Warning: NSFW

Not for prudes or goody two-shoes. Please be forewarned.

International No Shit Symbol

Kristen mentioned previously her Aunt Millie’s aversion to Friday the thirteenth, and some of the superstitious things the old gal did in preparation thereof.

With regards to scolding me at the end of your delightful portrayal of Milly’s sensationalism, my dear Internet friend, I still love you, baby.

However, sex isn’t the only thing on my mind. Lust beats in my heart on many occasions, but I’ve got a wealth of other persuasions to pass the time otherwise.

O’Malley, the barkeep at the pub I frequent, is a match for Kristen’s aunt. He’s extremely superstitious.

On this past Friday, he too hung garlic cloves above all the exits and entrances at the tavern. His wooden crucifix fits firmly in his back pocket, sticking out like that of a kid’s homemade pirate sword.

Wooden stakes, freshly sharpened, lay behind the bar. Four-leaf clovers are his establishment’s trademark, emblazoned on signs lit up in the parking lot and on the roof.

He has no rabbit’s foot though; but as a devout Catholic, O’Malley wore his St. Christopher’s medal just in case.

My old crony and I were in the middle of a political discussion, which, after all, is not a good thing to discuss while drinking alcohol. After I presented my views about the present-day, presidential candidates in America, O’Malley said to me, “Mike, you don’t know shit.”

He always says that. It’s rather annoying. The bull-headed bartender’s philosophical leanings are one hundred and eighty degrees opposite to mine. “I dare you to say that again,” I said. He smiled.

“OK, better yet, you don’t know Jack Shit!”

“Ah, see now, that’s where you’re wrong. I do know Jack Shit,” I said, and proceeded with the following rant:

Jack Shit is the only son of Aw Shit and Oh Shit. Aw Shit, the fertilizer magnate, married Oh Shit—the owner of the Knee Deep In Shit Cattle Company.

In turn, Jack Shit married Noe Shit and the couple spawned six children: Holy Shit, the twins, Deep Shit and Dip Shit; Fulla Shit, Giva Shit and Bull Shit.

Deep Shit married against his parent’s objections and wed Dumb Shit.

After fifteen years, Jack and Noe Shit divorced. Noe had run off with Joe Sherlock. She remained a Shit for the sake of her kids, for they were all Shits. When Noe married Joe, she became known as Noe Shit-Sherlock.

Dip Shit married Loada Shit and they gave birth to a scaredy-cat son: Chicken Shit.

Fulla Shit and Giva Shit wed the Happens brothers and their children were named Dog, Bird and Horse Shit-Happens.

Bull Shit, the prodigal son, left home to return only recently with his Italian bride, Pisa Shit.

“So, O’Malley, tell me you know more about shit than I do,” I said, concluding my long-winded buffoonery.

The roof over the bartender and back room caved in at that very moment. Tables in the barroom lifted into the air. A deafening roar rumbled inside the joint. Wind, twirling like a dust devil, sheared right through the top and both side walls of the building like a circular saw.

Patrons fled frantically for the exits. All made it outside unhurt, fortunately. A tornado had just ripped through and disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

Everybody was accounted for except O’Malley. He never came out of the bar. I dashed in and found him unconscious beneath a fifty-pound sack of garlic cloves that had fallen apparently off the storeroom’s top shelf and beaned him.

He stayed in the hospital overnight for observation. I could still hear his yelling as the ambulance took him away. “Mike Slickster, you’re a fooking shithead.”

What does he know anyway? I’ll never figure him out.

Pardon my usage of an old skit from the days of yore, utilized when Kristen. Fargo North (decoder) and I haunted Comedy Corner. Thanks for stopping by, and as always, thank you for your support.

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About Mike Slickster

As an early retiree with an honorary doctorate degree from the proverbial "School of Hard Knocks," this upcoming author with a lot of free time on his hands utilizes his expansive repertoire for humorous yet tragic, wildly creative writing that contains years of imaginative fantasy, pure nonsense, classic slapstick, extreme happiness and searing heartbreak; gathered by a wealth of personal experiences throughout his thrilling—sometimes mundane or unusually horrid—free-spirited, rock-'n'-roller-coaster ride around our beloved Planet Earth. Mike Slickster's illustrious quest continues, living now in Act Three of his present incarnation, quite a bit on the cutting edge of profundity and philosophical merriment as seen through his colorful characters, most notably evident in the amusing Thirty Days Across the Big Pond series, all of which can be found at Lulu.com.
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