16 August 2008

Jibber-Jabber


Chalky, a neighbour of mine who moved here from Motherfucking, Alberta because he did not want his kids growing up in a redneck province, was tidying up his front garden as the Hammer and I returned from our cool evening walk. As he stood up from his dirty work he lifted an Ironhorse to his square face, and as he looked over at us emptied it and said, "Fuck do I hate warm beer."

"If someone invented a chemical to put in beer that'd keep it cold that gave you cancer too we'd take our chances with the fucking cancer wouldn't we?" I agreed.

"Fucking rights we would. If the big companies spent half as much time inventing shit for the world's armies they would have figured out how to keep a beer cold by now." He scratched his dirty belly and asked me. "Did you see them?"

"See who?" I answered knowing exactly what he was talking about.

"All the fucking Hindoos up at the park." He spat on his golf green lawn. "I saw them up there other day lining the fields. I knew they was coming to holler at their kids in their jibber-jabber. I liked it better when they stuck to blowing up airplanes full of their own kind and knocking off whatever Hindoo politicians they could get near."

"Yeah, I just went by the park. Only white skin on it belonged to the referee. To be fair though, all the kids were yelling at one another in English."

Chalky yelled through an open window, "I need a couple fucking beers out here!" Moments later his ten year old daughter appeared with his order, taking a sip before passing one to me and one to her loving dad. She didn't take a sip of mine. She probably already had as soon as she pulled it out of the fridge.

"Those kids will be shooting one another in the park instead of playing sports before long. Half of them are probably already selling dope to the white kids at school. That's if they aren't still going to their all-brown terrorist training school. It's gang warfare out there Beer. And these brown cunts are right at home going to a teenage funeral every so often."

The Ironhorse tasted good but was not very cold. Chalky needed a knew fridge. "Anything else new Chalky," I asked, wishing the beer was colder.

Chalky hesitated like he was not going to say anything but then went on because of the amount of beer he had already consumed. "I was in for surgery this week. I was bleeding out of my ass so the doctor sent me to the hospital for a specialist to have a look up my ass. I'd talked to some people who went through the procedure, if that's what you want to call it, wide awake, watching the picture of the inside of their ass with the doctor like they were watching a particularly dirty hockey game. Doctor shot me up with Demerol. I have a feeling the doctor stole my virginity but I don't remember shit. Next thing you know I woke up in another room, high as Willie Nelson. Nurse said they scooped a hemorrhoid out of me about three feet long. Guess maybe that's why I feel like I was prison raped. You want another beer?"

I did not want another barely cold Ironhorse so I told him no thanks and went home to my cold beer. Sure hope no doctor ever has to have a look in my rectum. It is probably the warm beer that fucked up Chalky's ass. I took a long pull on an Alhambra, read some poetry, and tried not to think of my ass causing me trouble.

3 comments:

ib said...

Talk of hemorrhoids and warm beer does not make for good conversation.

On the other hand, yo do need to mildly pissed in order to talk comfortably on that subject in the first instance.

I underwent a minor operation to excise a pilonidal sinus several years ago. That's medical jargon for an ingrown hair. No big sweat, I hear you say - but no they have to remove the surrounding flesh as well. I had a mild case of food-poisoning on the weekend before I checked in for surgery. I must've lost several pounds at least. They shot me full of opiates because of a previous reaction to general anaesthesia, and I woke up pleasantly chilled and oblivious to my post-op babble.

One especially humane nurse wheeled me down to the visitors' room so I could light up one cigarette after another. I smoke like a chimney. The following morning, another nurse came in to check my blood-pressure.

"You must be an athlete," she said, reading the figures on the state of the art LCD monitor. I coughed a little phlegm into my clenched fist.

"Oh, yeah. For sure", I replied.

Small wonder I have no innate trust in the medical profession.

Jon said...

I will tell you the truth, I hate a neighbor with a tidy garden, a buttload of drunk opinions and a willingness to share details of his medical conditions. Beware the neighbor with a tidy garden.

I drove past a mob of little boys practicing for Pop Warner football. They were no more than 8 and probably younger. Their Eritrean extended families were sitting on the sidelines cheering them on.

The Santa Rosa Eritrean community is well regarded for their good manners and law abiding behavior. I try to remember that they also overthrew the Ethiopian government, killed Haile Selassie and left many reggae musicians disillusioned and confused.

Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

Canada's First Nations (the politically correct term for the brown folk our forefathers kicked the shit of some years ago and continue to keep their Big Brother eyes and ears on) tried to stay out of the white man's hospitals when they were encouraged to get cured for whatever it was that ailed them. They steered clear of hospitals because there was nothing wrong with their counting skills and they had noticed that most of the people who go to hospitals do not survive the experience.