Road to Badger Boy: Part 9

MONEY FER NOTHIN’ AND DA’ CHICKS ARE FREE; Bein’ a 20 year carnie veteran has opened ma’ eyes ta’ a few fundamental truths; Wombats make lousy house pets, Super Glue an’ duct tape can fix any thin, never tease a man who has a girls name, an’ workin’ a job ya’ don’ enjoy is like a long bike ride on a hard seat wit a butt fulla’ hemorrhoids.

I spent ma’ first day in Detroit poundin’ da’ streets fer a source o’ income an’ came up crap every time. I’s tried ma’ hand at hot dog push cart sellin’, handin’ out flyers, insurance salesman, dog groomer, school counselor, buts each job had the inherent danger o’ getting’ hit by stuff throwns by crabby adolescence. Sos in a fit o’ desperation I built a “Whack ‘em Cats” booth outta a refrigerator box an sum beer cans all drawn up wit a sharpie ta’ look like da’ cats. I set up shop jus inside a small park ans began ma’ beckoning siren carnie callin’. Buts before business could really pick up I was rapidly ejected frum da’ park by the long arm ofda’ law. Sum thin’ bout bein’ licensed an’ scarin’ joggers by leapin’ frum the bushes whilt screamin’ bout “whackin cats”.

Thrown out again, I was right downs in da’ dumps then a skinny Aqua-Velva stinkin’ rube saunters up ta’ me in a suit thata’ blind ya’ if ya’ look directly at it. Skinny says dat he saw ma’ carnie performance an’ wanted ta’ offer me a job.

(Audience participation time. Nows knowin’ ma’ track record fer havin’ sum thin that looks like a good deal on da’ surface; will I end up in da’ hospital, jail, chained up in sum guys basement or sexually assaulted by yet another large animal?)

Sos Skinny leads me ta’ a little scummier parts o’ town den’ stops at a theater an’ points proudly at da’ marquee. “The Beaver Trap”, great more beavers. Ma’ last runs in wit beavers led ta’ reconstructive surgery on ma’ tender bits. Skinny den’ explains that his establishment was not in fact a pet store buts a strip club an’ ma’ job would be ta’ use my carnie caller talents ta’ drive in more customers.

I don’ts understand strip club patrons at all. I means it’s like bein’ really hungry an’ payin’ twenty bucks at a restaurant only ta’ have da’ waiters pass da’ plates of food in front o’ yer face. An’ if ya’ pay another twenty they’ll put da’ food on yer table, but if ya’ go fer a taste ya’ gets kicked out. Nows workin’ in a strip club is morally repugnant even fer a carnie, buts the thought o’ eatin’ outta Sonic Burger dumpster again was even more morally repugnant. Sos I reluctantly tooks da’ job knowin’ full well dat’ by the end o’ da’ week I’ll probably be forced inta’ women’s clothes ta’ give lap dances ta’ drunk skinheads. *sigh*