To Whom It May Concern:

Gil T. Carnie has been subpoenaed it yet another Yak molestation case as Mr. Carnie has had a prior “incident” that follows similar circumstances and involves the same accused Yak.

“Ya’all cans suck ma’ big, hairy, rust colored nuts if ya’s thin’ I’magonna talk!” Mr. Carnie exclaimed as he was forcibly carried by bailiffs from the witness stand during a Grand Jury hearing.

Mr. Carnie stated that he made a promise to God and cheese sticks (?) that he would never talk about what occurred in those Michigan woods. His refusal to speak landed him a stay in the county jail until he is willing to assist prosecutors. This will probably be four or five days from now. Depending if Mr. Carnie gets drunk once released he’ll be back to Blogging by Saturday.

-Jim (some guy Gil paid $20 to write this)

Havin’ one eye does ‘ave its drawbacks

All right sos outside o’ da’ obvious disadvantages ta’ bein’ a Cyclops such as ma’ dart game gonna’ ta’ shit an’ havein’ onion-heads sayin’ “Arr, matey! Swab the poop deck!” ta’ me. Here are a fews of da’ lesser thought o’ problems wit bein’ univisioned (isn’t dat’ a Latino television station?)

Flirtin’ wit women turns outta’ be jus’ plain weird as every time I wink at dem it jus’ looks like I’m blinkin’ seductively.

On hots days, an eye patch can makes fer a sweaty socket. I’ll jus’ not explain dat’ one any further.

Whens talkin’ ta’ people ya’ can see der’ gaze movin’ ta’ da’ eye patch den’ an’ whens ya’ show dat ya’ notice they look around guiltily likes ya’ just caught dem’ spankin’ da’ helmeted hermit.

Den’s thars da’ pity in da’ strangest places, like ridin’ on a crowed bus an’ a pregnant woman offered me her seat. Hey lady, I’ms missin’ an eye not ma’ kneecaps, buts who am’s I ta’ turn down a free seat.

Nows heres one dat threw me, peoples getting’ freaked whens I go ta’ shake dar’ hands or might touch dem’ in anyway. Likes dar’ gonna’ catch sum disease that’ll make der’ eye pop outta’ der’ skull like a champagne cork.

It’s not alls bad days though, peoples always buyin’ me drinks ta’ hear da’ story o’ how I lost lefty, kids think I’m cool when I’d show dem’ da’ empty socket an’ even da’ ladies seems ta’ respond better ta’ da’ tough look da’ patch gives me. Heck I might jus’ get one o’ dem’ 8-Ball glass eye. Man dats classy.

Road to Badger Boy: Part 11

I AIN’T NO JACK KEROUAC: Through Indiana in da’ back o’ a station wagon, in an’ outta’ Kentucky ridin’ bitch ona’ Harley, slidin’ through Missouri strapped ta’ a luggage rack, across Arkansas on da’ lap o’ a man in a motorized wheelchair, den’ right inta’ Texas on da’ handlebars ofa’ Schwinn.

Nows bys the time I made it ta’ da’ Texas State Fairgrounds I’d missed Badger Boy by two days. As I stared at da’ strewn garbage o’ a weekends worth o’ torn ride tickets, cotton candy cones, Tilt-a-Whirl spew an’ gnawed corndog sticks. Dats when it dawned on me… corndogs! All dis trouble was over corndogs! Yeah, dat’ weasely demon spawn monkey spunk Sanders left me fer dead in da’ land o’ leotard clad French Canadians, buts it all started wit da’ corndogs.

Whens Sanders joined ups wit Badger Boy Carnival Extravaganza and Hootenanny ‘e was pimply faced seventeen year old surly punk wit his black leather clothes an’ da’ attitude of a baboon wit hemorrhoids. Buts Sweats said ‘e saw sum thin’ in da’ kid and putt’em on da’ corndog cart. Nows food carts are usually reserved fer da’ second ringers who’d been wit Badger Boy long enough ta’ be trusted not ta’ wiz on da’ snow cones or dip dar’ dangly bits in da’ Orange Pow® dispenser.

Sos Sanders on his first day decides ta’ set up shop right in front o’ da’ “Whack-em-Cats” booth blockin’ da’ rubes frum da’ cat wackin’ action. I decided ta’ calmly an’s politely inform Sanders dat’ his cart is blockin’ ma’ cash-flow an’s if ‘e didn’t move it I’d be playin’ hide da’ corndog wit his rectal cavity. He mumbled sum thin’ ‘bout not takin’ order frum toothless hillbillies an’ dats’ when I started chasin’ him wit an absurdly large Bart Simpson©®TM porcelain piggybank. ‘E gave me da’ slip around da’ “Slappin’ Sammy” booth an’s I just moseyed back ta’ ma’ booth, but I’s didn’ get five feet befer I heard a horrible crash behind me.

I rans ta’ da’ scene an’ found Sanders unconscious an’ pined under da’ corndog cart wit most o’ his torso deep-fried an’ scorched wit corndog batter. After da’ ambulance had takin’ ‘em away I found out frum Bo-Diddles dat’ he saw Sanders runnin’ franticly past da’ gard gate fer da’ Ferris wheel an’ he collided wit’ a carriage on da’ downswing. He flew five yards wit da’ cart on toppa’ him dowsing ‘es body in boiling fryer oil, corndog batter an’ fixins’. Da’ worse bit was how delicious he smelt.

All dat was two years ago, but it alls makes sense now. He’s been harboring a resentment ta’ me believing it was ma’ fault fer da’ demotion ta Poop-Patrol at da’ pettin’ zoo, havin’ ‘es pay ducted ta’ pay fer da’ corndog cart, da’ endless skin grafts an’ probably fer the new nickname I gave ‘em; Kentucky Fried Sanders. Sum people ares so petty.