Pretty sure all the lightening storms lately are a signal God is trying to get me. Nice try bitch.Submitted by wardy at 2009-10-30 13:21:04 EDT
Rating: 1.8 on 20 ratings (20 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
I’m so sick of the tyrannosaurus rex in my front yard. He keeps clawing at the front door, demanding to speak to Dr. James Andrews. First of all, fuck all if D.J. Andy is going to have the time to operate on the inconsiderate theropod on my front lawn. And secondly, fuck all if I’m ever speaking to that ass quack excuse for a doctor ever again.
It all started in the wee hours of an August morning, the year was something like 1985, but I can’t be sure – most of the eighties were spent filling my veins with Pinesol and snorting laundry detergent. Fuck you — it was cheaper than doing the good stuff, and a lot more effective.
I was driving home from a night of rabbit hunting in Altoona. It was becoming increasingly difficult to see the road through the dense fog and pouring cats. Oh, and if you think night hunting is hard, try doing it after drinking a case of buttermilk pancakes. My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest and punch me in the face. See, we didn’t have any of those fancy gizmos you kids have these days like night vision and headlights. No, we tracked by scent and drove by ear. Did you know that’s where the expression comes from? I bet you didn’t. Sometimes I even surprise myself, but then I have to change my pants so I try not to do it that much anymore.
Anyways, I was driving one way and quackeroo Dr. Andrew himself was driving the other, and we bashed into each other and smashed our cars pretty much to bits right there. Well I got out of my brand new 1974 VW and he sort of crawled and choked his way from his mangled piece of shit Corvette Sting Gay.
Dr. Duck: You…. You fucking… you fucking asshole…
Me: Wow! That’s a terrible guess! I mean, people have said I look a lot like a Jack, or some say I even remind them of that guy that used to play the side kick on CHIPS, but fucking asshole is not even close. Man, you should see how red your face is. Haha… no, name’s Wardy.
Dr. Duck: What? My face isn’t red from embarrassment, that’s blood, you fucking tit!
Me: Oh yeah, I guess it is. Bleeding pretty good there. Were you driving yourself to the hospital? That’s my guess. Am I right?
Dr. Duck: Huh?
Me: Cause if I were you, I wouldn’t be driving in your condition. I mean, I gotta say, you look pretty fucked up right now. I guess that’s why you hit me, huh? Paying too much attention to your injuries and not concentrating on the road?
Dr. Duck: Hit you? HIT YOU?!! Are you fucking drunk?!?
Me: Boy, I wish. Got any bourbon?
Dr. Duck: Yes. Wait, no. What the fuck is the matter with you?
Dr. Duck: Not physically… you moron… I think…. my leg is broken….
Me: Sure is. I’m no X-ray device, but that bone coming out of your knee is definitely not normal for a white American male.
Dr. Duck: Oh my god…
Me: No I’m not, but thanks. I have problems with accepting being a deity ever since that little mix up with that tribe in the Congo. Little black fuckers running around chanting my name, pretty sweet until you realize that if you don’t bring the rain they chop you to bits and feed you to the virgins so that your resurrected soul can do a better job of it. I did what Jesus should have done and got the fuck out of that jungle. Just like a minute ago, I jumped from my car right before they bashed. Quite a wreck, really. You should have seen it.
Dr. Duck: I did… You… bastard…. One way… street…
I think that’s where he started playing the silent treatment and practiced playing possum like my uncle used to make me do when I’d come over and visit him for the weekend so ‘momma can go play da tables’. Possum is way more fun than hide the gerbil. Silly uncle.
Well anyways, fuck me if I was going to stick around and wait for the fuzz to show up. I had enough unpaid parking tickets to know when my goose was fucked, so I ran into the woods and hid. I must say, I do think pretty well on my feet. The coppers took him away, a clear sign of his guilt. They had to use a damned paddy wagon to carry him off in because he wouldn’t come out of his stupid possum bit. What a loser.
The next day I got a knock on my door and it was two of those guys from ‘In the Heat of the Night’, except they had changed their names to protect the innocent.
Officer Gillespie: Sir, we are going to have to place you under arrest.
Me: No thank you.
Officer Gillespie: Uh, yes sir we are. You are under arrest for a hit and run last night.
Me: That is false, I was not involved in any such occurance last night.
Officer Tibbs: So you weren’t at the 1700 block of Hollow Avenue last night about one in the morning? And you don’t own a 1974 yellow and red VW? It is registered in your name.
Me: Oh haha, well of course I was there.
Officer Tibbs: So then we’re going to have to place you under arrest for the hit and run that occurred there involving your vehicle.
Me: Officer Tibbs, I was not operating the vehicle in question at the time of the collision.
Officer Gillespie: You weren’t?
Officer Tibbs: Then who was?
Me: Fuck if I know.
Officer Gillespie: So someone stole it then?
Me: Oh I doubt that. They could try, but I usually keep it pretty locked up tight.
Officer Tibbs: So if it wasn’t stolen, and you weren’t operating it, then who was?
Me: I don’t know, all I know is I got the fuck outta that thing when I saw that other car coming at me.
Officer Tibbs: You jumped from your car?
Me: Well yeah, I wasn’t just going to sit there and take a beating. Who do you think I am, Canada?
Officer Gillespie: What?
Me: Exactly. Fuck the noise that thinks I’m going to have any part in that bull shit. Only a crazy man would have stayed in his car.
It was right about then that I realized I was getting no where with the two fake cops, so I kicked them both in the nuts, hopped out my back window/escape hatch and sailed my boat to Guatemala. I figured it was best I lay low for awhile until the heat of the night cooled down a bit.
Twenty four years later that bastard still hasn’t dropped the charges. What a douche.
I can’t stand football and baseball commentators anymore. I really feel like they are retarding my sperms by some sort of television osmosis or something like that. You laugh now, but just wait until your baby comes out like Joe Buck Madden Tirico and slaps your tits back to reality. Then who’ll be laughing? Me.
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