Let's go Cardinals
No one likes the damn Eagles
And you're due to win!
(Getcha thought there'd never BE a part II, huh Wabbs?!)
The Cardinals, with sexy manstud Larry Fitzgerald (I only like his abilities, I would not make sweet man-love to him, so stop snickering) Are going to the NFC championship, agains the perpetually troll-looking Donovan McNabb (not that I can talk, I look like a gorilla or a brown bear, but I'm also not famous, so fuck that guy!), and I am very excite! It's sad that the Cards are doing the same thing Shittenheimlich did with the Chiefs, putting trust in veterans from other teams and being ridiculed constanatly before the season starts, and are now 60 minutes away from the big time. I have already started getting ready for a Phoenix Cardinals/ Pittsburgh Steelers Superbowl with the essentials: Spinach dip, bloomin onions with sassy horseradish sauce, 3 tubes of KY lube, my karate foot cozies (I don't care if it sounds gay, they are warm and they look cool, plus they are constantly drenched in the dpittle/ blood of my sparring partners... duct tape and margarita mix along wit da Cuervo, you know how I do! (I heard that somewhere)
Anyway, you didn't come here to hear about my Superbowl preperations or to ponder what I would need all that lube for (totally innocent reason, gutterbrain), you wanted to hear
PART II of the Epic!
I would like to do this in the format of 24, you know, the television show with the Counter Terrorism Unit that Benson Hunter was going to send after me? Anyway...
- We're driving along in my cherry 1985 Mercury Grand Marquis, the huge golden boat with the white interior that my then-girlfriend would soon use to back over a hapless victim driving a transam, my trying not to make it obvious that I am trying to leam out the window for fresh air, Mystery in the seat next to me, leggings on full display, funk emanating like a sulfur deposit on Callisto (read about it, planets are fascinating!), constantly doing that stupid tsk tsk thing, just trying to get me to respond so she could annoy me. You see, Mystery is one of those people who thinks they are better than anyone else, and that everyone cares about, nay, is yearning to learn about the inner workings of her mind, therefore, it wouldn't behoove her to start talking to you directly; no, no, she has to hint that she intends to say something profound to get you to ask her
"hey what's on your mind friend?"
I do not care what is on her mind, and simply turn the radio up to cover up her snotterings (I made that word up, it's when you try to grunt a bunch of times to get someone's attention, the grunts turn to snorts and sooner or later you end up with snot all over your face), and then she does the unthinkable: she turns the radio down and starts in with "man I sure hope this thing I'm going to do works, I might need help though, duh!" while looking wistfully out the window. I am now completely annoyed but just want to get this over with, so I ask her what the hell she is talking about so I can go back to listening to my damn Beegees.
I really wish I could add audio files to this blog, you really need to see what I am trying to explain here. Picture her pursing her lips, much like a duck would. Then picture her trying to blow air out of those pursed lips, spraying a fine mist of whatever bacterial organismsn are strong enough to survive the funk of her mouth vents all over anything within 6 inches of her face.
"Well I just hope he will take how much money I've got, I think he will-"
Stop right there. I almost wrecked the car. What the Fizzizzuck?
I ask her to explain. At this point, Smeagol was in Kearney or some small town outside of Kearney, and this was going to be a 45 minute MINIFRIGGINMUM drive to.....HOPE the bail bondsman will take the money she had? No, no, funk dat. I ask her what she means by that, to which she replies that she technically HAS all the money, but is going to try to bargain with him to let Smeagol, who we all know will skip bail, out for less money. I briefly consider explaining to her that the only way for bail bondsmen to feed their fucking families is to collect the money he was asking her for, saw the completely blank look in her vacuous eyes, and thought better of it.
Whatever. We get all the way to the damn jail outside of Kearney, by the way some shitcan town North of Kearney, which is a shitcan town itself. I see the bail bondsman, who like I said before is a walking bail bondsman stereotype, at least until Dog the Buttfucking BOunty Huntress becomes famous that is, smoking a pipe while looking at us with disdain. I automatically hate people like that, who are you to think you are better than me, fucktard? I wanted to ask him that, but remembered this was all for Smeagol, and kept my mouth shut. Mystery walked over and started talking to him, and I could hear him rasping like a cherry 1989 Ford Escort engine, telling her he would need this info and that info and my info and addresses and....wait wha?!
Apparently this asshat wanted all my info, social security numbers, address, where I worked, the works. Now I realize the reason is he has no way to know if Smeagol is a flight risk, and being a winged velociraptor he very much is a flight risk, at least until the weight of his thong drags him back down, but I balked nonetheless...
Tomorrow, part 3 in the series, in which we have to drive to friggin Kansas... stay tuned.