Category: Well I thought it was funny!
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New Mexico Chili
“Recently, I was honored to be selected as a judge at a chili cook-off. The original person called in sick at the last moment and I happened to be standing there at the judge’s table, asking for directions to the Coors Light truck, when the call came in… I was assured by the other two judges (Native New Mexicans) that the chili wouldn’t be all that spicy; and, besides, they told me I could have free beer during the tasting, so I accepted and became Judge 3.”
Here are the scorecard notes from the event:
CHILI # 1 – MIKE’S MANIAC MONSTER CHILI
Judge # 1 — A little too heavy on the tomato. Amusing kick.
Judge # 2 — Nice, smooth tomato flavor. Very mild.
Judge # 3 (Frank) — Holy crap, what the hell is this stuff? You could remove dried paint from your driveway. Took me two beers to put the flames out. I hope that’s the worst one. These New Mexicans are crazy.
CHILI # 2 – EL RANCHO’S AFTERBURNER CHILI
Judge # 1 — Smoky, with a hint of pork. Slight jalapeno tang.
Judge # 2 — Exciting BBQ flavor, needs more peppers to be taken seriously.
Judge # 3 — Keep this out of the reach of children. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people who wanted to give me the Heimlich maneuver. They had to rush in more beer when they saw the look on my face.
CHILI # 3 – ALFREDO’S FAMOUS BURN DOWN THE BARN CHILI
Judge # 1 — Excellent firehouse chili. Great kick.
Judge # 2 — A bit salty, good use of peppers.
Judge # 3 — Call the EPA. I’ve located a uranium spill. My nose feels like I have been snorting Drano. Everyone knows the routine by now. Get me more beer before I ignite. Barmaid pounded me on the back, now my backbone is in the front part of my chest. I’m getting red-faced from all of the beer.
CHILI # 4=2 0- BUBBA’S BLACK MAGIC
Judge # 1 — Black bean chili with almost no spice. Disappointing.
Judge # 2 — Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for fish or other mild foods, not much of a chili.
Judge # 3 — I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to taste it. Is it possible to burn out taste buds? Sally, the beer maid, was standing behind me with fresh refills. This 300 lb. Woman is starting to look HOT… just like this nuclear waste I’m eating! Is chili an aphrodisiac?
CHILI # 5 – LISA’S LEGAL LIP REMOVER
Judge # 1 — Meaty, strong chili. Jalapeno peppers freshly ground, adding considerable kick. Very impressive.
Judge # 2 — Chili using shredded beef, could use more tomato. Must admit the jalapeno peppers make a strong statement.
Judge # 3 — My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead and I can no longer focus my eyes. I farted, and four people behind me needed paramedics. The contestant seemed offended when I told her that her chili had given me brain damage. Sally saved my tongue from bleeding by pouring beer directly on it from the pitcher. I wonder if I’m burning my lips off. It really ticks me off that the other judges asked me to stop screaming.
CHILI # 6 – VARGA’S VERY VEGETARIAN VARIETY
Judge # 1 — Thin yet bold vegetarian variety chili. Good balance of spices and peppers.
Judge # 2 — The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, garlic. Superb.
Judge # 3 — My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous, sulfuric flames. I crapped on myself when I farted, and I’m worried it will eat through the chair. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except that Sally. Can’t feel my lips anymore. I need to wipe my butt with a snow cone.
CHILI # 7 – SUSAN’S SCREAMING SENSATION CHILI
Judge # 1 — A mediocre chili with too much reliance on canned peppers.
Judge # 2 — Ho hum, tastes as if the chef literally threw in a can of chili peppers at the last moment (**I should take note that I am worried about Judge # 3. He appears to be in a bit of distress as he is cursing uncontrollably.)
Judge # 3 — You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. I’ve lost sight in one eye, and the world sounds like it is made of rushing water. My shirt is covered with chili, which slid unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of lava to match my shirt. At least during the autopsy, they’ll know what killed me. I’ve decided to stop breathing. It’s too painful. I’m not getting any oxygen anyway. If I need air, I’ll just suck it in through the 4-inch hole in my stomach.
CHILI # 8 – BIG TOM’S TOENAIL CURLING CHILI
Judge # 1 — The perfect ending, this is a nice blend chili. Not too bold but spicy enough to declare its existence.
Judge # 2 — This final entry is a good, balanced chili. Neither mild nor hot. Sorry to see that most of it was lost when Judge # 3 farted, passed out, fell over and pulled the chili pot down on top of himself. Not sure if he’s going to make it. Poor fella, wonder how he’d have reacted to really hot chili?
Judge # 3 — No report.
For some reason, I’m really lusting after chili now. I think I’ll make me some.
Categories
WKRP Turkey Drop
Shooting Times Magazine
June 1980
General Delivery
Horsethief, NM
(Sunday Night)
Alex Bartimo, Editor
Shooting Times
Box 1790
Peoria IL 61656
Dear Bart:
This isn’t actually from Horsethief. I’m camped in the big timber about halfway up the side of San Miguel mountain. Saint Mike, we call it. You may not be able to read my poor handwriting because of the the watermarks on the paper. I know I should be weeping about missing the deadline on this month’s gun review, but I’m sorry to say these splotches weren’t made by tears.
Rain and snow did that.
I’m trapped here, and it’s my own fault. Down at the house in Horsethief, I contracted cabin fever. No pals had visited in more than a month. I don’t take a newspaper (you can get bad news anywhere). I’d read every book on the place at least twice, and Horsethief has no library or newsstand. We get one television station from Albuquerque via a repeater in the mountains, and it runs Bozo the Clown, As The World Flips, intriguing situation comedies about the family problems of New York taxi drivers, and wilderness stories about mountain men who feed themselves and their pet mountain lions with mushrooms and rosehips gathered in the dew.
My set is still like new-it never gets turned on.
The fact of the matter is, I was bored stiff when I got this foreign .380 you wanted shot and decided to make it my excuse to come up to this big stretch of forest belonging to a friend of mine. I was going to stay a couple of days, shoot, and drowse in the sunshine.
Didn’t work out that way.
I like to carry extras, so I packed my old pickup with sleeping bag and big tarp, groceries for two or three days-including canned corned beef hash, chili con carne, coffee, bacon, eggs, and a sack of fresh biscuits. And one jug of Henry McKenna redeye to ward off the weeps around the evening fire. Luckily, I also brought a Coleman camp stove and lantern because I planned on cooking on an open fire.
I stowed the camera equipment, figuring on getting pictures of .380 on tree stump and (using a selftimer) heroic poses of my classic profile looking off into the horizon.
The trip up was nice. Plenty of sunshine. Few melting snowbanks left from winter. Jeep road a little tough on pickup, but made it to campsite okay. Strung lariat rope between two trees and wired end of tarp to it. Made lean-to. Took rocks from clear, cold stream and built fireplace. Gathered enough dead wood to last two days. Unrolled sleeping bag, laid holstered Ruger .44 beside it. Was home.
Built fire, had hash and biscuits, raunchy coffee. Took tot of McKenna while looking at stars. Wondered what city folks were doing. Turned in early.
Up before first light. Drizzling rain. Get GI poncho from truck’s toolbox. Trouble getting fire going with wet wood. Pour on Coleman fuel. Burn fingers…..Biscuits, bacon and coffee.
Sitting in lean-to, I examine new .380. Most unusual. Called the Mama Mia. Made in Costa Rica by Hijos de Basura, S.A. and imported by Larson E. Rippoff Inc. Homossa Springs, Florida. Price: $469.98. About five inches long. Ten-shot staggered magazine extends one-half inch below butt. Double action with pull of approximately 20 pounds; single-action pull about 25 pounds.
Shiny plastic grips. Shiny plastic trigger guard (combat style). Shiny plastic sight rib and sights. Rear sight adjustable for windage. One click equals 12 inches at 25 yards.
Extra 48-shot magazine is curved. Might not do much for feeding but looks jazzy, making pistol five inches long and 1 ¼ feet deep. Optional flash hider and grenade launcher supplied with my review gun. Extras cost only $189.98.
Many cast parts in pistol. Nothing wrong with well-cast parts, but these of somewhat lesser quality than lead soldiers I made as a boy.
Can’t shoot, must wait out rain. Wait all day. Except for small supply under tarp, wood is soaked. Crank up Coleman stove. Chili and biscuits. Wish had brought tortillas and refried beans. Hit sack early. Sleeping bag feels damp.
Third day now. Raining harder. Decide to go home. Dismantle camp, pack truck. Trouble starting engine. Drive 10 feet from camp on muddy trail, skid, nose into boulder. Rear wheels spin. No four-wheel drive. No tire chains. Stuck. Rebuild camp. All wood wet. Hunker around Coleman stove. Things have to get better. Feast on bacon, eggs, soggy biscuits. Long pull at Henry McKenna, then dream in wet sleeping bag. Fourth day. Bear sign around truck. Glad I hadn’t woke up. Might have made mistake and shot bear with .380. Wish I was in Horsethief, watching taxi driver program. Still no interest in mountain man and lion.
Go to stream for coffee water and wash. Bank full, running fast, water chocolate brown. Wash in muddy water and get gallon jug of emergency water from truck. Use sparingly. Going nuts.
Sun peeps through in afternoon. Rain stops, but pickup still stuck. Grab opportunity to shoot the Mama Mia. Staple dry targets from toolbox to big conifer pine. Have W.W. R-P, and Federal factory loads. Load 10 round magazine. Brace against tree now. Squeeze off first round at target. Low/left in 7 ring. Empty case smokestacks. Feed next round into chamber manually. Not on paper. Now shooting low/right 6s. Go through 20 shots, all hand operated. Group is high, right, low, left, 16 inches (diameter of tree).
Forty-eight-round magazine loaded and put in place. Will not feed first round. Note for first time that loading ramp is very steep-about 45 degree-and narrow. Get screwdriver kit from toolbox and dismantle pistol.
Many tool marks inside shiny exterior. Horseshoe rasp, maybe. Springs all piano wire type. Apparently from very small piano. After some difficulty, reassemble and try 48-round magazine again. No dice. Big magazine apparently meant to be handy place to carry ammunition.
Shoot single shot for a while. Groups don’t improve. Curious square holes cut by bullets. Perhaps due to quadrangular rifling in bore. Try all brands of ammunition. Results the same.
See squirrel munching acorn in nearby tree. Very fat. Squirrel out of season, but I get an evil idea. Rations low. Squirrel rolled in biscuit crumbs and fried in bacon drippings would be great morale builder.
Sight seven inches high and left on squirrel with Mama Mia. And miss. Squirrel munches acorn. Hold upper right quadrant or rodent. Does not disturb dining squirrel. Working slide by hand, fire five quick shots. Squirrel looks on with interest. Think of going for .44 Magnum, but don’t believe squirrel tail and ears would make good supper.
Fifth day. Grub low. Biscuits turning green. Hunting squirrels, porcupines, and even bears with .44 Magnum. Mighty hunter in magazine articles; dripping dud in wet forest.
Sixth day. Definitely in deep trouble. Old bones won’t stand up to 40-mile walkout. Wife home from Flower Arrangers Convention in Santa Fe by now. Will find me gone and cats unfed. Will be mildly irritated. Probably throw things. But she will call friends in State Police and Forest Service. They will check out jails, hospitals, then Kelly Canyon, Desert Saloon, El Paso. Then they will settle down to look for me. Shouldn’t be longer than one more day….
Down to dregs of coffee by seventh morning. Broken clouds. Mama Mia WD-fortied and put away. Reading labels on empty hash cans. Stomach growling.
Suddenly hear chopper working way up canyon. Use Coleman fuel. Make smoky fire. Helicopter hovers, lands in mud near pickup. Pilot is Dick Shaw, a State Police friend.
Embarrassing situation. Shaw disgusted. Dismounts from machine, walks toward pot of weak coffee, gets dirty cup, and drinks. Sees I’m cold, wet. Gives me a cigarette.
“How’d you get yourself in this fix, Skeeter?”
Mutter something about big job I had to do-caught by weather. Shaw not at all sympathetic. Says he will radio for four-wheeler with chains and winch to come get me. Will probably cost at least $100. I say okay.
Shaw blasts off. I start breaking camp again. Must go home and face music. Will mail this letter tomorrow.
Might be just as well if this was one gun review that didn’t get printed.
Su amigo,
Skeeter
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Huh!
