September 18, 2009
Dear Keith,
We don't talk anymore. Well, I guess we both still talk but not to each other. I mean, I certainly still talk. Can't shut me up. Fuckin' gasbag, I am, always spoutin' off about this and that. My problem is NOT talking or zippin' the lip or keeping mum or taking it down to a dull roar or hittin' the mute button or hushin' the obscenity with some oral serenity. You know, puttin' a goddamn cork in it.
I also have a problem with brevity.
But I miss talking to you. You got a way aboutcha. You're a fun-loving, happy go-lucky, gregarious gent who likes shootin' folks the finger-gun while making that click-click sound out the side of your mouth. You're a snappy pappy with pep in your step, a maverick to the max with a sharp crease in your slacks, a debonaire confrere with dashing flair and wavy hair. That's you, strolling down the street in your shiny, pinstriped suit, tipping your lid to the ladies, swinging your cane around in dandy fashion (causing people to wonder why you have a cane in the first place) and helping old ladies cross the street...
"Come on, lady, let's go."
"Unhand me, beast!"
"The light's gonna change! Move yer ass, grammy."
"Stop touching me, masher!"
"Oh, masher, am I? How about a headlock, eh? No, you don't like that much do ya? Who wants a noogie? Hah?"
"Help!"
"Pipe down, ya old bat, I'm tryin' ta help ya."
"Quitcher shovin'!"
"Shaddap and do what I tell ya!"
"Help!"
"Oh, blabbermouth, eh? How's 'bout I throw my t-shirt over yer head and give ya a Dutch oven, eh? (thuurrrp!) Yeah! Take a snootful o' that!"
"Constable!"
"Smells pretty bad, eh? General Tsao's Chicken (thuuurrrp!) Oooh! Second helping fer ya!"
"Alright alright, what's going on over here?"
"Officer, thank God you got here in time. This old broad jumped me, stuck her head under my shirt and started sniffing my farts!"
"Is that right, Ma'am?"
"No, he.."
"She did too! And then she said I'd better come up with some more farts for her to smell or she'd box my ears! I don't even know what that means!"
"I never said.."
"Pipe down, lady. You can tell your story downtown."
And so, Abigail Hensworth was tried and convicted of two counts of aggravated anal-emission sniffage, and one count of archaic verbal assault with intent to commit ear boxage. And although she is but a figment of the author's imagination, that doesn't give her the right to go around forcefully huffing ass and threatening to clobber somebody using terms that don't translate into modern verbiage. You know, terms like clobber and verbiage.
Anyway, Keith, I'm sure by now you're thinking, "Jeez, how'd I get a front row seat in The Douchebag Theatre?" Well, the day you met me was the day you got a lifetime pass, that's how.
By the way, the other day while paying for my order at the Taco Bell drive-through, the girl asked me if I wanted any hot sauce and I said no but could I get some extra tallywackers on my meximelt, and she actually turned to ask somebody, "Do we have tallywackers?"
That alone makes life worth living.
Well, it was nice talking to you even though you haven't said a fucking thing. I mean, I've been typing this drivel for 10 minutes now and not a peep outta ya. I suppose I would have to send it to you before I could expect a response but that seems like a lot of work on my part while you just lounge around in your Hello Kitty boxer shorts poppin' corn nuts into your corn nut hole hmmphing and tsking and pffting about an e-mail you haven't even received yet.
The nerve. You got some gall, buddy. You got nerve and gall. I hope you don't have gall stones though. I wonder why people never get nerve stones. And no matter how old Mick and Keith and Charlie and Ronnie get, you never see the headline, "Rolling Stones finally gathering moss." And who is Kate Moss anyway and why is she so difficult to gather?
I've been drinking ammonium nitrate for three and a half hours now and my eyeballs have swelled to five times their normal size, which makes me look like I'm REALLY paying attention.
OK, apparently you don't feel like talking right now so I'm going to wrap this up without sending it. Hopefully you'll realize I have an unfinished e-mail to you in my Yahoo draft folder and respond accordingly. Until then I'm going to keep staring out the front window with my giant eyeballs and see how long it takes for the cops to show up.
Hyperconsciously yours,
John Bizarre
Copyright 2009 John Bizarre
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