Toledo Tales

By Billy Pilgrim, Toledo Tales Rogue Editor

Baby Quentin: "Dumber than a bag of rocks," according to dad

(Toledo, OH) Warren Dempsey had hoped to share a lifetime of hard lessons and private joys with his infant son Quentin, now six months old, and bestow wisdom with a humor and grace that his own father sorely lacked.

Much to Dempsey’s disappointment, however, his son’s memory is “far from stellar,” and sadly, the young lad can barely crawl, let alone retain his father’s expansive knowledge of the world.

“Let me tell ya, that kid can’t remember shit,” Dempsey huffed while sipping a piping-hot cup of coffee. “We’ve been through the presidents, the times tables—hell, I tried to keep this week’s flashcards easy, so we only did the Russian alphabet—but he just sits there and drools. The little fucker can’t remember any of it.”

Dempsey was especially annoyed by his son’s lack of cognitive engagement when it came to this weekend’s Superbowl.

“I’ve been a Colts fan ever since I was a kid,” Dempsey vented. “So for weeks I’ve been trying to teach Quentin the finer points of the game: man coverage versus a cover-two defense, how to statistically compile Manning’s passer rating, the deceptive power of the bootleg…I might as well be talking to a wall. I tried to quiz him on the way to the grocery store last night, and he just sat there in his car seat, oblivious, clapping off-beat to that goddamn Raffi tape.”

Raffi: Promoting ifantile imbecility since 1975

And while Dempsey hopes his son will soon outgrow this rebellious anti-intellectualism, he harbors a growing fear that Quentin is already under the spell of peer pressure.

“I told Vicky [my wife] not to take him over to the McHugh’s place anymore,” Dempsey lamented. “Their little girl Hollie is 9 months old, and already I think she’s smoking dope. Every time I see that kid her pupils are dilated, and her motor skills straight-up suck. Quentin’s gonna learn the hard way—if he wants to live under my roof, he’s gotta follow my rules. Vicky may be a softy, but I have a zero tolerance for bullshit. Yes sir.”

Labels: infants, parenting, Raffi, Super Bowl

Subcomandante Bob once spent six weeks living on a pier on the riverfront in Bradenton, Florida.

The people there were very nice, and often tossed him dollars and quarters, especially when Bob carried one of those white canes with the red tip.

Everyone was wonderful in Bradenton, with the exception of this bouncer at the Holiday Inn-Riverfront, who used to take issue with Bob's tendency to pass out in Dominic's, the lounge at the hotel. Bob is pretty sure the bouncer's name is Gino, and he is going to get a severe beatdown if Bob ever sees Gino again in a sober state.

When he returns to Bradenton, Bob is going to check out Bradenton vacation rentals, rather than sleeping on a pier again.

He hopes that by getting enough sponsored posts like this, he will be able to save up enough to move to someplace warm, like Bradenton.

Or Timbuktu, where Bob hears there are a lot of hot young things and they serve the martinis with freshly-picked olives.

(Toledo, OH) Local members of a fan club dedicated to Kentucky Derby-winning thoroughbred Barbaro gathered to console one another, and to share memories of their equine idol.

"He was a truly a fallen hero, always fighting for his life, and his battle caught the nation's collective heartbeat and merged it, thumping like a big bass drum with the cadence of his own," said Brigette Cavallo of Toledo. "Like all superior athletes, he lifted us above the world of the mundane into the universe of the supernatural. We will always remember you, Barbaro-boy."

Ursula Saumpferd of Sylvania said that Barbaro was more than just a great horse.

"Barbaro believed that people are basically good, and had the right to be free. He believed that bigotry and prejudice were the worst things a person could be guilty of," she said. "Barbaro stood for the Golden Rule and in the power of prayer. He fought for world peace and an end to world hunger. He knew that America was not just a place in the world, but the hope of the world."

Barbaro's death to be "a dark day for mankind"

Maumee resident Patricia Cheval said that the world will "long mourn" the passing of the stallion.

"Friends, the light has gone out of our lives and there is darkness everywhere. I do not know what to tell you and how to say it. Our beloved Barbaro is gone," she said, wiping away a tear. "We must now behave like strong and determined people, determined to face all the perils that surround us, determined to carry out the mandate that our great teacher and our great horse-leader had given us, remembering always that, as I believe, his sprit looks down upon us and sees us. And Barbaro is smiling now in horse-Heaven."

Labels: Barbaro, Barbaro death, Barbaro fans

Bob came across a site today that features humorous eCards that you can send to friends, family, and even probation officers.

Egreetings.com features an assortment of funny, and sometimes risque animated eCards that are available. They have funny birthday eCards, Valentine eCards and eCards for other occasions. Be sure to check out this birthday eCard by "The Chins"; it's a real hoot. Also a real stitch is the eCard Birthday Badass. Bob would sure hate to see THAT guy down a dark alley.

Bob likes sending eCards, because he gets distracted by the liquor aisle in the store every time he goes to get a regular card. He'll see those bottles of cheap vodka, hear them sing to him - oh, how they sing, just like the Sirens - and the next thing you know he's face down on the front lawn, and three days have gone by.

There he is, covered with dirt and grass clippings, with no recollection of how he spent three whole days, all because he was too stubborn to send an eCard.

Don't be like Bob, and be sure to visit Egreetings.com, which sponsored this post.

This blog is a personal blog written and edited by Subcomandante Bob, with submissions by other authors as noted on individual posts. This blog owner occasionally - and happily - accepts forms of cash advertising, sponsorship, paid insertions or other forms of compensation.

The compensation received will never influence the content, topics or posts made in this blog. All advertising is in the form of advertisements generated by a third party ad network. Those advertisements will be identified as paid advertisements.

The owner of this blog is, at times, paid to provide an opinion on products, services, websites and various other topics. Even though the owner of this blog receives compensation for our posts or advertisements, Bob always give his honest opinions, findings, beliefs, or experiences on those topics or products. The views and opinions expressed on this blog are purely those of Subcomandante Bob. Any product claim, statistic, quote or other representation about a product or service should be verified with the manufacturer, provider or party in question.

This blog sometimes contains content which could present a conflict of interest. This content will always be identified, although as an uemployed, homeless, and largely dysfunctional bum, Subcomandante Bob will unlikely have a conflict of interest beyond the prices charged by the shyster liquor store owners and local street pharmaceutical reps.

To generate a basic disclosure policy for your site, visit DisclosurePolicy.org.

This policy was last updated on 9 February 2007

Left: Opalewski conducting analysis on a forensic case

(Toledo, OH) Rick Opalewski has carved himself out a unique niche in the plumbing industry – he offers his expertise as a forensic plumber to companies and individuals in need of diagnostic and assessment services.

“Sometimes it’s simple jobs, like the dad who called me to determine exactly which kid’s toy clogged up the toilet when it got flushed,” he chuckled. “But other times I get called on tougher forensic cases, real whodunit kind of stuff. Those are the most rewarding personally and professionally for me.”

Among the recent cases Opalewski has worked on involved a marital dispute.

"A woman called me about her husband, who had just finished hooking up an undercounter dishwasher unit," he said. "She insisted that he had screwed something up because there was water leaking under the sink, and he said she was full of bat shit. Turns out the dude didn't properly tighten the drain line to the back of the dishwasher, and - get this - he didn't use pipe tape. All in a day's work, I guess."

Left: Getting to the bottom of tough backups

Opalewski said that one of his "most unusual" cases was centered in a University of Toledo fraternity house.

"The frat brothers believed that they had isolated the source of a 'major stenchage,' and his name was Josh," he recalled. "We were able to prove that, instead, the sulfurous funkiness actually came from the vent stack, and had nothing to do with the poor diet and excessive beer consumption of Brother Josh."

He paused before continuing.

"It's really about the people, man," he said. "I see my work as bringing folks together, or at least keeping them from braining each other with a pipe wrench."

Labels: forensic plumber, plumbers, plumbing

Although Subcomandante Bob lacks permanent housing, and often spends every nickel he has on cheap booze, he feels the urge to give you, dear reader, investment advice.

Check out Stockwise.com, The MySpace for the Penny Stock investor!

Stockwire.com is a Penny Stock website that is primarily focused on the micro cap and small cap investor. Stockwire.com has been voted the number one small cap website for the past three years and counting.

You have access to tutorials, "stockumentaries," and their "Movers and Shakers" blog. Membership is free, so put down that hookah and get busy!

Bob was once an investment specialist for a number of top investment firms, though he mostly deals today with financial matters involving whether a quart of Stolichnaya at $18 is a better deal than a pint at $12, given the fact that he must also put money aside for essentials such as controlled substances and ladies of negotiable virtue.

This has been a sponsored post, for which Bob is very, very thankful.

Left: Flippy and the Wilmingtons in happier days

(Toledo, OH) The Knapp Street Wilmington family finds itself in the middle of an "immigration nightmare" that threatens the stability of the East Toledo home.

Due to recent incontinence issues, Flippy the dog was permanently relocated to exterior quarters, said immigration authority John Wilmington. Unfortunately, the Wilmington children routinely "flout" family immigration laws by bringing the dog back in the house.

"We should not be deluded by all the harping about “free trade,” or see this as the triumph of capitalism over socialism," sais the elder Wilmington. "These apologists for illegal immigrants - also known as our kids - like to paint it as a victimless crime. But in fact, illegal immigration causes significant harm to American citizens and legal immigrants, particularly those in the most vulnerable segments of our population--the poor, the minorities, and the living room rug."

Family member Jeremy Wilmington said that his father actually "encouraged" the illegal immigration problem.

"Flippy came back because of the low-paying work the rest of us won't do, like eating crumbs on the floor and licking the bowls clean," he noted. "Flippy is only acting in response to the age-old paradigm of supply and demand. Besides, he's really a good boy."

Assistant immigration director Barb Wilmington expressed regret, but said the agency had no other options, given Flippy's propensity to urinate in the house.

"Look, Flippy knew what the residency conditions were, and he chose not to follow them," she said. "We had no choice but to deport him."

Flippy: a victim of unfortunate relocation?

The Wilmington children all believe that the illegal immigration situation would evaporate if conditions improved in Flippy's outdoor quarters, which were alternately described as "icky," "stinky," and "Dad should have to live there for a week."

"It's really, really cold out in Flippy's doghouse, and his doggie feet get frozen. Flippy told me so," said Ashley, hugging the chocolate Labrador. "He only wants to come inside because he's freezing his little doggie butt off outside, right, pookie-wookums?"

Labels: chocolate Labs, immigrants, immigration

Guest editorial from Patrick Yeagher, public servant and stare recipient

No offense, but you are like the tenth person in as many minutes to be ogling my crotch. I'm starting to get a little weirded out here, what with all these people looking down there in the general vicinity of my crown jewels and stuff.

What I want to know is this: Do you just like my package, or - God forbid - is my fly undone?

Now, there was a day in the not-too-distant past when there would be no question. I once was the dandy of Gamma Chi, with sweet things from Boston so young and willing and all that. But, after turning 40 and putting on a few pounds, it could be that the extra attention my crotch is getting has nothing to do with being hung like a horse, and everything to do with looking like an idiot.

You see, I hesitate to look, because when the first six or seven people that went by were staring at my crotch, I just assumed it was because I am so studly.

But now I'm getting worried, and I'm afraid to look, because I'll look like a bigger retard if I am staring down at my own Johnson. So, is it my package, or is my fly undone?

The suspense is killing me here.

Labels: fly, package, zipper

(Toledo, OH) Larry Underhill said the "moment of inspiration" came for him while trying to shave his partner's back a few weeks ago.

"I was rinsing out one of those two-blade deals for like the nineteenth time, staring at the clumps of black man-hair swirling around in the sink," he recalled. "Then I thought: 'If I had a 24-blade razor, this would take me one-twelfth of the time."

Underhill began by super-gluing sets of disposable cartridges together, and then experimented with his unique "tapered-set" design, which he calls the "Infini-Blade."

"By gradually narrowing the sets of blades, a person can shave wide areas while keeping the maneuverability needed in tight spaces," he said, demonstrating how the 24-blade razor handled around his nipples. "Plus, if you're shaving someone as hairy as a Hobbit's foot, you don't have to rinse for, like, six or seven passes of the razor."

Close shaves make for happy couples

Ultimately, said Underhill, he sees his invention as a "great moment in the history of relationships."

"Let's face it - great big nasty gobs of sticky hair are just not sexy," he said, pointing to a clump of speckled residue in the sink. "Even the most committed of couples get grossed out shaving each other's shaggy tushes. The Infini-Blade takes the messiness out of mutual hygiene, and brings people closer together."

Labels: couples, razor, razors

Guest editorial by Hank Freeman, defensive spouse

From the time the alarm clock buzzes, jarring me out of bed after a long night, until my weary head hits the pillow again in the evening, it's nothing but questions from you.

It's "Where were you till 3:00 am?" and "Is that whiskey on your breath?" and "Why does a phone number from someone named Sarah keep showing up on the caller ID?" all fucking day long.

And really - if you didn't ask me so many damned questions, I wouldn't have to lie to you.

It's pretty simple, actually. If you don't like when I lie, then don't ask a question that's just about guaranteed to elicit one of those big, fat whopping lies I am known for.

I think it's safe to say that all of this is your problem, not mine. There wouldn't be any lying - none at all - were it not for your obsession with asking me such stupid questions.

But no - you just HAVE to ask me shit like "Is this crack pipe yours?" or "Do you know how I might have wound up with chlamydia?" If you'd just shut the hell up, we'd get along fine.

Labels: chlamydia, crack pipe, lies, lying

Guest editorial by Nathan Higgins, 4th grade

Look, Allen, I know it's your brand-new PS3, and I like playing Grand Theft Auto IV and all, but your stupid little sister has got to go.

If she runs out here one more time to try and kiss me, I'm going to punch her in the face. I don't care if she is just a second-grader.

So what if your mom says she gets to play, too. We could just tie her in the closet or something, nobody has to know.

Or we could play hide and seek outside, and then run in and lock all the doors. I mean, yeah - I appreciate you inviting me over to kill hookers and shoot cops and sell drugs and run over winos, but your smelly sister is ruining everything.

I'm not trying to give you a lot of blah blah blah about this, but Brian has Resident Evil V, and he doesn't have any sisters.

Or any brothers, either, since Jacob got run over by that truck on the highway, and his mom just sits there and drinks whiskey and cries to herself, which is kinda creepy.

So, let's do something to get rid of stupid-head Kirsten, OK? We've got a good thing going at your house, and I'd hate to let a little wah-wah baby sister spoil it all.

Labels: Grand Theft Auto IV, Mortal Kombat II, PS3, PS3 games, Resident Evil V

(Toledo, OH) With the news that Judge James Carr ordered Toledo Mayor Carty Finkbeiner to allow a local radio station host, Kevin Milliken, into city press conferences, the mercurial mayor vowed to be more congenial at future events.

"Let it be known that from this day forth a new Carty will be your host," he said, bringing a tray of drinks to media representatives at One Government Center. "We will pride ourselves on providing the extras. We’re a different kind of office now, and we focus on customer service — reporters first!"

The lawsuit arose from an ongoing feud between WSPD and the mayor’s office. Last week, three talk show hosts from WSPD attempted to force their way into a news conference after Milliken was banned from a news event the previous day.

Finkbeiner said that the difficulties were "all in the past."

"It's all about taking care of the customer, and all things being equal, the one who does it the best, is likely to keep the customer forever," he said, carrying a tray of hors d'houvres. "When they come here and are treated well, we can keep these reporters not for one press conference but multiple press conferences."

Shrimp sizzlers may ease tensions at press conferences

Most importantly, said Finkbeiner, it is important for he and his staff to mean what they say.

"If the media believes you’re sincere, they will change as well. But you need to show them you’re for real," he said, bussing a table where WSPD reporters had eaten. "That’s how we make our mark: by outperforming the other guys, by being better. Would you like a refill on your drink?"

Labels: Carty Finkbeiner, WSPD

Ellen Hinckley prepares Sheila for house painting

(Toledo, OH) The Hinckley family has developed a novel, labor-saving approach to paiting their house - they use their 4-year-old Irish setter Sheila to do the work.

"Pretty basically, we just pour the paint on her, stick her by the house, and wait for her to fling herself dry," chuckled Gary Hinckley. "It's not the most efficient use of paint, but it's funnier than hell to watch. Plus, Sheila seems to get quite a kick out of it."

Hinckley said that the painting pooch has been used on a number of redecorating projects around the house.

"We had her do the den, the family room, and the kid's playroom," he said of the dog's exploits. "I even tried to have her paint this old Chevelle I have in the garage, but that Hawthorne acrylic lacquer auto paint was a real bitch to get out of her fur."

Sheila's first coat of latex on the back of the Hinckley house

Hinckley said that he is considering renting out Sheila to the neighbors.

"Look - she's a hard worker and she works for Milkbones," he said, finishing a Bud Light. "The only downside is when a squirrel gets in her sight, but hey - could there be anything more hilarious than a paint-oozing Irish setter treeing a screaming squirrel? I think not."

Labels: house painting, Irish Setter

(Toledo, OH) Ron Eberhard thought that his investment in a 40-passenger stretch limousine was "a fortune waiting to get picked up."

"I thought to myself: why has nobody ever tried this?" he said. "But I haven't landed a single rental in six months. This is pathetic."

One of the reasons for the difficulty in securing rentals, said Eberhard, is the relatively low costs associated with competing forms of mass transit.

"These cheap fucks can get a bus with a boozy, cigar-chomping old driver for $60 an hour," he complained. "I can't even get this monstrosity on the road for less than $125 an hour, let alone stock it with well liquors and Cheezits and shit."

Gathering dust and bleeding interest every month

Eberhard paid a local body shop to weld his "hyper-limo" frame, investing over $100,000 in the vehicle, which he hoped to market to large wedding parties.

"You can fit the entire wedding in here. Of course the fucking thing needs 30 yards just to start turning, and I can't even keep a driver long enough to get him trained," he said. "I'll be better off putting it up on cinder blocks and living in this heap. Fuck me."

Labels: 40-passenger limousine

Guest editorial by Nick Polanich, agitated motorist

Look, you impatient fuck. I am going eight miles over the speed limit, and I do not apperciate your minivan right up on my ass. In fact, you are so close that I can see the glint of your tiny Razr V3 phone as you blather on with one of your idiot friends about how much traffic there is.

But you're not just tailgaiting, you're invading my personal space.

Sure, I know, you probably spend your whole life getting way too close to people, the kind of garlic-breathed schmuck who laughs too loud and spits small pieces of food on me at parties.

I understand this.

But I have some issues you should know about. One of them - let's just say - involved a drunken uncle 20 years ago, and I'm still working through the whole people-right-behind-me thing.

The other issue is my temper, which is short. Very. Short. And it's about ready to tell me to slam on the brakes, take a rear-ending, and to go out and pound your smarmy face into the pavement.

So for your sake and mine, either back the fuck off or pass me. You may not know what personal space is, but you're about to learn what it means to have a fist break your fucking nose.

Oh - and take care now.

Labels: tailgaters, tailgating, tempers

By Billy Pilgrim, Toledo Tales Rogue Editor

O’Brien: Big, bald, but not bloody

(Toledo, OH) Father Jon O’Brien, a 17-year veteran of the Catholic priesthood, truly relishes his role as spiritual leader at Rosary Cathedral on Collingwood, and steers his flock in these difficult times when many are left questioning the role faith plays in our progressively postmodern world.

Nevertheless, he is plagued by a secret private desire that has remained hidden for years, even from his closest friends and colleagues: more than anything, O’Brien wishes he could experience the beauty and wonder of the female menstruation cycle.

“It all started when I was 12 or 13, really,” O’Brien remarked in an exclusive interview with Toledo Tales. “All of my friends were girls, and suddenly they were in the miraculous throws of womanhood, what with the tampons and such. Words can’t express the trauma I underwent when I asked my father when I would start ovulating—let’s just say it involved a bottle of Jim Beam and an old belt.”

Despite his difficult childhood, O’Brien kept his treasured wish alive even during his years of rigorous study in college and the seminary.

“The Bible is full of strong, independent women, all of whom surely felt the joy of their monthly cycle,” O’Brien contemplated while folding some freshly-laundered altar cloths. “I’m sure with a few surgeries and estrogen therapy I could experience that same sensation, but it wouldn’t be the same. Besides, the church would probably notice the missing $50,000. It’s not like the occasional twenty-spot I swipe from the Sunday basket.”

A new perspective on the tradition of the "body and blood of Christ"

O’Brien appeared somberly devout when asked how this desire had affected his own spirituality and its inherent connection to the flesh, pausing to reflect on his life.

“Every night I pray the Lord bless me, so when I awake I discover the righteousness of oozing girly parts,” O’Brien quietly intoned. “Until that day, I’ll continue as I always have: guiding the lives of others while my own life is a cruel, bloodless lie.”

Labels: blood of Christ, menstruation

(Toledo, OH) Sam Abershaid had been looking forward to seeing his Ohio State Buckeyes in the BCS Championship Game against the Florida Gators.

His evening, however, was "totally ruined" by a tragicomic series of misadventures.

"I sat down at kickoff, opened my bag of Fritos, and got ready to watch The Game. First thing I noticed was how stale these chips were," he said, showing reporters the offending bag. "It was too late to leave the house, and the only other edible snack food was fucking garlic Triscuits. Ugh."

Abershaid's enjoyment of the game, moreover, was also marred by the "non-stop" chatter of girlfriend Amy Pettit.

"I mean, I don't mind a couple of questions here and there, or cheering on the big plays," he said. "But she was blathering on about stupid shit, like asking me if I thought David Bowie's song "China Girl" was racist. What in the fuck does that have to do with the BCS Championship?"

Just you shut your mouth

Abershaid said that he reached the point - given the annoying commentary and unsatisfying snacks - where he was ready to simply shut the television off and go to bed.

"I would have been better off taping this shit and watching it when Amy goes to work tomorrow," he muttered, scratching his package. "Every second I have to listen to her screechy voice makes me want to stab my eardrums with shrimp skewers."

Labels: BCS championship, girlfriend, Triscuits

(Toledo, OH) Meredith Winstanley has a new worry to go along with her various neuroses: the time that remains on the microwave if you open the door before the timer rings.

"Where do all those precious moments go?" she asked Toledo Tales reporters. "I feel bad for them, like they were sitting all alone by themselves on the bottom stair, with their hands on their knees like an old man, roaring fearfully without giving any trouble to anybody; and each and all of them are for the time clean out of their wits, and do jointly and severally commit all manner of follies."

Still, said Winstanley, she "just doesn't feel right" about clearing the timer.

"Who am I to undertake such a calling? It's knowledge that leads to fear and trembling to question," she said, wringing her hands. "It's knowledge that leads any one of us to protest, 'Who am I to be God's messenger in the world?' - and it is the same knowledge leading Peter to confess, 'Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.' Mercy me."

A time to keep, and a time to throw away

Winstanley said that she hopes to be a "beacon of hope" for lost seconds, as the world is "a nasty place outside."

"Anything they need, I'll help them with," she said. "They may have lost their homes or husbands or wives or kids, but they all still have a certain amount of pride. Everyone has a story. They may be down, but every second needs a helping hand up at some point in their lives. It's just not right to throw them away like we've been doing."

Labels: microwaves, old people, time

By Nate Van Born, Toledo Native and Corporate Shill

Ok girlfriend, I need to vent. I’ve been with this sheik advertising firm for two years now, and even though I’ve already received a huge promotion, drive a FA-BU-LOUS beamer, and have all sorts of fringe benefits (including free stress-release massages downtown at Frederico’s—rrrrrr),
I’m sick of all these F-ing euphemisms in the corporate world.

For example, all these gosh-darn executives never address our sales figures in a clear, exact way. These silly-goos just used the same trite clichés, like “our stock is holding its own,” or “we need to improve productivity and remember the bottom line.”

What these poopyheads don’t realize is that we’re all, like, adults. If they could just be blunt and precise, and occasionally drop a much needed four-letter stinger, everyone would feel motivated to make this doggone company a better place to work.

Which brings me to another point. I don’t want to sound like a Whining Willy, but the quality of our coffee has like, totally gone down the tubes in the past few months. I don’t know if they’ve switched to some generic brand, but it tastes like doo-dung water. Can’t you tightwads at least spring for some Folgers? HEL-LO!

But the last thing I want you people to think is that I’m cynical. After all, I love this job, and wouldn’t trade it for all the spice in India. And speaking of spicy, have you seen that new piece of man-meat Nick in public relations? Tarnation, girlfriend! I’d let him spooge in my fudge-hole any day of the week!

So in closing, remember that euphemisms are, like, the worst way to prevent the clearness of talking and all that jazz. Just be honest and open, and we can make this place the best company under the sun. Jeebus, I’m late for a board meeting! Toodles!

Labels: corporate shill, euphemisms, Nasty coffee

Orleans finding new ways of promoting musical illiteracy

(Toledo, OH) Kevin Orleans - overnight, fill-in, and weekend host for Toledo's WXKR-94.5 - has a new source of amusement to kill time on his $8 per hour job.

As he announces songs that have just been played, he finds opportunities to insert "half-truths and bald-faced lies" about the music.

"Last night, for example, I added that Elton John played piano on Led Zeppelin's 'Boogie with Stu,' and not a single listener called up to challenge me," he laughed. "So after the next set I said that Joe Walsh played lead guitar on the Bob Seger 'Live Bullet' album. Finally some wasted dipshit called in about 4:30 [am], and I told him he misheard me. Too funny."

Orleans said the only time his audience "showed any signs of brain function" was during a lie he told after an Eric Clapton song.

"I said that the song 'Tears in Heaven' was written by Clapton in memory John Lennon," he chuckled, noting that the song was actually written for Clapton's son Conor. "I got like ten calls in two minutes telling me the real story. I guess I underestimated this gang of drunks, insomniacs, and drooling feebs."

Whoops - Orleans got caught on this one

The mirthful radio host said that he has developed a "sure-fire formula" for his disinformation campaign.

"You have to stay away from making impossible claims about records released after 1995 or so, since newer music is likely to be completely dissected on the Web," he said, crushing a Camel Menthol Light as he queued the next three tracks. "But who the hell is going to know if Steve Marriott did or didn't play rythm guitar and sing background vocals for Bachman Turner Overdrive on their 1975 tour? Check and mate, sir."

Labels: Elton John, Eric Clapton, Led Zeppelin, WXKR

Left: Marlowe recalling the unwanted guest

(Perrysburg, OH) Loving Paws worker Sheila Marlowe admitted to Toledo Tales reporters that she was "happy as hell" that a 7-year-old poodle mix named "Pepper" had to be put to sleep last week.

"Oh yeah - that dog had the most annoying bark, and bit everyone foolish enough to put a hand near it," she said, recalling the former resident of the animal shelter. "After the third or fourth time it sunk its teeth into my arm, I was ready to beat it like a baby harp seal."

Peppers came to the shelter six weeks ago when a family claimed it was moving to an apartment that did not allow pets, said Marlowe.

"But the fact is that those people lied. Flat-out lied," she said, pausing as she groomed a new arrival. "This mongrel was the most unloveable beast I have ever seen, and it was clear that they dropped off the mutt because they absolutely hated it."

Left: Peppers never quite fit in at Loving Paws

Marlowe said that the decision by staffers to euthanize Peppers was "unanimous."

"Usually there's one or two soft-hearted types who want to give an animal another week," she said. "But we all but threw a party after the vote on this mangy cur. May you rot in hell, you worthless, yapping incubus."

Labels: animal shelter, poodles