Thursday, January 8, 2009

THe Epic, Part I

8 years; Bush is gone!
tenure smells like sweaty balls
unbreak my heart, sir

Sit down, children, and I shall regale you with a tale that will take you through magical lands of cockblockery, deceipt and raptor.

Once upon a time, the weather was warm, and life was good. The afternoon haze of a day that had just enough heat to melt the asshole fungus that was perpetually on our couch had settled in, bringing with it a faint smell of mint and freshly cut grass as a certain raptor stood outside, frantically swinging a scythe like a comically undersized Grim Reaper, thong draping over the top of his sweatpants as he decimated 2 or 3 blades of grass at a time. There I sat, in the living room, playing Sega Saturn, wondering if I would ever get to violate a woman's love hole and realizing I would not as long as I lived in this dump, when I saw them: The police. They came creeping around the corner slowly, and at first Smeagol didn't see them. Mystery sat on the couch, squeezing the life out of yet another kitten.

He noticed too late. The police made their move, gunning the engine into our dusty driveway as Smeagol ran inside and for some reason sat on the couch. I watched with mild interest as the police walked up and knocked on the door. Mystery, flinging the semi-dead kitten to the hard wooden floor, got up awkwardly and hobbled over to the door. The usual conversation ensued, with the police asking if she would go get Smeagol, her telling them he wasn't there as he sat in plain view, them gently puching her out of the way and cuffing him, me wondering why they couldn't do a brothah a favor and take her too.

Mystery asked where they were taking him, and the officer finally said something that raised an eyebrow for me: "Well, he's going to Kansas City FIRST..." and the other officer chuckled.
So begins what I shall dub "Road to Bail: Bondsman's Paradise", an epic journey that took almost 16 hours, most of them in close proximity to Mystery for extended periods of time. It was a road that at points I assumed would never end, and one that took this bondsman much closer to me than I ever wished.

Part I
As they took Smeagol out to the cruiser, Mystery leapt into sitting down and doing her stupid version of the "Tsk Tsk Tsk..." which sprayed smelly spittle all over the table and I am now certain into a cup that I had up to that point intended on drinking out of. I will say this though, if you get put in jail Mystery is the one person you want bailing you out. She has no shame, and never quits, no matter how rude you are or how many times you tell her no. She caught my eye as I glanced at my cup, wishing I had drained it before she tainted it. I tried to look away, but it was too late:

"Hey Steven, you get paid today, right?" She shat out the words like a retarded monkey, flinging the feces at itself while eating a pinata, the children saddened by tiny dragonflies shitting in their oatmeal.

I tried to let her down easy, as I had no intention of using my money to bail Smeagol out of jail: "Yes, I will get MY paycheck today, and I need to get shoes and some food", as we should all know by now a day off from working at Burger King meant no food or watching Smeagol gum down 30 day old taco bell and kim chi before getting his feet rubbed whilst watching wrestling.
"Duuuuh well you need to give me some of your money to bail Smeagol out, I can't use our money because I need to get food for us and we are going out later this week"... WTF?! I mean honestly, What....the.....Fuck. This bitch just told me she didn't want to spend her going out money bailing a raptor out, and wanted my money, when we both knew he had no intention of paying me back or sharing food with me. I simply looked at her blankly and then went back to my game. After awhile I heard her mumble "Well then you can start walking" before going to get the phonebook to call bail bondsmen. Telling me I can "start walking" was the only way Mystery used to be able to get a reaction out of me, even though said reaction was an annoyed guffaw or a fart in her general direction. It didn't work this time, I had more of a right to be there than she did, and besides, if I left she would burn the house down that day, unless some swarthy negro just happened to be over there pounding out her stinkhole, which almost made me lose my lunch just writing.

Anyway, she gets on the phone, and I listen with some interest as one after another bail bondsmen tell her that not only will they NOT bail him out, but as soon as he gets out they want to know where he will be so they can come get him for monies he owed them from before, usually illiciting a hangup by her. Smeagol had given addresses for everyone in out family but himself to bail bondsmen, and the line that was after him was growing at an alarming rate.
That's when she lit upon a new bondsmen, the walking bail bondsman stereotype: Trucker hat, dirty shaggy hair, driving a brand new pickup truck, smelled like pipe tobacco, 4 foot tall, always wearing those stupid shooting glasses, voice raspy from decades of 5 packs a day cigarette smoke...

Part II tomorrow.

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