But we love a good story, and Mr. Wilson has a unique story telling perspective.
Thankfully, he only writes short stories.
Gentleman FarmerI plan to become a gentleman farmer. Well, maybe not a gentleman, but definitely a farmer. You know the type...typically named "Sonny" or "Buck" or "Skeeter". I'll drive an rusty old red pickup truck, spit long, brown gooey streams of Red Man tobacco juice out the window, just narrowly avoiding my smelly houndog sidekick friend "Blue".
Blue will always have his long drooling snout sticking out the window, jaws a-snappin' at the wind as we haul-ass down to "Carlotta's", the strip club just on the other side of the tracks. It'll be a kick to laugh at those sucker Carlotta's patrons when Blue lures them in with that "doggie trapped in a hot truck" routine, just before he snarles at them like a chainsaw cutting through steel.
Yeah, I plan to be a farmer boy...might even take up Marlboro's again so I can have a smoke hangin' off my lower lip when I'm given' the local cop that "f-you" look after he's pulled me over for swervin'...yeah, a farmer, that's the ticket...
Barbers Everywhere Wept...When the winds of change came to the little town of Bonefish, the barber was ever so distracted. What normally would have been "just a nick", as referenced in the professional manual for "tradesmen of the hair" everywhere, became a long, wide, deep gash across the neck of Johnny Turbine, who was treating himself to "a close one" prior to his date with Nancy Nixon, the daughter of mayor Nixon, who was know around town as "a goer". "Bummer", Johnny thought, as his life gushed down his front, this surely was a mistake that could be fixed. This couldn't possibly have happened to me!!!! This wasn't what I meant when I prayed for "a slice" this morning!!!!
So what else is new?
Another Sad Frank and Beans Story...Suddenly, as Skippy (the Skip-meister as we call him) came wandering through the vestibule, he was shot dead.
The bullet had come from nowhere, it seems, but oh, what a mess it made. It had struck him square in the mouth, causing an avalanche of tooth and jawbone fragments to rocket across the foyer into the lap of a job interview candidate named Missy. Skippy howled, as best he could with his face hanging, well, out of his face, and scared everyone shitless. He writhed and bucked with blood shooting out of his face like a fountain, until he finally lay there still, in a pool of blood.
Missy was so surprised and disgusted, the vomit literally exploded from her face, catapulting the retainer from her mouth and putting the eye out the receptionist seated nearby. Yes, she had been on an all-hotdog and bean diet, and YES, that did stink...the stink of the dead I think it's often referred to. The receptionist arose and ran for the door...God only knows why, but tripped over the chainsaw wielding drawf who was trimming the bushes. He cut her in half at the knees...her lower legs left standing in mid-stride, while her torso broad-jumped onto the hood of a parked car where it lay motionless, giving the hood of the car what looked like one of those flame-front paintjobs.
Why did it have to happen on the day I wore my lucky suit? The rich, velvety dark crushed velvet fabric was just covered, no permeated, with the remains of Missy's lunch. I am still amazed to this day how she leapt across the room, and started sucking the vomitus from the fabric...kind of makes you sick, eh?
Just so you know ...I put the murdurous hounddog to death yesterday...baked him in a fine chocolate crust, sprinkled Jimmies on him, and snaked a garden hose through the plate handles. When asked by the ponderous woolyman "why's your cootie?", I responded "why not"...really cracked him up, I tell you smoker-man!
I'm praktissin ...I'm praktissin for the day when I go out of my mind...which I think was over the weekend when that slut Trixie hinted that I'd used too much oregano on my lunch. God, boredom and holiday blues mix for a lethal cocktail of desperation. Shakin'?
So, like I was saying ...So, like I was saying, the next day that I get the paper tattered is the day I lose control of my senses. The little boy down the street had a cold, and when he wiped his snotty shnoz on his sleeve, it sent chills up my spine, just like the day that Trixie, that slut, made fun of my nuances. I told her, mind your beez wacks you nutty boilermaker, and she chilled fine after that.