As I had left off yesterday with very little indication of the history that I had promised even existing, I feel as though my Quixotic goal for the day will be to inform you, the reader, of how exactly the potably influenced yammering outside the boundaries of my estate (or, to be exactly exact, the estate upon which I am now in some modicum of possession of, providing that mortgaging and ownership deeds be immediately accomodated for and transferred to me, in said order) came to occur, and why, although at first alarmed, I came to understand that this was not Rip Van (Jean-Claude’s cousin) awaking from his slumber but shy of two weeks from his alcoholic coma, and thinking it appropriate to emit shrieking noises doing so. No, it was indeed not him at all, nor any other bearded narcoleptic with a propensity for barbiturates (or just phenobarbitol… drink it by the cupful! Keeps ya healthy!) and a penchant for domestic disturbance. No, I have grown familiar with this tuneless yodel, and as such I must recall the preparations I often make (loosely tied bathrobe, leg warmers, miniature tortoises, sandalwood) so that I might repel this untimely celebration while it is in my power to do so. These preparations, while not necessary, are foreplay to the coitus of the act which you, dear reader, will come to know and revile so thoroughly as do I (forgive me my coital metaphor, I beg; without it I am simply fucking wordless; or without fucking words; or obversely unable to speak of fucking). In any case, this whole tale begins with my dearest departed Uncle Buck, a holiday favorite (so to speak; or in this case, lie.).
But now, we are spirited away, to times long ago, when the rum flowed down Uncle Buck’s benumbed chin and into his fuzzy white collar (for ’twas his wont to oft dress as the icon of the season), stopping only at the point of absorption into the red fabric above his bared midriff (for he had gained some weight since the war, and his beloved stained costume no longer fit). Come with me, to that loving holiday glow:
“Boy,” quoth Uncle Buck blearily, shaking his head from side to side, “Boy, come here and fill your Uncle’s cup.” Uncle Buck suffered from chronic bouts of a crippling inability to utilise his fine motor skills, paired with double vision and slurring of speech. I crept closer to the giant figure with bated breath, knowledgable (since last year’s mistletoe debacle) of his affliction of halitosis. “Thass’a good boy. Uncle Buck will give you a quarter later, when the demons go away.” He never did give me the quarter, currency being what it was. I received quite a beating later! Uncle Buck, however, did not give in to the temptation to scrimp upon season’s tidings. “Let your Uncle tell you about The War.” And so he did.
”When in Guam, we came upon a gargantuan turtle, the likes of which we’d never seen before. I at first wished to ride upon it, but damn the thing! It ran from George and I, like the stinking, miserable Jap bastard it was. So we killed it and ate it. The next day, however, it had its revenge and we all had diarrhea, which I still have today.”
”Uncle Buck, you are incontinent due to your advanced age.” This was safe to say, as he was out of reach of the cane.
”Damn you boy! I’d beat you if I could get at my cane! Stop interrupting my story! So, the next day, we were all stricken by the turtle’s formidable poison. We were so debilitated for the next few weeks that we rarely emerged from the safety of the whorehouse in which Macarthur had set up base. However, we soon found the antidote to the tremors and loosening of the bowels: rum, glorious rum. We staggered about that godforsaken rock seeking for the rum tree, but we never found it, and so when the rum rations gave through a half week later, we were awfully sorry we’d killed all the natives, for I’m sure they could have found one for us. As it was, the drink hardly saved us from the true danger of the island: each other. You see, when sailors are stranded on a bomb-blasted desolate atoll for at least a week, and there’s no women about, and the liquor’s been flowing, we tend to return to our naval habit of ‘Surprise Sodomy Wednesdays.’ Sometimes ‘Multiple Men Surprise Sodomy Wednesdays.’ All week long. In any case, those that didn’t turn to the other men quickly found the corpses of sheep and women. But that’s a story for a different time! We decided that on the second Sunday of January, we’d all get much drunker than usual, and then try to fend off the lust imbued by the spirits by vigorously masturbating in secret places, like a pack of apes. It was only after Macarthur’s second-best captain’s hat was ruined in this fashion that we decided we’d had enough of Guam, and he produced the ignition keys to the destroyer, for us to sail away upon. Although we all made it back safely, due to our never seeing action, some of us never really made it back from Guam…”
at this point, Uncle Buck would shift ever so slightly in his chair so that his arms flopped over his great pale belly, and his eyes would focus upon some slight detail of his shelf of erotic books in foreign languages.
I, in my infinitely patient nature, hope that this tale will illustrate to you, the reader, how it came to be that last Sunday I heard the noises, as I do every second Sunday of January. But if not, I shan’t explain to you again how the procedure that my neighbor’s teenaged son took it upon himself to act out in my yard might have come to pass. Might he have been one of my Uncle Buck’s many illegitimate children, I wonder? I fear I’ll never know.
I can only imagine the reasons for his actions otherwise!
