Hanging with the Goon

The ol' man was pretty angry, and you don't wanna get hit by a rock thrown by him, no sir.

Read part one of the Goon's tour de force.

Its the Goon here again, an' 'fore I start up with my storytellin', I'd like to correct a few misconceptions that seem that have arisin' regarding my spellin'. I've always had the habit of spellin' "the" and "this" as "da" and "dis" 'cuz I enjoy being eclectic in my formin' of words. Yet I was told by my English teacher yester (I actually decided to go to school fer once!) that such spellins are incorrect and racist. Now, I can be incorrect at times, sure, but the Goon has never been a racist person, an' no matter how many Cu Clux Clan meetings Uncle Thom has held in his backyard, I swear I have never been in attendence. So lest you'll think I'm trying to be spigot, I'm gonna refrain from my ol' way of spellin' common words like "the," "that," an' "this."

Now that we got all that mess cleared up, I'm a gonna get back to tellin' the story I was tellin' 'fore. See, me and Slack had stirred up a sasquatch, an' it had chased us up near Uncle Thom's compound, an' we had tricked it an' trapped it in Uncle Thom special hole, which is an ol' pit about fifteen or twenty feet deep or so. It was a hollerin' somethin' awful, an' Slack and me were pretty scared to approach it, but we did anyway, 'cuz were not a bunch of pussies. Lo and behold, we gotta good look at 'em. He was about eight feet tall an' covered in a bunch of long fur like my brother Willy (Willy's got a hell of a hairy back) an' his hand were like giant baseball mitts, an' his eyes were red and smoking somethin' fierce. Slack, bein' a jackass, immediately started yellin' back at the sasquatch, callin' him queer an' stinky, which he was (the latter, at least. I don't know nuthin' 'bout no sasquatch sexual preferences.). That, of course, got 'em even more pissed off than before, an' he started tryin' to jump up an' grab a hold of us, which he damn-near did, since Slack's a bit of a stumble foot, an' I had to grab his neck an' pull 'em real hard 'cuz the 'squatch got his shoe an' almost pulled 'em in. Now Slack never knows when to quit, as all his girlfriends can attest, so after he almost got pullin' in, he whipped down his pants an' started urinatin' in the hole. The noises that come outta that sasquatch were the worstest thing I've ever heard, an' he starts throwin' himself against the hole tryin' to bust out or make the walls come down. We was laughin' and jeerin' like a bag of assholes, an' that's when Uncle Thom finally made an appearence.

Here's Uncle Thom when he went to a party an' shaved his nasty ol' beard.

"What kinda nonsense you boys doing?" he says, which is a pretty typical Uncle Thom thing to say, an' we's replied "We've caught ourselves a bigfoot!" So Thom looks in the hole, an' his eyes get all wide like silver dollars, an' he damn-near shits his pants (Good thing he didn't, cuz Uncle Thom is famous for his stinky poos). "We gotta call National Geographic!" he says, an' we all agreed that that was a damn-good idear, but first Uncle Thom gotta recognize that we was the ones who found the 'squatch. "Now, its in my hole," he says, giving us a look like he's gonna screw us outta some big monies, "an you boys are on my property." Now I know everything Uncle Thom's going on his property ain't exactly condoned in the eyes of the law, so I says "You don't want National Geographic here, Uncle Thom. They's throw yur ass in jail. How you gonna 'splain the hole an' all that illegal firearms you got in that shed?" Uncle Thom eyes me mighty suspiciously, an' then he pats me on the back an' says we'll work out a deal. He says that he need to clean up his property an' get all the suspicious stuff outta here while we camp out in front of the hole an' watch the sasquatch. "Get 'em some food," he says, but we don't know what the hell a sasquatch eats. "Dog food," says Slack. "Let's get 'em some dog food." We look down in the hole an' the 'squatch is giving us two middle fingers, I swear to God an' Beelzebub. "We want 'em to like us," I says to Slack. "Let's get 'em some pancakes." Now that's a story fere another time, 'cuz the Goon don't like typing much more than he has to. Stay tuned for my riveting conclusion!