Gut Rumbles

September 13, 2008

Friends, sons, and others

Originally published December 31, 2001

My buddy from South Carolina finally did come by. We went out to eat, then stayed up late talking about old times. He's asleep on the sofa as I write this, with some semi-porno movie on Cinemax playing loudly over his snores. I have a pot of coffee brewed and ready for when he awakens, if he ever does, and I never got the chance to use a stun-gun on him, because we talked about the infinite possibilities of a hot tub and decided that the tub was a better idea than the gun. If he dies on my sofa of a massive heart attack, I hope the ground is soft in my back yard. He is a large fellow, and I will have to dig a deep hole to bury him.

My son called me about 8:00 last night. He, his slut mama and her unemployed, dope-smoking lover returned from the north Georgia mountains and evidently listened to the obscene, spittle-punctuated message I left on her answering machine about how shitty it was to kidnap my son on his birthday weekend, when I was supposed to have visitation, and go shack up in a cabin in the woods. I'm sure she was wracked by guilt, which is why she insisted that my son call me, to make everything right, before she administered a blow-job to her boyfriend. Whatta cunt.

I'm sure she's going to want the child support check on time this month. Those mountain cabins are expensive.

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