—Precisely. Which is why there won’t be any dancing today. Because you don’t just celebrate the death of a terror leader by slurping your way through an entire baby pool filled with flaming Ouzo and then get up and dance a jig 48 hours later.
Unless, of course, you’re John Daly.
Which the little guy ain’t—though I did once see him get so pissed at a drunken raccoon who tried walking off with his quarter bottle of grape Mad Dog that he beat the poor bastard half to death with a 3 wood, exhibiting a swing so sweet and natural that it reminded me of a young Steve Elkington.
It was an ugly moment, certainly. And I don’t condone the beating of a shitfaced raccoon over something so trivial as trying to pinch the backwash from a bottle of $2 wine—particularly if it costs the beast an eye. Still, having seen our little pal in action, I’m half convinced that if he cleaned up his act and bought a nice pair of golf shoes, he could make assistant course pro at Cherry Creek in three or four years. Or maybe even less, if he could raise the money for lessons.
Which the little guy ain’tâ€â€though I did once see him get so pissed at a drunken raccoon who tried walking off with his quarter bottle of grape Mad Dog
Not to be a grammer troll, but shouldn’t it be “Which the little guy didn’t-…”?
Coz I gotta tell ya, that post had me scratching my skull for a while. Of course, it’s possible that it’s just all the booze I’ve been drinking which made it difficult to figure out. Or my general thickheadedness. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to blame my being drunkity, as that is usually a temporary state.
Nope. The “ain’t” refers back to his not being John Daly.
As for the post itself, it’s a running series. Hard to explain, though maybe somebody else will take a run at it.
Me, I have a pizza I must eat and a ballgame I must watch.
If the liker stores are closed, anyone walking away with hootch is fair game.
Why not? I did.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t a jig I danced. It was the Pigeon-Toed BladderDance because the bathroom happened to be occupied.
But that also happens to be the step that won me first place in the Moose Valley Dance Tournament up in Alaska ten years ago. And I was almost able to ride that triumph into high elected office.
Preventing a major terror attack, locking up goons all over the world and exterminating the current chief head-chopping fascist. Ya, that WAS a good week. Also my character in World of Warcraft just made level 40, so…
There’s an idea.
I put out a bar table full of flaming sambucas with my esophagus once, and for about two days afterward, my breath smelled like a gingerbread outhouse.
Chemistry is fun!
– Don’t tell me McGehee…. The first time the party bag man tried to slip you “the” envelope, you thought he was a process server, took a powder, and your “political” career went straight in the dumper. Gotta’ be “on your toes” for more than just a’dancin’.
– Oh, and for some unfathonable reason, the herd of the asshats think it was a markedly terrible week. Imagine that.
Why do I have the terrible suspicion that descriptor will stick in my memory for many years to come?
Not everybody grows up Cook County smart.
What do you do when you’re out walking,
But you’ve been followed in the streets?
I have to say, you gave it all away –
When you went out to meet:
Khalaylah!
Hey Jeff…fancy that..I’m eating pizza and watching the same game.
Speak for yourself, white man.
“Still, having seen our little pal in action, I’m half convinced that if he cleaned up his act and bought a nice pair of golf shoes, he could make assistant course pro at Cherry Creek in three or four years. Or maybe even less, if he could raise the money for lessons.”
And he hasn’t called me? WTF.
Major John,
Don’t you go hatin’ on Cook County again. Or I’ll send over one of Chicago’s finest to shove a brat up your ass, just like those proud boys in blue cleaned up Grant Park in 1968. Like I said at the time “..the policeman isn’t there to CREATE disorder, the policeman is there to PRESERVE disorder”.
So don’t hate the game, hate the Mayor.
CNN is saying that Pakistani troops are going into Waziristan or Wazooistan or wherever and they’re speculating every so slightly they might be after UBL.
My question is: If UBL and/or Ayman are captured/killed as the grand finale to a wonderful week, willl the freaking aramdillo finally dance?
Yer (late) Honor,
I admire Cook County smartz. I learned how to do the folded $100 bill handshake from a real live precinct committeeman!
As part of the Illinois National Guard (out of the Armory at Kedzie and North, no less) I am proud to back up Chicago’s Finest as well. I keep a nicely waxed hickory baton for just such occassions…
As I recall, $2 worth of Mad Dog produces a swing plane similar to Furyk’s without the desired results. Wait, that was Palo Verde Rum. Never Mind.
uh, he’s gonna hafta watch out for the greenskeeper. for example, my dad doesn’t put up with ‘dillos. they get trapped and sent away. though maybe if he behaves himself he’ll be okay.
 He’s all right.
Nobody worry ‘bout him…
He was able to make contact on the ‘coon’s eyeball with a 3-wood?
Was he playing ‘em down? I mean shit! Normally eyeballs are not sitting up, and you’d need a hybrid, or, at the very least, you’d have to wedge out to the fairway and take your medicine.
I say if he can putt at all, forget Cherry Creek and head straight for the Hooters Tour.
Y’know, forgive me for being cynical and all, but I’m beginning to think that, maybe—just perhaps—there is no armadillo at all.
—
TW: “However,” as in “however, I could be wrong.”
Notice that nobody even made an attempt.
I’ve spent many a Friday looking forward to the advenures of our favorite shelled and clawed mammell. I even wrote a poem, or perhaps a lyric, which begins…
I was on my way to Amirillo
thought I might spot an armadillo
I don’t posess Ma$$ive k00{{ KomPootin’ skilzz,so I can’t figger out how to send it to you.
I might sell it to the Dicksie Chicks anyway.
Of course there’s an armadillo. If the armadillo didn’t exist, it would be necessary to invent one.
Actually, what happened was, sdomebody tipped off the Troopers and they got a search warrant. Found 90,000 lemmings in my freezer.
Yeah, I did.
What gives?
– Pity the poor fools that can’t recognize excellant Klonopin induced imagery.
– Look at the bright side. It could have been a dancing Sta-puff MarshMellow Man. Now that would really be confusing.
McGehee – So your freezer sits on a cliff?
I was glad to hear The Z-Man was killed, but when I found out he lived long enough and was aware enough to think, “Damn, I’m caught!” … well, then I just wanted to dance.
Blame my evil nature. (Turing Word)
Not anymore. And man were those Troopers pissed.