When shaky story-lines degenerate.

When shaky story-lines degenerate.

Farnsworthy Groat and Aberdeen Snodgrass jounced along the rutted heath in search of a catfish fry.Their Dodge Durango 4×4 had plush captain-seats and new rubber floor mats.
“I sure love me some catfish.” said Farnsworthy, a swarthy, raw-boned man with an ovoid head. He had recently returned from a Ladysmith Black Mombasa concert in Botswana, and was driving the Dodge with a studied nonchalance. His friend Aberdeen, a small and wiry man with a goiter on his neck, playfully poked Farnsworthy in the ribs with a flat-head screwdriver and said, “You are ugly and stupid for sure, old friend, but I trust you’ll find us a catfish fry where the coleslaw ain’t all runny. I HATE runny coleslaw!” Aberdeen was a hedge trimmer by trade, and a lame-brained nitwit by inclination. He was pigeon-toed & knock-kneed, his fly was always open & his socks never matched.

No road crossed the barren heath, and odds were slim they’d find a roadhouse, much less one serving fried catfish with properly mixed coleslaw, but onwardly they jounced nonetheless. They were listening to the Hank Williams Station on the radio – All Hank All The Time – andAberdeen commented on a song. “Y’know, I don’t believe I have ever heard a robin weep, falling leaves or otherwise.” “Seen one.” replied Farnsworthy.
“What’s that?”
“Seen one. It’s ‘have you ever SEEN a robin weep’.”
“Well then, hearing one seems the more unlikely. I misquoted to a purpose, to mark my allusion as pithier & more pungent, to step outside the boundaries of lyrics and view the song from a different perspective, to add nuance & complexity.”
“Y’know, Snodgrass, you sure do talk funny sometimes…. just get the map from outta the glovebox and see if there’s any county roads hereabouts.”

Aberdeen was known by his friends as ‘Stumpy’, and was fond of sponge-baths and elderberry jam. He wore a felt dimnitz beneath a doeskin jerkin, and a red carnation in the lapel of his woolen quizzle. His relationship with Farnsworthy Groat was flangent , and almost totally dependent on the other’s sense of “garhoolie” and his own cogent congealiance.

Farnsworthy had the head of a cinder-block and the wits of a lug-nut. He could often be found at Jack Popgut’s Sallonium, filling the air with bellows and howls, and shoert-jumping other patrons with sort of scovial plinth. His egger was slight, and his manner flancid….

(*sound of crumpled paper & muffled curses*)


Posted on February 7, 2012, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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