"back in my day," said islander around another lipful of chaw, "we used to hang them whadyacallit, them fancy French hats from our license plate holders. that was so's e'ryone and 'er six hottest cousins could know we weren't poxy and had good mouths for kissin' and such. o'course, that was before all this new-faddled women's lib stuff. now you'd have to be a bona-fide Romeo Valentino and give 'er three references that said you wasn't a slobbering, globbering fool with lips like a week-old perch before you could so much as look at 'er neck. that's all as it should be, o'course. but at least we had good men like Lincoln and Hayes and Cottontail in the White House, and not a one of them wasn't a true-blue Ford man. even that dang fool Sherman T. Halliday, who was Sec'tary o' Horse Sense, drove an Edsel thirty miles a day between Washington and Idaho."
He spat, and the spittoon rang like a church bell. "Cherry pit in that one, no lie."
His old linen-hound Sourball cocked one brass ear, then went back to napping at his feet. The flag on his hand-carved tail fluttered gently in the breeze.
Islander looked off into the middle distance, as if the past were no more distant than that grove of alder where the Rotarians were buried after the last softball game.
"Anyhaw, you just come back for your nickel on that Coke bottle some other day. It's Wednesday, and that's for fishin' and stillin'."
Sourball was a good hound, and those Rotarians had it coming. Told 'em there was no sense in a singin' club.
"back in my day," said islander around another lipful of chaw, "we used to hang them whadyacallit, them fancy French hats from our license plate holders. that was so's e'ryone and 'er six hottest cousins could know we weren't poxy and had good mouths for kissin' and such. o'course, that was before all this new-faddled women's lib stuff. now you'd have to be a bona-fide Romeo Valentino and give 'er three references that said you wasn't a slobbering, globbering fool with lips like a week-old perch before you could so much as look at 'er neck. that's all as it should be, o'course. but at least we had good men like Lincoln and Hayes and Cottontail in the White House, and not a one of them wasn't a true-blue Ford man. even that dang fool Sherman T. Halliday, who was Sec'tary o' Horse Sense, drove an Edsel thirty miles a day between Washington and Idaho."
He spat, and the spittoon rang like a church bell. "Cherry pit in that one, no lie."
His old linen-hound Sourball cocked one brass ear, then went back to napping at his feet. The flag on his hand-carved tail fluttered gently in the breeze.
Islander looked off into the middle distance, as if the past were no more distant than that grove of alder where the Rotarians were buried after the last softball game.
"Anyhaw, you just come back for your nickel on that Coke bottle some other day. It's Wednesday, and that's for fishin' and stillin'."
"back in my day," said islander around another lipful of chaw, "we used to hang them whadyacallit, them fancy French hats from our license plate holders. that was so's e'ryone and 'er six hottest cousins could know we weren't poxy and had good mouths for kissin' and such. o'course, that was before all this new-faddled women's lib stuff. now you'd have to be a bona-fide Romeo Valentino and give 'er three references that said you wasn't a slobbering, globbering fool with lips like a week-old perch before you could so much as look at 'er neck. that's all as it should be, o'course. but at least we had good men like Lincoln and Hayes and Cottontail in the White House, and not a one of them wasn't a true-blue Ford man. even that dang fool Sherman T. Halliday, who was Sec'tary o' Horse Sense, drove an Edsel thirty miles a day between Washington and Idaho."
He spat, and the spittoon rang like a church bell. "Cherry pit in that one, no lie."
His old linen-hound Sourball cocked one brass ear, then went back to napping at his feet. The flag on his hand-carved tail fluttered gently in the breeze.
Islander looked off into the middle distance, as if the past were no more distant than that grove of alder where the Rotarians were buried after the last softball game.
"Anyhaw, you just come back for your nickel on that Coke bottle some other day. It's Wednesday, and that's for fishin' and stillin'."
I was hearing talk of the new buddy group moving up the charts . I think they're called Post Cajones. I thought, how ironic. You think it's easy to play the Macarena three times a night for deep dish pizza slaves?
If you ask me - and why would you - you should probably just not hire a man who likes to give cats hand-painted Hitler mustaches a job in a veterinary clinic.
I know, everyone likes buddy, everyone wants to give him a chance, but there are limits.
