I dunno ’bout the rest of you chaps, but whenever a day or two goes by without the guy we all love (despite his political views) checking in, my internal clock starts clicking. Like the ten second rule in basketball, or the three seconds in the lane rule. Or the thirty-second rule in football. Or even the ten second rule in boxing. After a short while, my internal clock starts wondering: “So. Where is Gramps?”
Where is Gramps? Is he gonna get up? Is he going to beat the charges this time? Will the Aryan Nation accept a skinny little liberal motorcycle aficionado who loves Polish wodka and who has a soft spot in his heart for a Vietnamese Mama-san into prison? Has he “fallen and I can’t get up?”
Okay, okay, I just called the local cops! No skinny little incoherent fuck has been reported missing.
So then I called the local VFW and talked to a “Missy” who a) wouldn’t tell me if ‘Gramps’ was there;” and b) is available [“after the kids go down”] tomorrow evening.
I then called the local Moose Lodge. Evidently there was a handsome, ass-kicking man of the world called “Gramps” who had been there, but he had taken all the women between the age of consent and menopause to “a better place.”
Figuring that I knew where the “better place” was, I called the local “Eagles.” “Yes, Gramps is here. Sure. Pay his bar tab and I’ll put you through to him.”
Click. I hung up and jumped on the Kawasaki 5,ooo,ooo cc and was transported through time and space instantly into the prezence of a great man. He lifted the imported Vodka in my direction and said “Salute.” His on-the-clock female (I think) escort merely rolled her eyes and looked at her watch.
I slipped the escort a twenty under the table and tried to impress old Gramps: “Sooo, Gramps, were you really in ‘Nam during the war?”
He looked at me with blurry eyes, shook his head as if to clear his mind. Then he blew out a shart into what I imagined to be less than “tighty-whities.”
I saw no reaction until he barely pointed to his shot glass. The bartender took all this in. I nodded at her, after checking out the tattoo that was peaking over the top of her wife-beater. She grabbed the vodka off the top shelf, but after seeing my reaction put it back and poured him the cheap shit.
But Gramps was oblivious. Surprise. Gramps is a fucking liberal. All liberals are oblivious. Agent Orange probably increased the chances that his genes were worth anything to anybody. His piss was always orange, but at least he can still ride a Kamakaze 45 cc into oblivion when he axes permission first from “Her who must be obeyed.”
We still love him. Like that old Golden Retriever who was around during the entire time that you children were cognizant of the world but who decided that crapping huge piles of shit inside the house was suddenly acceptable (after tearing apart everything inside the pantry within reach). Sheesh! Why did it take two .357 magnum hollow points? Ooops. Let’s not talk about that. Just don’t ask me why
And like the old F-150 that left us stranded in the mountains when we were pulling the camper, and we couldn’t back up, or pull forward. (Glad I gave that f’er away). And like the black cat who wakes us in the morning while screaming to be fed, and who irritates us just before going down clamoring again to be fed. Heck, like the toothache just before the dentist, yeah, we love him. Yeah, do not ask us why we love him.
So, where you at Gramps? Call home.
p.s. B.U.I. causes the run-on senctences and the spell-checker to miss…