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Monday, June 5, 2017

A BALL-KICKING WOMAN, A BLESSINGS MAN AND I'M HUNG-OVER RIGHT NEXT TO A LOUD RELIGIOUS LOON


MOONSHINE SKETCHES OF A PICKLED TOWN   (C) 2000-2017 by W.G. Milne
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             HUNTER THOMPSON'S QUOTE that  "Madness is the loss of a sense of humour."  This is one of my favourite
sayings.  And I've got a few of them! 
        I'm hungover again. All this writing about
religion is giving me a rash. At some level I think I have
to do it, or should do it, or must do it...
         But, Jesus! it's nearly impossible for me
to write that stuff without getting sanctimonious.
       And I FFFFffffffing hate that so-called holy (I know
better than you do) tone of voice.

       When I'm hungover, it's impossible to take myself
 seriously.... what a relief!
       Though there's a ringing in my ears and I'm afraid
to look in the mirror to see my own eyes....
My two red, beaming orbs might set me off into another downward spiral of guilt, shame, and self- hate.
       It's not so much my horrific looking eyes, as
the expression in what's left of them. But what am I
worried about. I'm living in the great beyond - the
endless desperation of a desperate land (Bullshit! I had
to say it because it sounded great.)
       Desolation? Well, maybe now when the chilly
wind is howling over the boughs, and you feel like
you're walking in the Land of Nod... Hey!  I'm writing
at the window...I'm on my 4th 
overproof & berry juice & soda... and I'm falling
victim to the melliforous sound of words, rather than
caring about the words' meanings.    (OOOOooooo!
OOOooooooo!)         

         I've got nowhere I have to go; nothing I have to do; no-one I need to kiss,  and no reports I have to file!
 I don't even have to brush my teeth.
         
       (Scratch that last comment. I just smelt my hand) 
               

             Dear Lord, my brain is constipated. My
belly's swollen... and I'm sitting naked 
 by my window on the lane, sitting in the wind
that's been blowing over the winter snow...
       Yep, snow... Grey misty days... then suddenly, snap!
you can see your breath...there's a rich frozen wind coming up over the river which almost tastes like the sea - sea to which 
the waters are returning.
        Where I'm going is Novar.

        I look out through our one (heavy plastic window)
because I hear a thumping sound. It's 10:00 A.M., so it's
still dark, but some fool is kicking something...
I see Artie across the lane and down a bit. He's standing
on a hillock - kicking the motor of his ancient tractor.
       "You COCKSUCKER! I'm going to fuck you up
the whore ass of YOUR MOTHER!  ... ..She should have
sold you, you fuck.... I'm going to drive
you back into  the elements
 under  this  junk...  Here..."
         POUND!  
           
                He kick's it again. He's kicking some kind
of oil drum strapped to the motor
in a curious fashion....Are those suspenders?
Is the oil pan strapped on with some hobo's suspenders? 
Shit!  Maybe they're mine!
         
         BOOM!
           
           What an idiot! But, then, we always 
knew that.... he makes great booze, but he's not
the sharpest knife in the drawer... 
          (I was going to say, 'brightest light on the tree' but none of the lights up here turn on... or shine or glow or say, ' ho! ho! ho! ')

           No electricity!
          Oil lamps are wonderful... romantic &... they
truly are, but...it's hard to see what
 kind of bite you have on your ass
 from the night before... 
this was no mosquito!  
No bo weevil!  Do we have 
carnivorous beetles up here? 
.......and if we do... 
                   how many of them.... 
                                                   are there?

         I just had a huge sip of hooch. My headache has
now moved - it's affecting just the top half
of my head....like a yamouka headache... a 
toque-cut-in-half skull pounder.
         Oh, fuck! Better have another splash! "This stuff
will probably kill us..."

          "let's do another line 
           and then we'll hang out and dance         
            round... Heartattack & Vine"

           I'm standing half-way out of the foxhole.
My head's about two feet above ground. I see this
balding fat guy coming my way... in his hand
I see a Bible... 

         "BUT IF THINE EYE BE EVIL, THY WHOLE
BODY SHALL BE FULL OF DARKNESS! AND I SHALL
CAST YOU OUT!"he shouts.
           
            What the hell was that? The fat guy
in dark clothing is stumbling up the hill from the
river...with someone following.

             The last thing anyone needs with a hangover
is a loud cleric - a preacher who shouts - a fat fool
who is walking my way...howling out biblical phrases
out of a big mouth hanging open... He's gasping.            
he's breathing hard. But still he's shouting.

           One thing you gotta say about the Arctic 
Territories - we get some world class assholes up here.
Guys who anywhere else on the planet would be in jail.
They'd get arrested soon as they step south of 60.

         I turn my head.  Out of my foxhole - too
cold for mosquitos now, I hope...
           
         "BLESS YOU, MY SON, AND YOUR FATHER
AND YOUR FATHER'S FATHER EVEN UNTO THE
SEVENTH GENERATION!"
          "Aw, fuck!"This guy has his palm on my head.  He's BLESSING me! 
          "If you really want to bless me, buy me a drink!"
I call back... 
trying to crawl up to ground level
and extricate myself out of this  difficult
circumstance...                              
         That's all I can think to say, And it's heartfelt.
I snatch his wrist and bend it perhaps a tad too hard...
we're in the Arctic... land, trees and river for thousands of miles. And this fucker is invading my personal space!
          I slip my gun under his chin...and smile up at him as
 I climb up to ground level. Things are better now.

         "You leave him alone, or I'll gut you like a crab!"
          
          "????," I'm thinking, "Do you gut crabs?" My
brain is dead it won't rotate. 
          
            THUNK!
           
            Some fuckhead's trying to kick me in the
ballocks! I fire a shot off over the tall pine tree
Everything's quiet then for a moment. 
             I look across and see a pair of 
tight jeans... flaring up to very womanly thighs...
I reach out and cup her right ass cheek (can't control
the italics) She throws a boot at me again.
            Tries to neuter me.

          It's been so long since I've had a strange woman.
Doing her would feel like I'm watching football
on TV, which would be a lovely experience.  ( haven't seen football in what seems like years) For that matter I haven't seen T.V. in almost a decade.
           "I just wanted to see if you were real!" I  say.
"I'm Frank, by the way." 
           
          "That excuse is pathetic!," she spits the words at me:  "I should have you arrested!"
             I'm thinking, "Ho! Ho ho! If we jailed everybody who
grabbed someone's ass up here, we'd all be locked up."
             Sometimes in the throes of alcoholic dementia.... we hallucinate our neighbours are women... and winter is
summer... and it's time to take off all our clothes.
            "Where are the police!" she screeches unattractively.
             Artie's standing behind her. laughing hard. He's laughing so hard, he's wet himself again...his red apron has a large piss splotch on it... and other stains, too, from other
funny times. 
            Bad bladder.. no help for it up here...
             "He IS THE POLICE!" Artie says to her in a loud voice....The  kick in the balls revived the throbbing in my head. My groin is throbbing, too, and... oh! no! I sense
tumescence.First time a woman's touched me in six months - anything at all feels like affection... 
             (Except for Matilda, of course... but I know her
so well now... and we've shared so many strange
moments ---that 'her hands feel like my hands.")
               
             "DO NOT ENTER THE TENT OF THY
HANDMAIDEN, NOR HER SISTER, NOR HER
VIRGIN AUNT!" he bellows in a voice like
movie Moses . He thunders loud as the voice
of doom... This new maniac standing right in front
of me  in a trench coat...  
              Wait til I'm feeling sanctimonious, I'm
really going to lay into this prick... verbally.
              Now Wait-A-Bit has a population of 18.
               A foxy ball-kicker and a preacher who lays
it on too thick. They'll fit right in!
                
              Where's Artie?  I guess we'd better buy
them a drink. We don't get so many visitors here
that we can afford to turn any away...             
                  
                 Dear God, who is this loon? And
what's the name of his sexy sidekick? 
               Ho! Ho!         

        At least he's got his hand off my head.  
 He'd better learn to deal with sensitive souls
with hangovers up here... no loud noises,
no body contact (unless you have a yen to get on your knees), no sudden moves, no surprises - and no religion at all.
  





                                                                                                                               Chapter _?__


                                 
                                                                    (C) 2013 - WAIT-A-BIT!   TALES OF ISOLATION AND PANIC
                                                                                                  
                                                                                      MOONSHINE SKETCHES OF A PICKLED TOWN
                                                                                                   
                                                                                         (C)   by William G. Milne  All rights reserved.