The Hyena In Winter

November 16, 2009

Karen says I need to keep speakin’ into this tape recorder, for the book she’ll write under my name, so I can get vindicated by history. So that’s what I’m doin’. At least till the Monday Night Football comes on. Then I need to go drink me some pretzels.

I see he’s over there in Japan now, the kid, Dumbo. Bowing to their emperor. Kid’s got no sense. Everywhere he goes, the bowing. It don’t look right. America don’t bow to nobody: and when he’s president, he’s America. Like I was. Hell, he even bowed to the Saudis, when anybody with any sense knows you’re supposed to hold their friggin’ hands. Have to—otherwise those hands’ll be squirrelin’ all around your pockets, filchin’ your money.

Me and Dad, we never bowed to no Japanese. Dad, he really knew how to handle ’em—hell, he threw up on the prime minister. Sure: the story went out that it was because he was sick on them pills and that jet lag. But that was a fib. Really he did it on purpose. He’s a real card, Dad. People just don’t appreciate that.

I guess maybe I did screw up with them Japanese that one time. I was feelin’ kind of feisty, after drinkin’ a couple of pretzels, and I tried to do the hoedown-dance with the Japanese prime minister. Didn’t go so well. Dummy just stood there: guess he never heard of the hoedown. And Pootie-poot, he looked at me like he thought somebody oughta put me back in the crib.

Karen—make sure that picture don’t go in the book, will ya?

I see the last of the Kennedys is dead. Didn’t go so well for ’em, did it? They thought they was all gonna be president, but mostly they got shot in the head, or loaded up on pretzels and drove women off bridges.

I could never talk too much about that last one, because of when The Lump killed her old boyfriend. That boy shoulda knowed better, than to piss off The Lump. Piss her off, and she’s literally Hell on Wheels!

Guess we should prob’ly leave that out of the book.

Anyway, Dad said when he was in the CIA he read the true lowdown on the Teddy thing. See, Teddy didn’t even know Mary Jo was in the car; he was up in the front seat diddlin’ some other woman. When the car took the big dive, Teddy and that other woman got out of the car alright, and walked on back to the party. Wasn’t till the next morning that they all discovered Mary Jo was missin’. Went back and found her in the car.

Then they messed up bad. That other woman, the one Teddy was with, she was married, so they invented that cock-n-bull story they fed to the press, one designed so’s they could leave her out of it. Plus they didn’t want a story with Teddy in the car with no two women, even if he didn’t even know one of ’em was there, Mary Jo havin’ left the party to go pass out on the back seat, nobody knowin’ a thing about it, they all too busy drinkin’ pretzels and diddlin’ one another to get a fix on what each other was doin’.

Anyway, that’s what Dad said happened. He also said they had the story on what really happened with The Lump and the dead boyfriend, but Dad said he burned them papers. And the guy that wrote ’em, Dad said he later had a “accident.”

I don’t think God liked them Kennedys much. That’s why they was always shot or retards or gettin’ in trouble with the pretzels. And I figger the reason God was mad was because they had no respect for the fetums. Even though they was Catholic, they was for killin’ the fetums.

Karen says they’s really called “fetuses,” but I don’t like that word. It sounds too science-like. “Fetum” sounds more like somethin’ you wanna hug. Which is what you should wanna do with the unborns, even when they’re teeny-tiny.

I’ve always had respect for fetums, and so God, he likes me: he never put no bullet in my head, or drove me off no bridge. Jesus was pretty firm about respectin’ the fetum, and I always try to do what Jesus did. Of course, there was the one fetum I accidentally put in that gal, but I don’t think Jesus would mind that we went and took that one out. Them abortion people, they’s always talkin’ about exceptions for rape, incest, and protectin’ the life of the mother. I figger there should also be an exception for “when a man’s so blind drunk he don’t even know he’s puttin’ a fetum in there.” But they never want to talk about that.

Prob’ly God also wasn’t too happy about all the diddlin’, either, with the Kennedys. He mostly wants you to do it only with your Lumps, and not with every skirt that happens to drop off. People bitch and moan that I mighta had a little toot down at Camp David when Dad was President, but at least I wasn’t no bare-ass-naked Jack Kennedy, snortin’ lines of blow off Marilyn Monroe’s fine white glistenin’ thighs, there by the White House swimming pool.

Damn it.

Now that all the main Kennedys is dead, I see the guys in the big hats are really squeezin’ the balls of the young sprouts. I don’t go in much for popery myself, but the Catholics sure came in handy in 2004, when Ratzo told all the bishops to make the host-eaters swear off votin’ for Kerry. Turd Blossom said we’d win that year if we could just corral a bunch of the grape-juice-swallowers, and damn if he weren’t right. Hardly had to steal any votes, that time.

And I like seein’ that big hat tellin’ that snot Patrick Kennedy that he ain’t no Catholic so long as he’s for rippin’ out the fetums. He said the kid was “irresponsible and ignorant of the facts” and “a disappointment” to the Church. Then he went on the radio, the big hat, and fulminated: “If you freely choose to be a Catholic, it means you believe certain things, you do certain things. If you cannot do all that in conscience, then you should perhaps feel free to go somewhere else.”

Damn! You tell ’em, dress-boy!

I seen a picture of ol’ dress-boy pointin’ at somebody, and holdin’ a big hook in his other hand. Maybe he’ll reach out with that hook and just collar that Kennedy boy, drag him on down the aisle of the church!

Bet we’d see that rerun a coupla times on Fox!

Gotta say I was pretty happy when they made Ratzo the pope. Took some pressure off me. Some people was always carpin’ that Granddad Prescott was makin’ money with the Nazis. Then the Catholics go and elect as pope a guy who used to wear a damn swastika armband. If people ain’t gonna yell at him about it, they sure as hell should leave me alone.

Karen, I’m runnin’ outta gas here. Gonna need me some pretzels real quick, and anyway the game’s almost on. I know I sorta got sidetracked here, with the Kennedys and the fetums and the popists and Marilyn Monroe—hey, did I tell ya she weren’t a real blonde? Dad said so: he’d seen the nekkid pictures. Damn file on the woman there in the CIA was so big the cabinet was makin’ the floor sag, he said. So, bein’ the nice guy he is, he took half the records home—mostly a lotta pictures—to take off some of the pressure on them floorboards.

Anyway, I’ll get around to Dumbo and all his high-falutin’ words and stumble-bumblin’ actions some other time. No hurry. I’m know I’m gonna be vindicated by history, just like you and God told me, and if it’s later rather than sooner, hell, I don’t mind. Not as long as there’s pretzels and football in the world.

See ya.



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