More Guns and Butterballs
Most important right now is I got an appointment to meet the fellas up over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school to figure exactly when “rogue” became a synonym for “white supremacist,” and then go shop for handguns so’s we’re not out-nutted next time we attend a town-hall meeting or perhaps a youth soccer contest.
Besides, a little concealed-carry self-protection seems kind of practical during this, the holiday season—like when some in-law at a get-together has too much eggnog, gets a little cranky and all of a sudden whips out a heater and wants to blow your head off ’cause he just remembered you didn’t come by to lend a hand and help take the focking pier out up at the crappy cottage last Labor Day.
So come along if you’d like, but you buy the first round, what the fock. Let’s get going.
Emil: So what night you’s guys want to go see Will Durst’s show?
Ray: That guy always cracks me up. He even smells funny.
Little Jimmy Iodine: I hear Friday the 27th he’s at the Railroad Station out in Saukville, wherever the fock that is. Saturday night he’s in the big room they got at Paulo’s Pizza on the South Side, and Sunday on the West Side over by the El Matador’s Kiko’s Lounge.
Ray: And speaking of smell…
Little Jimmy: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.
Art: Hey gents, what do you know, what do you hear. You’s all ready to go buy some guns?
Ernie: Can’t. I got to go pick up the turkey for the Thanksgiving.
Julius: Me neither. I got to leave soon and go with the wife to the Humane Society ’cause she wants to pick out a pet she can give to the sister-in-law for Christmas, since she’s all alone now.
Herbie: What the fock. The last thing anybody needs when they become alone is some kind of whining, snot-nosed sack of shedding-fur piece of crap running around wrecking your stuff all the time.
Little Jimmy: Herbie’s right, Juley. Your dogs, your cats—these pets have been known to really muck up a household.
Herbie: Abso-focking-lutely. If you really got to get her an animal for around-the-house, get her something practical like a chimpanzee. I hear you can train those fockers to perform a wealth of pain-in-the-butt chores—swab the toilet, cut the goddamn grass, get the mail, iron a shirt or two. Plus, I just read that we share a common ancestor with the chimp from only five to six million years ago.
Little Jimmy: And ’cause you have something in common with the chimp, that would make for a better relationship right off the bat than you’d have with your schnauzer, your tomcat.
Ernie: Hell yes. And what sane-thinking monkey would choose to be in their natural habitat where they routinely become the day’s main course for a pack of jackals over hanging around a nice apartment where the most dangerous thing that can happen is sticking its mitt down the kitchen drain with the garbage disposal going full blast while it’s doing the dishes?
Emil: Cripes, I think I just got the flu. I got to go to the can. Anybody swipes my bar change, I’ll shoot you soon as we get our guns.
Julius: That flu is no picnic cakewalk on the beach. They tell you to drink plenty of focking fluids and get a lot of rest. Hey, how the hell do you rest when you got to get up and take a leak from the fluids every two seconds, what the fock.
Little Jimmy: And even when you get OK, having to go to the bathroom on a multi-daily basis chews up a lot of time—time that could be put to better use. You’d think the rocket scientists could come up with some kind of pill-capsule to eliminate the time we waste eliminating waste, ain’a?
Herbie: Not to mention that we could irrigate the goddamn Gobi focking Desert with all the flush-water we’d save. You’d think if the Lord was more one of those environmental types, he’d a come up with a body design that was less wasteful for christ sakes. If I ever get to the heaven they damn well better have a suggestion box, so I can tell the powers-that-be it’s time to juice up the evolution and start pumping out bodies and brains that don’t waste anymore. If I get up there before you’s and then one day all of a sudden there’s no more human crap in this world, toast me a cocktail, would you?
(Hey, I know you got to go but thanks for letting us bend your ear. Have a nice Thanks-focking-giving. Me, I’ll be sitting around my dinky apartment with a frozen pizza, thinking of things I wish I could be thankful for—to be known as Mr. Salma Hayek heads that list I kid you not, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)