Road to Badger Boy: Part Steven

My Pancake Is Melting!; Whens I refused to poke Charles’ liver he smacked me wit a piece o’ boiled meat then he crawled inta’ the Coke machine coin return. I leapt at the machine stuffin’ ma lips inta’ the small slot.

“For God sake, man! Whata’ bout the fudgesicles?!” I screamed, but he musta’ not heard me. The Dr. Pepper was pretty loud.

Some thin’ was wrong. I felt ma’ face an found dat ma’ eyebrows switched places. “Gads! The bull-weevils are flyin’!” I dodged right, somersaulted left den’ pounced on a fella’ wit da inverted head. Knowin’ dat bull-weevils have da power to command body hair ta’ der will, I snatched the cigarette frum inverted-head’s claw an crammed it up ma’ nose. I knew I needed more lift and separate.

Sum thin tackled me frum behind. Thunderstruck I bared ma’ powerful incisors an’ tried ta’ chew off ma’ torso ta’ escape da’ large beast lyin’ on topa me. After several hours o’ bitin’, slapin’ an’ wettin’ maself I was able ta’ flop like a’ trout ta’ freedom.

I ran ‘round in circles for several moments ta’ loose da’ beast den I threw maself inta’ the gappin maw of night. I don’ know how long ‘er how far I ran, but I suddenly came upon a beautiful bright light. It covered me wit a blindin’ glow dat seem ta’ intensify wit every second. I knew at dis moment that it was God callin’ me home ta’ da great carnival in da sky. Den the light struck me goin’ ‘bout 40 miles per hour.

I woke in a drunk tank sum days later. The Saab dat’ hit me an’ dragged ma’ pathetic carcass fer 30 miles didn’ leave me wit a single scratch. Funny thin’ though, I guess (according ta’ ma’ cellmate) I clawed out ma own eye ta’ get to the chewy nougat center o’ ma’ head. Life lesson learned; don’ do drugs kids an’ goin’ Greyhound can kills ya’!

Road to Badger Boy: Part 123456

Electric Boogaloo; Okays, sos the twitchy fella wit the dead cat hat introduced himself ta’ me as General Moroidmonger. He then saluted an’ did wha’ I guess was a jig. I tooks a step back, not ‘cuz o’ the impromptu soft-shoe buts the stench of his head gear twas overpowerin’. He den quickly puts me ina’ headlock ans the two o’ us tumble behind a bench. Da Genderal then squishes his mouth ta’ ma ear wispers.

“I’ve been commanded by Chieftain Ving Rhames and Buddha’s left foot to eradicate pedo-beastil-necrophiliac’s! Have you seen any?!”

“Peoples ‘aven sex wit underage dead animals?” I asked an’ da’ General nodded like he jus lost a vertebrae in his neck. “Sorry, not ta’ day.”

He den pulls da’ bottle o’ Thunderbird frum ma hand an’ spits out, “IsthisyourscanIhavesome?!” An takes one long pulla’ ma’ hooch. He shoves da’ bottle back in ma hand, jumps ta’ his feat an’ darts outta’ sight. Wells when I got up I could see ‘em tucked in da’ corner o’ the room starin’ at sum thin on da’ ceilin’.

A little put off wit the excessive slobber on ma’ bottle I tried ta’ clean it off in da’ drinkin’ fountain, buts I musta’ missed sum or da’ General puts sum thin in ma’ Thunderbird ‘cuz after ma first swig thins gots real weird. I’ms pretty observant o’ stuff like da’ walls breathin’ an’ havin’ Charles Bukowski ridin’ a unicorn stop an’ ask me if Jesus would make a good infielder fer the Astros.

*Sigh* way does this crap happin’ ta’ me.

Road to Badger Boy: Part V

Well it’s about God damn time; Quits gripin’ at me, I’m stills alive! Wheres was I… oh yeah, beefy chicks. Sos after a couple o’ days recoverin’ I founds ma’self ina’ survivalist camp (I guess ya’all ‘ave had enough time ter figure that out), buts on closer inspection what looked like ona’ my family reunions turns outta’ be sum thin more… evil.

Every ones was wearin’ bright colors, playin’ hacky-sack, lotsa’ huggin’ betweens people, kids runnin’ ‘round all naked, heck the only similarity between a fer reals survivalist camp an’ dis was the lack of bathing. Thas’ when it hit me, a Frisbee thrown by sum 30 sumthin guy wit dreadlocks an’ that’s when I notice wha’ was on his hip. A rectangular metallic object wit wires runnin’ frum it an’ bolted ta’ this sad sacks ears. I quickly peeped ‘round an saw every one had dis’ mechanical brain melter fused ter thar hip.

“I-Pods! HOLY CRAP MAC-HEADS!!” I screamed jus’ before passin’ out.

After I cames outta’ ma’ spaz nap I found a small groupa’ big teethed smilin’ hippies. They explained hows they created dis “utopia” survivalist camp ta’ prepare fer Y2K+8, da Macintosh year 2008 bug. A bug dat will threatin’ da’ livelihood of graphic designers and 3D animators worldwide. They told mes ‘bout dar’ vision o’ tryin’ ta fix da’ bug, but if unsuccessful they’d wade out da’ worst o’ da’ great Mac crash of aught-eight securely in der bunkers. Den they would rise up ‘gain ta’ reclaim da’ world fer peace, love and high resolution plasma monitors. Den they all turns ta’ me an asks if I shares thar vision.

Sos an hour laters onea’ da’ Mac-Heads drops me off at da’ Greyhound station in Yonkers. Evens gives me a little walkin’ ‘round money; dem hippy freaks ain’t too bad folks. Whelp, ma’ walkin’ ‘round money walked me straight ta’ a liquor store (ma’ back up hooch is gettin’ thin). Sitin’ in da’ bus stop wit a bottle o’ Thunderbird ana’ ticket ta’ Detroit. Thins were lookin’ up ans if I took better notice o’ the dude wit da’ dead cat strapped ta’ his head tryin’ ta’ levitate Burger King cups it might stayed lookin’ up.

Road to Badger Boy: Part 4

FREEDOM!: After da’ exploding terd tank incident I gots ma’ sorry beaver bittin’ butt tossed onta’ a chain gang. Its not whatya’ think either. I knows the image of da’ southern chain gangs; in da’ sweaty Mississippi heat two rows o’ dust covered men swinging pick-axes on da’ side o’ back wood gravel road whilt beltin’ out blues harmonies thata’ make John Lee Hooker down a’ bottle o’ sleepin’ pills. Whelp, ma’ chain gang was jus’ a tad different; in da’ runny nose Niagara cold a row o’ parka clad men scrape dead things off a frozen highway whilts gently singin’ show tunes and Rush songs.

Ins da’ middle o’ pryin’ a fairly squished an’ frozen woodchuck frum the road I seen my opportunity fer escape, a garbage grazin’ moose. Wit the speed of meth freak after a leprechaun I leapt onda’ moose an’ we was gone.

An hour later da’ moose was able ta’ buck me loose (carnies have great gripin’ abilities) an’ left me wit a departin’ goring. Once I got da’ bleedin’ ta stop, I surveyed ma’ reclaimed freedom an’ quickly discovered I was in da’ middle o’ nowhere, again. Lost ta’ da wilderness but thank God and lozenges tha’ this time I had Latigo Flint's Field Guide to Edible Spoors.

After a fast snack o’ stuff I found under a rock, I hit da’ trail an’ not five feet later I was in a’ bear trap. I seems ta’ be a magnet for sharp spring loaded thins’ that like ta’ imbed themselves inta’ ma’ flesh. Ma’ high pitch girlish screams brought a couple o’ heavily armed hunters ta’ ma’ rescue. Though after a lengthy an’ confusin’ interrogation o’ my governmental and religious affiliations they pulled me frum the trap an’ dragged me back ta’ their huntin’ camp. Kinda large fer a huntin’ camp though. Cabins, large fence covered in barbed wire, buncha’ mean lookin’ dogs, lotsa’ grumpy ugly white guys wit big guns… hummm.

Road to Badger Boy: Part 3

BUSTIN’ OUT: Whelps ma’ first prison break attempt didn’ go alls to plan. Ever since da’ email frum Sanders… God I hate Sanders! I’ve been keepin’ ma’ eyes peeled fer a quick escape an’ it came in da’ form of a tanker truck. A septic tanker ta’ be precise. I watched as it made weekly trips ta’ the big house, emptyin’ the prison poop tanks and drivin’ out an never checked once. I formulated a plan.

First I needed ta’ get to a lower security part o’ the prison an’ that’s the infirmary. Sos I complain ta’ da’ guard dat ma’ teeth really hurt an’ I needed ta’ go to the prison dentist. He says he needs ta’ see ma’ teeth ta’ make sure I ain’t fakin’, sos I flashed ‘em my daisy yellows an’ a disgusted grimace laters I’m in the infirmary ta’ see da Yank and Drill.

Da’ Dentist slides me inta’ chair then after sum coxin’ gets me ta’ opening ma’ maw. He stares at ma’ choppers fer what seems like hours then walks outta’ da’ office mumblin’ sum’ thin’ ‘bout a high power hose an’ Clorox. Sos quick like a marmet I’m outta the back door, down da’ drain pipe, shimmied to da’ septic tank an’ down da’ hatch. Now septic tank hatches are ‘bout the size o’ basketball, but anyone knows da’ all carnies are double jointed an’ can typically stuff themselves inta’ a beer cooler if threatened.

Now da’ plan was ta’ lay in wait till da’ tanker showed up an’ squeeze ma’ way through the pipin’ and off ta’ freedom. Ba’ as soon as I dropped inta’ that waist deep poo pool I was pretty freaked out. I don’ do to well wit dark enclosed places that smell like pee… reminds me too much of ma’ childhood home. Sos after a few minutes flintchin’ every time “something” brushed up against me I decided ta light a match.

Several hours later I was backin’ the prison infirmary all bandaged up ans’ I had a great view of the fire pit dat was once the septic tank. Docs said dat the methane gas explosion forced ma’ body to the bottom o’ the human waste pool which saved me from burnin’ alive, but they did have ta’ remove a “foreign particle” dat was lodged in ma throat. Less I know ‘bout dat foreign particle da better I’ll sleep at night.

Road to Badger Boy: Part 2

LIFE IN THE BIG HOUSE: Despite alls the talk and rumors ‘bout prison it’s actually nots sa’ bad. I gots a sweet job in the shop makin’ hockey sticks, endless servings o’ bacon wit maple syrup and Molson on ice, lumberjack contests, sensitivity classes for American prisons to educate on the harms o’ Canadian stereotyping an’ thanks ta’ the beavers ma’ ass looks like ground hamburger sos no one in da’ showers bothers me when I drops da’ soap.

My lawyer says that beaver smugglin’ is only a misdemeanor offence sos I should be out in a month. I asked him what ya’ get for beaver biting, but I don’ think he got the joke. He just stared at me then left da’ room, eh.

Sos I was plannin’ ta jus’ twiddle the month ‘way by writin’ my memoirs, “Stop Starrin’ at Me Kid; A Carnie Tale” an’ maybe learn sum interruptive dance frum the frou-frou’s in Cell Block D. I knew Sweats an’ Mel would wait fer me, the greatest carnie caller ta’ ever grace da’ “Whack ‘em Cats” booth, but that was ‘befer I got this in my Hotmail Inbox:

“Greetings Dickweed,
How’s being left for dead in Canada treating you? Ha, ha! Here’s a tip for you, Gil the Looser, when you pass out drunk under some ones trailer make sure it isn’t a person who wants you dead. Ha, ha! Since your disappearance Sweats has had to put some one else in your coveted position and guess who that is. I’ll give you a hint; it’s the same person who just broke your single night sales record. Ha, ha! I’d love to chat more, but Mel and I are going to a midnight showing of Evil Dead 2 then we’re going to sneak into the lesbian bar and watch women kiss each other.
Hope you rot, S”

Sanders! This calls fer an all out carnie break out! Oh, IT’S ON!

Road to Badger Boy: Part I

TROUBLE AT THE BOARDER: Sos wit a little luck I was able ta’ catch a canoe wit a fur trapper outta’ “somewhere” in Ottawa ta’ “someswhereelse” in Ontario. Though a’ long canoe ride cans be quite relaxin’, doin’ it wit a guy wit less teeth than me was a little disconcerting. “Gummy” the fur trapper took me as fer as a wharf in sum loggin’ town an’ not two minutes later I’d my next hitch.

By a bizarre twista’ fate ita’ turned out ta’ be Gordon Lightfoot. Nows I dun’know wha’ Gordon Lightfoot was doin’ in a loggin’ town wharf but when ya’re me ya’ don’ look a gift mule in da’ mouth or make crude assumptions ‘bout Canadian folk singers whos willin’ ta’ drive ya’ to the boarder. Whelp, after an hour o’ Gordon Lightfoot requests ta’ “pet” ma’ arm hair I was really missin’ Gummy.

Well Gordon Lightfoot came through an’ dropped me right at the US boarder. No worse fer wear an’ only slightly traumatized. Sos I mosey over ta’ the Duty Free Shop ‘befer hitting the good ol’ US.

Now they says that hindsight is 20/20. Yes, tryin’ ta’ smuggle them beavers cross the boarder was stupid an’ yes, lyin’ ta’ big hairy Mounties ‘bout the large bulges in ma’ pants an’ sayin’ theys was swollen glands was idiotic. But duct tappin’ those beavers to ma’ legs an’ buttocks was the dumbest thin’ I’ve ever done. I was only thinkin’ o’ Mel, he woulda’ loved ta’ have beavers fer the pettin’ zoo. Oh well. Sos after a quick trip ta’ the hospital ta’ take care o’ the scratches an’ bite marks I’ve been takin’ here… Niagara County Jail. Wells a’ least theys gots this really nice computer lab an’ hot meals an’ ma’ cell mate seems friendly enough. Though I’m not really comfortable wit the long hugs hes always givin’ me.

Ottawa?!

Ok, sos five days ago I was in Red Bank, New Jersey drinkin’ diesel fuel wit Mel at the Sunny Brook Trailer Park nows I’m some where in Ottawa, shirtless, Melless wit jus a slight hangover. Leaping Moses and leprechauns its cold here; ma’ nipples culd cut diamonds.

Sos the story goes; a troupe of French-Canadian acrobatic-mime lumberjacks finds me rubber cemented to a’ spruce tree and belivin’ me ta’ be either homeless ors a hippy theys sled dog my butt to the closest church shelter. A liter of hot soup, a baguette, couple of hymns and an exorcism later I’m back ons ma’ feet and confused as hell.

Whelp, canna’ dwell on ‘dhat I’s gots ta’ get back to Badger Boy Carnival Extravaganza and Hootenanny befer’ Sanders gets his slimy meat-hooks inta’ ma’ “Whack ‘em Cats” booth. God I hate Sanders. BBCEH shoulda’ be well on its way ta’ Chicago by now, sos I gots to gets movin’. Well, after I gets another shirt… this Cirque Du Soleil one is startin’ ta’ chafe.