Beware the bogey, man
Upstairs at the Ahlgrim Funeral Home in suburban Chicago, patrons are looking for greener pastures.
Downstairs, they are just trying to stay on the green.
Owner Roger Ahlgrim has transformed the basement of his funeral home into a full blown recreation center, offering bumper pool, ping pong, shuffleboard and video games.
But the crown jewel of Ahlgrim’s nether world is a nine-hole miniature golf course that is, at best, macabre.
The first hole features a steel skull — which Ahlgrim says he stole from mortuary school more than 30 years ago — newly wired with flashing red eyes. Other holes are decorated with spider webs, a haunted house, tombstones and the shipping crate for a casket.
It all began as a fun family project, Ahlgrim says. But when word spread, he decided to open the course to the public. Now the basement is rented out to Rotary and Kiwanis gatherings, along with the odd birthday party.
One rule: no golfing during wakes. Ahlgrim explains that noise carries from floor to floor; he does not say whether he is worried about golfers disrupting ceremonies, or an enthusiastic eulogy ruining a crucial putt.
Gorilla tactics
Down in Texas, they have big problems — King-Kong-size problems.
In the last 90 days, thieves have made off with four different 30-foot-tall King Kong balloons.
The first $7,000 behemoth was reported stolen in Dallas. Then, in San Antonio, poachers nabbed a canvas couple: “a papa King Kong and a pink mama King Kong,” according to reports.
When a fourth Kong, last seen attracting customers from the roof of a lighting store, deflated and defected, officials entered the theft into the National Crime Information Computer — a sign that they take this monkey business seriously.
One detective puzzled over the motive. The beastly balloons are difficult to conceal, and they would be still more difficult to pawn. All of which begs the question, where does a 30-foot inflatable gorilla hide out?
Wherever it wants.
Doorstops for the poor
A truckdriver who misread the address on his shipping form accidentally delivered 9,500 fruitcakes to the Salvation Army offices in St. Paul, Minn., last month.
The 28,000-pound fruitcake load was supposed to go to the post office, where the Christmas treats would be mailed to customers throughout the region.
By the time the error was discovered, however, the Salvation Army had already given all the fruitcakes to needy families throughout the Twin Cities area.
The bakery sent out replacement cakes to all its disappointed customers. “We only hope the other fruitcakes went to people who enjoyed it,” a bakery spokesman said. — compiled from wire by Steve Kloehn
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