Toledo Tales

A Toledo Tales Guest Editorial
by Rick Waterson

Waterson: Hard at Work and Full of Shit

Sarah, honey, I know that you like to have your friends over now that it’s summer, and your favorite place to hang out is in the basement, with the big TV and video games. But we need to talk, because you and your friends do nothing but drink Pepsi and eat Doritos down there, and you need to know that when nature calls, you need to go upstairs.

Because the basement toilet is a throne, and it’s a throne for my ass only.

Maybe I should back up. I work ten hours a day on other people’s roofs. We’ve need a new roof for three years now, and every day I wake up at six a.m. to lay tar and shingle while your idiot brother Mark wastes another semester at Bowling Green on my dime, and your mother feels the need to pay $3 extra every week for name-brand aspirin. So when I come home dehydrated and cranky, my bowels are aching for a hefty man-shit, and the last thing I want is to sit where one of your 9th grade friends just blew out a Happy Meal.

(Besides, that may even be against the law or something—putting my ass where a minor had just put hers like, an hour beforehand. I’ll look into it.)

And did I tell you last week I found a tampon in the trash? It’s not like I was rummaging, it was just conspicuously atop the dirty tissues and floss. That’s the kind of nonsense I’m talking about—I don’t want to embarrass you, because you’re still at that delicate age, but you girls need to throw that stuff away in the pink bathroom on the main floor. I never go in there except to steal my comb back from your mother, so you can do your private vaginal hygiene stuff in there.

So Sarah, know that I’m your father, and love you very much, but please don’t use my throne. When I lock that door, turn on the fan, and blast a hard day’s turd while flipping through the new Carhartt catalog, it’s the only moment of peace I get. I beg you, don’t take that away from me.

Labels: throne, toilet, Toledo

By Billy Pilgrim, Toledo Tales Rogue Editor

Left: Marcuso and Wan reveling in their profits

(Toledo, OH)—Ed Marcuso, a full-time courier for Wan’s Hunan in downtown Toledo, has seen a drastic increase in gratuities this summer since he began faking the visible side-effects of palsy.

Marcuso, 38, is in relatively good health despite living in his mother’s basement and avoiding voluntary exercise.

This, however, has not prevented him from developing “the perfect scam.”

“I normally start the limp as soon as I’m out of the car,” Marcuso thoughtfully reflected. “Most folks peek out the window when they hear you pull up, so this is critical. The trick is to drag your right foot like your ex-girlfriend smashed it with a cinder block.”

Marcuso continued to detail his intricate routine.

“I normally greet people really, really loud — so goddamn loud they figure I’m smart enough to drive a car, but too retarded to check my public behavior,” revealed Marcuso. “That’s what I call the ‘pity ratio.’ From there, it’s all downhill — I drool a bit when smiling, count their money out loud…on a good night, I average $7 per house.”

One of Mancuso's favorite gimmicks is what he calls "palsy arms"

Marcuso’s employer, Jimmy Wan, wishes his other couriers would take the initiative to generate additional income.

“That guy good—so good I fire single mother last week who beg for job,” Wan remarked. “He should teach acting class. My daughter sign up. She need to learn business.”

Labels: delivery drivers, Toledo

A Guest Editorial by Nathan Higgins
4th Grader at St. Rose

My parents are pretty dumb. I wouldn’t say they’re nanny-poop heads, but sometimes they come close. Anyway, last night they sent me to bed early. And instead of playing video games or watching a DVD or playing with our collie Sparks they went and did some wrestling AGAIN!

Sometimes you gotta wrestle. One time I wrestled with Mark Vewinski because he took my pretzels at lunch and I was like “hey dumbface those are my pretzels why don’t you tell your mom to stop drinking so much!” And so we had to wrestle right there in cafeteria.

But Mom and Dad aren’t even angry when they wrestle. They normally do it after a glass of wine, or Mom has a really good day at work and then Dad rubs her feet and they just talk and talk and like I’m not even there.

And boy are they loud! The mattress goes boink-boink and I can’t even read comic books when they wrestle and it’s like the whole house shakes. I wish they wouldn’t do it so close to bedtime, like maybe after breakfast would be better when they have coffee and juice and bagels and I’m not trying to get some sleep because I have a big quiz on fractions the next day.

Thank gosh it only lasts for a few minutes. I think Mom always wins, because I can hear Dad say something like “Jesus” or “Uggggggh” and he’s all out of breath like Mom pinned him real good and had him in a headlock and maybe even gave him a Wet Willie.

So Mom and Dad, if you read this, give the wrestling a break, will ya? It’s like what you always tell me and Jimmy Baxter about climbing trees: it seems fun now, but just wait until someone falls down and breaks their arm.

Labels: children, parents, parents wrestling

Subcomandante Bob knows that many of you single readers are putting in overtime to make yourselves look good, hitting the gym and staying away from unhealthy foods. Yet you still struggle to find that perfect person to share your life with.

What you should be doing is checking out the fitness singlesopportunities at FitnessDates.com. This is a site that is set up for people who are really into fitness, and should really be considered a fitness dating website.

Bob's idea of fitness dating is hanging around the gym on Ladies' Day, trying to score with the single moms. Unfortunately, they tend to be turned off by the aroma of spilled Stolichnaya and stale Fritos that frequently clings to Bob like a hungry gator.

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, Toledo

By Billy Pilgrim, Toledo Tales Rogue Editor

Robeson with His Many Blueberry Mistresses

Local dairy clerk Terrance Robeson, 49, has been leading a double life for nearly three decades ever since he graduated from high school and started his career in the grocery business: he has a voracious lust for yogurt, and often engages in sexual congress while on the clock.

“Billy, for years I lived in shame, while the fags and the dykes had their revolution and even some of those freaks who like to bang kittens,” Robeson sighed while restocking gallons of skim milk. “But for people like me, there’s no national dialogue, no equality, and dammit, I won’t stand for it anymore: I’m here! I’m sincere! I stick my dick in yogurt!”

Robeson continued to express that his amorous connection to yogurt was not merely a “life choice,” but rather a biological predisposition engrained in his genetic composition.

“I knew from a young age that I was a yogurt thumper,” Robeson candidly revealed. “I remember being at the lunch table in high school, getting a full-on chubby as the Peach Cobbler and Strawberry Swirl spooned into other kids’ mouths. I also knew that it was a living thing—a live culture—capable of complex feelings such as attraction and commitment. So you can call me a freak if you want, and slander me as I smear Mixed Berry on my man-sack in the privacy of the break room, but I assure you this goopy bliss is love.”

Labels: fetishes, Toledo, yogurt

(Toledo, OH) Hopper, a local canine of uncertain ancestry, expressed "total disgust" with the off-brand dog food his owners recently purchased.

"What kind of dried-up, crusty old rat turds are these?" he asked Toledo Tales reporters. "I'll bet you bastards have never eaten any of this crap, or you'd never think of feeding it to a dog. That is, unless you are trying to kill me or something."

Hopper said that he overheard a disturbing conversation between his owners last week.

"The bitch was talking about how tight money is, and asshole there brought me into the picture, saying: 'That damned dog eats better than we do,'" he recalled. "The next thing I know they're dishing out bowls of this moldy garbage. Like it's my fault he snorts coke, or she has 100 pairs of shoes."

Would any of YOU eat this shit? I didn't think so

Hopper said that he is currently "weighing his options" about other domestic possibilities.

"Look, I'm young, and I still have a few good years left. Maybe I can run off and play the 'cute stray' game," he said, scratching his left ear. "Or maybe the dog warden will pick me up, and these idiots will forget about me. This shit, though, has got to go."

(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."

By Billy Pilgrim, Toledo Tales Rogue Editor

Kirkpatrick and son Tim after a march against trans fats

(Toledo, OH) Toledo native Betsy Kirkpatrick has always been a sincere humanitarian and arm-chair activist, but recently she has hit the proverbial ceiling of her bourgeois liberalism, and seems incapable of supporting even a single additional cause.

“From breast cancer to organic nuts to getting better sidewalks, I pretty much do it all,” remarked Kirkpatrick while drafting a petition for carrier pigeon equality. “But lately, I think I’ve just maxed out. I mean, when you go to seven rallies a week for vaginal discharge awareness, you get pretty run down.”

Other members of the Kirkpatrick clan echoed this weariness, and were glad their beloved wife and mother was finally taking time for herself.

“Mom is awesome — she’s like, my role model on how to be a good person,” beamed Tim, her eleven year-old son. “Especially after she takes her white medicine from that vial in her purse. Sometimes she gets sad after her and dad do that loud exercise thing they do in the bedroom, and she gets weepy, and starts fondling our steak knives all weird and stuff, but boy — those pills are something else. It’s a good thing she’s finally slowing down, though. I mean, there’s gotta be some evil in the world left for me to fight once I get old enough to take that white medicine, too.”

Labels: amphetamines, crystal meth, soccer mom