Writer's Block: A Short Tale of the Goon

 

A Short Tale of the Goon

The farmers’ market—a bustling environment of wonder, filled with healthy people and sunshine and money. The Goon has his spread laid out before them, a table of plenty, filled with the golden apples of the sun and peaches the size of softballs, struggling to fit inside their green quart boxes. He gesticulates and smiles and stretches his arms out as he fumbles over his words, a piece of straw jutting from the right corner of his mouth, his overalls worn and frayed, the trucker cap protruding over his brow like a hillbilly crown. There are wares to be sold and money to be made, and this is the sweet reward for his hard labor, to play the role he was born to play. Leona tries her hardest to filled the boxes quickly enough as the Goon pontificates and lectures on the difficulties and complications of growing tree fruit in the Ohio River Valley while the line of customers grows and twists out into the market like the meandering coils of a gigantic serpent. The traffic continues until about noon, when he finally gets a welcomed respite from the hustle and bustle. The peaches are all sold—they have half a bushel of green apples left—and now the Goon can kick back and relax and bask in the glow of a job well done.

“I think I’m gonna have a coffee,” he says to Leona.

“You’re planning on evacuating your bowels is what you mean,” she replies.

“They don’t know nothing of it,” the Goon says, already moving toward the coffee shop.

“I’ll bet those girls hate you,” she says as he ducks under the caution tape and heads to Happenings coffee shop.

It’s a nicely arranged venue—tables organized in a corner for conversation and work, a long bar for wine tasting—and he heads past the line to order, squeezing through a cluster of women waiting for their white mochas and decaf cappuccinos to knock softly on the door of the men’s room. Suddenly out of the ladies room emerges the red-headed woman of the Goon’s dreams—he can’t recall ever hearing her name but she’s worked at Happenings for eons—and their eyes lock momentarily, her greens meeting the Goon’s baby blues, and an energy is exchanged, at least on the Goon’s part, and he feels his chest sucking in air like he’s sinking underwater while the narrow hallway shimmers in hallucinatory instability. Is there one woman out there for him, one partner, one out of seven billion, and is it this lady? His brain feebly attempts to think of something, anything to say that might cause her to stop and converse with his sorry being. But she speaks first, robbing him of his chance.

“I’m about to clean the men’s room. You can use the girls’ if you like.”

Well, yes he could technically use the women’s restroom, but that would be a breech of his personal code, an old-fashioned sensibility handed down from some ethereal source that he couldn’t name if he tried.

“That’s okay, I uhhh, I don’t really need to go,” he stammers.

“You can use either restroom. Their not really gendered,” she says.

But there’s the sign right there contradicting her words, the silhouette of a woman, and the Goon can’t disobey years of conditioning. He murmurs something, some sort of apology but her eyes are staring into his, he can’t take that look, so he pushes past her and barges into the women’s restroom, slamming the door, fumbling with the lock as he then proceeds to fumble with his pants. The urge has hit him with a sudden fury that demands immediate evacuation, and the Goon barely manages to seat himself on the toilet before a wave of liquid diarrhea shoots out of his ass like a spigot turned to the max. The smell is horrible—the sick, wet stench of butt vomit—but it’s the noise that his suffering anus makes as he rids himself of the poorly-digested chili dog he had last night that causes him shake his head back and forth, uttering a silent wail. They’re out there, he knows they are—all the waiting customers, the well-dressed women, the leggy young girls in their yoga pants—and if they have two working ears, there is no possible way that they aren’t hearing the terrible tragedy that he is currently authoring in Happening’s women’s facilities.

There is no way to cleanse oneself sufficiently after such a shit. The toilet paper roll is empty, the toilet bowl a splatter-house of gore, the reek hanging in the air a like ruptured skunk. As you wash your hands, choking on your own greenhouse emissions, the soap seems to slide off, as though your skin is unable to be truly cleaned. Desperately, you look around for something, a candle, an air freshener, but no one’s placed a toilet brush anywhere, so there’s no way to erase the evidence of your crime. You have to live with it, you know. She will find out.

The Goon opens the door and the red-head woman is standing there, looking a bit miffed, when suddenly the stinking cloud that he summoned escapes. Her upper lip curls upward; her eyes roll back into her head as she steadies herself by reaching out a hand. God help him, the Goon takes her hand with one of his poo-stained flippers, causing the poor woman to recoil against the hallway, as though he is a monster in the flesh, fresh from a rampage and eager for more bloodshed.

“Go,” she whispers, clamping her free hand over her mouth, lest any more of the poison seep into her lungs.

The Goon flees, darting past the waiting line of customers, his heavy boots stomping on the wooden floor like the hooves of the Minotaur. Outside, the air is fresh and clean, and he stands there on the sidewalk with his arms out to the side, a man reborn in the light, the past behind him, his relief palpable in the bright morning sun.

“Did you have a good dump?” Leona asks when he returns to his booth.

How can he tell her that he failed, that he will never walk hand in hand with the red-headed woman of his dreams because he destroyed the women’s restroom like an alcoholic hobo dying from Crohn’s disease?

“I’m alright,” he says as his bowels lurch inside him like a boiling cauldron. He’d be alright. He was gonna have to be.

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.

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!

Hanging with the Goon

Hey ya'll, this is da Goon, and I'm gonna tell you whats up in dis wild crazy ass life of mine. Just yester me and my brotha Slack got off work at the apple orchard and drove down to da crick with a .22 and a sack of mushrooms that Slack stole from Ponderosa. Now, don't be getting me wrong, we ain't the thieving types, cept for Willy and Remy, considerin' both of thems in the jail for petty larceny, but anyways, Slack says them mushrooms should be good for smoking once we dry them out, which we tried to do by putting em in a frying pan and heatin' em up over some crick rocks. While we's waiting for them mushrooms, Slack gets the bright idear to start shootin' at squirrels since we ain't had a good fried squirrel in what must be eons. He hit one of them basterds right between teh eye and it fell in the crick aways down, and Slack being Slack, he start hollerin' at me to go get it 'cuz he thinks I'm his gopher or something. I get on down in the crick up to my briches and there's teh squirrel all floatin' and shit, so I reach out to grab em and the little fucker bats his eyes at me and sinks his teethers into my vulnerable hand. I start hollerin' and Slack is jumping up and down like a prancing pony, he's all chorkling and hee-hawing, and I'm a waving around dis squirrel who's got a death grip on my finger. Finally I killed it by beating its head against a crick rock. Slack den tells me I got rabies. I tell him he got sifaless, and he says he don't inbetween outbreaks. We skin the squirrel and have ourselfs a nice squirrel meat feast. Later we try to smoke the mushrooms but end up nearly dead with gooey mushroom in our noses.

Today I got up out of my sack and went flounderin' in the kitchen lookin' to stir up some grub. I open the frige and find nothing but beer and eggs. My uncle Thom is always comin' in our trailer and loadin' the frige full of eggs 'cuz he gots like eleven-hundred chickens or something and theys always pooping out eggs. I take a handful of eggs and throw them against the wall, 'cuz sometimes your just tired of eating the same damn thing every day, specially if its eggs. I looked at the wall real good and I couldn't tell wheres I threw the eggs cuz theres so much shit on our walls from Slack trying to become a master chief and get on Top Chief. He makes bacon and eggs and flay-me-on and some queer french dish that nobody likes. It involves a goose which you feed a bunch of crap until the goose won't eat anymore and then you force feed the goose 'cuz he don't know any better, and I tell ya, its pretty funny watchin' Slack try to stuff Cheeseits down a goose's throat, and all the while the thing's beatin' the hell outta him with its wings and honking like a sonofabitch. Everybody felt sad for that goose and didn't want to eat it.

For are final story I'd like to tell how my Uncle Thom taught Rebus the coon how to dance. There he is above jumpin' up and down with Rebus trying to teach em the stutter step. Rebus can twerk pretty good, and I guess he's got plenty of practice 'cuz Thom is always trying to proach em from behind and teach em who is the boss. I tell Thom that's exactly how I treat the ladies, that is, when I'm lucky enough to catch one and bring her back to the trailer. Thom gets this queer look in his eye and says "Don't I know, son, don't I know," and I don't know what the hell he means but he always looks down at his arms and there's a hell of a lot of raccoon scratches all over em. Slack says Thom really does have rabies and its making him mad. I hope I don't get rabies or sifaless. That's all I got to say about that.

Hanging with the Goon

Well howdy everbody, did y'all know that I is in a wedding? Ol' Slack is finally tying the knot wit his cousin Cinderalla. It is a story of undying love, true grit, and mutual masturbation. It took a long time fer Slack to woo da beautiful Cinderelly, but he's always been a charmer. For bout ten hour he stood outside her winder, howlin and caterwallin, singing her praises and tell her that he'd always leave da nightlight on in da trailer and that teh rat problem was finally taken care of. He has me to thank fer that: I got me rat stick an spent a whole day clubbin them fer naught but ten bucks which I promptly spent on an authentic Hulk Hogan Stretch Armstrong doll. I guess cuz of my labors Slack figured I was his bestest of men. He sure as hell couldn't have picked Rubin or Willy, cuz they both is in jail fer robbing Booger King again.

So da Goon has to write him a bestest man speech. I thought I'd talk about Batman an how he is the bestest of crime fighters, an how even Ben Afflick couldn't sully da cape an cowl. Maybe I could talk too bout Conan the Barbarian which is Slack's favorite movie, cuz he's a sucker fer oily muscle men with big man boobs. But mostly I think I just talk bout life in da Goon household, an how it's no easy picknick, an how Miss Cinderelly better be capable of making ten pancakes and twenty hot dogs every morn ta feed all of us ungratful sonsabitches. It ain't easy being a woman: the Goon knows. This one time, when Willy came home from his first stint in jail, he made teh Goon dress up and prance around, which the Goon hates to do, but Willy's got one hell of a temper and fists like King Kong, so I was a woman for about two weeks, shush, don't tell anyone. I don't think I oughta mention that in teh bestest man speech.

In utter news teh orchard is struggling wit all dis rain we's a getting. It's hard to keep all teh rots off da apples, though Sammy is spraying all teh time like a horse in heat. He's getting mighty cantankerous, ol Sammy: the Goon think that all teh drinking and chewing is finally getting to his brains. Me an Hernando had ourselves a good long talk bout it, an we concluded that if anything happened to Sammy, we oughta bury him in the old orchard an claim teh place as our own. Hernando says dats how it works in Mexico, an I'm liable to believe him, he's a smart man. I asked him bout writing teh bestest man speech an he said I should praise teh endowments of teh bride an groom. I don't know what that means, but it sounded like a good idea.

So teh next time you hear from da Goon, he gonna have himself a sister-in-law! I sure be nice to have someone to hug and kiss all teh time who cant do nutting bout it! Wit love an understanding I welcome Cinderelly into our humble home.

Hanging with the Goon

Reuben takin' advantag of teh new toilet we found on the side of the road.

Hey ya'll, how's it been in ya'll's crazy lives? I tell ya, it's been a little crazier 'round here than usual. Slack is still dealin' with the herpe, but he's gotten used to his confinement, and we're feedin' him through the slot in his door salisbury steak wit milk, which is his most favorite meal. He don't like havin' the milk poored through the door; he gets all pissy like a baby an starts hollerin' about the smell, but he's gotta have his nutrients, so I continue to do it. Soon as the outbreakin' gets off of his face, Reuben says we'll let 'em out, but I dunno, I kinda like have only one brother 'round to beat the hell out of me and kick me outta my sack in the mournin'. Uncle Thom come over yester and asked what the hell was we doin' to that boy, an we did our bestest to explain how he's got a contajous disease and he needs to be isolated. Uncle Thom just shook his head and called us idots and dropped off his eggs like he does every other day. We sure as hell get called idots a lot. But were not stupod.

Now I gotta tell ya'll, that date I had the other day went right as rain. We's went down to the Ponderosa and gots the buffet, and I tell ya I ate about twenty of thouse rubbery steaks they have, an' me girl Lila ate a whole bunch of maceroni, so much that I think they got a little mad at us, 'cuz she kept going back an getting thirds and fourths. Afters we went to a special place, a bar called da Angry Bear. I get my weed in the back alley, but that's not we we's went theres. They had a band playin' on the stage, I think they were called Penis Envy, or somethin' like that. It was a bunch of womens that looked like men; I think one of 'em had a beard, and they were real angry and playin' somethin' fierce on dere guitars. One of 'em was like five feet tall an' had glasses on an a sweater vest, an' she kept whippin' her hair back in forth like that Will Smith song written by Neil Young. She was possessed by da music, is what I'm sayin', an' I started hee-hawin' 'cuz she was kinda funny with her rockin' and rollin'. We danced in a circle an I did the shimmy and the stutter step. I figure Lila had a good time, 'cuz she gave me a blowy in the parkin' lot afters, but you can't always tell wit some women.

Heres a pic of Neil Young lookin' kinda like my Uncle Thom when he was young and on cocaine.

Well my boss Sammy made me go to the farmers' market da other day even though we ain't got nothin' to sell but some old moldy apples from yester year. At teh markets in the city there ain't nobody 'round this time of year, but dere was a guy dressed up as Mr. Redlegs an' it was somethin' terrible, lemme tell ya. Mr. Redlegs has a gigantic head like da moon, and he got big soulless eyes that look down in ta the depths of your heart an' I swear he knows all, just like da devil. I don't like his grin; he looks like he's planning something, an' that somethin' involves dicin' you up and feedin' you to teh coons. He came over to me and picked up an apple an' just held it dere, starin' at me like he was thinkin' about smashin' it against my head. "Take it!" I scream at 'em and he just stands dere wit that horrible grin and mustache, an' I swear he smelled like beer. He don't say nothin', he just keeps standin' dere for what seems like forevers, so I close my eyes and pray an' when I open them he's gone. I don't know why the Reds hire him, 'cuz he's gotta be the most evil thing in the whole wide world.

Don't look at 'em too long our he'll take your soul!

Hanging with the Goon

Dis is the backside of our place, we cleaned up them picknick tables and all the trash real goode.

Howdy everbody, I'm here to talk today about da dangers of teh internet. Now, I spent most of ma life without the fancy, smancy internet, let alone a compooter, or lectric, runnin' water, central heat, blah, blah, blah, you get da picture. Well, Remy and Slack an I decided we's should enter into the twentieth century, so we pooled our monies together and got a generator from Uncle Thom so dat we's could stop stinkin' up the libary an get on the world wide web from da comfort of our home. Now I have to admit, we did steel a compooter from the high school; Slack broke a window an I snuck in and hauled one out along with the contents of a vinding machine so we's have somethin' decent to eat for supper for once in our lives. Back at da trailer, we had to call Uncle Thom to come over an show us how to hook the damn thing up to da generator, 'cuz Remy had it plugged in to an outlet spite da fact dat we don't have lectric; his explanation was dat da witch docter had rendered him able to conduct lectric usin' just da powder of his mine, like he was Cap'n Picard or somethin', which I guess ain't true, seeing how we never did get any lectric. Thom got us hooked up, though eh did say some mean things, mostly referencing our lack of telligence--he says we couldnt find our asses if theys was attached, which ain't true, I certainly have no problem findin' my ass, considerin' how it smells. Well, first thing we do when we get da internet is to look up all da fine ladies of the night in dere berfday suits, an boy, lemme tell ya, I had no idea women could look so goode naked; maybe its the area or my breath, but I ain't never seen any ladies wit boobies an asses like basketballs. We all took turns lookin' at da pictures, an each of us got ourselves some private time, which was fine, but nobody cleaned up da mess an pretty soon da compooter was lookin' like somebody shot elmer's glue all over it, an da keyboard was stickin' to yur fingers somethin' awful.

I typed in "dangers of da internet" in da google an dis is what I got, which don't make no sense.

So Slack, being a ladies man, gets himself in a bit of trouble almost immediately. He starts hanging out in chat rooms, pretendin' to be a teenager, which is more then a bit deceivin', since he's 'bout thirty-one years of age, if da stars be right. I tell 'em he's gonna get caught an have to go back to jail, but he don't listen, an pretty soon he's got himself a date with a strapping young lady of like fourteen or so an dere gonna meet in da park. Remy and I go along wit him, just to make sure he don't do nothin' stoopid like try an take her somewhere public like Ponderosa. Slack's got himself dressed as Justin Beever sa dat he look somethin' like a fourteen-year-old, an I do declare, he's pullin' it off pretty damn goode. Well, we never see no lady of da night, but a fat man wit a pony tail come up to him an ask if he's da gentlemen he's a lookin' for, an it turns out dat the supposedly strapping young lady is in actuality a forty-year-old convicted child molster, which, ain't dat just 'bout right? Me and Remy jump outta da bushes then and start wailin' on da perv, beatin' him wit sticks, an he just collapses and starts crying 'bout ponies or some shit. We take da Beever home and get 'em cleaned up, an tell 'em that they can't all be victories an yus gotta be warry on da internet. He says "Ok" an then he start lookin' up boobies again. I swear, we dont get nothin' done; all we do is pound our meat, an I'm a scared dat da compooter will get too full of seamen an stop workin' an den what we gonna do? So watch out, peoples, da internet is addictive an full of boobies an pervs pretendin' to be Justin Beever followers, an ain't dat just 'bout da most awful thing yus ever heard?

Hanging with the Goon

I gets teh feelin' that somebodys makin' fun of my way of livin'.

Hi ya'll, this here's teh Goon, an here's to hopin' ya'll had a nice Christmas an New Years. I didn't get much fer Christmas, considerin' I was a bad boy, an Santa Claws don't reward bad boys wit nuttin' but coal an copies of auto trader. Slack says Santa don't come round here much ever since they tried to blow up his slay wit WD40 an gasoline. Ive been told taht since I was a child. As a boy I'd look ta teh sky an' try an see Santa flyin' an dropping bombs on us like he was Iranian or something. The Goon family Christmas tree is also somethin of a sad eyed affair. Last year we stole it from teh park, an all of us spent Christmas in jail, so dis year we did teh honest thing an stole on from WalMart. Teh Waltons don't need yer money ever sinse they got taht tv show; thear descendents have been livin' off of teh proceeds fer many moons, I reckon. That show sucks.

What ya'll do fer Christmas? I keep trying to get this email thing workin, but uncle Thom says you gotta be sure to make a good passwerd, unless you want teh North Koreans to know were you get all yur porn. That don't matter much to me; they can look at my porn as much as they like, I'm not teh jelious type. Hell, I once had a girlfiend named Cindy Laper and she passed herself 'round the Goon household like a handmedown dirt bike, an tahts how we all got siphelus. I outta call ol' Cindy Woo Hoo up. Teh Goon ain't had a good time in a long time, if ya know what I'm sayin.

Do ya'll ever look up at teh sky an wonder when teh aliens are coming down to take us up to alien heavven? Me an Hernando do taht often. Hernando says they gonna come pretty soon, just as soon as were done messin' up the planet wit Al Gore and fungicides an free internet pornos. Hernando says he's talkin to em wit his alien receiver, which looks like a cell phone from teh sixties, I'm guessin. He keeps it in a bushel basket in teh barn to hide it from Sammy. I took it out an looked at it an pressed some buttons an it started makin wierd sounds an I said "ET COME HOME!" an it started smokin an I put it down befere it burned my hands. Maybe I shuda made a collect call. I dunno waht taht is.

Hanging with the Goon

Greatings and salutations, ya'll, I'll have ya know it was just my birtday! That's rite, teh Goon is now thirty years of age. Who wouldve thought Id make it dis long? When I was a kid, a German Sheepard took me in its jaws and carried me into da woods to teh Goblin King an I was annoited "Teh Price who Will Cometh." Since den, my days have been numbered, an as far as I'm concerned, every single day since has been a gift. Udder den dat, I've had to survive amongst my kin, whihc is no laughing matter, lemme tell ya. Slack hit me wit a crowbar when I was ten and dats why I see prancing faires ever now and then. Willy tried to drown me in the toilet just teh udder day but I survived cuz I got teh family gills. Lets juust say teh Goon is a surviver. Lemme tell ya bout my birtday.

Uncle Thom came down early in the morn wit an ice cream cake an he showed it to me wit a big smile on his face an then he ate it all in front of me and said "Happy birtday, moderfucker." Now dis is tradition, so it didn't bother me nun, even though ice cream cake is my most favorite thing in teh world. When I tried to leave teh trailer my brothers gave me a sock party an I passed out in the grass for bout an hour. Dis is also tradition, though I can't remember why. Later I woke up an dey was dragging me behind a truck through teh woods, wooping an hollerin' and carryin' on. I got caught on a tree stump an lost one of my fingers. I was pretty pissed by then; there ain't no sense in taking a man's finger on his birtday, so I stormed off an hid in teh park awhile. I got some toilet paper in the rest room to help slow teh bleedin. There was a little fairy child in dere, an he told me dat it was almost time for me to retern to teh Goblin King an take my rightful place by his side. "Will dey give me sock parties on me birtday?" I asked him. He gave me a strange look and shook his little head. I don't think he knew what I was talkin' bout.

I teh park I found a hobo drinking a bottle of gin, so I hit 'em wit a tree branch an stole his liquor. From then on, things started going rite fere teh Goon. I beat up some teenagers in teh park and took dere skate boards. I skated into town an threw up in a garbage can. Down at teh river I found a dead fish that I poked wit a stick for bout an hour or so. Somehow I ended up in the junkyard where I took a good long nap in an AMC Gremlin. In my slumbers I spoke to teh Goblin King an I told him I wasn't ready to give up on dis life, naught yet. "Sure, it might get bad," I tell him, "But dere's always enjoyment to be had, provided yere easily entertained." He told me I was wise and dat they await my comin'. That's something to feel good bout, don't ya think?

Hanging with the Goon

 Ol' Sam caught 'emself teh coyote! Hot-damn!

Folks and gentlelady-folks, we ares in teh depths of peach season, witch as far as teh Goon is concerned, is money-making season. Hand-over fistests! Teh Goon is absolutely rolling in teh dough. As of last week, I has made 240 dollars! In two weeks! That's enough money to not pay my rent and purchase 24 cases of Miller High Life. That's liek a week in a half's worth of beer. So teh Goon is livin' well, folks. Dont uses worry bout him.

But this is a pubic service annoucment. WTACH OUT FER TEH JAPANSE BEATLES! Dees little varmits are all over teh place! Tehy are eating teh peaches and chewin' on teh apple leaves, and just generally makin' tehmselves a nuiscance to decent orchard peoples leik myself. What really pisses me off bout teh beatles is that they're always screwing all over teh place liek Yoko and John Leenon. Every peach tree is havin' a beatles' orgy! They doing it ontop an on bottom, though I hasn't seen any positions that I was unawares of, not yet, at least. My boss Sammy is spraying teh trees wit Carbaroyl and nuclear material in teh hopes that it will kill teh beatles an save teh rest of our peaches. Unfortunately, all that toxic stuff kills just about everythin that has four legs or two, so when I's picking teh peaches, I has to wear a hazmat suit, witch is hot as hell! Over teh last few weeks, I has lost twenty-two pounds in thirteen hours, witch is just too many, to be honest. Still, I has my ten pack back an all teh ladies are put on alerts. Watch yourselfs, ladies. Dont be caught hanging round teh lampost after hours, or teh Goon will be there to sweep you off of yur feet!

Id lieke to says a little bouts teh heat. It has been attrocius tehis year. Me an Hernando has been plagued by teh swamp ass. We cant move ten feet witout hasin teh swamp ass crawl up our asses an make em sweaty. Inf act, when teh Goon gets home, he burns his underpants in teh stove an throws his socks out in teh crick fer teh animals to devour. But u has to watch it: unfortunately, teh crick dont flow very well, an last summer I clogged it up wit all my dirty socks an tehy had to has teh utility company come down and pump it free. They gave teh Goon a stern talkin-to, but i didn't listen too well cuz I'm a mental midget. Anyways, dont let teh swamp ass prevent you from livin' ur life. That's my main message today.

Hanging with the Goon

Dis here's Thom an all his most closest friends.

Howdy ya'll, today Id like ta dedicate my post to my favorite family member, my Uncle Thom. I'm a gonna tell amy most favorit Uncle Thom story, but first Id like ta tell everbody a little bout Thom an how he lives. Uncle Thom lives bout half a mile down da road in an ol' shack made out of plywood an aluminum cans an da pelts of skunks. He got a chickin coop made outta barbed wire, an sometimes when we come over, dats where I usually fall asleep ins, specially when I's had to much ta drink. Now Uncle Thom likes to drag race, an most of the valley can hear him late inta the evening revving up da engine on his souped up Firebird, an its kinda a point of contention amongst some of da other residents who dont respect da hard work it takes to build a competitive racer. Some have taken to firing weapons in Thom vicinity when he gets too loud, which pisses Thom off, an den he starts shootin' back, an god forbid you be on da road at dat time, cuz yur liable to take a built in yur asshole or worse. Another funny thing bout Uncle Thom is dat he's got a frigerator sitting right before his driveway, blockin it cuz he dont like visitors (bout da worst a stranger can do is pull into his driveway. Many have an were never seen again!). When Uncle Thom wants to leave he just puts a ramp behind the frigerator and ramps the sonofabitch like the General Lee, an you hear him tearin' down the valley like hells wheel or meatloaf.

Da story Id like to tell envolves Uncle Thom and my brother Slack. Now Slack got hisself in trouble wit the law, cuz he was drunk an drinking in the park, an I guess some ladies came sauntering down da walkway an he must've showed dem his wenis, or at least dats waht dey told da police. So course Slack needed someplace to hide, so he goes running back toward da house, the men in blue on his trail, an to throw 'em off, he veers into Thom's property. He gets down to da house, an low an behold, deres Uncle Thom sittin in his most favorite recliner (which is right outside his doorstep) naked as da day he was born. Slack just kinda stares at him, since he's never seen Uncle Thom naked, an Thom asks him "What da hell you doin' here, boy?" since I guess dis is his private time which he spends alone wit his privates. "I'm a running from da law!" shouts Slack, an Uncle Thom turns a shade of pale dat resembles da moon when its at its most full. "Ya goddamn idjit, whaddya bring ums here fors?" screams Thom, standing up from his chair. He starts pointin' toward da pit, which is bout five-hundred feet from da house, an Slack raises his eyebrows an realizes dat Thom's got company. "Im gonna go hide in da crick," he tells Thom, but Thom a scramblin' to put some pants on, but den da police show up an say "Freeze!" just like in da movies, an Thom's stuck wit no pants on. Unfortunately, dey got pretty curious bout da screams an yells coming from da pit, an when deys move ta check it out, Thom takes off like a fat pig through da woods, an one of dem police men had to wrestle him down and handcuff 'em an put 'em in da back of the squad car butt naked. I guess da woman dat dey found in da pit was consentin' parrently ta being down dere, or least Thom got her to say dat, so he didnt have ta do time, but now everbody thinks he's a weirdo, which dont matter much. Thom dont care wat people think of 'em. Dats one of his bestest traits.

 

Dis is da pit, dont it look cumfy?

Hanging with the Goon

Dis here's my cousin playin' tha banjo. I added this apopos of nuttin'.

Read parts one and two of the Goon's tall tale.

So ya'll, I was telling everone bout how we caught a Sasquatch in my Uncle's pleasure hole, and how I wanted it to like us, so I was advising Slack to go get us some pancakes, which he did. He got on his four-wheller an drove half-an hour to Denny's, and when he got back, he had a whole sack of pancakes. We put syrup an butter all over 'em, and then we dangled them above the bigfoot an started hollerin' at 'em that it was time fer breakfast, an he better eat up, since dis Denny's pancakes cost bout all tha money Slack's been savin' up fer that Fleshlight thingy you can put yer wiener in. That bigfoot jumps bout four feet in tha air, an he grab them pancakes wit one hand, an all that shit goes all over him, syrup an buttered cakes, but he don't seem to mind picking up pancakes from da dirrty earth, though I would, knowing what Uncle Thom's done on dat mud. "Well, whaddya know," I say to Slack, "Looks like I was right bout him needing some pancakes." "What else he need, genius?" says Slack. "I think he could use a modern porno," I say, "Considerin' how he was lookin' at all dem old ones." We look around fer Uncle Thom, since he's an old pornographer, havin' filmed some movies of his own in tha back yard. We can't find him anywheres, which is mighty suspicious. Tha bigfoot is moaning now, probably cuz all those pancakes aren't settling in his gut. "Let's go look in Thom's trailer an see what we can find," I say, and dats what Slack and I's do.

 

So inside Uncle Thom's trailer's like waddin' through a marsh; deres so much shit in yer way, comin' at you from every direction, that you gotta be careful you don't get sucked down. "Can't you find anything?" yells Slack after we's been in dere awhile. "I found nutin' but Dimitri, that old cat Willy used to have," I tell 'em, havin' stumbled upon Dimitri's petrified remains. I see a bottle of Pepto Bismol an I grab it. Somethin's moving in under all da trash; it's making a low-pitched cry, and I'll be damned if I wait around to see what it is. We flee da trailer. Soon as we get out, we heres a bunch of cars comin' up the driveway. "Shit, Uncle Thom's called da media!" says Slack. "Dat ol' fucker," I say, knowin' Uncle Thom's screwed us again. We go to tha hole an look down at the sasquatch. He gives us a look like "Why have you done this?" an my little heart breaks. I reach over an grab tha rope ladder Thom sometimes throws down when his captives have had enough. So he climbs dat ladder and stands over us. Slack is scared; I can tell, cuz he pees his pants. I pee my pants. People are running up through da woods now, we can hear um climb da steep driveway. Bigfoot puts two hands on our shoulders, gives us a what can only be described as a smile (looks like he has bout tha same amount of teeth as I) and takes off inta da woods.

Uncle Thom was pissed, cuz he dragged all these people up here an dere wasn't anything down in his pleasure hole but a bunch of half-eaten pancakes. He ends up gettin' in trouble again, which ain't nuttin' new fere him, but he holds grudges, an unfortunately Slack an I are on his shit list. I wish I could say dere was a morale to dis story. If I had to speculate, I'd say "Be kind to udders, an everone likes pancakes." That's all I have to say bout that.

Hanging with the Goon

You all like sticks? I sure do.

Howdy partners, its been a good adn long time since teh Goon laid his eyes on teh interwebs and told folks about this sorry mess called Life. Last time I spokee to ya'lls, I was thinkin' bout heading down to Mexico to rescue Hernando from Vanilla Ice and his crew, but taht got called off cuz I was busted fer drunk drivin' wit out me pants or shoes on. Sense I also had one pound of Cokecain in my truck, theys was gonna put teh ol' Goon away fer a very long time. Luckily, I am three-quarters cousins wit Attorney Gerneral Jeff Sessions, an after I wrote him a long letter about how drugs an teh liberal media have ravaged our family, he let me off teh hook by arranging to have teh door to me cell be left unlocked, inablin teh Goon to escape. Now I'm on teh run, just like Hernando was, though I don't think Vanilla Ice is after me, far as I know. Don't tell anybody, but I'm hidin' in teh ochard, eatin' worms and rotten apple skins an' waiting till teh coast is clear an I can start my ol' time life agains. Sam discovered me one day pissin' on an apple tree, an he putt me back to work picking up prunings. Now if none of yas have ever pruned an apple tree, its mighty hard work, lemmee tell ya. You have to shape it like a South-eastern Indiana lady, that is, like a pear that's about to explode out its bottom-side. I done F'ed-up too many trees last year so Sam don't let me prune none. Pickin' up sticks is my business now. It is my life.

When I close my eyes at night, I sees sticks. When I look at my fingers real good, I sees sticks. When I eat dinner, I sees sticks (sometimes I eat sticks, so that's why taht is). I counted teh stick piles in teh orchard one day an I counted four-hundred and twenty-seven an three-quarters. What are we gonna do wit all them sticks? Well, we're gonna bury them. Some, we're gonna burn. Others, we're gonna haul to teh dump. Even more we will feed to teh chipper. Any thats left I'm a gonna build a house out of to live in full-time. I has had enough of trailer livin. I has embraced teh outdoors.

That there above is me me prototype. Do ya think I can cajoule any perty ladies to come an touch my pillow snake in the humble confines of this dwelling? I think, if teh Goon makes a point to brush his teeth and comb teh worms outta his hair that he has as good a chance as anybody. Tilll next time, God bless.

Hanging with the Goon

Ya'll lookin' at our next Prezident!

Howdy ya'll, what's happining in that crazy wide world of ours? We'll, I'll tell ya'll that alot has happened in the Goons world in recent times. I has got a good job at the library after sweet-talkin teh libearian who looks somethin like Sherel Crow only 'bout half as fetchin' and five times as ornery. She found me starin' all precious like at some buuks (I was tryin' to find somethin on sasqutches and their mating habits) and took a lieking to me, thinking I was some halfwit or retard. So I has been stackin' stuff and orderin' tiles based on teh computated amount of titties, an' my system has been workin' out mighty fine, or so the voices say. Soemetimes when teh libarians are speakin' I listen in all quiet-like from behind teh buukshelfs, an so I's been aquainting meself with politics an d who's a runnin fer the jackass nomination, or so Uncle Willy calls teh Demoncrats. Now Shearl Chrow lieks Lizbeth Warren, but I'm a gonna give ya'll teh run down of teh various candidates based on what I has heard from teh educated and Uncle Willy, who definitely ain't.

SLeepy Joe-- Aparently he was teh Vice King to teh former President, Barry Humane Obama. Shearl Chrow says he wants to taek us back to a time that no longer exists, so I geuss he has a time machine and wants to bring back teh Dinosaurs, which never existed, at least according to my more religius relations. He was teh favorite to win teh Donkey Kingship, but he's craterin' in teh polls faster tehn Slack's periods of sobreity, so I don't know if he's ever gonna get to use taht time machine.

Major Pete-- Major Pete is a good boy an he sort a loks like teh guy who wrote for teh school newspaper and who had himself a couple problems wit teh bullying sort. Once taht guy was kind to me and gave me a sandwich he found by teh trash can after a vicious underpantsin'. According to Shearl, Major Pete don't have enough experience, though I ain't sure that hurts him nowadays, when teh President can be a whoremonger and a whatabooger eater.

Amy Kobuucher-- I don't know taht much about her, udder than she's a mordorate, which means she's for teh policies of Mordor, teh land which Sauron rules. Maybe she's an ork? Will have to ask Uncle willy 'bout tis one.

Lizbeth Warren-- Uncle Willy's talked alot about her an how she's bring all men folks down wit her radical veminism. Uncle Willy's never liked women much since teh cops came an beat him wit reeds for keepin' a bunch of womens udder lokc an key. I wun't trust Uncle Willy wit much besides a fifth of gin or a sack of bubble gum. I'll keep investigatings.

Michael Boomberg-- Another Billionire in teh race! Is taht what we need? Apparently you can be a Billioare an not know how to talk or have a soul. Now mikal is much better at those things tahn Trump, but he's still got more money tahn Davy Crockett, an taht don't sit right in my book, having never had more money tahn I can fit in me pockets or a racoon's carcass. No to Boomberg! Sit down, mikey!

Berine Sanders-- Ya'll feelin' the Burn yet? If so, tahn don't wait, go to teh docter cause it might be sifilus an that can rot yer brain, I'm livin' proof. Bernie wants to take all teh money from Boomberg and Trump and give it to normal folks like me and Shearl Chrow. Wit al teh money Berines gonna give me, I can finally move outta teh trailer and leave teh hills behind with all teh eyes and their mutant owners. Also, I has a lump in my testical an I need healthcare, witch teh orchard and teh library don't provide, so If Bernard don't win, I may has to loos my nutsack an would life be worth livin if such a thing occcurded? Ask yurself such when you heda to teh pooles. An that all I has to say bout taht.

Hanging with the Goon

Howdy, folks! Thar weader is getting mighty nice nowadays, and teh ol' Goon can finally wear his holey pants an his boots that have teh holes in teh toes so that his feets can breathe nice. As teh lectric light orchastra once said, 'Mr. Blue sky is comin', an erbody betta get outta his way fore he puts a boot in dere ass cuz its teh American way.' Down at teh farm, we're getting ready fere teh apple seasson. I've got all teh prunings picked up an stacked on a funeral pyre twenty feet high, an me an Hernando are a looking for somebody ta sacrifice to our heathen gods. Har, har! I'm just kiddin.' We wouldn't waste a virgin like that, no siree.

Me an Hernando been messin' wit growin' a little bit of teh wacky weed, if yous know what I'm gettin' at. We got ourselves a nice little greenhouse project, an ol' Sammy never know any better, cuz he's old an he don't know what marajowana looks like. Aparently, you want female plants, not teh male, cuz they don't get you any seeds, or some shit, but I dunno, Hernando takes care of all teh necesary details, I just smoke teh shit. I've been dealin' some of it to childrens when dere at recess. Little Bobby Atkins bought a hole pound teh other day. He's gonna grow up to be Willy Nelson or Snoop Dog, I reckon, an erbody will have teh Goon to thank! It'll be my brightest hour.

In udder news, my big brotha Willy just got arrested for grand larceny, which'll give him another felony, though he still don't have teh record, which belongs to my long diseased grandfather, Measles Malone. Erbody in teh Goon household is mighty pleased that Willy got arrested, cuz it means we get to eat more coco puffs and drink more beer witout his dumb ass stealin' everything. Plus, Willy always gets himself arrested whne he's ready to train fere teh powerlifting competition. He gets all prison buff an kicks ass. He's got taht Goon heridetary retard strength. I has it myself, but I can't bring myself to train it.

If anybody know a good looking underaged girlee fere teh Goon ta get busy wit, lemme know through teh majics of teh internets. Its been a long an lonely winter, as Cris Cristopherson would say in teh movie Blade, witch is one of my most favorite feature films. Tell her I gots teh Beaver Fevor an not teh sifolas. Email me at Goonferelife@hotmail.com. Ya'll have a nice day.
 

Hanging with the Goon

 

I googled peaches an I guess dis is a peach from tikcytalk

Well folks, its been many long moons and stars since teh Goon as walked upon teh mortal coil. Anothr season is upon us all; an taht means pickin' peaches, since I has notin' else in my life. An man oh man, does we has teh peaches! Sam has me out in teh orchard wit a backpack an a front pak to fill wit all teh peaches nature has given us. Sometimes I has to stop an eat a peach or two cuz utterwise I woundn't be able to pick any more--Sam's got me on a round teh clock schedule. Where I sleep is wehre I lay! Somtimes its teh barn and uttertimes its in teh deer stand so teh coyotes don't drag me off to tehir lair. I also has to watch out fer bigfoot cuz summer is his mad time an he's liable to make you his girlfriend even if you ain't willin' or quick enough. Anyways, this veritiable wealth of peaches has gone to Sams head an he's acting even crazier tehn usual.  He wanna hire some high schooler to dance an prance in teh yard before teh highway taht run in front of teh orchard, an he wanna make um dress liek a giant peach. This is Goon work, you understand. I cant have any uneducated kid taeking my jobs. Its just liek Uncle Tom an teh illegals. As he recollects, if they didnt let so many illegals in, Tom would still be workin an teh booger king makin' woopers fer King Drump an his merry band of monsters. Honestly i dont know where I was goin' wit that; I guess I was trying to make an analalogy. We all has a right to work, dont we? May I should make a peach pickers Union, but teh only udder picker I know is Hernando, an I aint seen him fer many moons. Tis a lonely life, being a Goon. You got teh woods an teh crystal meth, an Slack, an tehre aint much else but teh pale white moon an teh ligh pullution blottin out teh stars. Somtimes I see my future an it aint no differnt from anyone elses, cuz we all gotta die, and dying is something we all gotta do by ourselves.What Melancohly words for such a stupendus time! I dunno, I has been in tehse moods lately where all I do is reflect on what can an shall never bes. When I get all teh big bucks from pickin' peaches I'll go off to Mexico an find Hernando an maybe live wit him in teh desert next to tehy beach an watch all teh plastic lap against teh shore. Somebody give teh Goon a little light in teh darkness of existance. I needs to finds a God.

Hanging with the Goon

Ucle Thom and his drank.

Boy folks, its been a relly long time since teh ol' Goon wrote on Teh Pointless Venture website, portal to teh unknown and key to eldrich knowledge. Since I last spoke wit you'alls, I's been married twice, been divorced three times, got put in jail, an' lost me job to a brachiasaurus named Dan. Hah! See if you can spot teh truth from teh tall fables. Its all good in teh Goon's world. I still work at teh orchard, an' old Sam's still kickin', though he's about 95 an I don't think he'll last much longer. last week I had food poisonin' somethin' awful. You don't know how much you value yur regular bowl movement until you've had about ten of them in a row. You see, this is teh slow season at teh orchard, and all teher is for me to do is clean teh rat poop off teh apples in storage. I must've gotten too much poop on me hands, cuz when I went home and fixed up some roadkill stew, I got an awful case of teh poops. Slack's system handled teh roadkill a bit better than I's because he's all rotten inside and he's basically a homeless person at tehis point in his awful life. They hired him down at teh local grocery store an he stacks soda pop cans all day, and in teh evening he hides in teh back and smokes meth like god intended. Anyways, after I got poisoned, brown mud was comin' out my backside like a mudflow during a rain storm, despite my many attempts to plug up wit paper and wads of grass. Being plugged up is about teh worst feelin' in teh world. I don't know how so many peoples do it.

I wasn't lying bout being married at least once. I met a catfish on teh internet, and she turned out to be a real person, albeit one wit hair on her face. Now don't think teh Goon to be too picky--he takes it as it is given-- but teh hair commin outta her ears was teh bigger ditrement to my attraction, but I overcame it wit a lot of alcohol and some positive thinkign. Her name was Deliliah. Liek teh flower. After our initial date at McDonalds, we went back to teh trailer and played a little bit of a viedo game Slack just stole called Anthem. In this video game, you shoot a bunch of mooks and pick up loot taht falls out of their bums. It hit a little close to home, is waht I'm sayin. After teh game, which blew up my tv, we made out for about thirty minuetes. We decided to get married soon afters. Its a beautiful feelin, bein in love. I hope it never hapens to me again.

Anyways, my beautful existence soon came to an abrupt and udder end. Me and Delieah was struttin on teh promenande when we was approached by an officer of teh law. My first instinct in such a situation is usualy to hall ass liek a grizzly bear was after my insides, but Deliealih beat me to teh punch. She ran into teh street and was ran over by a bus taht instint. I learned latter from teh cop taht she was wanted on three acounts of midget trafficing and on instanct of human cannibalisation. Alas it was not to be. When it rains on teh Goon, it pours. Lemme tell you about it sometime.

Hanging with the Goon

Hay deres Uncle Tom!

Gentlemens and ladies held against dere will, its been a very long time since I checked in with ya'lls. Winter and spring are teh slow season in teh apple orcahrd; we dont do much but drink in teh barn and look fer pigs to wrestle wit and know in the intimate manner. I been doin a lot of mowin wit my teeth and swinging teh baseball stick to beat down teh weeds beneath teh trees so dat we has a great apple crop to seel at teh farmers markets. In udder news, my love life hasnt improved. Dere was dis girl named Alice who I was goin wit, but she left me for a box of chocolates and an electric screwdriver. Tough luck, eh? Well dats life as teh Goon.

One person who never gets let down too much is me Uncle Tom, he of love pit and dancing raccoon fame. Me an Slack weht over dere a while back to see what ol' Tom was up to, and lo and behold, he was at it again wit the rubber hose and a bottle full of mayonnaise. Tom's made himself a nice garden dis year, full of bananas, oranges, ricaroni, and dog meats. He gave us two boxes of pop tarts as a weddin gift fere teh inevitable day when we gets married. He also gave us some smoked meats which he said were sausauge, but dey looked liek human intestines.

Teh reason dat I bring up Uncle Tom is that I hope dat years from now, when I'm teh ripe ol' age of 42, I'll look half as good as ol' Tom, who still has two-thirds of his teeth an most of his fingers. Id also likes to have a love pit an a macaroni garden, but I guess dat would be hopin fere too much. Much of my thirty years has been dedicated to teh orchard and Japanese folklore; its kinda late to start somethin new, but you never knows. My boss Sammy probably doesnt have long fere dis earth, an I always wondered wether he'll give teh orchard to me or Hernando. I'd hate to have to perform teh Game of Thrones on Hernando. Hes a pretty nice guy fere a Mexicano.

One last thing I'd liek ta throw out dere is Does anybody know teh secret combonation to Uncle Tom safe? Last I herd, dere was four-hundred pornos and enough pills to make ya see teh purple horse in dat safe. When he gets reall drunk, Uncle Tom shouts its combonation all over town, but most peoples cant understand his backwoods blather. You'all listen real good and tell me what he says, cuz i'm a real good interpreater of nonsense.

Hanging with the Goon

I typed my name in da Google an dis is waht came up. Funny, huh?

Greetin's and salumations, brothers in Christ. Har, dats waht the Jahova's Witnesses always say beofer Slack runs in da trailer and gets da shotgun and shoots at 'em, which is funny as hell. I always thought da powder of God would protect 'em from da buckshot, but they bleed just like any other. We don't take kindly to visitors in our parts, since dere's always a lot of special buisness going on an we don't need no government spies hanging out an trying to figure out how much money we ain't making or reportin' on our taxes. Uncle Thom is always going on 'bout how da government is tryin' to ruin life for decent folks, since all dem liberals are running da government an fundin' studies to determine how much fart juice cows is putting into da atmosphere. Uncle Thom thinks dats bullshit, but you know, I'd like to know how much farts is comin' outta a cow's ass daily, since dats a question I've been asking myself fors a very long times.

Well, let's get down to da topic at hand. I sawer da Hillsdale Monster da oder day, it who is called "Da Ol' Man." He looks just like da beef jerky sasquatch, an he's just as ornery. Me an Slack was hiking through the woods, trying to get to da school cuz it was soccer practice day for da high school girls, an sometimes da girls play in dere sports bras, when Slack tripped over a log an fell on his ass. Da log he tripped over was filled wit a bunch of pornos! Dey were vintage pornos, from like da sixties or somethin, cuz they had weird haircuts an dey only showed dere boobies an didnt do no close ups of dere beavers. We started pawing through dem an wonderin' how such a thing could've occoured, when we heres dis terrible commotion comin' from a little cave over yonder. It sounded like da noise a beer would make if he sat his asshole on a fireant mound. Slack, being somethin' of a coward, wanted to run, but I grabbed 'em an made 'em hide behind a big tree so we could see what came outta da cave. Sure nough, it came out an it was a Bigfoot! It was 'bout eight feet tall an all covered in pubic hair, an it had a big ol' dome like head wit red eyes an a snarl on its face. Worst of all, it smelled like Uncle Thom after he's had an all night whiskey binge an done shat his pants.

Dat sasquatch started hollerin' an throwin' around logs cuz I guess he forgot where he put his pornos. Now da question on my tongue is "How does a sasquatch get pornos, specially ones from da sixties?" I don't have no good answer for dat, but Slack says he probably got turned inta a bigfoot by a witch or somethin like dat. Anyways, we was startin' to fear fere our lives, cuz da Bigfoot was real pissed, so I whispered to Slack "What're we gonna do?" an he says "Fuck, I dunno." Suddenly an idere struck me an I says "Let's take 'em up Uncle Thom's way," an Slack gives me a look like "why da hell would we do dat?" but den I step out from behind da tree an start yellin "Hey stinky! We got yur dirty magazines!" an as you can imagine, dat got his attention. So we're runnin' through da woods, an I tell ya, dat Bigfoot can run, cuz he's knockin' down trees behind us an makin' a terrible fuss, an thankfully we reached Thom place real quick. I try wavin' my arms to get 'em to follow me an' not Slack, an I takes him right over da covered pit where Thom keeps all his women, an sure enough da Bigfoot falls right in wit a terrible ruckous. Dat pits 'bout fifteen feet deep or so, an dere's no climbin' out. So da Bigfoot's down dere, screamin' his head off, an I turns to Slack an says "We got 'em." "We gonna be famous," says Slack. "Jesus," I says.

I'll let ya'll know what happens in a bit, since my alarms done turned on an dat means it's time to go to da orchard. Stay tuned for da riviting saga of da Goon an da Hillsdale Monster!

Hanging with the Goon

Greetins' an' salutaions, folks, it's been since May since I sounded off on dis here blog 'bout my feelin' and personal man-problems. As you can see from teh above photo, it's only a month out from Christmas, which means I'll be bustin' out my nice blue shirt an' all teh cats one man can handle. Nothin' speaks teh message of Christmas truer than a cat, for it is writtin, second Corthiniosaurs: "Eat, drink, and be merry, and heed teh message of teh feline, for it is paramount amongst God's creatures, and extra special fancy to boot." I think teh true message of Christmas gets lost among all teh commercials, funny hats, an' big ol' bellies swingin' in teh rain. Honestly, has you seen how fat people get right round Christmas time? If you're a chub chaser, tis teh season to go a huntin', specially round Walmart or right outside yur house. If you ask teh Goon, an nobody is, Santa needs to set an example and start eatin' diet cookies and drinkin' diet Mountian dew an' bustin' his ass on teh Ellipetical or whatever it is richies do to keep skinny. Personally, I never has much of a problem keepin' tight and trim. Me diet is on point: a bag of recycled deer jerky fer breakfast an' a sack of leaves marinated in ranch dressin' fer a salad latter in teh day. That's how I keep my ten pack o' muscles.

I suppose I outta weigh in on teh latest controversy evolving our nations President, Mr. Trump. Teh President says he was gonna be on teh cover of Time as teh Person of teh Year, just liek Hitler before 'em, but then tehy said he would have to eat a bag of dicks while conductin' an interview, so he had to decline. I kinda feel liek he should've done it, after all teh stuff he said an did dis year. Our good friend an' resident Alien Hernando got deported fer not turnin' in his DACA papers on time, though he says he did. Me brother Willy has got teh shakes from tryin' to quit Heroin, though he's asked fer help, there ain't no money fer it. There ain't been no jobs comin' to town. Teh orchard don't offer no health insurance, an' since teh Republicans didn't do nothin' to help Obamacare, I don't got many options next year, an' when tehy pass Tax Reform an' take away teh individual mandate, I won't have to get no insurance, which is good, I guess, unlesss I need to go to teh emergancy room fer explosive diareeah liek I've done fer every month teh last few years. I'm jsut pointin' out how all teh President's policies have infected me this year, an' I guess I'm teh lucky one, accordin' to the liberal media, cuz I'm white an male an have ear hair. So far as I'm concerned, he shoulda eaten taht bag of dicks, but whaddya I know? I'm just a simple apple farmer wit a heart of gold.

I feel lieke I outta wish everyone a Merry Chirstmas cuz I won't be around to post on teh Pointless Venture. There's a secret special mission teh Goon's going on: I won't say nothin' else, but it evolves Mexico, cocaine, an' a load of fermented apples. Just remember, it ain't Christmas witout family, an' family can be anybody, an' sometimes yer family get deported because life ain't fair. Merry Christmas, ya'll, an' have a blessed year.