By Joel Warner
By Michael Roberts
By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
Keeping this in mind, I have a few issues to address concerning Kyle Wagner's review of the Laughing Dog Deli (Mouthing Off, March 14). She said that her first experiment with the Suburban sandwich was a good one; I can understand her response. She said she had a horrible second try because the "same helpful soul had added so many onions they were all [she] could taste." I have a problem with this statement: There are no onions on the Suburban sandwich (unless, of course, you request them). She also said her creamy chicken soup "transmogrified into a spicy, tomato-based concoction with two bits of bird." When I checked the records, they revealed that we have never made a spicy-tomato and chicken soup.
I work at the Laughing Dog Deli for one reason: quality. Quality of the food. Quality of my co-workers. Quality of the entire operation. When you are in business for yourself and your reputation is all that you have, there are few other values that seem important.
Timothy D. Marsolais
I own a business near the Laughing Dog and frequent the deli for breakfast and lunch. Having traveled extensively (including a great deal to New York), I have been to hundreds of small delis.
I strongly suggest Kyle Wagner and Westword's readers give the Laughing Dog another try--for breakfast, the one-egg sandwich, made to order (awesome); for lunch, the White Bridge roast beef sandwich. The best in town!
Editor's note: For more on the Laughing Dog, see page 56.
Regarding Brad Jones's "Irons in the Fire," in the March 14 issue:
Cool article on Five Iron Frenzy. It's pretty much laying it out there. These guys are my friends, I am proud to say, even, uh, Jeff Ortega, "The Girl" chick woman. I was raised in church, was a "good Christian." Then one day I looked at what was happening--Swaggart pet the lizard, Bakker took his work home, Falwell, oh well, what the hell?? I became of my own volition a "solitary pagan," sick to nauseum of what "Christianity" had to offer. Oh, boy. Rabid preachers, pseudo-intellectuals sprinkled or dunked. I was sick of this junk. Tell me 'bout Jesus, I'd really like to know. Do you think he still loves me? Obviously so. Been told by the eclect about his elect, by the deformed taught about the reformed. Got out my herbicide, killed all the tulips, which is the favorite plant of the weed of Calvinism, took God all the way off the shelf out of the box, what I found when I opened my box was not God at all but a bag of rocks. Like the ones they attempted to stone Jesus with when He said what He did. The box is gone, my concepts are, too. The stones I keep and launch at will aimed at the Gospel Gestapo. Here, Brad, is a toast to you.
The Devil Made Him Do It
In response to Joe Christ's letter in the March 14 issue:
Get thee behind me, you silly, silly devil man! I am John Baptist, and Denver is my spooky art domain. I am the worst nightmare you'll never capture on film.
The Mile High Gorgon!
Le Gros Guignol!
The Ik! in shriek!
I eat 500-pound goth chick for breakfast. They play tic-tac-toe on my back with bear-hunting knives while I tell jokes. "Knock, knock." "Who's there?" "Christ." "Christ Who?" "Joe Christ." Ha ha! Joe Christ in a Christler for Chrissakes, leaving Denver because all the galleries laugh this silly, silly devil man away and make room for me, John Baptist! Ha ha ha!
If there is any doubt about my status as Denver's scariest scary man I will have you know a film crew from Esztergom, Hungary, is currently producing a documentary on my life. Not yours! And not that 3.2 Anne Rice wife of yours who supports a silly charlatan's home-movie hobby!
Ha ha ha ha ha!
Thank you for your cooperation.
Name withheld on request
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