"Look At The Size Of This Clown's Feet " or "Little Dogs, Liquor, Sauerkraut and Conjoined Wimmen."

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Monday, June 27, 2005

Her Ass Looked Like A Broken Can Of Biscuits (Part One)

Okay, so it happened. I haven’t written in a while cause I’ve been in trouble.

“Trouble?” the crowd gasps, “How could the Saintly Reverend Uncle Laffo get in trouble?”

Well I did. And man, did I step in it with both size 38 “Pennington and Walters Deluxe Comfort Stride Two-Tone Clown Shoes for Men.” I went a fell for a woman. Now ole Laffo, being the Lothario he is, has been married three times. This is not a statistic I’m proud of, it’s just an indication that I might be, let’s say, a tad…impulsive. Mickey Rooney, that fag with the beard from The Beach Boys and myself have the same problem, lotsa Ex-Wives. Las Vegas with it’s, get married by a Paul Lynne impersonator speaks directly to me.

Fuckin’ Las Vegas.

Nothing good has ever happened in that town. I wish I had a massive “Dope and Gambling Problem.” I would have more money leaving Vegas if I suffered from that, than the “Let’s Get Married Before I Shit My Pants I’m So Drunk Problem” that I do have. All three of my Xs were purchased in ole’ Sin City. The fuckin’ bitch of it all is, the city is but a pale substitute of what it used to be.

Las Vegas used to be the armpit to Times Square’s butthole but both places have gotten a dose of “Whitey Tighty Family Adventure – Fun for all Ages” and it’s leaving scumbags like me in the dust. Hunter S. Thompson didn’t kill hisself, he just realized that he was slated for a systematic homogenization, like the rest of cesspools of America, and he couldn’t bear it. Charles Bukowski didn’t die; he just couldn’t live with the fact that the ‘84 Olympics coming to Los Angles had De -Tom Waitsed the City of Angels to the point where go-go sports cars and silicone where all there was. Lowlife pieces of shit need lowlife shitholes to flourish. That is where the real art comes from. For every pious, goody goody, squeaky, chaste, sober, vegetarian, politically correct, tofu spewing cunt, writing existential poetry about the plight of un-neutered felines, I’ll show you one junky eighteen year old who runs the Tilt-A-Whirl TM who’s scrawlings of decapitations of Hookers, and Battle Axes in the hands of over muscled homo erotic Vikings in a five themed notebook, are more valid and real. It’s because it’s not fucking simple and pretty. I’m a Goddamn beautiful man, but I do have the occasional pimple on my ass.

Anyhoo, that being said… I continue to frequent Las Vegas, at my own peril. It ALWAYS bites me in the ass. I should join a fuckin’ 12 step program just to keep me away that place. I guess, even in it’s sanitized form, the combination of $4.00 Prime Rib, Excessive Neon, Free Harvey Wallbangers, Pumped in Oxygen, Garish Carpet and Cheap Floozy still is like the sirens call. Sure the Steaks are a little better and the Hotels a little less seedy but the Women are still hungry and desperate, and that’s the rub. A Woman in need will have Laffo indeed.

The first wife was a professional. No I don’t mean she was a hooker, tho she was a whore, no she was a professional card counter. She would go to the Sands and sit at the blackjack tables and count cards coming outta the chute and bet accordingly. Now this is a hard method of cheating for the Casino to spot, cause it’s all in yer head and not up yer sleeve. They have to wait fer you to fuck up. And let me tell you, you will fuck up. These guys have a hard on the size of the U.S.S. Saratoga for cheats. They live to bust ya. They were the Math Fags in grammar school who got their chops busted on the playground for being a “Poindexter” and now they’re ready for revenge. Now I married a cheat. A Professional Cheat. She Professionally and Systematically fucked all my friends, neighbors and co-workers. She left no stone unturned, no avenue unexplored, no opportunity wasted, no mayonnaise left in the jar, no hair in the drain, no change in the sofa…If it had a dick and a pulse, and was in anyway familiar with me, she stuck it in her lady vent. If she had as many dicks stickin’ outta her as she had stuck in her she’d look like a goddamn pincushion. She was a looker tho. She was like a vintage automobile, lotsta chrome and big round fenders, with a wide back seat and a bumper that looked like a battleship. She looked like women looked forty years ago. She was big, blowsy, firm and painted up, like one of the Andrews Sisters who gave a great hummer. Man, could that woman do the deed. She gave a blowjob that made the fingerprints on the soles of yer feet hurt. I guess a woman like that can’t keep it to her self. She should be shared with everyone, a talent like that can’t be wasted on one man. BULLSHIT. I turned her in to the Las Vegas P.D. for nine out standing warrants and she’s doing 12 to 15 for fraud and theft by taking at Southern Nevada Women's Correctional Center. There is no honor among thieves. Adios Muchacha Uno.

Now having learned my lesson, I decided I should stick with women in the business. That is, to only date Circus Women. Now this course of action is in itself inherently risky, as Sideshow women already are damaged or saddled with a myriad of issues that would make Valentino swoon. These little stumbling blocks can’t stop me as I’m a Grade A Jackass and need a double major in Geology and Anatomy just to find my ass from a hole in the ground. But there is no finer piece of ass than what I refer to as “Circus Cooze.”

Oh, dear God the sublime pleasure and bo-kay of a woman who’s halfway through with a season’s stand in the fair Midwest. She’s bronzed by the American Midway Sun and Plump with the Nutrition of a Thousand Funnel Cakes. Perfumed by the Damp Bed Rolls of her Wagon and Dusted by the Clouds of Elephant Shit 10,000 feet stir up. Ah yes, she is an American Combined Show Jewel. The rivulets of sweat make clean trails on her skin, like she had just wept hard, dishonest work. In her outta show sundress, bleached by the sun after being hung up on one too many light lines, she stands against the cornfields looking at the rising sun, and you can see the outline of her legs, mons venus and magnificent ass, through the faded gingham. You know you’re gonna marry that contortionist, even if it kills you. And you know it almost did.