29 June 2011

Colostomy Bags for Fun and Profit

"I never did take sittin' on the couch as a viable means of gettin' proactive about somethin'," offered Sheriff Cecil Morgan, to no one in particular.  "And I don't rightly think sittin' on yo' ass is gonna' get you outta' the heap of trouble you in right now," he said to to someone very much in particular - a pimply, snot-nosed and heavily pierced young man who was sitting in the gravel roadway next to Morgan's Crown Vic.

The Sheriff walked in a semi-circle around the kid, snorting a little chuckle now and again.  The kid just flipped his hair out of his eyes and tried to stare down the out-of-shape law enforcement agent with halitosis and pock-marked skin.  Morgan turned and kicked a little bit of gravel at the kid.  "What you lookin' at, a**hole?" he shouted, "you want a piece of this?  Huh?  You want me to bust your ass in thirty different ways from Tuesday, you little somebitch?"

Sheriff Cecil Morgan was having a bad day.  Luckily for the kid, Sheriff Cecil Morgan was having one of his episodes, as well.  He tried to shout that last word again, but it came out funny.  "Somdebipts. Subblyblips," he said, blinking rapidly and unholstering his service 9mm semi-auto.  "Subblyblips mid de soorjonja," he babbled, and the pimply, snot-nosed kid flinched as Sheriff Cecil Morgan unloaded six fast rounds into the rear quarter panel of his Crown Vic.

"Sonja de soorjonja! Subblyblips! Fudger...minna pluckin soorjonja mid de subblyblips!"   Crack, crack, crack...three more rounds sounded, this time discharged just past the kid's kneecap, through the rear tire of the Crown Vic and into the gravel roadway. "Soorjonja subblyblips!" cried Sheriff Cecil Morgan through foamy lips, laughing and urinating with great vigor.  A dark patch spread across the crotch of his camel-colored trousers,  while the kid rolled to the side and covered his head.

Sheriff Morgan hit the ground with a hearty thud, dropping his pistol and losing his hat in the descent.  He flapped his arms around, making something like a snow angel in the loose gravel and scaring the fecal matter out of the pimply, snot-nosed kid.  Quite literally.

The trip back to Haverland seemed longer than usual as that snot-nosed kid ran down the dry gravel roadway.  Pea fields stretched out in the heat for miles on one side of the road  and corn well over the kid's head on the other.  A good honest sweat worked out of his forehead, out of his armpits and out of his groin, making his boxer shorts damp and uncomfortable as he ran.

A frothy-mouthed sheriff with halitosis, pock-marked skin and urine-soaked trousers flopped around in the gravel like a fish taken out of the pond down by Old Man Switchback's on a hot summer day.  Flopping around til' you know it wasn't going to flop any more.  Only this fish stopped flopping and just laid there and laughed a single word up at the clear blue sky.


23 June 2011

The Recent Delay

As he has decided to follow my suggestion of "don't quit your day job,"  Mr. Andrews has opted to take a transfer to another office, some 48 or so miles distant.  This week has been full of all sorts of wranglings connected to the upcoming move, but I hope to see Mr. Andrews' sorry posterior at his writing desk by the weekend.  We shall see.

We thank you all for your time and for your continued readership.  I would remind you that this is a wonderful time to refresh your memories of his many strange and wonderful tales that can be had in the archive section of this blog.  Please visit the many fine blogs on the "blog roll", so called, as well.

On behalf of Mr. Andrews, I thank you once again for putting up with such a slacker as he is.


Mr. Linus G. Janikowski,
General Manager, "A Martini and a Pen"
Personal Secretary to Mr. Andrews

16 June 2011

Lodges to Host Hog Roast

by Respite Welk of the Pultenham County Recorder

Area Freemasons from Wisdom Lodge #18 of Haverland and Charity Lodge #24 of Pole Creek will host a hog roast this coming Saturday evening at the Switchback estate on Rural Route 4 outside of Haverland. Admission is $6.00 for adults and $4.00 for seniors. Children under 12 and those suffering illnesses are invited to eat free of charge . The menu will consist of pulled pork, cole slaw, Elsa Mae Grabbethorn's potato salad, buttered rolls and cornbread, roast corn, gelatin salad, tangerine fluff, assorted pies and sweet tea or coffee. Milk will be available for seniors, children and the infirm.

The location of the hog roast was moved to the Switchback estate after Pultenham County Sheriff Cecil Morgan denied the lodges' request to hold the roast at the pavillion on the square in Haverland. Sheriff Morgan stated the complaint of a local clergyman as the reason for the permit denial. “I don't wanna' p**s off any of the good Christian people of this county by panderin' to no secret societies,” said Morgan in a prepared statement this morning, “we're decent folk here.”

The dinner and festivities will begin at 4:00 on Saturday and continue until nightfall. Mr. Charlie Hamman, Master of the Pole Creek lodge, is sponsoring a clown from Cotton City to perform for the children, make balloon animals and distribute free ice-cream cups. Mrs. Doris Hamman will be offering free face-painting for the children and youth.

The Pultenham County Recorder has learned that Mr. Peter Switchback, the Junior Deacon of the Haverland lodge, has graciously donated all of the comestibles to be served that evening, and 100% of the monies raised at the event will be donated to an as-yet-unnamed charity in Pultenham County.

13 June 2011

Bread on the Table

A green and swelling moon over a tree choked with kudzu tells poor Respite Welk it's time to go home and go to sleep.  Pultenham County is closing its eyes and praying for dreams.

Respite takes a last look at the shattered body on the ground before him, jingles the keys in his pocket, bids a quiet "good evening" to Sheriff Morgan and begins his slow walk home.

The seven lights of Dyerville look a little like a constellation and Respite Welk remembers red wine-live jazz-smoky club nights full of laughter with friends under bright lights back in Albany, seeming like a lifetime ago now.  The heat of summer in Pultenham County covers his memories like a damp wool blanket and anything that even thinks of trying to gasp for air can just go right to hell.

It is a very slow walk home.  Always a very slow walk back home.

10 June 2011

Gerald's Pillow

"Ma'am, I will have to kindly ask you to please put some shoes on your feet."  Mrs. Stella Jean Hunsucker (that would be Peasy Lou Hunsucker's grandmother; you know Peasy Lou, of course),  was clearly annoyed at the young woman in the jewelled headdress who had just that very moment walked into her dry-goods store.

The young woman was definitely not from Putnam County - in fact, her type had never been seen before nor has it been seen since in these parts.  I suppose there was the time that we had tour through our placid acres that vile and most wretched Mr. Havercroft, the ironmonger, but he was not the least bit captivating - only maddening.  No, the young barefoot lady was in a league of her own, as it were.

Mrs. Hunsucker might not have forgiven nor forgotten the rather unexpectedly discalced maiden in her dry-goods store, but the entire county will perhaps never forget the wonderfully-choreographed performance that she gave for a special public meeting of the ladies of the Eastern Star, wherein the maiden presented an interpretation of Egyptian mythology through the medium of dance and Miss Vidalia Sue Hornbeam (later Mrs. Vidalia Sue Grabbethorn - you know, Elsa Mae Grabbethorn's mother) served the finest sweet tea and cornbread that had ever been offered at the Eastern Star.  My, it was the evening, to be sure.

All the county look fondly on the sweetness of that memory - all the county and their pleasant, dying memory of so many years ago...save for the bitter acid in the mouth of Vidalia Sue.  For while the barefoot maiden danced and stole the hearts of so many who watched with wonderment at the meeting of the Eastern Star, she also stole the heart of Gerald Pickering, to whom Vidalia Sue was betrothed.  She danced into Putnam County, danced into his heart, and danced him away...back up north somewhere, some said to New Jersey.  She was rebounding at the time from a failed marriage and had never been a bird to be tamed, anyway - leastways  by that starry-eyed son of a pea-picker, Gerald Pickering.  He was never to return to Putnam County and within the season his broken life and his broken heart were washed up...washed up like broken bottles on the Jersey shore and Vidalia Sue (though crushed) went on with her life.

You would wonder if either Elsa Mae or Peasy Lou will be at the special presentation at the Eastern Star on the 21st of next month, wouldn't you?  We will have to wait and see.

(Reference Link)

08 June 2011


"Never once did I care to know what that pea-picker's brother was thinking.  I told you before all about that pea-picker and the things that he did, so I rightly do not have to digress and share any further thoughts about him, now, do I?  Of course not, honey child.  You just sit right there and sip that sweet tea that Mister Packy brought you.  He did not bring you any sweet tea?  Dreadful!

Mr. Packy! Please bring our guest a sweet tea...and be swift about it!

I do apologize, honey child.

Now then.  Where was I ?  Oh yes, I was sharing thoughts about the pea-picker's brother.  Well, I do guarantee that the day that the pea-picker was released from the county pen, his brother was bound and determined to fill his brother's cell, as it were.  The only thing he wanted to do...the only thing he had any stomach for...damn, the only thing he had any heart for was seeing to committing a crime so as to keep up the family business and the name, you might say.  So he went out and bought a length of chain and a shotgun that very day.

Sweet heavens, but that pea-picker's brother had breath that smelled like fecal matter.  It smelled so very much like a septic tank that no one ever felt fit to argue with him - they would take one whiff and let him have his way.  So it was that he managed to borrow Old Man Donovan's pickup truck and cover with the story that he was going morel hunting in the dark and needed some way to carry a few friends.  Dumber-than-dirt Donovan let him have it - partly because he believed the story and partly because he didn't want to stand face to face with that bowel stench.

The boy waited until nightfall and closing time for that gas station down at the crossroads.  He pulled Old Man Donovan's truck right up to the place, put one well-placed shotgun blast through the glass doors, reached through and turned the lock.  In he strolled, exhaling a great breath reeking of rectum.

The pea-picker's brother looped that length of chain right around the ATM that was inside, secured it, and then secured the other end to the hitch on Donovan's truck.  He hopped back in and gunned that mother.  That old ATM busted free of where it was, busted through the doors and came skittering right out next to a pump.  That pea-picker's brother was just a-dreaming of all the meth he could buy with all the money in that ATM, and he knew with that much meth that he would find himself a little lady outside the Wal-Mart.  You know what I mean.  He wasn't gonna' be lonely, if you know what I mean and I certainly believe you do.  Ladies love a man with that much meth, even if he has breath that reeks of a diseased colon.

Well, honey child, having freed the ATM from its moorings, the damned fool didn't know what to do, and when the Sheriff arrived he was still trying to wrestle the whole thing into the back of Donovan's pick-up truck.  Sheriff Morgan laughed so hard that he pissed himself and forgot to handcuff the poor bastard.

It was either the laughing or the pea-picker's brother's breath that made him forget. I am inclined to believe that it was his breath, honey child.  I guess every cloud really does have a silver lining.

The Andrews Writing Desk!

Thank you to Miss Hazel Foster, who recently featured Mr. Andrews' writing space in her search for the Ultimate Writing Desk.  Just click right here and find yourself magically transported to the article!

Please go and check out her entire website to see other great writing desks and read her fiction - it really is first-rate.

Mr. Andrews has been travelling the past few days and most likely will be back in full swing tomorrow.  Thank you for your patience and your continued support.

Mr. Linus G. Janikowski,
General Manager, "A Martini and a Pen"
Personal Secretary to Mr. Andrews

03 June 2011

Barrels Found in Field

by Respite Welk of the Pultenham County Recorder

Four empty barrels that had previously contained a potentially explosive substance were found Friday morning in a field owned by Mr. Cletus Ford of Owen Township, according to Pultenham County Sheriff Cecil Morgan. The barrels appear to have been empty when abandoned, giving rise to questions concerning the whereabouts of the chemical.

Mr. Ford noticed the empty barrels while working behind his chicken coop and, after inspecting the barrels himself, decided to call the authorities. “I thought maybe they'd have something in them,” said Mr. Ford. “I was hoping for some liquor or maybe pesticide, but I don't got that kind of luck.”

Sheriff Morgan has said that he will conduct a thorough investigation throughout the county in hope of finding the source of the barrels as well as the person or persons responsible for discarding the barrels on private property. “This kind of gall-darned shenanigan is a class three misdemeanor, and I'm gonna nail the c**k-sucker who done it,” said Sheriff Morgan in a prepared statement this afternoon

Anyone with information regarding the barrels should contact Pultenham County Sheriff Cecil Morgan immediately.

It's Just a Toe. It Ain't Proof.

"When I said that Daddy was a flagpole sitter, I s'pose most of you didn't really believe me.  They ain't so many flagpole sitters nowadays - not the way they used to be.  'Course, I s'pose they ain't as many flagpoles as they used to be, neither.  After the war people stopped puttin' up flagpoles the way they used to.

But Daddy, he would get out there and sit 'top them flagpoles like the best of 'em.  He was once helpin' out and doin' a flagpole sit for that new department store over in Cotton City - a long, long time ago, as that store  ain't there no more - and a man from some government agency asked Daddy to come and talk to him when he got down from that flagpole.  Daddy warn't too much inna'rested in talking to no man from the government, but he said he would, and that was that.  The man got on his way in a big, black government car and Daddy got back to his sittin'.

Well, Daddy stayed up on that flagpole for a few days, anyhow - I think it was through maybe a three day weekend that the store had a grand opening or a big old sale or something.  Sure, now I remember, it was a big sale.  They had outerwear and toiletry items on sale 'cause of the tornado season coming, and Daddy was sittin' on a special made-up pole that they could make sway when they wanted to.  They would pipe a sound effect over a phonograph and sway the pole and Daddy would let out a fake holler.  People would gasp and one lady even fainted.  When that happened, Daddy laughed so hard that he dropped the basket of fried chicken that Momma' had sent up to him (Momma, you recall, raised chickens for the State, and chicken was king at the dinner table in our house.  Maybe it is in yours, too.).  That danged old fried chicken just came showerin' down on the people comin' outta' the department store.  Colonel Murphee got hit on the shoulder with a breast and it left a big ol' greasy spot on his fine white suit.  He was mad, but he got over it.

On the day that Daddy came down, that man from the government was back, and I stood far away while he and Daddy talked.  I saw him show some pictures to Daddy, Daddy shouted something at the man, jabbed his finger into the man's breastbone, spit on the ground and shoved past him.  That man just got back in his big, black government car and drove off.  Daddy walked back to where I was waiting and gave me a hint of a smile.

"Lets go, son," he said, "we got the whole world waitin' for us."

02 June 2011

On the Rocks

 My wife and my brother and I enjoyed a nice round of cocktails at Manny's the other day.  Michelle looked out the window and noticed some large, painted letters on the side of a building.  "What's 'Bagro'?" she asked.

"A wine distributor on 39th," I told her.

Pat drained the rest of his scotch.  "It's underneath the Missouri."

"Underneath the Missouri?"  we asked in unison.

"Uh huh," he said, "pretty much all of 39th is under that Battleship...the USS Missouri.  You remember, Dad used to talk about it. They have it hanging up there.  Kinda' like a museum."

"I thought the Missouri was in Hawaii or somewhere," asked Michelle, "what's it doing here?"

"Well, like I said, it's some kind of museum.  They have the whole thing hoisted in the air with mammoth cranes and hanging over the city.  I'm surprised you missed it on your way over.  You wanna' go see it?"

This was too good to be true, so Michelle and I naturally took Pat up on his offer.  We paid for our drinks, headed outside and made our way to the escalator that ascended heavenward on 39th.  Tickets were a little unreasonable, but my brother is an architect in the city and knows the right folks. He pulled a couple of strings and we were headed up to the Missouri - with free drink coupons in our fists, no less.

On deck, almost 890 feet in the air (3 feet higher than the Mighty Mo is long), we were treated to a wonderful sight. Her beautiful 16-inch guns were decorated with red and white stripes, giving them the appearance of candy canes.

"All I want to do is wrap my arms around those guns," I cried, overcome by the moment.  Tears filled my eyes.

"Well, I think your wish might come true," said Pat, motioning toward the nearest gun turret and a sign that read "Line up here to wrap your arms around a gun barrel."

We were headed over in a rush of adrenalin when the music began.  Accordion-playing USO veterans came out of the gun turret's hatch and cordoned off the area with a swaying chorus line.  Elderly women in over-sized Uncle Sam costumes began a slow, shuffling dance and sang in one raspy voice,

"All I ever wanted to do
was watch old women dance
and wrap their arms around
the mighty, mighty guns
of the Mighty, Mighty Mo."

We could not break through their tight, accordionated defensive line in a frontal assault, nor could we find a way of flanking this group of octegenarians.  Michelle suggested distracting them with the bourbon in my hip flask, but I knew I would need it later and decided against such an option.  Dejected, we turned away and headed back down the escalator.  We did not even have the desire to redeem our free drink coupons.  It was proving to be a long, silent trip back down to the street, until Pat's face lit up and he turned to us.

"Hey, I've got an idea - they have the USS Iowa hanging up over some park just east of here...whaddya' say? Drinks are on me!"