Sunday, September 14, 2014

Street Jimmy "Lives Goood!"

            The sudden drop in temperature has significantly effected my sleeping patterns. I am a child of nature and I'm sure some where in my distant path one of my forefathers had sex with a bear. I almost didn't  beat Faggypants to the bar this morning. He said that he did not sleep well: "I woke up at about three and had a few nibbles of some left over scallops in the fridge. Lucky I didn't have too much because I pooped my brains out and I think I had a fever. I feel a bit wrenched from my moorings this morning."
            "You poor dear. Would you like a hug?"
              "Not even in the spirit of good, clean fun?"
               "Every fiber in my body seemed to be on fire."
              Street Jimmy was predictably late. We need him the most on Saturday and Sunday and for some reasons Sunday tends to be his most unreliable day. 
              "It was cold so I had to sleep on the train. The Brown Line all fucked up an' we jus' standin' there for an hour not goin' nowhere. There was a bunch of giants on the train - "
              Jimmy has been slurring and mumbling so bad lately it's often almost impossible to understand what  he's saying. "Did you say giants?"
             "Yeah, big funny lookin' mutafucka's, I calls 'em giants."
               "How big?"
                "Real big, an' they all gots funny looks on their faces."
                 "How many giants?"
                 "Where they sleeping on the train?"
                 "Uh, uh, they goin' to work or someplace."
                  There were a hundred more questions I wanted to ask him about the giants but I couldn't think one. When Jimmy said he slept good on the train I said: "How can you sleep good sitting up? Winters coming and maybe you should think about changing you shitty lifestyle?"
              "What you mean?"
                 I advanced my theory: "Give up crack and take control of you're life. Squirrels in the park live better than you."
                It was apparent from the look on his face that his whole mental outlook had changed: "I lives good."
               "Smoking crack behind dumpsters and sleeping behind garbage cans is living good? Giving all of your money to the crack dealer is living good? Let's go over to Mustard Seed and I dare you to say what you just said at a meeting."
                "I don' wanna talk about it nomore."
                Hoping to reestablish an atmosphere of conviviality and camaraderie I tried to cheer everyone up by singing the Jimmy song:
                     Jimmy smokes crack and I don't care, 
                      Jimmy smokes crack and I don't care, 
                     Jimmy smokes crack and I don't care, 
                      The policeman's on his way.
                      Jimmy runs 'cause he ain't no snitch, 
                       He threw his crack pipe in the ditch, 
                       When the judge asked Street Jimmy why?
                      Jimmy said: 'judge, it's cause I needs to get high.

                This little ditty usually brings a smile to Jimmy's face and this morning was no exception.
                  After I got done with the bar I decided to take a morning walk. The sun was out and with my jacket on it was quite pleasant. As I was walking along the boardwalk that circles the lagoon the guy walking in front of me was whistling. If you're going to whistle in public at least carry a fucking tune. He was a short moon faced man. Rather than telling him that I thought his whistling irksome,  I quickened my pace to keep from having my walk marred.
           A few of the maple trees leaves are starting to turn. I walked to Belden and turned at the Shakespeare statue. About two blocks from home my back started to act up. Fortunately I still had some yellow heirloom tomatoes and I ate them with gusto. The Bears are playing tonight at seven-thirty. San Francisco is such an overwhelming favorite that I think their players might take the Bears for granted. If the game turns out to be a train wreck it will not surprise me. 

Saturday, September 13, 2014

No Nukes! Pig Blood Compromise.

             D-Train seems to be bouncing back nicely from his vacation bender and I told him so. He accepted this compliment in the spirit in which it was intended. He has proven once again to be  a very resilient fellow. I asked him:"now that your brain has had sufficient time to dry out do you still want to nuke ISIS?"
           D-Train sighed, when he looked at me for a couple of seconds I felt like I had glimpsed into the secret tragedy that is locked within his tortured soul.  He weighed my remark carefully.
             "Yes I do."
              "Even a scum sucking toilet seat licker like John McCain doesn't want to go that far, D-Train."
              This appeared to displease him.
              "There is no other way to eradicate them. The Arabs won't help us."
             I didn't mince words: "D-Train, you misguided fool,  that has to be the stupidest thing you've ever suggested. You are a loony tunes dick-wad.  I am appalled."
            "I think you are overreacting."
             "Perhaps I am. Maybe you have said dumber things previously but I can't think of what they might have been."
             This did not cheer him up. Wishing to heal the breech I bought him a glass of wine.
              After a few sips of his wine an idea seemed to formulate itself somewhere in his mind: "If Obama didn't bomb them the Republicans would excoriate him. He has no choice."
             "I have no problem blowing up the ISIS dirt bags, but instead of nukes how about we drop hundreds of tons of pig blood on them. Once they get pig blood on them they can't go to Paradise."
            If I had just rescued him from a ship full of Somalian pirates he could not have been more pleased. A broad smile appeared on his face and we toasted to bombing ISIS with pig blood. No one else seemed to share in our merriment. 
           The Defense Attorney continues to be excited about her upcoming awards ceremony. It's a benefit for wrongly accused parents of child abuse. The Defense Attorney is in the front lines in the fight against  overzealous prosecutions by morally challenged DA's. She has shared a number of these horror stories with me over the years.
           She said my former sister in law would be there. Actually Bonnie is not a former sister in law. She married my former brother in law, Paul.  I played Bud Cupid in arranging that marriage. Bonnie was a bit of a groupie; at one time she banged a number of pro baseball players and then switched to media people. Paul, my brother in law at the time, was Mayor Jayne Byrnes top adviser. He was also a notorious drunk. The sister in law that he was married to was a back stabbing, double crossing shrew. She was also cuckolding him with another member of the Byrne cabinet. 
            One night in O'Rourke's Bonnie poured her heart out to me. She was in love with Paul and wanted to save him from the hellish marriage he was in. Being a man of not only high morals, but of action I said, "Bonnie, maybe you can save him. Maybe if you spent a couple of days with him you could talk some sense into him."
           "Do you think so?"
            "I know so."
            Paul, who was seated on the bar stool next to her, was passed out with his face down on the bar. He was not light and it took all of my strength to lug him out of the bar and shove him into my car. Bonnie lived near the lake on Wilson Avenue in a high-rise. I was exhausted by the time I'd dragged Paul into the elevator and up to her apartment. 
           Romance was in the air and not too long after that Bonny was pregnant. Rumor has it (Mike Touhy is my source) that when Paul asked my sister in law for a divorce she said it would cost dearly. Bonnie's father was a shrewd businessman. When my sister in law went to negotiate the price for a quicky divorce he offered her twenty-five grand. She countered with thirty. He then came back with twenty. When she said she wouldn't budge he said fifteen. I hope it's true because nobody deserved to get it shoved up her ass more than my former sister in law.
              The Defense Attorney says if I get a death sentence on Wednesday that I should not fight it but take an around the world tour. Denise also suggested this. I told them both that if I only have a year to live I think I'd rather spend my time settling  scores.

Friday, September 12, 2014

Street Jimmy Rejects Websters Dictionary

            Street Jimmy was particularly annoying this morning. Yesterday was the coldest September 11 ever recorded in Chicago. Although 46 degrees will seem like a heat wave in two months, it caused Jimmy to seek indoor shelter and Starbucks was the lucky recipient of his presence last night. Jimmy's been doing a lot of soul searching lately - if not a lot, at least some - and he confessed  that after talking with a lady at McDonald's yesterday he is willing to concede that crack is a disruptive force in his life.
          "She say, Jimmy, you gots no income. An' I tol' her I gots no ID card so I can't get no housing or income, an' I can't get no Link Card either. I tol' her it's cause I can't take time to go down an' take care of my business. I'm an addict so tha's why I don't take care of  my business. I be keepin' it real."
           This morning he was singing a  different tune. "The Uncle Tom security bitch at Second City say I gots to leave in front of their door or she call the cops on me. I tol' her call the cops, I be outa jail in two-hours, it ain't no felony I be doin'. Who she think she is?"
            "I'm pretty sure she thinks that she's the security lady and they don't want bums fucking with the people who want to come in their door."
              "Why you say I'm a bum?"
               "How about if I call you a beggar, would you prefer that?"
              "I ain't no beggar, a beggar get down on his knees, " Jimmy screwed up his crack ravaged face and continued in his most pathetic voice, "oh please give me some money."
               "And if what you're doing isn't begging, what is it?"
                "It's askin' , all I be doin' is askin'."
               "So you're an asker, not a beggar."
                Jimmy nodded, "yeah. I jus' put my hat down an if people puts somethin' in it tha' their business."
                "Do you want me to read you how the dictionary defines beggar?"
               "Who wrote the dictionary, the dictionary ain't nothin'."
               "So if we don't use the dictionary to decide what beggar means, what should we use?"
                "Common sense."
               "But Jimmy, if I may be so bold, you're a semi-illiterate crack-head, your common sense isn't worth two dead flies.
                 "I ain't no begger."
                 "Not only are you a beggar, you're a petty thief."
                 "Why you say that?"
                   "Because you steal stuff."
                    "True, but nobody be knowin' tha' less you tells 'em."
                   "When you try to sell people brand new stuff from a store what do you think people think?"
                      "Maybe somebody give me stuff."
                    "No Jimmy, people think you're a slippery character. Street beggars are slightly above pedophiles on societies shit list. Some people are crippled or too mentally fucked up to work, and I don't mind helping them out, but why would anyone in their right mind give an able bodied crack head money when they'll just take the money and give it to some parasitic drug dealer?"
                  "Hustlin' is work. Don' say I don' works."
                   "Begging is not work. You don't produce anything. Marx would disagree with you."
                  Jimmy thought for a moment. His concentration slightly jarred he frowned in a rebuking sort of way and said, "people's jus' give me money sometimes, wha's wrong with tha'? Clown used to jus' give me money. I seen Clown and Mrs. Clown yesterday. Clown be sober and Mrs. Clown seemed pretty sober too. I think they back together. I seen them go in the toe nail salon. One time Clown gave me pretty near everything in his pocket. An' yesterday Mrs. Clown give me five-dollar when she was goin' in Corcoran's."
                  When Jimmy resumed his tirade against the "uncle Tom security lady at Starbucks Faggypants, who'd been floating around the bar with his mop like something out of Swan Lake, screamed in exasperation, " enough, I'm getting sick of hearing you talk about her."
                "Yes," I concurred, "enough is enough."
                When I told Jimmy he had to leave with me he said , "how come, it rainin' out."
                  Putting my arm around his shoulder as I opened the side door I sang loudly:
                   Rain, rain, go away, 
                    Please come back another day,
                    'Cause Bruce and Street Jimmy wants to play.
                Jimmy chuckled, "you jus' now make tha' up?"
                "No, it's by a poet named Lord Byron."
                 "For real."
                  "For real."
                  "How he know about us?"
                   "Good question."
                    And there for now the matter rested.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Should Gracie Have Gone To West Point?

              I just turned the heat on. A couple of days ago it was ninety. I loathe cold weather. 

             Last night when I went to the Ale House Ruben Four Toes was pondering his diet. He's long been a believer in no fruits and virtually no vegetables beyond french fries. Some might scoff at his food choices and point out that he's four hundred pounds and still expanding as proof that his diet is a poor one. This would certainly be difficult to argue with and Ruben doesn't try. His physiognomy is conclusive evidence that he lacks a strong will and determination. His fleshy brown face and his midsection, which resembles a toxic waste dump on a boiling hot day, are a cautionary tale. 
            He was sitting next to his former lover, Connie the Crack Whore. When he talks to Connie the tremolo in his voice changes ever so subtly; it is the voice that he has used so effectively with women over the years. 
           Connie usually listens to Ruben attentively. It's clear that a residue of affection still lingers. Don't get me wrong, Connie is not the meek yielding type. She has the heart of a serial killer. On the surface a warm hearted girl - deep down she nurses bitter thoughts. I can see it in her eyes. As Ruben spoke she nodded understandingly.
           After nodding several more times I heard her say," that's one way of looking at it..."
             Ruben remained pensive. He was obviously in the mood for serious conversation. 
              After reflecting on what Ruben said next Connie answered, "I don't understand you."
              "You don't have to."
              "You have a way of making me feel unwanted."
               "Don't give it a thought," he replied. 
              Ruben clearly suspects her motives whenever she visits him. His history with Connie is not a subject that he likes to let his mind dwell on. "She's not a bad broad. She's had a hard life. She's better than most."
             Street Jimmy came in trying to hustle me for a beer. 
              "Why not," he said holding a dollar in front of me.
               "You did not greet me with the warmth and affection I would have liked."
               "Jus' one beer."
                 When Ruben told Jimmy that he'd just missed seeing the gang kids attack the two kids on the Brown line with the machete on the news Jimmy said, "Damn, I wants to see tha'."
                 The incident Ruben was referring to took place recently.  Seven young, mostly Hispanic looking kids, several with facial tattoos, flashed gang signs at two kids sitting on a bench waiting for  a train. (This was all caught on a CTA camera). When the kids didn't flash signs back after the gang encircled them one of the punks pulled a very long machete out of a bag and proceeded to slash one of the kids. It was quite grisly and just the sort of thing Jimmy loves to watch. ( Jimmy couldn't get enough of watching the two ISIS beheadings.)
             "I heard there was a lady with them?"
              "Yeah, but she didn't do any of the cutting."
              Jimmy was waiting eagerly for details but Gracie interrupted us as she explained how she has virtually eliminated our fruit fly problem. She has accomplished this by placing several rock glasses of red wine on top of the coffee machine. After about fifty of the pesky fruit flies go inside the glass she places a coaster on top of the glass and carefully taps on the coaster with her fingers. As the fruit flies plunged to their death I told Jimmy that if you listened carefully you could hear their screams.
             Cocking his ear and listening he said, " I can't hear no screams."
              "They're all dead now."
                Gracie repeats this procedure about every twenty-minutes. She seems to achieve a great deal of satisfaction out of her successive victory's  over these tiny invaders. Perhaps instead of going to an elite liberal arts college Gracie should have gone to West Point. I can see her sitting in a war room right now plotting strategy agains ISIS with her fellow generals. 
              Earlier in the day her cough was bothering her to the point that she had to put Buzz Kill in charge of the bar so she could go to the clinic at Walgreens and see the nurse. The nurse told her she had what was going around and the cough was the last stage. Grace assured us that the nurse said she'd only been infectious for the first two days. She said the cough suppressant the nurse recommended seemed to be working.
             Three nice looking young men from Norway came in. They all spoke excellent English. They were very complimentary about my prowess as an artist and so I gave them autographed posters.  When I asked them if they'd read Knausgaard's "My Struggle," they all nodded. One them corrected my pronunciation of his name: Ka-nos-gaard. 
             Hopefully I can get as much done today as I did yesterday.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Murder Suicide

                  Last night at the Ale House Denise and Officer Mike stopped in. They were going to the show at Second City. I hadn't seen them since early summer when McHugh and I went to their beachfront house in Beverley Shores for an impromptu cookout. I haven't been to the Dunes in about six-weeks. Gracie and her hubby are living there and I've been busy in my tiny office working on my "Final Revaluation Of Western Civilization" with a brief critique of all the other relevant civilizations. (I don't think it should be a surprise to anyone that my tentative conclusions are not  pretty.) I told Mike that I thought  McHugh would be up for an end of summer repeat visit to their house and so hopefully we can get together before the weather turns unpleasant. 
           Mike can't seem to light a fire under Denise's ass. For some reason she won't roll up her sleeves and start writing about the key players that created Second City. She has unique knowledge, and she's an excellent writer. It seems like she's lost her mojo. From what I gathered the two of them have dropped out of the Micheiana beach society and spend most of their time at home enjoying their solitude. This would indicate that Denise should have plenty of time to write a book.
            Lovely Anita stopped by. She has a limey boyfriend now and so we rarely see her. I would absolutely love to see her naked.
Ruben Four Toes said his tummy was quiescent. When Coach suggested that he should avoid sausages in the future, Ruben, with a wave of the hand dismissed the notion that sausages were the culprit. "Nah, it's just how I feel. If I shit before I come out I'm okay."
           D-Train was choking and gagging in the corner. If he's infectious we're all fucked. The sooner he goes back to work the better. Anita said she also has been sick for the previous week. "The doctor said I had asthma." Gracie's still not feeling well. She doesn't think she has allergies although I'd being willing to bet she does.
             I have it on very good authority that Jacob left the bar Monday night with my favorite porn star, Hillary Scott. This seems like one of the perks of starring in A Red Orchid play. Of course there were detractors: Buzz Kill said that there was no way he'd bang a chick that did a lot of ass to mouth sex. 
         "Buzz Kill, they test the porn actors constantly. I'm sure you've banged chicks that had a lot more going on than some ass to mouth sex. I'd love to bang Hillary. Hopefully Jacob will give us an unvarnished report."
            Mierka closed the bar Monday and wisely left her car and took a cab home. When Mierka parties, she parties hard.
          Lisa came in after dining with Joan M.. Joan was an old girlfriend of Lisa's late father, Lazar. (Lazar is a prominent character in my just completed prequel). Joan is a stunning looking woman who has to be closing in on 80. Joan and I used to be pals but over the years we've become estranged for reasons known only to Joan. 
            I got hone before it started to rain and read some Raymond Chandler.


             It was raining hard when I headed to the bar this  morning. I had a great hooded rain jacket that I bought for my trip to Scotland. Unfortunately the last time I saw it Tobin was wearing it; that was three months ago and I haven't seen it since. I sure could have used it, especially with the wind  blowing  hard. The weatherman has been predicting severe storms for two days and finally one them arrived. 
           Faggypants has an amazing track record for showing up for work. No matter  how cold, or how much snow falls he manages to make the long trek to the bar from his moms house in the suburbs. He barely acknowledged the rain as he walked through the side door.  When his mom called to see if he'd arrived safely I assured her he had. She then asked if The Defense Attorney had had any luck finding Danny a new lawyer? I told her I'm sure she would take care of it. (Inventor, give her a nudge.)
             Buzz Kill said he saw Ariel - Gracie's college friend - on Colbert last night.  I had forgotten that she'd  gotten a writing job on the show. Ariel and Gracie were together in most of the plays I saw when they were going to Macalester College. Ariel was always terrific but so was Gracie. Gracie simply can't seem to stick with anything for very long. It's a shame because she has talent.
             It was still raining when I was walking home. Lois called. She's having a party for her sister sometime in October at Susan Craig's loft. She wanted to know if it was alright to send an invitation to both Tobin and myself? 
             "Sure, we speak. She's out of town a lot so she probably won't be able to come."
             "How about Gracie?"
              "You can invite her, but she rarely leaves the Dunes on her days off. Also, she'd going on vacation right about then. Of course I'll come."
               Lois said her sister hasn't been back to Chicago for quite a few years. "She thinks you're horrible."
              "At my retirement party you gave a speech where you said a lot of horrible things about me."
                "Was she there?"
                "No, but I sent her the tape."
                 Apparently what offended her sister was my description of playing golf with Lois: she begged me to let her play with Jim Stein and me. Stein was a very rigid, Germanic Jew. Lois, although Jewish, is not the least bit Germanic. When we picked her up she was wearing a skimpy, old-fashioned rollerskating outfit. (Lois had been a semi-professional tap dancer when she was young.) At the time of our golf game, although she looked much younger,  Lois had to be nearing 60. At breakfast I had the good sense to sit next to her because she's a notorious food spitter. Stein was sitting directly across from her and paid dearly for it. I couldn't avoid chuckling as poor Stein ducked and dodged the bits and pieces of flying scrambled eggs that came at him like mortar shells.
              The golf course was a laugh riot. Whenever Lois bent over to putt you would get quick glimpses of her snatch. Stein was overcome with horror and several times his knees buckled after receiving another wink from her well preserved vagina.
             All in all I had a fun day playing with Lois - my enjoyment greatly enhanced  by the puritanical reactions of Stein.
              Stein made the papers several years ago. He married a women named Frida. Frida had lived through wartime Holland as a Jewish child much like Anne Frank did. She was hidden in an attic and when the war ended was permanently lame as a result of being confined in such cramped quarters. 
           Stein adored Frida, whom he'd met at the opera when he was well in his fifties. They had what seemed like a nice life living in the Northwest  Suburbs and going to the opera regularly. Eventually Stein retired from his accountant job with Ranalli and I seldom heard from him after that.
             I knew that Frida was having horrible flashbacks of her years hiding from the Nazi's but nothing prepared me for picking up the Sun Times and reading about a murder suicide in a Highland Park cemetery. Stein had driven to a remote spot in the cemetery and after shooting Frida in head, shot himself.
            Faggypants forgot his pay and just rang my doorbell. The rain has stopped and he seemed in excellent spirits.


Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Such Is Life

              I was busy at work on the sequel to my prequel when I heard yelling outside. Being a curious sort of  guy I stepped out onto the sidewalk to see what was going on. A skinny , not particularly threatening bicyclist was waving his fist at someone in a  black SUV. Apparently the guy in the SUV almost hit him. I couldn't hear what the guy in the SUV was saying, but whatever it was he was pissing off the bicyclist. A small crowd had gathered and for some reason the guy in the SUV wouldn't drive away. While this was going on about six or seven black teenagers coming home from school were walking by. When they started taunting the guy in the SUV he finally took off. 
            I have a makeshift office in the tiny front room of the condo and when I have the front door open there is a lot of street noise. Last week a couple of guys on the construction sight down the street got into a very loud shouting match. All day long I hear snatches of conversations. What I can't stand are leaf blowers and lawn mowers. 
             When I got to the bar Grace said that Ruben Four Toes had to make another  emergency trip back home after eating a sausage sandwich coach made. Coach thinks his problem is sausage but I think it has more to do with a seriously fucked up digestive system.  
             A guy who's setting up bar shoots for a show on the Esquire Channel (formerly SPIKE TV) came in. After Gracie introduced him to me he said they have a series in which  two comics travel around the country going to different bars and interviewing people;  he asked if they could film a segment in our bar? I said sure, as long as business isn't disrupted. He said the Ale House is exactly what they're looking for. He seemed like a nice fellow.
              For much of the evening D-Train appeared better. Although he says he's not contagious with his esoteric illness, he doesn't want anyone to touch him because he's contagious. Nobody bothered to point out the contradiction of what he'd just uttered. D-Train thinks that Grace might have what he has. She's been complaining about not feeling well for almost a week. When I asked him if it was an STD  a look of horror swept over his face. 
           "D-Train, tell me the truth - have you had sex with my daughter ?"
            From the look he was now giving me I could see that the situation was one that called for delicacy. "We're all human, D-Train - the flesh is weak, I'm not being critical, I just think it's a question that needs to be answered in a forthright way."
            "Under no circumstances repeat what you've just said."
              "My lips are sealed."
              Hopefully D-Train is sufficiently recovered so that he can resume working. 
          "D-Train, idle hands are the devils workshop."
              D-Train, being a man prone to sudden enthusiasms, seemed overwhelmed with happiness when I introduced him to my favorite porn star, Hillary Scott. Hillary had come in with Mierka who has been out of town for the last couple of weeks. They had just come from the Pinter play, "A Night Out", which is playing at the Red Orchid Theater on Sunday and Monday nights. Hillary was looking especially fetching. It's hard to imagine that such a slender girl can handle double penetrations and gang bangs with such aplomb. 


           After I finished the bar this morning in order to kill time I walked to Barnes and Noble. The cleaning people were coming and I was hoping they'd come on time. It's not pleasant being in the condo when they're cleaning. I picked up the book I was looking for, "The Invisible Bridge" by Rick Pearlstein. I was going to buy  one of Michael Harvey's detective books but decided to pick up a used copy at Open Books instead. I didn't get back to the condo until eleven but once again the cleaning crew had shown up late and weren't even half done. I would have gone to the Dunes but it was supposed to rain all day. The sun has just come out. Such is life.

Monday, September 8, 2014

Once Again, The Genius Is Correct!

           I Thoroughly enjoyed watching my once beloved Chicago Bears implode yesterday. I correctly predicted that the Vietnam war was going to be a disaster and I also correctly predicted invading Iraq would be an even worse disaster. I made these predictions before the wars started. As all of you know  history has proven me correct and all the scum licking assholes that were for those wars were proven wrong. My track record for predicting global disasters is almost as good as my ability to predict sporting disasters. Last year I put my unblemished record on the line by predicting that paying half-wit, diaper wearing retard Jay Cutler forty-five million dollars up front would be an unmitigated disaster for the Bears. The vile, foul smelling pig fucker has the best receiving core in the history of this once proud franchise, as well as a vastly improved offensive line. In other words, he's got all the tools he needs to succeed. The shit eating whiny little bitch boy stunk the joint up yesterday and it was riveting theater. The fans booed the team off the field in the first half, and when the game ended we were all laughing at the slap stick antics of our Special Ed team.
             The professorial looking Coach, a bespectacled man named Trestman, made one mistake after another, the most glaring of which was a failure to pick up a third and one in the overtime. The Defense resembled  a group of residents on the sun porch of an old folks home. It's going to be a fun season and nothing makes the Genius happier than being proven right. Maybe Gary Giggles will be my guest sports columnist each week?
          Hardware Nick proclaimed himself an expert on NFL rules. To prove his point he made the remarkable assertion that the ball doesn't have to be in bounds when it crosses the plane of the goal line. Any pee wee football player knows better than that but he obstinately clung to his mistake even after Buzz Kills ex-girl friend showed him the rule. 
             Ruben Four Toes showed up a half an hour before the game ended. His interest in pro football has diminished significantly over the years. He's more interested in his day time TV shows. He is a big fan of Mr. Ed along with Little House on the Prairie. Ruben has a very cynical view on the subject of romance. He said one time he was banging a broad and she kept saying, " 'hurry up, hurry up,' and I said fuck you, what's your hurry?"
           "Well," I said, "were you on top? Because if you were having four hundred pounds of sweaty blubber crushing you would tend to make most people impatient."
               "I'm a Clydesdale," he said thumping his chest proudly.
                 Ruben said yesterday  when he asked Craig the Drunk about his altercation with Street Jimmy concerning his dog, "Craig said , 'Jimmy's Viet Cong to me."
                We all thought that was quite funny. Although Craig the Drunk insists that he fought in Vietnam, it's hard to imagine that it's true. 
               "Ruben, the next time you see Craig the Drunk tell him that Viet Cong is a bad analogy, the Viet Cong won, they kicked our asses."
             D-Train made a few appearances. He says he has an obscure sinus problem and had a paper from the hospital to prove it. 

            This morning I overslept. I think it's seasonal. Street Jimmy was coherent and Faggypants seemed in reasonably good shape. Buzz Kill read the papers while we worked. The urinal was stopped up and it's a nasty job unplugging it. Faggypants had to block to drain in the sink with a towel  while I plunged the putrid smelling urine. It took ten-minutes to get it working. 
           Jimmy said he wasn't hungry, "somebody give me breakfast at McDonald's."
          I told Faggypants to leave a note and have Gracie give the cheese burgers Faggypants brought to Ruben.
           When Jimmy hurried off to the crack dealer Faggypants said: "Jimmy's communication skills are not up to par."