Toledo Tales

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: Dogs, Toledo

A Toledo Tales Guest Editorial
By Sarah McWren

McWren: Stacked, Stocked, and Shocked by Your Prying Stare

As a paralegal in the great Toledo area, I endure a grueling schedule of meetings, court briefings, and case reviews each and every day.

So even though I pride myself on being physical fit as well a young intellectual, I find it disgusting when men ogle the body I flaunt.

I spent four hard years cramming at the University of Michigan to earn my pre-law degree. You know, the human brain is only so big, so it took a lot of really stiff shoving to get all that knowledge in there. And even though I’ve yet to pass the state bar exam, I put my massive legal expertise on the line everyday when I help attorneys prepare for their touchiest cases, most of which overflow with intensity.

But why do my coworkers, who know how smart I am, shamelessly gaze at me when I wear clothes that hug my ass and tits like spandex? Don’t they know how embarrassing and shallow it is to look at someone’s breasts when they’re talking about their second breast augmentation? And when a girl sighs that ‘she’s so horny she could fuck in the broom closet,’ it’s not an outright offer to Rex Williams from accounting. It’s just an expression—the Kappa Phi girls said that shit all the time back in the day.

In conclusion, fellas, treat a gal like a person, not a piece of meat. And when she wears a low-cut top and grabs your balls in the supply room when no one’s looking, be a gentleman—keep your eyes where they belong.

Labels: double standards, hottie

By Billy Pilgrim, Toledo Tales Rogue Editor

Murkowski: O How He Loves the Bands You’ve Never Heard Of

(Toledo, OH) Veteran record store owner Lars Murkowski has by all accounts an encyclopedic knowledge of music, ranging from turn-of-the-century ragtime to obscure European techno, and everything in between.

Unfortunately, Murkowski uses this incredibly vast musical intelligence to berate his customers on a daily basis, and mock what he views as “the most white-bread pedestrian taste in music I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life.”

“Last week I had some cute paralegal come in looking for a George Thorogood live album for her boyfriend—I believe it was released in ’99,” Murkowski remarked while re-alphabetizing the Dollar Bin near his store’s main entrance. “I told that bitch to hit Circuit City, buy the overpriced CD there, and then shove it up her boyfriend’s Corona-swilling ass. Can you believe that shit? George Thorogood. Jesus, if you wanna get drunk and listen to slide guitar, at least have the decency to buy a Little Feat record for fuck’s sake.”

Murkowski continued to outline how his usual patrons are intellectually incapable of making an informed purchase at his establishment.

“Occasionally I’ll get a college kid who’s looking for some Charlie Mingus, or Massive Attack, or on rare occasions some Uriah Heep, and in those cases I can just talk for hours,” Murkowski beamed. “But my average customer is dumber than a kindergarten dropout huffing paint thinner, and I tell them as such.”

When prompted on how his crass demeanor affected potential sales transactions, Murkowski revealed his innovative business plan.

“Yeah, I get that question a lot—how can I keep this place running if I tell everyone what a dumb bastard they are,” Murkowski chuckled. “It’s pretty simple: I turn into Johnny Kiss-Ass between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and normally pull in about fifty grand to float me through the upcoming year. Any other time, though, all bets are off. So are you faggots gonna buy something or what?”

Labels: music, record stores, Toledo

A Guest Editorial
by Darren Uphill, programming lackey

You sit there flashing that stupid "12:00" at me over and over again, knowing that it is not within my power to control your bullying behavior.

My greatest anguish as a child came from my lack of programming ability, which denied me the freedom to enjoy the activities that all small, growing boys participated in, like Pong or Space Invaders. Like any other young child, I longed to run and jump about, play hide and seek, be mischievous and laugh with the others.

But you sit there and mock me, mock me, endlessly torturing me every 60 seconds with another flash, knowing full well of my electronic impotence and my history of struggling with anything that needs to be set or programmed.

In second grade a couple of stupid girls were teasing me because I didn't know how to work my calculator and I walked away without saying anything in return — just like they tell you to - and after recess they lied - LIED!!! - to the teacher saying I threw ice at them and Mrs. Pratt would hear none of my story, nothing, and even my parents didn't believe me and that stupid-head teacher made me write an apology to the girls saying "I will not throw ice. I will not throw ice. It is not nice. It is as hard as rocks and could hurt other kids" a hundred times.

So fuck you, O Mean Machine. Flash away, because you don't care, just like the rest of the world.

Labels: Toledo, VCRs

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

Look - all I did was tape a few piano keys together. It's not my fault Mrs. Kelleher went all spazz-o during music class when she hit them.

We were singing that dumb song "Old Dan Tucker" - and it was Stephen who sang it with an "F," not me - and then she finally went up high enough to hit the keys with the tape.

B-R-E-E-E-E-R-R-R-R-T!!!

So Mrs. Killa-her - that's what we call her - got really mad and peeled off the tape and started screaming at us about what bad apples we were and how she hoped none of us came back next year.

So she started playing again, and we started singing, and then she hit the SECOND piece of Scotch tape.

B-R-E-E-E-E-R-R-R-R-T!!!

And then Mrs. Killa-her started crying and put her head down on the piano and nobody said a word, not one word. And I kinda felt bad about making her cry, at least until Jason Oberheimer let out this NASTY fart that was loud and smelly and we all were trying not to laugh and then Mrs. Lolich came in and she was super-mad. We had to write an apology letter to Mrs. Killa-her about the Scotch tape, and then we heard she wasn't going to teach music any more on account of her nerves.

But all I did was put on some Scotch tape. I wasn't the one who Super Glued her special piano slippers to the closet floor, that was Aaron. So blah, blah, blah and stuff.

Labels: music class, piano, pranks

(Toledo, OH) Neighborhood voyeur Evan Pisanelli, who spends a great deal of time gazing through your windows, has some recommendations about your shower regimen.

"Quite frankly, you are spending way too much time washing parts of your body that never stink," he noted. "Quite frankly, your shower priorities are quite skewed."

Pisanelli said that your obsession with washing your elbows is "downright puzzling."

"I swear to God - you spent two minutes with that loofah sponge on your elbows. Your ELBOWS, for Chrissakes," he said, shaking his head. "Meanwhile you never so much a ran a washcloth down your ass crack. Now, I'm no olfactorologist or anything, but I got to believe the butt region generates more stink particles per square inch than just about any part of your body."

The time you spend washing you chest is "gratifying," said Pisanelli, but he is concerned you might be neglecting potential sources of body odor.

"Look - letting shampoo and soap dribble down to your toes is no way to get rid of that stale Cheetos smell you've got going. I should know - I sniff your socks every time you leave them out on the deck," he added. "And that quickie blast of water under your arms is no replacement for a good armpit scrubbing. Frankly, my friend, you need a refresher course in showering, and your next-door neighboors simply out-clean you in every category. I just thought you should know, that's all."

Labels: Peeping Tom, showering, voyeurs

(Toledo, OH) Marlon Tavares has a problem with you.

"I see you over there lookin' at me and shit," he said in your direction. "You think you're all bad and shit? Then come right the fuck over, you little whatever. I'll fuck your shit up and shit."

The problem apparently began when you entered his "personal space," which seems to extend about 100 yards in any direction Tavares looks.

"Yeah, you're all big and bad and shit," he added, pausing to take a long pull from his bottle. "But you ain't never messed with someone till you started messin' with me. I'll fuck your shit up and shit."

Tavares added that he has a "piece of vice" for you.

"Here's a piece of vice, m'friend: DON'T-START-NO-SHIT-WITH-ME," he said, punctuating his oratory with a belch. "Just because you think you're bad and shit, don't make you bad and shit. Am I right?'

Pausing to wipe his face on his sleeve, Tavares answered his own rhetorical question.

"You bet your mothernothing ass I'm right and shit," he said menacingly.

Labels: alcoholic, drunks, Toledo

(Toledo, OH) Acquaintances of Toledo resident Marty Granhelm are adamant that the local man remains a "serial doofus" despite his recent purchase of a $200 pair of Oakley sunglasses.

"Face it - even with new specs and a Bluetooth, Marty's a complete, drooling feeb," muttered coworker Kevin Johanssen. "We Saran-wrapped the toliet seat on him, and he was all the way back to his cubicle before he figured out he had piss all over his khakis. Yessir - those Oakleys made a difference there!"

Ex-girlfriend Melissa Draheim, whose three-month romance with Granhelm ended in July, said that Marty believes the sunglasses "are like magic, or something."

"I'd be yelling at him to stop being such a fucking douchebag and demand a promotion, and on would go his Oakleys," she recalled, shaking her head. "He's such a pussy that he doesn't even warrant the honor of a bullet-delivered death. Oh, and in bed? Can't even get it up without the fucking sunglasses."

Neighbor Tanya Cappaletty said that Granhelm's new look is like "putting gas in a car you've already wrecked."

"Flat out - he looks like a jackass with those sunglasses," she said. "And, not like I'd ever sleep with the mong or anything, because there's a better chance of seeing Bin Laden and Bush having a latte than me boinking Marty, but the glasses got to go, dude."

Labels: Oakley sunglasses, Oakleys, Toledo

A guest editorial by Steve Johanian,
jilted motorist

I saw you walking out of the Franklin Park mall by the Marshall Field's store, and you looked terrific. I was especially attracted to you for your purposeful ztride as you crossed the lot to your nearby car.

"There," I thought to myself, "is a woman with purpose. A woman of substance. A woman who has a close-ass parking place in this busy motherfucking mall parking lot."

But, no. You walked to your Honda Accord, third spot in the first aisle, and opened your trunk, took out a bag, and walked back into the mall. Just like that, you betrayed my trust in you, a trust that was built upon you leaving the mall.

For that, you two-timing bitch, I hope you die.

You led me on with that "park-hither" look of yours, our eyes meeting in an unspoken gesture of cognition, and it was clear that you were promising me your spot. I could just glide right in, feeling the warmth of your engine on the pavement as we completed our short courtship:

Come, and trip it as ye go,
On the light fantastick toe.
And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The Mountaineer, sweet Jeep Liberty.

But as quickly as our love commenced, you stabbed me in the back with your glistening stiletto of treachery. Then you looked at me with those scheming, evil white orbs, pretending that we never were an item. I felt so ashamed and guilt-ridden, and I cringed at the thought of anyone knowing that I had experienced this lot rape.

I must shower now, you filthy tramp.

Labels: Franklin Park Mall, parking, parking lots, Toledo