The Ongoing Dialogue

If you should happen to call me “Sweetcheeks” one more time I shall be forced to turn ugly on you. Believe me, Baby-pun'kin. You had better believe me, if you know what is good for you. No one calls me “Sweetcheeks” and gets away with it.

Anymore.

Nearly twenty years ago a man strolled into this, my humble cantina, and dared to call me “Sweetbread,” in homage to the hypothalamus of the calf that he loved ever so much. The hypothalamus, that is – not the calf itself. Mind you, he no doubt had a true and lasting affection for the animal known as the 'calf,' but it was the hypothalamus of said animal that truly peaked his affection and passion. This man was known to the community as “Scroty of the Moist Bottom,” and we never saw fit to ask him about the origin of that appellation – we only lauded and marveled at his desire and passion for tender young bovine sweetbreads.

When moist-bottomed Scroty strolled into my humble cantina he carried a large bag – a valise, really, constructed of the most unlikely material. It was crafted from the foreskins of unborn primates. A whole variety of primates, actually. He had obtained, through strictly secretive surgical methods, the soft and supple foreskins of unborn baby chimpanzees, bonobos, orangutans and lowland gorillas. These he took to a master leathersmith in the wilds of British Columbia who was an expert at crafting valises from such skins. Oh, how that valise, when completed, was the talk of the town! Weaverton had never seen such a valise, and there was talk of recognizing the finely-crafted article with a parade and fireworks.

But that was not to be.

For on the very day after his return to Weaverton with his special valise, Scroty was smitten by Wanda Thorduggle – a meter maid who was in possession of the largest and most imposing lower legs the county had ever seen. Her calf muscles were of epic proportion, and when they were not in use she would carry them in an oversized black steel briefcase, attaching them to sinew and bone only when truly needed. When Scroty's and Wanda's eyes met over oatmeal and strychnine old-fashioneds at the wet bar in the public square, it was as if someone had set torch to dynamite. Scroty stood up and moved to Wanda with a lustful look in his eyes and a burning flame in his loins. Wanda took one look at him as he approached and then hefted that briefcase over her head and straight into Scroty's cranium. The unexpectedly-brained Scroty flopped to the ground like a damp and discarded article of underclothing while Wanda wobbled out of the park on her calf-less legs and returned home.

Are you still with me, Baby-pun'kin? You look all pale and sweaty.

So anyhow, Scroty was a changed man, and the following day he hauled that bruised melon of his into my humble cantina and called me “Sweetbread.” His eyes were all swollen shut and there was a trickle of dried blood issuing forth from his left ear and he held that foreskin valise so closely to his chest. And he called me “Sweetbread.” He ordered a seltzer water and called me “Sweetbread.” I burst into tears. Scroty burst into tears. The drunken man who had soiled his trousers and was sitting on the adjacent barstool burst into tears. We had a good, long cry and then I proceeded to slice open Scroty's abdomen with my Little Orphan Annie letter opener. Scroty died in the arms of a drunken man with soiled trousers. And that was nearly twenty years ago this very day.

So this, right here, is his hand crafted foreskin valise. And if you know what is good for you, Baby-pun'kin, you will never again call me “Sweetcheeks.”