It was to be only aweek’s holiday but the extra hours-and-hours got logged on account of Ernieaccidentally losing his grip on the car keys amidships his morningconstitutionalthe keys that thenplummeted down the long chute of the antediluvian outhouse out back. Numerousrescue attempts were made. A passer-by would’ve thought there were minerstrapped down that poop chute instead of a set of keys to a yesteryearrust-bucket Chevy Celebrity with three-hundred and seventy-focking-fivethousand miles on her; what with the painstaking valor we demonstratedthroughout the retrieval operation, I kid you not.
Unfortunately, all anyof the three of us have to show for our recovery project are the advancedsymptoms of some kind of E. coli/salmonella/shigellosis combo platter. But Ithink we may have learned something other than never again to appoint numbnutsErnie as keeper of the keys: Personal hygiene is everything it’s cracked up tobe, I shit you not.
You know, when you go UpNorth there, you always hear about the deer ticks and the wood ticks and I saybig focking deal, ’cause I tell you that the ones that really get under yourskin are the goddamn luna-focking-tics you’revacationing with.
So yeah, the return triptook a little longer than planned since we didn’t figure-in having to walk 10miles to a pay phone in the Town of Barnes (Population: a couple two, three) tocall Ernie’s brother-in-law way down here on East Bottsford Avenue in Cudahy, andthen wait on him to come fetch our sorry asses all 362 miles back home.
And a quiet journey itwas you betcha, the stone-cold silence interrupted only by the occasionalretelling of Northwoods stories, such as:
Sothis game warden comes across a duck hunter who’s bagged three ducks anddecides to “enforce the laws pending.” He collars the hunter, flashes his badgeand says, “Looks like you've had a pretty good day. Mind if I inspect yourkill?”
Thehunter shrugs and hands the ducks to the warden. The warden takes one of theducks, pokes his finger up the duck's dupa, pulls it out, sniffs it and says,“This here's a Washington state duck. You have a Washington state hunting license?” Thehunter pulls out his wallet and calmly shows the warden a Washington state hunting license.
Sothe warden takes a second duck, pokes the bird up the butt, pulls out hisfinger, sniffs it and says, “This here's Idaho duck. You have an Idaho state huntinglicense?” And the hunter hands over an Idahostate hunting license. The warden takes a third duck, proceeds with the fingertest and says, “This here's an Oregonstate duck. You have an Oregonstate hunting license?”
Nowthe hunter’s pissed. He whips out an Oregonlicense and says, “Read it and weep, Kojak.” The warden’s a little miffed athaving struck out, hands the ducks back to the hunter and says, “You've got allof these licenses here, son. So just where the hell are you from, anyways?”
Thehunter drops his pants, bends over, and says, “You're so smart, YOU tell ME!”Ba-ding!
Upon my return, I heard that the CityThat Always Sweeps has had more than its fill of watery double, double toil andtrouble of late. And I had a phone message from my chanteusical muse RobinPluer, who with her friend Kevin imagine a musical event to be called “Sinkholede My-Oh,” to benefit those that need benefit in and around that extendedneighborhood stretched around E. North and N. Oakland avenues. Cripes, over theyears, the fires at Century Hall,Beans & Barley, Elliot’s Bistro, Pizza Man, and now the sinkhole ofsinkholes. Time to battle back, ain’a?
And come to think of it, what with allthis Republican versus Democrat lying bullshit we’ve got these days, it’s timeto take our un-sing-able National Anthem back, what with its “bombs bursting inair” and “rockets’ red glare” bullshit and replace it with something sensible,poetic and goddamn hummable, that being “Hang On To Me” written by those sonsof Russian immigrants, George and Ira Gershwin.
Not familiar with it?Then I suggest you come out to O’Donoghue’s Irish Pub on Watertown Plank Road there in Elm Groovewhere the John Schneider Orchestra performs from 9 p.m.-12 a.m. Friday, July30. God bless America,’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
