Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Hanging with the Goon

This is a pikture when I was a boy. I always had a goode smile.

Well hey ya'll, we got some bad new taday. It turns out that witche docter that Slack went to misdiagnozed him. He don't got sifaless, he got the herpe, which is a problem, since all those remedies he be takin' are for sifaless, and not the herpe. Da real docter he went to tells him he gotta take his medicine and not spred the herpe all over the world like a plauge or the zombie apocalypise. Slack tells him that tah's gonna be a problem, since he's real good wit the ladies and lady-folks. The docter just shakes his head and tells him to take his medicin and try to not breed. I must admit I'm feelin' pretty bad for Slack right now. The herp is not something you want to handle by yourself, and now that we know he's got it, we're gonna have to get 'em seperate drinkin' water and quarters so that he don't inject us all. Reuben wants to burn 'em in a pit like we did Petunia when she got rabies, but I told 'em we'd get in a heap of troble, and that we just gotta buck up and give Slack the treatment and care he deserves. After I said that, Reuben went and got a a carton of bad milk and he waited till Slack came in from fishin' and he dumped the milk all over his head and punched him in the face. Slack went limp and collaped on the floor, so Reuben took his heels and drug 'em out into the lawn and covered his face in honey. He says if the animals don't get 'em, than he'll let 'em back into the house. I guess he went to dat witche docter and got some more bad advice.

I got in trouble at work yester for loafin' about. My boss, ol' Sam, he don't like us loafin' and smoking cigaretees while we're pickin' apples, 'cuz sometimes the cigarette butts get trown in with the apples, and dat cushtomers find 'em, since Sam don't like washin' the apples like he should, which ain't goode, 'cuz he likes to nuke the orchard to kill all the buggies and funjuses. I think Sam really wants to kill that Bigfoot he be seeing all the time prancin' about the orchard, though I imagine you'd need a lot of pesticides to kill a Bigfoot. Maybe I outta take the initiative and sit out one night wit my .22 and a David Bowie knife and lie in wait for that Bigfoot to saunter under my apple tree. I think I coud take 'em: Bigfoot ain't that tough, and I bet he's half as ornery as Slack when he's got the herpe showin' all over his face, and consequentiially can't get no love from any of his ladies.

Which brings me to my next point: its hard gettin' love in dis town. Ive been doin' my best and tryin' to bathe every three days and keep my teethers brushed, but I sweers by the moon and the stars in the skye that can't get me no legitmate date. Deres this girl who runs the drive by liquor store and she's always struttin' her stuff in Daisy Dukes, so the last time I was dere I told 'er I'd a like to get to know 'er better and take her out on the town, maybe to some nice place like Ponderosa. She says dat she would be happy to come, but she's herd about town dat I got the herpe. I told 'er that that's an egregious error, and my brotha Slack is the one who actually has the herpe. That didn't work, though; she says the herpe is mighty contagius, and it's likaly that I got it from livin' wit Slack and sharin' the same quarters as he. I decid to just roll with it and I tell her that yes, I got the herpe, but I don't spread inbetween outbreaks. She gives me a good smile, and tells me she'll meet me at the Ponderosa. Score one for the goon and the herp! I'll haave to member to brush my teethers extra good dat night.

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