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Bloody Yank
By J.R. Carson
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"To hell with all of you, then!" I
slurred, stumbling out of the pub. That was the third place I'd been kicked out
of that night.
"We saved your asses in dubya
dubya two!"
The alley was cold and damp, especially on my hands and knees as I puked up
Absinthe and vodka (a mixture I do not
recommend). My head spun horribly as I righted myself and sauntered, knock-knee'd,
along the wall.
"Ooooooh, beauuuutiful for spaaaacious skies! For barley, hopps, and
graaaaain!"
"Shut up, ya' bloody yank!" shouted some voice from a window above.
I continued through the light of a single street lamp and finally found what
looked like another place to explore. I busted in the red door, pushed out my
chest, and stomped up to the nearest person.
"Gimme' your beshht shhhingle malt whishhkey and make it shhhnappy!"
Drool began gathering in the corner of my mouth.
"Get the hell out of my flat!" the man screamed.
"My euro-dippity-doo-dahs are as good as aaanybody's, you lemony... limeny...
limey bastard!"
This didn't seem to matter as he just shoved me right back onto the street.
"Bunch o' rude fuckers!" I was rotating my shoulders side-to-side like
a six-year-old, my arms flapping like a rag doll's. "I don't know who
the hell Bob is, but he sure ain't my fuckin' uncle!" I mumbled to no one
in particular.
A boar's head painted on a shingle told me I had another shot at drinking, so I
fell in.
It was filled with a quiet lot, all gruff looking and bigger than me—which is
unusual, since I'm a solid two-fifty. I tried to straighten up so as not to look
like an easy target.
My body leaned forward heavily and my feet pedaled to keep up—I nearly ran
head-first into the bar, just missing a concussion. The bartender was a bit
fuzzy, but I kept getting that 'feeling', that 'I want you' vibe, from him.
"Gimme' a..." I couldn't think of any complicated drinks, so I said
"Bud. Aaaa Bud. That's right, aaaaa Bud."
He looked me up and down for a moment, then said "No Bud, sorry—'ow 'bout
a Brown? It's on me."
I knew I wasn't going home alone tonight! He wasn't my usual 'thing', but, hey,
lonely is lonely. I grinned from ear to eyebrow (I couldn't quite find the other
ear) and gave up the only pick-up line I know.
"Did it hurt when heaven... no, no, wait... Did you get hurt in Heav... no,
no, okay, I got it! Did you fall from Heaven, 'cause you look painful... Damn
it, that's not it eeeeither!"
I was thankfully interrupted from my struggles when he said, "Don't bother,
lady, I fancy blokes."
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J.R. Carson was born the son of a poor
sharecropper. After loosing his head in a combine accident, he pushed on
and learned to read and write without the use of his brain. This allowed
him to develop an irrepressibly stupid style enjoyed by dozens of readers every
year.
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