Tuesday, April 27, 2004

A Bad Ending to a Bartender's Evening

Time to wrap it up, ya say? Hmm, 'minds me of this time I was wrapped up Tight like a finely crafted burrito. Caught between the refrieds and the tortilla, y'know? I once fought for the honor of a young signorita over a burrito, fifteen pesos, and an acre and a half of scrubland (previously owned, reportedly, by a locally famous fellow with a penchent for wittling his own Holy Divining Sticks, if you catch my leanings, to pawn off to the tourists passing through the burg for a song, a dance, and any stray articles of clothing they could part with; preferably related to the tootsies. Turns out he had a bit of a thing for American-made socks...something to do with sturdier heels and toes in 'em...could take a beating when he'd find himself fleeing the randy Dowager that lived down by the tire fire...and that was often, or so he told me). It was during a period of my life that I was selling brushes south of the border; a proverbial Fuller Bandito, I was...at least according to some of the fellows I holed up with for a spell during a particurlarly bad run of luck in the business (the less said the better, but it had a lil' something to do with a clutch o' brushes and a heavily bearded gentleman lacking limbs). Anyhoo, the dowry was on the line and it was fourth and fifteen. The Outlaw Biker Gang, the Prickley Gila Goldwing Brigade, had set their sights on my gal, my wares, and my genitalia...which they planned to mount on their handlebars as a sick trophy to celibate...celebrate my unplanned membership in the Castrato League; and, believe me, sack or no sack...this boy ain't never gonna be mistaken for a Englebert Humperdump, or whatever. So, I whip up a plot with my squat mate, Bernard, that involved a rigged election, a length of plumbing, and four pounds of freshly rotten plums...If ya squint right you can SEE the cleverness in these peepers of mine, right?



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