Pardon my indulgent self-pity, but I've earned it. Where's my George Dickle?

Y'all should recall that recent incident at the resthome involvin' Nurse "Battle Axe" Boucher, the jackass and that god-forsaken syringe she buried in the top o' his skull. What many of ya prob'ly fail to understand is this was no itsy-bitsy insulin needle. Oh, but HELL no! Truth is, I don't have a clue where the ol' Battle Axe got that sumbitch, but it looks like a syringe a zoo veterinarian'd use . . . on hippos, elephants, King Kong, whatever. It ain't no syringe intended fer a human, that's fer damn sure.

It's still there, too, right dead-center 'tween the jackass's Howdy-Doody ears, like a radio receiver fer his brain ("brain" used quite casually).

Not that this story I'm about to share has so much to do with that jumbo syringe stuck in his noggin . . . that tale's already been told. It's just that I want all you faithful 'n' loyal readers to have as full 'n' accurate a visual o' whut I get t'deal with each 'n' every day (exceptin' fer those days when his jackassedness be in jail). I mean, as if his penchant fer wearin' that red brassiere 'n' Justin Ropers wuzn't bizarre enough, he's now walkin' around with that apparatus juttin' outta his head like he wuz born with it. Even worse, ever since he acquired his new head ornament, he's become severely cockeyed an' the needle's apparently kicked his saliva glands into overdrive. Shit, this droolin' thang o' his is especially nasty, cuz he chews Day's Work (the irony) plug tobaccy all day long. Hell, he reminds me of a slobberin' big-ass mutant grasshopper.

I need a drink. Be back here, directly.

Now, where wuz I? Oh. That jackass is back in jail. How do I know? Let me count the ways. Hell, I knew his sorry butt wuz in the pokey even 'fore I got my customary "JEB! I need bail money!" phonecall. Y'see, the slammer is only a coupla blocks away from the home 'n' we can always hear him loud 'n' clear when he's gettin' his usual deeeeeep body cavity searches. "FIGARO! FEEE-GA-ROOOOO!!! FIGARO, FIGARO, FEEEEE-GAAAAAHHHAHA-ROOHOHOOOWOHO . . . HO . . . HO . . . F-F-F-FIGARO!!!!", echoes gleefully throughout the neighborhood. Hell, Fred even tries singin' along.

Truth be, it's enough to make any normal grown man cry, or drive him t'drinkin'.

I need another drink.

Aaah, that's better. It so happened the jackass was workin' off some fines by doin' "community service". On that absurdly fateful day, Mayor Crowley needed some watermelons fer the annual watermelon feed 'n' ice cream social sponsored by the local women's club. The fine ladies of our town hold this event in the pavilion at the local park an' always invite a prestigious keynote speaker. This year's guest wuz none other than our State Rrepresentative, the Honorable Ms. Lula McGinty (no relation to that jackass McGinty).

Well, that dimwit Mayor Crowley coulda 'n' shoulda got the damn melons hisself, but NOOOO! Instead, he gives the jackass a twenty-dollar bill to " . . . go fetch me sum melons, convict!" I thought everybody knew it's pure folly to ever give money to that jackass. Nevertheless, our "hero" stuffs the twenty in his pocket, gits in m'truck, 'n' heads straight out to Melvin The Freak's place.

You see, Freaky Melvin's known all around these here parts fer his "psychedelic melons". Ol' Melvin spikes 'em with LSD, mescaline, or whatever hallucinogen(s) he can get his hands on. Of course, our jackass is well aware o' this an' also knows that, when the melons are in season, one can always find several stashed under Melvin's back porch.

Melons were in season on that absurdly fateful day and I need another drink. Just one more.

Damn, that's sum goood Dickle. And, yeah, them damn hoity-toity local wimmens got their sumbitchin' melons, alright. Jeebus. Them broads plowed right into 'em, that is, exceptin' fer LuWanda, the Mayor's wife. Instead o' melons, that big she-whale polished off a 4-quart freezer o' peach ice cream, all the while makin' it a point to tell anyone who'd listen how she wuz allergic to watermelon. Claimed melon makes her break out in hives an' also gives her the diarrhea.

In short order, LuWanda had the ice cream to herself while the rest o' the hens were on the other side o' the pavilion, just cacklin' away 'n' chowin' down on those juicy melvin-melons.

In less than thirty minutes, decorum among the melon-feasters wuz history.

Of course, in short order the squad cars arrived. Our jackass an' the Honorable Lula McGinty were prancin' around on top of a picnic table, singin' a duet o' somethin' that sounded ever-so-remotely like The Girl From Ipanema. Lula wuz also quite giddy over the fact that they were both wearin' red brassieres. Fact is, she got plum "giddy" over everythin', as did the rest o' the melon-munchin' wimmen, most of whom were already in alarming states o' rowdiness 'n' disheveled undress.

Would sumbuddy please explain just whut 'tis 'bout gittin' messed up that causes wimmen's clothin' to start fallin' off? I wanna know.

And I need just one mo' drink. Just a li'l sip.

The good news wuz Rep. McGinty, a Republican, did everything she could to git the whole deal swept under the rug. She called in sum markers 'n' persuaded the County Prosecutor (wonder calls her "that cunty persecutor!") not to file any State charges, bein' as the Prosecutor wuz also a good Republican, herself. The bad news wuz that Mayor Crowley's a yellow-dog Democrat. Hence, Lula's pleas to the Mayor on behalf o' the jackass fell on deaf ears.

True, it didn't help matters none too much that Crowley's jiggly vat o' woman fat wife waddled into City Hall that day, a-huffin' an' puffin' that she'd just been repeatedly ravished by "that depraved animal wonderaz McGinty". Naturally, an audience quickly gathered an' grew larger 'n' larger. Someone managed to scrounge up a coupla chairs fer her, so she was only too happy to describe in lurid and explicit detail all the numerous alleged carnal violations o' every orifice in her massive body.

I suppose in an attempt to save face 'n appease his love-boat (Mrs. Titanic), Mayor Crowley badgered the City Attorney into slappin' the jackass with a half dozen counts o' disturbin' the peace (disturbin' the piece?). But, the jackass'll be outta jail in a day or two and the City Judge'll be orderin' him to yet more "community service". They do say life is a circle, eh?

I hear LuWanda, the Crowley manatee, is plannin' to be a guest on Oprah. Jeebus.

And I need just one more li'l bitty 'nother drink. Just one more. Amen.