Toledo Tales

By Billy Pilgrim, Toledo Tales Rogue Editor

(Toledo, OH)—Bruce Makuck was devastated last October when his wife Deborah left him for a younger, more stylish man after 19 years of loyal marriage.

That’s why this fall, after losing 30 pounds jogging all summer, Makuck plans to revamp his entire autumn wardrobe with rugged, overpriced slacks and sweaters from mail-order clothier L.L. Bean.

“When Debbie left, I was devastated,” Makuck somberly reflected. “And then I found out the guy she was banging was one of these…metrosexuals. You know, one of these pseudo-fags who wear argyle socks and think pink and purple match? I decided then and there I was going to have a new look this fall, come hell or high water.”

Makuck, a life-long civil engineer and admitted “clock puncher,” feels that L.L. Bean’s expansive collection of flannel, corduroy, and denim will help project a more “outdoorsy persona.”

“I used to be the guy at the office who ate nine doughnuts before lunchtime,” Makuck remarked, disgusted with his former lifestyle. “But I took two weeks of personal leave in June, grew a beard, and threw out every Oxford shirt I owned. Nobody fucks with me now.”

Left: The old Bruce

Ultimately, Makuck hopes to rejuvenate his love life through this highly spiritual wardrobe reinvention.

“There’s this receptionist down the hall, so if I make the office softball team this year, it would do me a real solid,” Makuck beamed. “When I tried to ask her out in April, I had grape jelly all over my Dilbert tie. Didn’t go so well. This time…she [Administrative Assistant Josie Fowler] doesn’t know it, but I’m about to go all woodsman on her sexy ass.”

(Toledo, OH) The six-way intersection at Laskey, Tremainsville and Douglas roads in West Toledo is notorious for rush hour backups, but local resident Pat Reeger observed what he called "divine traffic intervention" last week.

"Dude - it was waaay cool," he told a Toledo Tales reporter. "That left turn lane normally lets only three, maybe four cars turn. I watched nine - count 'em nine - goddamn cars make that light, mister. No way that coulda happened without the Big Man getting involved."

Reeger said that the first five cars through the intersection proceeded at an orderly, though quick, pace.

"They weren't like, flooring it or anything," he said, ackowledging that the event was "heightened" for him by some acid he'd dropped. "But they were definitely in tune with each other, you know? But those next two cars - I mean, whoa! They were really hauling ass."

Left: Reeger was "blown away" by the miracle

The moment of "righteous power" occurred as vehicles eight and nine made it through the light, said Reeger.

"I swear that I have never seen a ten-second yellow light in my life, but that light took forever - for-e-ver - to change," he said, still glowing from observing the "holy" event. "You can't tell me that I didn't just see the Almighty Himself out there, brother. There is no other explanation."

Labels: left turns, Toledo

A Toledo Tales Guest Editorial
by Father Jon O’Brien

I had just started the Act of Penitence when I first heard your NEXTEL walkie-talkie chirp. Being the forgiving sort I am, I let it slide.

Then I started into the Gloria in Excelsis Deo when I heard your mobile communication device go off again. I looked up and saw you crouching low behind a pew, talking to God only knows who right in the middle of Mass.

As Jesus and the Holy Spirit are my Witnesses, if I hear that NEXTEL chirp again in church, I'm tossing you out of Mass on your gluteus maximus.

Did you ever read in the Gospels the part about turning off your cell phones and pagers before Mass starts? No, because the blasted things weren't invented then. But if they were, God would have written a special rule about them, and if He were here now, you can bet He would kick your ever-loving derriere right out of here.

And, just for grins, what could be so importnat that you have to interrupt Mass for an electronic conversation? At 10:00 AM, it's hardly an important sports event like the Super Bowl, and if it's work, I am sure it will still be there at 10:56 AM when I am saying the Benediction.

Have I ever carried Mass past 11:00? No sir.

Thus, it is with concern for both your physical and spiritual well being that I urge you to shut that device off, or else I'll send a bunch of hungover Knights of Columbus to give you a holy fists-and-boots beatdown in your driveway. Amen.

Labels: Catholic Church, Mass, Toledo

Subcomandante Bob knows that many of you are struggling to keep your weight in check, and he came across an organization that specializes in lap band procedures.

Journey Lite specializes in Laparoscopic Adjustable Gastric Banding (which is also known as the LAGB or the LAP BAND System procedure). The LAPBAND Adjustable Gastric Band is designed to help you lose excess body weight, improve weight-related health conditions and enhance your quality of life. It reduces the capacity of your stomach and restricts the amount of food that can be consumed at one time.

This procedure is not for everyone, but be sure to follow the above link to learn more about the innovations in lap bands.

Existing meth facility in an east side Toledo location

(Toledo, OH) Efforts to attract more high-tech jobs to Nortwhest Ohio bore some fruit today with the announcement that a local methamphetamine lab is expected to add 20 jobs in Toledo over the next year in a "multi-thousand dollar" manufacturing expansion.

A spokesman for the local methamphetamine cooperative expressed enthusiasm for the new facility's economic impact in Toledo.

"This new meth lab is a perfect example of everything the local government and area leaders are trying to accomplish with their economic development agenda," said "Piper," an area street-level pharmaceuticals operative. "This facility is non-automotive, and we are bringing together leaders in the field of health care and medicine with positive results for the city of Toledo."

Left: Meth manufacturing worker readying new lab for production

The city of Toledo has approved two tax abatement measures for up to 6 years to support the project. The value of the abatements is estimated at $1.2 million, which does not include what Piper termed "ancillary benefits" to municipal officials.

"Let's face it - city officials got to get their ice just like every other meth head," the spokesman chuckled. "But whatever we lose in free dope, we will surely recoup in the six months after the sampleage gets hoovered up."

Piper added that the deal simply "makes mondo sense" for local meth manufacturers.

"Remaining in Toledo allows us to move forward with our plans for a new product lineup, and helps us keep down costs," he said, noting that group was experimenting with cherry-flavored meth and dope delivered in a Pez-like dispenser. "If we're going to remain competitive as a meth producer, we have to limit our expenses, y'all. Staying in Toledo is the best way to do that, and it allows us to give a little sumpin-sumpin back to the community."

Labels: crystal meth, meth lab, methamphetamine, Toledo

Subcomandante Bob knows that sometimes a guy's gotta hide things, stuff that he doesn't want people to know about. Bulky things, sometimes things with duct tape over their mouths and things that sometimes are still wriggling when you need to stuff them someplace.

If you are a guy with special garage storage needs, be sure to check out the Ultimate garage storage cabinets at CarGuyGarage.com. Look - we're just saying, OK? Nobody's prying into your business here.

So, no matter what you need to keep locked up tight, you can find strong, 3/4" PVC thermofused laminate cabinets with unique polyurethane coated cabinet fronts for added durability and smooth automotive finish over at the CarGuyGarage.com. Just click on the above link, and don't be so testy. Nobody's looking in your cabinets, pal.

A Toledo Tales Guest Editorial
By Derek Pulser, Local Jazz Bassist

Pulser: A Musician with Integrity, Dignity, and Bloodlust

Let me hit the ground running here: I play jazz bass and am going to say a few things about music. So if you listen to Brad Paisley, or Jay-Z, or Panic! At the Disco, or even if know two guitar chords (both of which are probably variants of G major), you need to go buy an issue of Teen People, roll it up tightly, and stick it down your motherfucking throat.

For too long I have played Mingus and Coltrane covers to drunk college kids and Ottawa Hills yuppies who have asked me—after the most blistering, soulful sets of my life—“to play something they can sing to…you know, something from the radio.” And because of this, I pray the same prayer every day of my life: oh, that someone would kill the band Bon Jovi in front of their children.

Why Bon Jovi? I know they’ve already enjoyed their lame, late-eighties peak of third tier hair rock and are now just coasting through Botox Wonderland. But what drives me up a wall is that these ass-lickers continue to make cheesy, disposable pop-rock that cute, 30-something single mothers buy impulsively when they’re shopping for kid shoes at Target. I have a Masters in Music Theory and Composition, do five gigs a week, and can’t even get a date, but these guys write lines like “I just wanna live while I’m alive” and every woman between 28 and 45 drops their fucking panties. Bad poetry and power chord clichés: such things, my friends, are why people fly planes into our buildings.

I propose that some brave soul round these faggots up, bind their hands and feet with duct tape, and make them listen to their entire catalog of crap while their kids squeal with terror a few feet away. And then after everyone’s shit themselves, and begged for their pathetic corporate lives, and pledged fervently to make real music with a real message, they get blown to bits by a bazooka.

You may say that I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. The day popular music got reduced to the lowest common denominator of bouffant-haired Jersey pride, millions of purists like myself had a dream of restoration. Now if only someone was willing to do life in prison without parole for this dream, I’d be one happy bassist.

Labels: bass players, bassist, Bon Jovi

(Toledo, OH) Local public exhibitionist Terrance Islington, contacted by Toledo Tales, expressed excitement about the upcoming return to classes by area students.

"No doubt, the summer's been kind of slow, except for hanging out by the pools," he noted. "And since the city opened only half of the pools this year, I have had to drive clear across town to get an audience."

Islington took aim at what he called "an overabundance of stupid summer programs" that affected his ability to practice his art.

"You got kids in libraries, kids at YMCA camp, and kids doing volunteer work for the elderly," he muttered. "But what about my needs? Does Mayor Carty Finkbeiner ever stop to think that exhibitionists are people, too? No, sir - it's always 'stick it to the naked guy' whenever city hall gets involved."

If next summer is like 2007, added Islington, he might have to consider relocation.

"It is impossible to achieve any economic growth in this city when you are chasing away residents," he said, practicing his 'quick-flash' technique for photographers. "Toledo simply is not a friendly place for exhibitionists to conduct their livelihood, and it's time for the Finkbeiner administration to explain how - or even if - it intends to change this downward spiral and its relentless attacks on people who like to share themselves with the community."

Left: Hobson takes aim

(Toledo, OH) A group of enterprising Toledo teens has banded together and formed the Toledo Area Street Slingshot League (TASSL), combining traditional vandalism in a competitive, standardized format.

The group now has eight-two member teams competing throughout the city, said group spokesman Brian Hobson.

"We have been pleased with the initial interest," he said during a break in practice. "While sponsors have been difficult to find, and city approval is still forthcoming, we nonetheless had an excellent preseason."

Hobson said that league scoring formulas are "pretty simple."

"Hitting a light is worth two points, while a hit that makes the light inoperable is worth five," he said. "Knocking off those photoelectric cells off the support bar that tell the lights when to turn on is worth ten points, but the cell must land intact."

Left: Standard light in league play

Participants use laser-guided slings and fire 20 mm steel bearings. Hobson said that the league currently plays day games, but may consider adding night matches in the future.

"Problems arise when players knock out the streetlight, since the next contestants would then have to fire in the dark," he said, adding that play must continue on one fixture until "it's been totally demolished," or when police arrive.

"Until we solve the lighting dilemma, we'll have to stick to day games," he said.

Labels: slingshots, streetlights, Toledo

A Toledo Tales Guest Editorial
By Richard Magsen, Parent

Nick Magsen and Shrapnel Face: Not a Desirable Combination

Our son Nick is a good kid. He gets solid grades, stays out of trouble, and for a 16 year-old, is pretty damn honest and respectful to Linda and me. The only thing that bothers me, though, is that he keeps hanging out with all these weirdo girls that he meets through his high school’s theatre company.

It seems like my kid wouldn’t know a hottie if one kneeled in a mall parking lot to suck his still-developing cock.

Nick will be a junior this year, so he needs to start to take his reputation seriously. If he gets pegged as the chubby theatre kid who hangs out with fatties and brace-faces, he’s gonna be a bottom-feeder well through college.

Like this girl Christina he brought home last Saturday. This girl’s face looked like it took some heavy shrapnel at Normandy, and she was wearing, of all things, a slinky Marilyn Manson t-shirt. Marilyn Manson? Is it 1997 or something? I’m not very hip seeing as I still crank the best of Bachman-Turner Overdrive on my Friday drives home from work, but I’m pretty sure Marilyn Manson doesn’t even listen to Marilyn Manson anymore. I think he teaches at Berkeley or some shit now.

I’ve been working a lot of overtime lately, so maybe me and Nick should go clothes shopping before school starts next month to straighten him out. Hit Hollister, The Gap—you know, really spruce the kid up. Maybe even buy some hair gel at one of those faggy fragrance stores. If he ever hopes to bang a chick like Suzie Collins who lives three houses down, he better wise up. That Collins girl will only be a sophomore this year, but she’s like, a hundred pounds soaking wet and has tits the size of Alaska. I bet dollars to doughnuts she gets a million offers to this year’s winter formal and ends up blowing some guy in the back seat of a Honda Civic, all whacked out on peach schnapps.

That guy needs to be my son. And if he could just ditch these loser bitches, buy a new wardrobe, and maybe use those free weights I got him for Christmas, he’ll have a fighting chance.

Guest Editorial
By Nathan "Nappy" Jazubowski

People are going nuts about that I-35 bridge collapse that killed a bunch of Minnesota peeps and sent all kinds of cars into the muddy Mississippi and shit.

But that ain't NOTHING like the disaster that was Kyle Pemberville's wack-ass party last night.

Sure, the bridge collapse had missing people, but the 18 poor suckers that they can't find in the rubble just doesn't compare with the hundreds of no-shows at Kyle's place last night. He billed it as "The Bash to End All Keggers," and he promised tons of hotties, but the closest thing to booty I saw was Kyle's 14-year-old sister Amanda. I mean, she had it working, but braces and the Disney Channel are not my bag, you know?

And I know that the I-35W bridge is supposed to be "structurally deficient," but Kyle has that beat hands down. He's both mentally and financially deficient, and the dumb fucker thinks one keg and three bags of pretzels equals "party preparation." After I smoked this big bowl of Chronic, I had some serious munchies, and all I could find were those no-brand pretzel rods. What kind of a state of party readiness is that? I mean, sure, you can dip the pretzels in peanut butter or mustard or mayonnaise or stale salsa, but after that you are totally screwed. And having to sit next to some retarded ninth grader watching a History Channel episode about the rise of Nazi Germany pretty much blows, too. How about some pornos or music videos, Kyle-O?

Even stoners have standards.

Thus, while the Nappy-man recognizes the pain of the Minnesota families whose loved ones were so sorely smited in the I-35 collapse, I must hold fast to the assessment that Kyle Pemberville's party-of-epic-fail was a far greater disaster.

Labels: I-35, I-35 collapse, I-35 disaster, parties

By Billy Pilgrim, Toledo Tales Rogue Editor

A Very Pregnant Winston, Rum and Coke in Hand

Otis Cavafy, an accountant in the greater Toledo area, recently expressed remorse over what he perceived to be one-time sexual encounter with pregnant waitress Maxine Winston last Friday evening.

And unfortunately for Cavafy, this “totally awesome life-long fantasy bang” has resulted in endless phone calls, emails, and other forms of unwanted and unwarranted correspondence.

“So I’m like, getting this righteous buzz last Friday night down at Nick & Jimmy’s with some buds from the office, dig, and somewhere around beer three I realize the bartender is smokin’ hot, about seven months pregnant, and coming onto me like a Catholic school girl at summer camp,” Cavafy remarked while closing some Excel spreadsheets on his sleek Apple laptop. “Next thing I know, we’re back at my place, both half-drunk, and I’m pounding her harder than a merchant marine on shore leave. It was awesome—no condom, that huge, sexy-ass belly and her swollen tits…and the best part was knowing there was zero chance she was gonna fart out my kid.”


Cavafy Plots Another Elaborate Excuse to Avoid Winston’s Psycho Pregnant Ass

Cavafy noted, however, that this carefree erotic experience was short-lived, as Winston became emotionally unstable in the following hours and days.

“The morning after, Maxine was a totally different person. First of all, she fucked up my scrambled eggs, and then she wanted to look at my family photo albums and didn’t leave until noon. Shit hit the fan Sunday night though, around text message 73 or 74—I’d lost count by that point—when she dropped the phrase ‘u my soulmate 4 RL.’ Brother, I knew then I was screwed.”

Only time will tell, it seems, if Cavafy can maneuver his way out of this delicate predicament.

“I guess I should have known only a crazy chick would be slurping rum and cokes and banging a guy she knew for a total of 38 minutes,” reflected Cavafy. “But we all make mistakes. Christ. Do you know she called my office today? I didn’t even give her that fucking number.”

Subcomandante Bob is a character who finds himself in more than his share of altercations. Last night he got into a protracted round of fisticuffs with another resident of Toledo's Cherry Street Mission, whose name is Ray-Ray, over the possession of a cot near the industrial-sized fan that cools the sleeping quarters of this fabled homeless shelter.

Oh, the humanity! Rare indeed is a battle so lacking in decency, so exempt from the normal rules of combat, so filled with depravity and eye-gouging as was the epic throwdown between Bob and his chemically-fueled shelter-mate.

Alas, though Bob persevered, keeping the cot and sending Ray-Ray headlong down a short flight of stairs, he woke up this morning with a pounding headache and some serious bodyaches.

The headache, of course, was due to Bob's complete lack of temperance, but the body aches were a difficult burden to bear. That is, until one of Bob's friends provided him with some samples of Freeze It, which is a new topical pain ointment that is greaseless and effective.

Within seconds Bob could feel the deep resonance of the menthol/camphor blend working into his tired muscles, chasing away the pains inflicted the night before by Ray-Ray. Bob felt young again, as though the world was his oyster, and that he could grab that slimy, disgusting mollusk and make a fine chowder.

Thus, it is with the highest of recommendations that Bob suggests you try the nearly-miraculous powers of Freeze It. You might not receive punches and kicks from an angry homeless man over a cot, but Bob would be willing to bet that your arthritis and muscle aches can be just as painful as one of Ray-Ray's haymakers.