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What's your favorite hip-hop name for George W. Bush?
Man who scratches backside should not bite fingernails.
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Fear and Loathing in Brian Head
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We were almost through the state of Utah pulling up to the sleepy little Mormon
village of Brian
Head (population: 118 as of the 2000 census) when the peyote kicked in.
(Yes, folks, not only is this an entertainin' news rag but it's also
educational; pull your sorry ass away from CNN and look it up on a map.)
The "rented" 2005 Dodge minivan we were driving (appropriately decked out in
Mystery Machine colours and with doors that opened on both sides, tres cool)
was crammed full of hookers and freshly-steeped Canadian Hooch from the
backwoods of Surrey, BC destined for disaffected brothel owners of Hurricane
Katrina. Our decoy vehicle, a red moped with a side car, armed only with a CB
radio and a pack of Popeye cigarettes, was handled by Bandit, a "reformed"
man-whore from South Seventh Street in Virden, Manitoba, whom we had
offered ten bucks and all the free air the boy could breathe.
The flowers were JCrow's idea
My confidant, JCrow, a former hiphop artist-turned Powerpuff Girl junky, was at
the helm looking to make a fast buck. I can't say for sure if it was driving
that she was performing but she was behind the wheel nonetheless and taking up
the space the driver would normally occupy.
The whores in the back, known as the JCrew, were complaining about the working
conditions they would unduly face during the upcoming "contract". The Canadian
Hooch was sloshing around violently (not unlike the Hurricane that had just hit
the Louisiana coast just a few short days ago) in the huge Mr. Turtle pool we
indiscriminately threw in the back as a make-shift shine container. The heat
was proving unbearable as we sped haphazardly through Brian Head. Not that it
was hot in Utah, just that none of us knew how to switch off the heat in the
JCrow knew we had a long way to go and a short time to get there, so the pedal
was to the metal. What we didn't know was that our own Canadian government's
spy agency, the CRRSBI, had tipped off their
counterparts to the south before we had left our native land.
As we careened through the main drag in Brian Head, I noticed a road block at
the end of town. I got on the CB radio and called for Bandit. No answer.
"Bandit, this here's Snowman, cawm back", I repeated. Still no answer. The road
block ahead was approaching real fast. We knew we had to think fast but due to
the peyote-induced trance we were in, all we could think of was stopping for
some Salt Water Taffy at the general store on main street.
The taffy, however, would have to wait as JCrow had no intention of stopping for
it or the road block, due, for the most part, to the fact that she has no
concept of where the brake pedal is on a vehicle. I suddenly realized that we
looked like a vanload o' foxes caught in the hen house with a sack o' eggs as
we bore down on Brian Head's finest.
Moments from crashing into the road block, out of nowhere popped a red moped. It was Bandit and he had a passenger in the sidecar. I
thought it looked like Bert from Sesame Street, but I couldn't be sure because
of the peyote. Why, he stuck out like a bourbon bottle at a country revival.
Bandit came to a screeching halt in front of the road block. In an effort to
divert attention away from our mystery van full of whores and hooch, he tried
to smoke the tires of the moped. Either that or he didn't realize his hand was
on the brake as he tried to get the cops to chase him instead of us.
After realizing he couldn't do a "Brakie" on a moped, Bandit sped off in a
perpendicular direction to the road block. The cops, taking this as a blatant
contempt of their authority, attempted to jump in their cars and get in hot
pursuit of the disrespecting moped. But in all the commotion, they collided
together like two sumo wrestlers doing battle in a gay bar.
"Son, you're lookin' at a legend!"
As I neared the cops, I realized that our paths had crossed before. It was Big
George and Little George, known in bigger circles as the Bush family, keepers
of the world's oil..er…peace. The elder George was madder than a wet hen. He
took off his cowboy hat, hit the young'un over the head, and said, "Son, There's no way, no WAY, that you came from my loins…Soon
as I get home, the first thing I'm gonna do is punch your momma in the mouth."
Eventually, they managed to get into their new environmentally-friendly Hummers
and tore off faster'n bad news after the renegade man-whore with, and I'm
pretty sure I'm right about this, Bert from Sesame Street ridin' shotgun. This
was a huge break for us in the mystery van. As we left town, we screamed out of
the van's window, "Viva free trade" and continued on our mission of mercy to
the gulf coast...
[Editor's Recap: Now I know that right about now you must be thinkin'
that JCrow's plan was workin' about as good as a two dollar watch. JCrow and
the Bandit don't know it, but they're heading into a whole heap o' trouble just
up the road where you can bet they'll cross paths with one Sherriff Buford T.
Cheney, the meanest lawman west of Texarkana.]