Thursday, April 14, 2011

THE UNPUBLISHABLES PART IV: EASTER/PATRIOTS DAY

Someday people will read this like mad and say, "Yeah, I've always read his blog."





John walked in wearing some hideous-looking thing on his head. He looked uncomfortable walking around with it. I had to laugh at the way he pretended it looked normal.

“Dude, what is that?”

“What?”

“On your head, what the hell is that?”

“It’s a bandana.”

“Yes, and it’s moving weird. Is that a water bandana?”

“Maybe.”

“Where did you get that?”

“None of your business.”

“You know, my uncle has one of those, only he fills his with goat blood.”

“Shut up.”

“Be careful not to head butt anyone wearing a crown of thorns.”

“Hey, guys,” Barry interrupted, ruining my fun. “What was the name of the cat who dated Cleo on Heathcliff?”

“What?” I replied.







“You had Heathcliff with Iggy Nutmeg and Spike. There were those three loser cats: Hector, Wordsworth and Mongo. Cleo was the hottie.”

“You liked her, did you?” I said.

“She was cute.”

“Hey,” I said. “My aunt has a poodle that puts out. You want me to…?”

“Shut up. This is important.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Cleo’s boyfriend, the leader. What was his name?”









“All right, go away,” I said, trying to get rid of him. “By the way,” I continued, turning back to John, “why a Confederate flag bandana, Buford?”

“I like it. I feel like I’m from Hazard County.”

“We’ve discussed this. The General Lee may as well have had a giant swastika on the hood. You’re a lifelong northerner. Take that off.”

“My mom’s from the South.”

“Baltimore is, like, right on the Mason-Dixon Line. Do you like country music?”

“No, it sucks.”

“Do you watch auto racing?”

“No, it’s stupid.”

“That thing’s starting to leak, isn’t it?”

“A little bit, yes.”

The entire bandana popped, and John stood soaked in his own headwear.

“And the Yankees win!” I yelled.

“Very funny.”

“Where did you get that, seriously?”

“It was an Easter present.”

“An Easter present? Did you get an Easter basket too? With chocolate bunnies, and Eastroturf, and li’l marshmallow peeps?”

“As a matter of fact I did.”

“That’s cute,” I said. “My girlfriend got me a Patriot’s Day present.”

“Who the hell gets a Patriot’s Day present?”

“I got it for running in the Boston Marathon.”

“You didn’t run in the marathon.”

“Yes, Sir, from Hopkinton to Ashland.”

“That’s less than a mile.”

“I ran 1.2 miles. Bite me. And dry yourself off.”

“So what did she get you?”

“She got me this family of sock puppets called the Sockdolagers.”

“A family? Where are they?”

“In the basement. They built themselves a dojo, and they’ve been training 24-7.”

“What? Get out. Training for what?”

“Like, battles and shit. They’re like the Mighty Heroes.”

“You mean Strong Man, Rope Man, Tornado Man…”

“Diaper Man and Cuckoo Man, that’s right.”










“I used to love that. You can’t find it anymore.”

“No, it’s sad.”

“Do the socks have cool names?”

“I haven’t named them yet. I was thinking of naming them either after former ECW wrestlers circa 1996 or characters Groucho Marx played in films.”

“You’re a weirdo.”

“Okay, wet-Confederate-flag-bandana head. It’s just a matter of what sounds better: Stevie, Perry and Tommy or Captain Spaulding, Rufus T. Firefly and Dr. Hackenbush.”

BAM!!! Suddenly my sock puppets came from downstairs and started fighting us, and winning! John had a bum leg, and I had just eaten a heavy lunch, so we didn’t last very long. We were both beaten senseless, as the Sockdolagers flew out of the house and into the real world.

“I got it!” Barry said, entering finally. “Riff-Raff. Cleo’s boyfriend was Riff-Raff!”

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