"What'll it be?"
"How about a gorilla fart?"
Scott sat perched on a bar stool. There are many complicated metaphysical appeals an educated philosopher might make to explain just why Scott was sitting on this particular bar stool at this particular time, no doubt involving many nifty words such as "existentialism" which really don't mean anything but make people who use them sound very educated. Probably the best explanation is that he was in a bar and didn't feel like standing. More specifically, he was sitting at Mean Harold's Pub, the vilest, most dastardly establishment in all of New Yorks 12203 zipcode. Only the toughest, grungiest, slimiest lowlifes would dare set foot in Mean Harold's Pub.
"Wanna buy a cookie, mister?
"Beat it, kid."
Simon scowled as the little Girl Scout scampered off. Ever since the playground was closed for reconstruction, the kids all hung around Mean Harold's Pub, causing trouble. Poor Henry Jenkinson lost all his drinking money to some 4th grader with a penchant for playing pool. It just wasn't right.
Simon sat by himself and tried to avoid making eye contact with anyone else. That was the way to get yourself killed in Mean Harold's Pub. Murderers, thieves, drug dealers, girl scouts... well, apart from the girl scouts, they wouldn't think twice about killing you if they caught you look at them.
Outside, as usual, cars were honking and people were yelling. Not as usual, there was a distinctive clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop. What could that be? Without warning a camel came crashing through the doors, tripped over a table, and crushed Scott underneath.
Osama bin Pappy
"Hey, you! Don't I know you from somewhere?"
Osama brought Seymoure to a stop and slowly turned around. Who could possibly recognize him through his extra-dark sunglasses?
It was George Bush! Osama froze. He was cooked. The game was at an end. The proverbial jello was nailed to the proverbial tree.
George Bush squinted, looked down at a paper he was holding, and then squinted again.
"Sorry, nevermind. The guy I'm looking for doesn't wear extra-dark sunglasses."
Bush continued down the street, examing the passers-by and occasionally glancing at his paper.
Osama unfroze. If Bush was looking for him, then he knew he was here! How could he? There must be a spy in his midst. Osama eyed Seymoure suspiciously.
At least his disguise was foolproof. Dark sunglasses... Osama had thought of it himself. Well, maybe with a little help from the evil imperialist American movie industry. But it was still a really good disguise. He removed his sunglasses to examine just how marvelously dark they were.
"Hey, uh, sorry to bother you again, but can you tell me how to get to 5th avenue from here?"
Osama rushed to put his sunglasses back on, but it was too late.
"Wait a minute... I do know you! You're Osama bin Laden!"
Bush charged after Osama as his group of terrorist cohorts scattered for safety. Osama and Seymoure tore down main street as fast as a camel can go, which is to say, not very fast at all, especially considering that Osama had been really packing on the pounds lately. But Bush didn't follow.
Ha!, Osama thought.
Bush pulled a pair of sleek titanium rollerblades out of his backpack. He slid them on and went rocketing after Osama.
Osama looked in Seymoure's rearview mirror and viewed Seymoure's rear. He adjusted the rearview mirror and saw Bush fast approaching.
"Faster, Seymoure! Faster!"
Osama looked around desperately. Aha! There it was! Mean Harold's Pub.
Osama yanked on Seymoure's bit and they went crashing through the doors, tumbling to the floor in a sprawl. Osama looked up. A half dozen little girls in little green skirts looked back down at him.
To be continued...
- earth day
- green toilet
- harsh realities
- interior decorating
- white people