard,” said Deedee Dauntless of the toothless Ephemeral Protraction Agency.

“They were at least manufacturing something within the country. Leave them alone,” said longtime neighbor Eddie Singhe, who cleverly outsourced his egg noodle business, firing his 300 employees and sending everything to Shanghai in 2009.

Meanwhile the Information Highway remains backed up for over 200 miles due to the breakdown of infrastructure in the roads and bridges realm.

Simultaneously the government owned Smile Factory across the ridge is working three shifts and exporting 35,000 smiles per day to emerging countries all over the globe. – Fred Zeppelin

THE GREAT AWAKENING

If I had a nickel for every leg-pulling, eyeball rolling hunting story I’ve heard in the San Juan over the decades I’d have the cash to buy one of them fancy cell phones or at least a plug of decent chew. A list of the most preposterous episodes chronicled over the past twenty years would have to include the one told by my eternal fishing buddies, Delmar and Cedrick. We’re not talking liars here. We’re talking the perfect blend of a severely twisted imagination with a retarded memory. Here is Delmar’s rendition of the time the two found what appeared to be a stiff along the San Miguel River during deer season.

It was a particularly inhospitable November morning. Me and my cousin Cedric were out prowling for buckskin. We wanted to see how the local herd was up to before we dropped a bunch of money on licenses. I was on the far side of the river and Cedric walked the east bank. We scanned the area for about ten minutes when all of a sudden Cedric liked to jump out of his skinny hide.

“Delmar, come quick,” he gasped, as I made my way across the water at a low spot. “We got us a stiff!”

Well, sure as hell when I reached the spot in question there was a full grown man, in blaze orange, just as frozen as one of those store pizzas. We didn’t know what to do at first so I pulled my trusty jug and took a swallow. Cedrick did too. Then we sat down and had another.

“I wonder what he was doing out here?” started Cedric.

“Whatever it was, it sure didn’t agree with him,” I answered. “One thing’s for sure, though, we had better get this boy to the police before he rigor mortis sets in.”

As we sat there perplexed the weather began to warm up a touch. I would have to get the pickup which was parked about a quarter mile away down river.

“You stay here and mind the cadaver, Cedrick,” I told my cousin, “and I’ll go get our transportation.”

“I ain’t babysitting no stiff,” said Cedric.

After a little reassurance and a promise to leave the jug, Cedric came around.

“Don’t be gone long,” he pleaded.

When I returned there was Cedric talking to the stiff. He was firing away telling his captive audience all about how to track elk through the mountains and how to field dress chipmunks, or something like that. I snuck up on the two of them. Cedrick left the ground when I popped out from behind a stand of scrub oak. The stiff didn’t move.

“Don’t be scaring me,” said Cedric. “Ain’t things bad enough?”

After reflecting on that last statement I felt compelled to reflect on my jug. After another swig Cedric said, “What if the cops find us with this guy? Maybe they wouldn’t understand…”

“Now that’s good thinking, Cedric,” I said. “Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”

We carefully loaded our find into the back of my Chevy. He looked quite comfortable and for a moment I thought I saw some color coming back into his face. We decided to bring him to Montrose since these boys in San Miguel County don’t have a morgue. As we started back toward Placerville I noticed my gas gauge was stuck on empty.

“We’d better head up Norwood Hill and grab some petrol,” I said to Cedrick, who was now preoccupied staring at our cargo through the rear window of the truck. From time to time, on the way to Norwood, Cedrick would offer an update on his condition. I had another swig and played the radio.

After purchasing two dollars of regular we decided to stop at the Lone Cone for a quick shot…what with all that road dust and all. We ran into a few hunters from Oklahoma and shared a few rounds. Then we climbed back into out outfit and headed over Dallas. We were almost down to Ridgway when Cedrick pointed to our passenger in the back.

“That boy has rolled over. Look at him. Maybe we’d better flag down the sheriff!”

“He just flopped over on that last turn,” I answered. “Don’t worry, he’s not going anywhere this morning. Let’s stop for a cold beer over at Old Man Prichard’s trailer.”

Finally after a few more stops we arrived in downtown Montrose where we pulled up in front of Stockman’s Cafe. Although the weather was noticeably warmer we figured that we still had about an hour to make our delivery. We went in.

“Hey, Delmar,” nudged Cedric. “Ain’t that Joe Sparrow from Gunnison? He owes me twenty dollars from last New Year’s Eve. I’m gonna get it.”

Cedrick approached Sparrow for the debt and I sat at the bar. Cedrick returned and said he had settled for a few draws as his mark had claimed temporary poverty.

“I can buy you boys a few beers but that’s gonna be it,” said Sparrow.

“We got us a stiff out in the truck,” whispered my cousin as another round of draws arrived. “You want to come out and have a look at him?”

“Not at this time of the day,” teased Sparrow. “Have another beer.”

We sat and talked for about another hour. Soon this stranger staggered up to the bar and ordered a cup of coffee.

“Had a rough night?” I asked him.

“I’ll say,” he mumbled, downing his coffee and ordering more.

“You do look a little beat up this afternoon,” offered Cedrick. “You want to sit down?”

He did so and after lunch I remembered our cargo in still the back of the pickup. I looked out at the sky. The temperature was already dropping.

“He’ll keep,” I assured myself and paid the bill.

“Yeah, that was some night,” continued our new friend who said his name was Jim and that he lived in Dalhart. “I haven’t been in that kind of shape since my first wife got married,” he laughed. “I think what I need now is a cold beer.

“Hell, I don’t even know how I got here. One minute I was walking along the river looking for my hunting camp and the next thing you know I wake up in the back of some strange pickup here in town.”

“You want to see what we got in the back of our pickup,” asked Cedrick proudly, oblivious to the developments going on under his nose.

“Oh, no thanks, son. I think I’ve seen enough for one day,” said Jim.

“It’s a goddamn stiff!” said Cedrick, a little put off that the stranger wouldn’t at least take a peek.

Aw shut up, Cedrick,” I shouted. “Jim ain’t no coroner or nothing. Besides, I think it’s time to get on with our delivery.”

Cedrick and I made our way out the door. When he looked into the bed of the pickup he jumped again.

“Delmar!” he screamed, “our stiff is gone!”

“No kidding, Cedrick,” I spat. “Our stiff is that guy Jim, from Dalhart. Now let’s clear outta here pronto.”

Cedrick turned white as a ghost. As we headed back toward home my cousin noticed a red hunting cap lying harmlessly in the back.

“And that’s Jim’s hat too, huh?” he asked.

I told Cedrick that the hat most likely belonged to Jim but that he could get another when he got back to Texas.

“Yeah, I guess we’ve already done enough for him, ain’t we?” said Cedrick.

– Uncle Pahgre