Continuation

“Dames, I tell ya’. They are always so…uhm…so..”
“Crazy!” the bartender interrupts.
The drink was beginning to affect Nick. His thoughts were starting to scramble like Fran Tarkenton in Super Bowl IV and his words were slowly colliding into one another. He took another sip of his beer and clumsily rested the glass on the bar.
“I mean, they come into your life and surprise you like a kid on Christmas. Then they act all cutesy and flirt and shit and then what? Can you tell me, man! Then what are you suppose to do? Do ask them out? Do you flirt back with them and hope they like you? What the hell?” he drunkenly whines.
“I’m not sure, but here comes one of those dames right now.” Bartender replies.
Nick looks up, “Oh shit, its Ann.”
A very plain looking woman walks into the bar. She is neither beautiful nor ugly. Her shoulder length blonde hair sits flat, draping from the top of her head down to her shoulders. Her round cheeks scrunch up as she spies Nick and ambles towards the bar.
“A gun rack?” he mutters.
“What was that?” The bartender asks.
“I think the booze is getting to my head. I thought I saw her carrying a gun rack wrapped in a bow. You know, like in Wayne’s World?”
“Yeah, I know. But wasn’t the gun rack gift wrapped?”
“Yeah. Wayne’s World is the best movie of the nineties! Mike Myers and Dana Carvey deliver the lines so crispuhly and..”
“Wait a minute! Wait one god-damned minute!” The bartender exclaims. “Wayne’s World is not the best comedy let alone the best movie of the nineties. IF you want to talk about line delivery and writing, you have to put Pulp Fiction at the top of that list.”
“Hi, Nick.” Ann interrupts.
“Ann, can’t you see that the bartender and I were having a meaningful discussion and you rudely interrupted us.” Nick’s head bobbles as he speaks.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’ll just sit here and listen.” She leans her arms on the back of Nick’s shoulders and rests her chin on the crevice where his neck and shoulders meet.
“I’m going to need another shot of Jag and PBR.” Nick Demands.
The bartender serves Nick the drinks. Immediately upon reception Nick forcefully slams the shot of Jagermeister. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve and releases a loud drunken sigh.
“So, what were you two talking about?” Ann naively asks.
“This and that,” Nick retorts.
“But you said you and the bartender were having a meaningful conversation,” Ann nasally whines.
“Yeah, it was a meaningful conversation about this and that. Jesus Christ. Your whining is fucking annoying! Another thing, how the hell am I still your baby? I broke up with you two damn months ago.” Nick is more than angry, he is spit-wobbled drunkenly angry. Every bursting word is accompanied by an explosion of spit particles and hot, heavy booze breath. The bartender uncomfortably wipes already clean bar glasses with the white, dry towel that previously rested on his shoulder.
Tears well up in the corners of Ann’s eyes, “Why are you such a jerk?” The other bar patrons stop in mid-conversation and watch the scene unfold. They watch with the patience of the crowd at the scene of a car accident, only there are a significantly larger amount of giggles and whispers.
“You are..are..obnoxious, Ann. You are like a freaking shadow! You are always there. I go somewhere such as this wonderful drinking establishment expecting to enjoy a night with myself and maybe some friends if they ever show up and I turn around and you are there with a god damn gun rack! You are always saying dumb shit! You never know when to shut up! And you want me to be this lame ass person that wears a frickin’ bow tie.”
“Huh? Gun rack? Bow tie? Are you listening to yourself? My goodness…”
“Shut the hell up!” Nick screams.
“Time to go, Nick,” the bartender demands.
“What the hell? Why are you kicking me out? Its not two yet!”
“No, but you are disrupting my bar. Look at all the people staring.”
“Fuck this!” Nick stands up and sways to and fro, then tosses the bar stool he was previously perched upon. He storms towards the door, weaving worse than a heavyweight punch drunk boxer in the tenth round at Madison Square Garden in the 1930’s. The bar crowd laugh and turn back to their conversations.
“I’m sorry,” Ann squeaks and hurriedly follows Nick.
“Nick, stop!”
“What do you want form me!” he shouts as he scrambles through his keys to find the one that unlocks his pick-up.
“You are in no shape to drive, let me drive you home.”
“I am fine!” Nick searches for the keyhole in the door with key he decides is the one to unlock the pick-up. He stumbles backwards, his left foot extends to his rear to create a bipod of balance. He leans forward making a frown as he scratches up the side of the door trying to insert the key into its supposed home.
“Come on, Nick, I don’t want you to get a DUI.”
“Yeah, this is just your way of getting me back into the sack.” He grins and falls on his rear.
Ann rushes over to where he is sitting on the concrete. He is drooling all over himself. She snatches the keys from his hand and unlocks the pick-up. She grabs him underneath his armpits and tries to hoist him to his feet. She stumbles backwards onto the curb.
“Nick, I’m going to need you to help me help you. On the count of three I’m going to pick you up and you are going to stand at the same time. Get it?”
“Uhm, no. I can help my own damn self up.” He rolls over and assumes a push up position. He gets up and stumbles to his pick-up. He grabs onto the side of the front fender and crutches his way to the passenger side picking up momentum as he makes the semi-circle. Ann climbs into the pick-up and revs the engine. The vehicle roars to life. Nick manages to climb into the pick-up.
“They don’t make engines like this baby! Listen to her growl!”
“Yeah, you’ve told me before.”
“It’s a good thing I taught you to drive a stick otherwise we’d be fucked.” He smirks at her and the drunken bobble head slams into the passenger window. “Ouch! What the hell, be easy when you put her in gear!”
“I haven’t done anything yet, Nick, you are just really, really drunk!”
“Oh.” He attempts to gently lean against the window, but smacks the side of his head against it again.
Ann puts the vehicle into reverse and slowly backs out of the parking space. She frantically looks over both shoulders for oncoming traffic. When she decides that she has successfully backed out of the space, she shifts into second and starts to nervously negotiate through the streets. She barely gets the motor revving and shifts into third. She drives well below the speed limit all the way to Nick’s trailer. She pulls into the driveway.
“Okay, we are here.” She hops out of the pick-up and runs over to the passenger side to open the door. Nick slumps out of the vehicle and onto the ground. He sits on the cold gravel and looks up at Ann.
“Why do you love me and keep chasing me?” his attitude has taken a one hundred and eighty degree turn from the past hour. Ann notices this but does not acknowledge it out of fear for another verbal attack.
“Because you are who you are, I guess. Sure, you treat me like crap sometimes and yell at me, but I know you are good inside.”
“I don’t believe you love me, know why? Because nobody loved me. Nobody ever has and nobody ever will.” His slouched eyes tear up.
“Don’t say that. You underestimate people too much. Let’s go inside and talk about this when you are sober.”
“I am sober. I am just tired.”
“Yep, come on big fella, let’s get you inside.” Ann, with his help, lifts Nick to his feet and tosses his right arm over her shoulder. She is aiding his movement and holding him up right. She guides him to the front door. He kicks in the door and lets out a loud, sloshy chuckle.
“You didn’t need to do that!”
“I know, but it was funny.”

Invisible Pet-Harry Monkey

Ladies and gentlemen of the writing skills class, I have a special guest to tell you about. My special guest is a little bit different than most special guests. My special guest is a Norweigan Monkey.
"Why do you call this guest of yours a Norweigan Monkey?" you ask. Well, it is a long story, so I'll make it a short one. I named him Harry because this boy is really, really hairy. In fact, he is so hariy that you are lucky if you can even see his hands, feet, or eyes.
Harry has a vast majority of deformities. I guess that you could just call him a mutated monkey. Poor monkey! He has a real weird purplish color of hair. It is a cross between lavender and purple. He has other strange and odd mutations such as seven fingers on his left hand and three fingers on his right hand. At least he has ten fingers, right? I think that's what counts. So, just tell people that he has ten fingers and people will think of him as a normal monkey, right, Harry? Good monkey! He lacks the correct amount of toes though. He has one big toe on his right foot and six toes on his left foot. That's pretty crazy, let me tell ya'! He has a beak for a nose. I mean his schnaaz is giganto mundo, man! For some cooky reason, that stupid nose is always runny. On a day when I decide to brush his hair, you will see these little beady green eyes.
Now, if you all behave, I will let you know how Harry and I met. Okay, it ws the second or third week in June, and we were on our summer vacation down in New Orleans, Louisiana. I decided to go down to the French Quarter to look around. My dad had told me that it was a really neat place to see. So I just had to check it out. The stuff down there was rad. I never saw anything like the French Quarter in my life. There was jewelry, voodoo dolls, and a bunch of other funky stuff. Anyways, I was looking at this voodoo stand, and I noticed something behind it. There were, I don't know, I'd say four or five big muscular men trying to put some purle thing into this crate that was postmarked for a strange place called Guam, wherever that is. I thought to myself, "Poor guy, I can't let those men do that to him." So, I walked up to the men and asked them what they were doing. They said that they were going to ship a Norweigan Monkey off to Guam. "Hey, maybe I should ask if I could keep it a a pet," I said to myself. I asked the men if I could take the Norweigan Monkey in as a pet. He called Harry a bunch of foul names that made Harry cry. He said that I could have him if I wanted to take him with me. That man didn't make much sense. I named him Harry P. Monkey. Anything that you guys do, don't call him any other names, because he will start to cry. Don't even call him "Big Guy!" He is very sensitive.
Harry has a rather idiotic taste for foods. But that's okay, 'cause he likes what he likes and we like what we like. Okay, well I don't know if I should tell you what he eats. I will anywya. His favorite foodm now I'm not making this up, is Cocoa Pebbles in orange juice. You would think of Cocoal Pebbles in millk, but orange juice?! He must have different taste buds, I guess. For his after dinner desert, he has bananas mixed with sauerkraut. I'll tell you what his normal meals are like. He usually eats spaghetti with vegetable sauce, 'cause he is a vegetarian, French bread, or just bread and butter. He usually drinks Kool-Aid or water. These are some pretty weird eating habits for a monkey. Harry sleeps on the love seat that is down in my room. I have to tuck him in every night and sing him a lullaby.
Harry is a pretty busy monkey when I am away at school. His favorite two things to do are watching tv and sleeping. His favorite tv shows are Oprah, People's Court, Sally Jessy Rafael, and Leeza. Every once in a while, he'll watch Disney or Playboy. That is sick, but I guess that's just how monkey's are. AFter he watches his morning tv and eats lunch, he sleeps. AFter school, when I get home, Harry is watching tv again. He leads a pretty exciting life.
Harry is having potty training problems. We are trying to teach him to go to the bathroom toilet, but form some whacky reason he does duty in a sink or a bathtub. We tried teachimg him to go outside, but he just got real confused and relieves himself on my sister's bed. Harry knows how to open doors, but he always plays dumb and tries to get other people to do it for him. His messes are pretty nasty let me tell ya'!
Are you guys ready for this trick we are going to do? You better be!




This was written my sophomore year in high school in a writing skills class taught by the great Mrs. Hefner. I thought it was hilarious when I was going through my portfolio while packing. It is typed up word for word from the way I wrote it then with minor corrections. I hope you all find it as funny as I did.

Mark

Nick Gnaves Necessities II

The bartender refills the shot glass with Jack Daniels and the beer glass Pabst Blue Ribbon. Nick brings the shot glass to his lips and swallows the liquid with ease. He looks up and is staring into the cleavage of the woman. His mouth agape, he stares for an eternal fifteen seconds then words break his thoughtless silence.
“You are going to have to buy me a drink for staring,” the brunette demanded. “There ain’t no free peep show from this gal.”
“What are you having?” the words stumble from his mouth.
“Well, depends what do you want to buy me.”
“What the hell, that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, do you want a drink? If you do, order one and I’ll pay for it.”
“Holy shit, you are a sassy man, aren’t you? Give me a PBR in a glass and a shot of Jagermeister. I’m going to need it to put up with this prick for the night.”
“Oh really?” he exclaimed.
“I imagine you are somewhat interested in having some company. Look, you are all slicked up and you are sitting at the bar alone. Most guys sitting at the bar alone are drunks or just friendless. Which one is it?”
“Neither. I just got back to town and came to the bar after I cleaned up. I assumed my friends would be down here tonight. It is only eight o’clock. Why the hell are you here?”
“I just moved to town a week ago from South Dakota. My daddy said the best place to meet a good man is at a homey looking bar such as this one.”
“What? That is some great advice from pops. What does he do?” The sarcasm was not subtle.
“He is a rancher in the western part of the state. I thought I would come down to the city and experience something new.”
“What do you do? And how do you like the city?”
“It’s okay. Too many pretty bitches around here though. They think their shit don’t stink but I tell you, women shit just as much as men and it sure as hell smells just as bad. I’ve been in some women’s bathrooms that smell like the god damn sewer.” Her lip snarled further up in disgust.
“Man you have a mouth on you.”
“Yeah, well we can’t all be saints. I don’t have a job yet. I saved my money from working on the ranch. I want to go to college. I was thinking about teaching or being a vet or something like that. I’ll probably go work in a factory or something crappy like that for awhile. So, cowboy what do you do?”
“For one, I am not a cowboy,” he sardonically retorted. “During the summer I work at a golf course and when the season is done I work in a windmill factory.”
“What do you do at the golf course? You don’t seem like the uppity shiny shoe type.”
“Nah, I work as a greenskeeper. I do the grunt shit work such as dig holes, mow, clean sticks out of trees and creeks and such. It pays well and I have no other ambitions right now.” He sighed.
“No college or nuthin?” she asked.
“Not right now. I don’t know what the hell I want to do.”
“Damn, how old are you?”
“Twenty-four, and you?”
“Twenty-two. Where’s this golf course you work at?” changing the subject off her age and back to him.
“Up the road a few miles. It is surrounded by buildings. Its not like the open courses you have in South Dakota. You may have heard of the golf course. It’s the one where that crazy bastard Randy Turnbull went crazy and shot the whole place up.”
“Yeah, I heard of that on the national news. What happened to that guy?
“Don’t know. His trial starts this week, the same week we get to go back and clean the place up. The police blocked it off since it was a crime scene and we were all given two weeks paid leave.” He said.
“Damn, that’s so screwed up. ‘Nother PBR, bartender.” She slammed her glass on the bar.
“Nick, do you guys want to play here in a couple of weeks?” the bartender asks as he takes the glass form the bar and flips the tap creating a streaming waterfall of Pabst Blue Ribbon. The beautiful golden liquid flows into the glass creating a frothy foam at the top.
“I would have to ask Jaime tomorrow at work. Is that cool?”
“Hell yeah!” the bartender said in excitement.
“No shit, you are in a band. Whoo! That’s awfully exciting.” The brunette said as she eyeballed Nick.
“Yeah, I don’t think you would like the type of music we play.”
“Watch yourself. Just because I’m from South Dakota doesn’t mean I’m a country bumpkin hick motherfu…”
“No, but your language suggests otherwise,” he argued cutting her off.
“Try me.” She flirtatiously smiled.
“You will just have to come check it out for yourself,” he flirted back.
The brunette looks up at the clock, “Shit, I’m suppose to call my daddy tonight. I gotta go.” She gulped her beer without losing a drop and bolted from the wooden bar stool. She scurried to the door, Nick turns around and shouts, “I didn’t get your name!”
“I’ll be back here sometime,” she shouted over her shoulder as she exited the bar.

Nick Gnaves Necessities

The rocky peaks of the mountains protrude through the puffy charcoal clouds. Streaks of lightning crackle across the sky randomly striking the alpines protecting the mountainsides as large elephant tear drops of rain spray down. Animals scurry for cover abruptly changing direction at each strike of lighting. A big mama wolf stoically stands atop a cragged rock formation howling at the rain. The small pup hides under her belly resting his head between mama’s forepaws. A burly figure rambles up the side of the side of the mountain towards the wolf. There is obvious struggle as the being slips and slides upward. The wolf looks towards the object with wonder. Her head tilts to the side and she shows her teeth towards the unwelcome stranger. The pup cowers further underneath her belly. The stranger reaches the point five feet directly to the left of the wolf and looks at her. A brawny man standing six feet five inches dragging an elk on a tarp with one hand and carrying a bloody axe in the other speaks to her, “What? I need to eat too.”
The wolf retreats the menacing growl and stands at attention.
“C’mon” expunges from the gruff voice.
The clap of lightning streaks across the sky followed immediately by an explosion of thunder tells the man to continue on. He slops around the rock formation as the wolf, along with her pup, scampers down and follows the man. The three with the elk in tow hike fifty more yards and reach a black and grey stone cabin. The man opens the wood door and walks inside. The wolf and her pup sit outside and watch the door close in front of them.
The inside of the cabin is bare. All that resides is an old wood table, a green 1970’s style couch and a fire stove. The floor is tiled and the walls are the same rocks that are on the outside. The man slides the elk into the middle of the cabin and rests it between the table and the couch. He pulls an eight inch bowie knife from the sheath strapped to his black steel toed work boots and walks over to the window. He pushes the two glass panes in the middle and they spread out of the cabin in an open position.
“Damn, it’s getting cold out, but it’s going to stink in here if I don’t do open the windows,” He grumbles to himself.
His left brow curves up after the statement. He is shocked that he would even worry about stench. This same man has slept in this cabin for a week straight in the same clothes without showering, putting on deodorant or brushing his gnarly mountain teeth. Obviously he is not worried about stench. He shrugs his shoulders and walks over to the elk and with a violent stab, rips into the elk at the neck and runs the blade down through the belly and out of the anus. He reaches in and feels around the for the bladder. He gently pulls it out from the midsection squeezing it as if it were an egg. He is careful not to let its contents burst into the elk. He does not want to ruin his meat. He then pulls out the rest of the organs and begins cutting sections of the elk into steaks. After he is finished extracting all of the meat he possibly can, the hunter throws the organs out the window. He drags the tarp with the carcass sprawled across it into the muddy yard. Rain still beats into the puddles splattered across the field. The wolf and her cub are hiding under the red 1978 Ford Explorer pickup truck. He walks back into the cabin and grabs two medium sized steaks, walks back out to the wolves and tosses the steaks down in front of them. He goes back into the cabin and throws a log into the fire stove. The man places a skillet over the flame and cooks up one of the steaks. He then packs up the pickup and drives off down the mountain. It has been decided that he would head back to work the following Monday after three weeks off and he wanted to get a head start getting readjusted to city life by partying at his local drinking hole.
Two hours later he arrives at his mobile home in the Stoneybrook Estates trailer park. The rain beats down as he scurries to the front door. He scrambles to find the house key and unlock the door. The screen door slams behind him and ricochets off the door frame and sways to leave a crack of air between it and the frame. He softly closes the paneled door to prevent pushing the screen door out any further.
After his shower he shaves off his five day beard and slicks his hair back with a pomade he bought from the hair dresser that works out of her trailer on the other side of the park. He pulls on a pair of Levi 501’s and slips on a plain black t-shirt. He walks into the bedroom and pulls out his best red and black flannel shirt from the closet and puts it on over the t-shirt. He leaves it unbuttoned and puts on a pair of black ADIDAS Sambas. The kangaroo leather is leathered and the black is fading to a scruffy grey. The man locks the door behind him and climbs into the pickup.
He arrives at The Eagle Talon and opens the thick oak door to a scene straight from a female biker movie. His jaw drops at the sight of a woman with long black hair throwing a right hook to a blonde bombshell. The blonde reels backwards falling over a table, her pink high-heeled feet flailing drastically and flipping over her head causing the woman to slam rear end first onto the dirt covered wood floor. A big beefcake of a man with a long brown braided beard rushes to the blonde. The brunette assumes a fighting stance.
“What’ll it be, Nick?” the bartender shouts to the man standing at the entrance.
“I’ll have a PBR and a shot of Jack,” he shouts back. He walks to the bar and sits on his favorite stool directly in front of the tap. “What the hell just happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I was in the back getting a new keg of Bud and I come out to the blonde screaming at the brunette. She said something about a snaggle tooth in the nether regions. Next thing I know, you walk in and the brunette knocks the blonde flat on her ass. Hold on a minute, I need to turn the music on. Any requests?” the bartender asks walking over to the stereo system.
“Social D or John Denver, whichever you prefer.” Nick answers.
The bartender turns the stereo on and “Prison Bound” pounds from the speakers. He dims the light and walks back towards Nick watching the action of the two women with amusement. Nick taps his foot on the rail resting along the bottom of the bar. He turns to watch beefcake pick the blonde up and hoist her over his shoulder. She pounds his back and kicks her feet in the air as he carries her out.
The brunette walks over to the bar and orders a beer. She turns to Nick who is staring at her. “You want a taste she snarls.”
“Uh, no,” he mutters turning back towards the bartender. He nervously puts the beer glass to his lips and takes an extended drink. “Another PBR, Jack…Please.” He slams the glass onto the bar.

Country Club Carnage

It was a typical summer morning. The sun was radiating warm beams of joy, the birds were chirping orgiastic songs of splendor and the perfectly cut green grass sparkled with drops of morning dew. The humidless air permeated the skin leaving a person the sense of relaxation and couth. This particular golf course was a green oasis centered amidst the stone colored concrete of the metro area. Although the golf course was a haven to the eyes, it was no place for a person of peace and relaxation. No siree, the proprietors of this particular golf course lacked major scruples. The men were in a constant pissing match over who had the hottest mistress and the shiniest drivers. It is easy to say their golf club talk made up for a lack of something in their repertoire. Their wives attended the golf course with hopes of finding one of the staff workers to make stables boys out of for fifteen minutes of love suburban style. Occasionally, a random “normal” person would come to the course for a round only to be ran off by the pricks and whores. The start of this day proved to be no different than any other.
The maintenance staff were out fulfilling their morning duties of mowing grass, setting up and cleaning the holes, and turning up the sand on the bunkers. The shiny shoe cart barn men were parking the blister red golf carts in their respective places for easy drive off by the customers. The restaurant staff were cooking breakfast and cutting up various vegetables and fruits for lunch and dinnertime.
Around 7:30 am, the golfers began to overrun the course. The peace of the morning was gradually disrupted by jovial laughter by the men and screeches of perverse anguish by the women as they were rejected once again by a potential stable boy. Again, the day was progressing normally, but then the unthinkable occurred.
Randy, a forty-one year old disgruntled ex-employee with the temper of a five year old child decided to play a round of golf. The bipolar redneck walked into the clubhouse carrying his Calloway knockoff back (Calloway was missing an ‘l’ and an ‘a’ “Calowey”) that he bought from a website that offered prime golf knockoff products for half the price. He walked up to the desk “I want to play a round,” he told the clubhouse Paul the clubhouse attendant.
“Sure, man, did you set up a tee time?”
“Nah, I work here so I want on as soon as possible.”
“Let me look in the computer. What’s the name again?”
“How the hell could you not know my name? I worked here for the past two months and played fifteen times.” Randy started to grind his teeth with agitation.
“Uhm, I’m bad with names?” Paul sarcastically asked.
“Randy Turnbull. My name is Randy Turnbull.”
“Okay, just one second. Well, Mr. Turnbull, you are not in the computer and you said you have worked here for two months, so what department did you work in?”
“What the hell! I work in maintenance. My bosses Peter and Ted.”
“Let me call down and make sure with them, okay?”
“Forget about it, I’ll just pay. Can I get on if I do that, you twirp?” Randy’s beady green eyes stared through Paul.
“You can get on in fifteen minutes.” Paul stated.
“Fine, let me out there then.”
Randy took the cash out of his Velcro Confederate flag wallet and handed the wet, stained bills to Paul. He picked up his clubs and clumsily stormed out of the clubhouse. Randy sat down on the green knoll and lit an Old Gold cigarette, the kind the Indians smoke, and exhaled a puff of grey air. He looked down at his digital sports watch that he bought on sale at Wal-Mart for $2.99 and took a long extended drag of his cigarette. As he exhaled he let out a loud crackling fart and looked over at the cart checkout girl. She pretended to not see him and looked down at her romance novel. Randy stood up and strolled over to her dragging his clubs behind him.
“Hey pretty lady, I want a cart.” He said crookedly smiling showing off his disheveled yellow stained teeth.
“Did you check one out up at the clubhouse.”
“No, that little prick, Paul, up there is a total dipshit. I didn’t want to waste my time with him.”
“Well, I cannot check one out to you. You must do it through the clubhouse.” She stated.
Randy punched her in the nose and she fell off the back of her stool out cold. “Bitch, I’m going to take a cart now.” He got into on of the carts and drove off. He was driving up the first hole as he saw Peter. He knew it was Peter by the way the tired squished up and down from the weight of his large frame. Since the rental golf carts went faster than the electric golf carts the staff used, Randy’s simple mind knew he could catch up to Peter.
“Hey fatso, do you know where Max and Chang are?” he yelled at Peter.
“What the hell? Who is Chang?” Peter shouted back.
“You know, Tom! The fucker that lied about me with Max.”
“Listen, this is a family place, we don’t need that language here, if you are golfing than leave the staff alone. If not, get out of here.”
Randy reached back in his golf back, pulled off the sock cover of his driver and revealed a sawed off shot gun. He whipped it out and fired a shot at Peter. Fiberglass shattered from the cart and Randy left Peter there lying on the ground.
He drove off and as he approached a foursome of male golfers he fired rounds off at them, blowing the arm off of one of the men and killing another. The green on hole one turned dark brown from the mixture of the flowing blood and the green grass.
“Take that you sons of a bitches!” He cackled. He drove around to hole number two and fired another round in to the chest of Albert, the old man doing set up. Randy climbed out of his cart and opened up the fuel tank on Albert’s gas powered cart and tipped it over (the carts were not heavy, a ten year old child could tip them over). Gas spewed from the cart. Taking a few steps back, Randy lit a match and threw it at the ground where the gas leaked out of the cart. It burst into flames. The cart was on fire. The gold tee box on hole number two was destroyed.
Randy sped off on his search for Max and Tom. His head bobbed with the turning of the cart. He pulled grenades and a pistol from his golf bag. Green snot cascaded down from the bowels of his nose running over his gray and red scruffy redneck goatee. White spit seethed from the corners of his mouth. His eyes glazed over, puffing out red and black and his hand trembled with fear, excitement, and most of all, stupidity. His cart screeched around corners and he came upon Tom.
“Looky here. We’ve found ourselves a liar.”
Tom ignored Randy’s words and continued working.
“I am talking to you, bastard!” Randy yelled.
Tom took off running. He sprinted over the green and through the trees. Randy began firing shots from his pistol. Tom jumped into the trees and rolled into the murky pond. He swam to the other side of the pond. Randy drove his cart up to the pond and fired shots into the pond. He then saw Tom climbing onto the bank of the pond of the other side. Dirt shot up on all sides of Tom as Randy shot off round after round. Tom didn’t even look back, he continued to sprint away.
So many shots had been fired off that golfers all over the course heard them. The men panicked and sped for the clubhouse. The women were driving as well, but with less panic. They were so valiumed up that they thought it was funny that the golf course turned into a violent, live hunt firing range.
As Randy caught up to golfers he aimlessly fired shots at them and their carts. A few would flip and crash while others veered out of the way and were safe. Henry was driving in the rough on his 4100 tractor and saw golfers fleeing from Randy. The mower blades were lifted up to the sides and he was in hot pursuit of the maniacal shooter.
Completely crazed with rage, Randy began randomly firing shots into the air. His cackles followed the blasts. Police sirens filled the air as they came screaming onto the golf course. They screeched to a halt one hundred and fifty yards away from the lunatic. Around the corner came Max on the cherry red Toro SandPro with turbo. He was speeding along at the speed of rabbit, which should actually be a sloth on flames because that is all the faster it strolled along. Randy fired three shots and heard a click. The clip was empty. He stopped his cart and frantically rifled through his golf bag pulling out used golf balls and broken tees. In disgust, he shot his arm, elbow bent at a ninety degree angle with a flat palm into the air. “Goddamnit! You are a fucking idiot, Randy. God, I hate being poor.” He scolded himself. Randy jumped straight into his cart and sped towards the strolling Max on the SandPro. The collision was less than catastrophic. The hood received a massive dent from the front tire of the three-wheeled SandPro and the SandPro just quit. Max had flown off the SandPro through the front of the golf cart. Randy got out of the cart and wildly threw golf balls at Max. Max grabbed the only golf club in Randy’s knock off bag and took baseball swings at the golf balls firing each one of them back at the moron. A circle reminiscent of an after school fight formed around the two. The bewildered policemen holstered their guns and watched as the moron fired golf balls at the athlete batting them away.
“You are a fucking liar with no remorse about ruining an individual’s life!” Randy cried.
“What did I lie about?” Max asked taking another swing at a flying golf ball smashing it 200 yards.
“You know what you lied about.” Randy again cried. Tears flew from his red eyes as the cascading snot turned into a flash flood spewing over his lips and chin onto his Warrant Cherry Pie t-shirt.
“It’s not my fault you are a big fat pussy that cannot do his own work!” Max said as he took a run at Randy. Upon reaching Randy, Max took a massive swing with the golf club and drilled Randy on the side of the face rendering him unconscious. Bo Jackson would have been jealous of the massive swing. The police descended upon Randy and handcuffed the unconscious hillbilly.

Authors Note: The case of the carnage at the country club went to trial and Randy Turnbull received life imprisonment for the murders. Included in the sentence, the governor of this great state added that Randy and all murderers henceforth shall be injected with the AIDS virus as well as gonorrhea syphillus to control the sex crimes among inmates. Asked whether or not he was worried that inmates with lesser sentences transmitting the diseases and spreading them to the public he replied, “Since Country Singles went out of business, there is no way for ex-convicts to find women interested in them. Besides, who would want to sleep with an ex-con?”

A Bad Case of Cell Phone Elbow

I cannot believe the tingling sensation between my ring and index fingers. You know, the feeling that resonates from deep within the tissue such as how your foot feels when if falls asleep from being on the toilet too long? It tingles, goes numb, there is a slight burning sensation, and finally when I go to use my right hand (the cell phone hand as I like to refer to it) I cannot grasp an object due to this insane feeling. The doctor asks me if I use my cell phone a lot. I say "No more than any other American." He tells me I have a case of Cell Phone Elbow or CPE. This is the 21st century version of elbow tennis. The cause is the bending of the elbow at such a sharp angle that the nerves and tendons that travel from the top of the shoulder down to the fingers are closed off. So, if you wonder why I do not answer my phone the choices are; I don't want to talk to you or I have a case of CPE. You can choose which one you want to believe.

For more information on CPE click on the link below.
http://www.cnn.com/2009/HEALTH/06/02/cell.phone.elbow/index.html

What?

Bill sat in the plush, brown leather chair staring blankly at Dr. Reynolds. Dr. Reynolds was sitting in a typical, black leather office chair that glided from her desk to the middle of the room where the patients sat.

“So, Bill…” She started to ask.

“Just let me tell you something, I don’t need to be here. I am here because I was told I had to come.” Bill interrupted.

His face was red and sweat beads slid down the curves of his overweight face. Short, spiky pieces of blonde bacon grizzle sprouted from the top and sides of his head. He shifted his short, obtuse frame in the chair, slunken with legs spread.

“Who made you come today, Bill? According to my secretary you are the one who called in to make an appointment. Did somebody force…”

“Listen, Doc, my wife is hounding me. You know, getting all over my ass saying I need professional help.” He interrupted.

“I see. So, why do you think your wife wants you to get professional help?” She asked.

“She says I’m nuts.” He giggles. Dr. Reynolds feigns in repulsion as his large stomach and man breasts jiggle. “I tell you what, she is the one who is nuts. I don’t need this crap.”

“Then why did you come if you don’t need this?”

“Because there may be a chance I do.”

“You just emphatically stated that you do not ‘need this crap.’ So, why such a quick turnaround?”

“Doc, I don’t know I’m confused. You see there is not much about my life I can tell you about.” Bill wipes the beaded bacon grease sweat from his forehead with the back of his hairy hand.

“You seem nervous. So, I’m going to start with some basic questions and we’ll go from there. Okay?”

“I suppose so but I don’t know how much you’ll get out of me.”

“That’s fine, this is not an interrogation, this is meant to help you and what you get out of it is what you put into it. So, we know you are here because your wife feels like you may need professional help. Have you been noticing any change of moods or unhappy thoughts lately?”

“Yeah, I am unhappy that I am here right now. Other than that no, nothing unusual.” His baby blue collared golf shirt was drenched with sweat. The sweat rings under his armpits fumigated the office.

“Okay, that is a start. I noticed you are sweating a lot, are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I always sweat. I mean c’mon look at me, I’m fat.” He again giggled causing Dr. Reynolds to turn and grab a Kleenex to hide the disgust in her face.

“Where do you work?”

“I am in the party business. It’s doing good these days.”

“Do you own a bar or a nightclub?”

“No, why is there somebody selling one? I run a party supply store. You may have heard of it, Wacky Willie’s Wild Times.”

“No, I am afraid I have not. Are you noticing any mood swings?”

“Didn’t you already ask this question?” he grimaced.

“I just wanted to reiterate it, but if you don’t answer it then tell me about what you do in your spare time.”

“Okay, I work, go home, eat supper and then I watch this great television show. It is about a mobster that goes to see a psychiatrist and his family is all screwed up. Its great! The best show ever. It’s been on for several years and I cannot watch it enough.”

“You get excited when you talk of this show.”

“Hell yeah I get excited. I love it more than my kids! C’mon! Who wouldn’t want to be like this guy!” Bill’s enthusiasm spewed from his hot dog shaped lips with the burst of bottle rockets on the Fourth of July.

“What is it about this character that you envy?” Dr. Reynolds was finally engaging with her new patient.

“He has the best life ever. He owns his own night club, gambles, is rich, party’s all of the time. Hell, he even has a girlfriend on the side!”

“So you believe that it is okay to be promiscuous?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Well, IIIIIIIIII’m not saying that, its just, well you know. Your life sucks and is boring and you wish you were somebody else. That’s the guy I want to be. Can’t you see.” Bill says defending his position.

“Bill, our time is up for the day. I think that we should talk more, so why don’t you make an appointment with Jane and we’ll go from there.” She stands up and stretches her hand out towards Bill. He peels himself out of the chair and gives her hand a firm shake.

“Thanks, Doc, see you soon!” Bill waddles out of the office and slams the door shut behind him. Dr. Reynolds shakes her head at the slam of the door. She sits back into her office chair and does a crabwalk shuffle with her feet scooting the chair into position behind her desk.

Bill squeezes into his 1998 Toyota Corolla. The seat sits as far back as it can possibly go, the back of the seat leans into the front of the backseat. The steering wheel brushes against the top of his lard induced drooping gut. He grunts as he turns the key over to start the car. Bill pulls out a pack of Old Gold cigarettes and slides one out of the silicone wrapped package. He pushes the car lighter in and impatiently taps the fingers of his right hand on the middle arm rest.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon and heat up already.” He mutters vehemently to the cigarette lighter. The black knob pops out of the closest thing to a toaster a car will ever have and he yanks it up with his bratwurst fingers and lights the cigarette. He takes two long, deep drags of the cigarette breathing in every molecule of carcinogen his lungs will allow. He relieves the excess carbon dioxide with a relaxing sigh. Reaching out with the pointer bratwurst finger of his right hand he turns on the CD player. Tom Jones’ “SexBomb” explodes through the speakers. “Now we’re talking.” He grins. Bill puts the shifter into drive and speeds off.

“Dammit, Harry, why do we always have to listen to this crass dance music when William is away from the store. We should be listening to Madonna or some golden eighties!” Gary shouted from the balloon section to Harry who was standing at the cash register at the back of the store.

“Would you rather be listening to the Tom Jones shit?” Gary shouted back.

“No!”

“Then grow a pair and enjoy the musical freedom that we have at this current moment and stock those balloons.”

Gary Thompson and Harry Atkins started working at Wacky Willie’s Wild Times since the first week it was open seven years ago. Other workers had come and gone due to Bill’s obese weirdness. Not Harry and Gary. They were not completely grossed out by Bill’s tendencies to gorge himself with pork ribs and oversized turkey legs throughout the day. Plus it was the only place they could work together and be open about their relationship. The two were fired from their previous jobs at Macy’s as salesmen because they were arguing about the look of a pair of black jeans on the butt of a middle aged mother. Gary had the audacity to say the jeans made her rear look excessively large and the sales manager overheard him exclaim this remark to the patron as well as Harry. Harry slapped Gary across the face the way a girl slaps a frat boy in the face at a bar…weak and open handed. Needless to say the patron walked out without buying the jeans and the two were ushered out of the main doors opening into the mall by Cleveland the security guard.

Since the incident, Harry has grown a Sam Elliot-esque handle bar moustache and started wearing cowboy hats and boots. He has inherited a new freedom of style due to his job at Wacky Willie’s Wild Times. All of his clothes are one size too small to show off his gym rat muscles.

Gary on the other hand does not care that much about his appearance. He often wears jeans that have not been washed for a few days and consistently wears a faded green “7-Up Yours” t-shirt. His hair was shaggy and he always had a five o’clock shadow giving off the appearance that he regularly skipped showers, but he always smelled like expensive cologne and it drove Bill crazy. Bill prefers the smell of barbeque and bacon grease.

All idiosyncrasies aside, Bill enjoyed working with Gary and Harry. He wanted as diverse a workplace as possible and he felt the two enhanced that diversity. Also, he could not afford to hire anybody else and they put up with him. Oh yeah, that was said already.

“How are those balloons coming?” Harry asked.

“Shut up! I’m going as fast as possible!” Gary retorted.

“Geez, don’t get so snippy. I was just asking how they were coming.”

“Do you smell that?” Gary asked.

“No, what is it?”

“William is back. Can’t you smell the bacon grease?”

“Hey guys, how is business today?” Bill waddled up to Gary and Harry.

“It’s been slow. I think it’s the recession.” Gary replied.

“Yeah, I hear ya there. What kind of music is this?”

“Its dance music, William.” Harry stated.

“Yeah, it sucks, couldn’t you have at least listened to Madonna or the eighties or something. Isn’t that what you guys typically listen to at your clubs and dinner parties?”

“Uhm, yeah, sure William. That’s what we listen to, but at least its not as flaming as Tom Jones.” Harry replied.

“Oh really, for your information, Tom Jones is an All American classic!”

“If you are talking about the Tom Jones the country singer then, hell yeah, but if you are talking about the thrusting Welshman, Vegas side show that women through their bras at then you are confused my friend.” Harry explained.

“Whatever. You’re just jealous.”

“Anyway, we were thinking about ordering a veggie pizza for lunch. Do you want some?” asked a sheepish Gary.

“Do I look like the type of guy that needs to eat a veggie pizza. You don’t get a perfectly hanging twelve to six o’clock gut like this one by eating a handful of sun chips and a veggie pizza.”

“We can get a hand tossed crust if you want.”

“You would like it hand tossed. No, I prefer my za’s with extra pepperoni, cheese, Italian sausage, hamburger and pork. Besides I’m heading home shortly. I have to pick the twins and the boy up from school today. I might as well get home and watch a few more episodes of my show before they are all there. I don’t need them busting my balls.”

“Okay, Bill, have it your way but you are missing out on the best pizza in the universe.” Gary said salivating over the concept of veggie pizza.

“I’m heading out, can you guys come in early tomorrow morning. I want to have a meeting. It is really important. So come in at seven thirty instead of eight thirty, okay?”

“Kay boss. We will see you tomorrow morning.” They stated in unison.