The Olympic Tavern

The Olympic Tavern

Kate’s Complaint Corner

Letters of honest complaints from an honest Kate.

Kate Menstraight, Columnist 

Kate Menstraight, Columnist

I was asked last week whether I was aware of some uneasiness which, it was said, existed in Rockford on account of the fifth world war between the Black-Italian mobsters at The Olympic Tavern and the Irish druids at Mulligans Pub and Grill, as it was described by the bloodless hooligans at The Latham Tap–at least God forgives them. So I thought it would be a good thing to go and see for myself what this uneasiness amounted to with the remains of The Olympic’s vicious victory.

I went to some of our great cities–Modesto, Detroit, and Cleveland to name a few–and beerports along the Mississippi which had been most heavily bombed by naked drunkards and fully clothed whores, and to some of the places where the poorest people have got it worst.  That’s right, the west side of Rockford, IL.

I’ve come back not only reassured but disgusted. To leave the wooden planked stools at the Olympic with their ceaseless hum of activity and stress and to go out to the from corner where I waited for cars to merge metal on metal, by which I mean the streets and corners of Rockford, or Beloit, Rockton, Roscoe, Loves Park or Machesney Park, is like going out of a hothouse underneath the Auburn street bridge to a new day without a stack of napkins to wipe thy bottums.

The Olympic Tavern

I yelled for my servant, Gordon, “Bring me my bottums, young lad!”  He did not at first. While consumed by the Motley Crüe song, “Home Sweet Home,” on the overhead village speaker, I yelled again with vigor, “Gordon, bring me my bottums…  now boy!”

The Olympic Tavern is a stench by which I should recommend to any who are suffering from fretfulness to take in strong doses when they have need of it and are without their bottums.

It is quite true that I’ve seen many painful scenes of havoc and of fine buildings and acres of cottage homes blasted into rubble heaps of ruin; but it is just in those very places, where The Olympic’s savage enemies (The Latham Tap, Mulligans, The Rockford Apple Store, Rathskellar, The Barn, Pino’s Pizza and many more along the banks of the western village strip) has done its worst, and where the ordeal of the men, women and children has been most severe that I found their morale most high and splendid after a few pints of Bono’s Irish Ale and cold leftovers from the abandoned Taco John hut that resides across the railroad tracks towards Happy Wok.The Olympic Tavern, Rockford, IL

Indeed, I felt encompassed by an exaltation of spirit in the poorest people from the western village who tipped my Olympic glass over with delight, but which seemed to lift mankind and its troubles above the level of material facts into that joyous serenity we think belongs to a better world than this.  What is this supercilious  sandwich called?  Served on skillet no less?

I cannot speak because I have never eaten a hamburger without bread until then–The Know Bread Fred.  Hmm. I can only assure you that the Olympic Tavern will toil with every scrap of life on the west side of the poor Rockford village.

Strength required according to the lights that are granted to us not to fail these people or be wholly unworthy of their faithful and generous regard, but to poison them without the bread.  The Know Brad Fread desires no debocious bounds. 

"Lest we forget the horrors of Rockford's ongoing wars, bread-less genocide has not bounds." So says our complaints columnist, Ms. Menstraight, about The Olympic Tavern, Rockford, IL

“Lest we forget the horrors of Rockford’s ongoing wars, bread-less genocide has not bounds.” So says our complaints columnist, Ms. Menstraight, about The Olympic Tavern, Rockford, IL

The Olympic Tavern is stirred and moved as it never has been at any time in its long, eventful, famous history. Alas, it comes with a cost and it is no hackneyed trope of speech to say that they mean to conquer or to die at the expense of bread.  This ordeal by fire has, in a certain sense, even exhilarated the manhood and the womanhood of The Olympic Tavern’s war crimes.

The sublime but also terrible, sombre experiences and emotions of the fifth world war in Rockford, IL, which for centuries had been reserved for the teachers, nurses, roofers and painters, are now shared for good or ill by the entire village on the west side of Rockford of Illinois. All are proud or drunk on life from being under the fire of the enemy, The Olympic Tavern.

You may imagine how deeply I feel my own responsibility to all these people, my responsibility to bear my part in bringing them safely out of this long, stern scowling Rockf River valley through which we are marching to our bar stools and not to demand from them their sacrifices and exertions in vain. I have thought in this difficult period, when so much fighting between Rockton and Roscoe may spill forth unto The Olympic Tavern while so many critical and complicated manoeuvres are going on at The Barn and Rathskellar up the dusty road.

Our policy and conduct should be upon the highest level and that honour should be our guide when The Olympic Tavern demolishes the very idea that caused their breads to go missing from its burgers and poultry sandwich baskets, to be renamed Fred and Pete.  Lest we forget the horrors of Rockford’s ongoing wars, bread-less genocide has not bounds. Onward to the next battle, indeed.

– Kate Menstraight

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  1. Anonymous 30 March, 2014, 22:28


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  2. nick g 4 March, 2014, 22:01

    yes jay i have wasted my gift of literacy here unfortunately. now i must get back to scouring my bazooka joe wrappers for some real humor. 😀

    Reply this comment
  3. nick g 27 February, 2014, 12:39

    spoiler alert: next weeks article will be nearly identical to this one featuring whiskeys roadhouse

    Reply this comment
  4. Anonymous 26 February, 2014, 21:47

    This makes no sense. Just stop.

    Reply this comment
  5. Ray Tarte 24 February, 2014, 14:50


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