Hamdog Blues
Walking across the parking lot, I realized my mistake. The thumping sound coming from the trunk of a blue BMW was clearly audible to the old couple headed into the restaurant. I could see the perplexed looks on their faces begin to turn to the most frightened expressions I’d witnessed in quite some time, as they realized the blue BMW was my blue BMW. Completely without warning, I unleashed a vicious kick to the old man’s crotch, instantly dropping him to his knees. I flashed my .357 at his female companion, while giving her a toothy grin that clearly informed her I was too fucking crazy to be held accountable.
“Shut up, you stupid bitch!” I’m not sure what I thought I was accomplishing by screaming in the general direction of the trunk. One thing was for certain, it was time to put Decatur, Georgia in my rearview mirror. If only that god-forsaken “Hamdog” wasn’t sitting so heavily in my gut. The intestinal discomfort was already palpable, and they probably hadn’t even finished clearing my table yet. Never mind that, I thought to myself. It’s time to hit the fucking road!
Horace Greeley might’ve said, “Go West, young man.” But, what the hell did he know? He also founded the Republican Party, and we all see how well that’s panned out. So, forget his sorry, dead ass. I’m heading South and East. Florida, here I come.
“Go ahead! Thump and bump to your heart’s content!” I knew I should’ve slipped more of that shit into her drink. Leon said it would be enough, that stupid pig-fucker. Total vindication, that’s what I’m feeling about having shot that sorry son of a bitch in Atlanta. I knew he couldn’t be trusted.
I’d already worked my way over to I-95 South when it hit me like a wrench to the head. Greeley didn’t even coin that saying about going west. It was some poor bastard in Terre Haute, Indiana. He wrote it in the local newspaper there. But, Greeley stole it and published it in New York. Isn’t that always just the way? People remember who said what in New York. Not so much for the cow diddlers from Terre Haute.
Thank God for small favors. Grandma must’ve passed out again, because there’s no more of that awful thumping noise coming from the trunk. The windows are down. There’s a breeze blowing through my hair. I’ll be chugging down an umbrella drink on South Beach before I know it. I think I’ll call my new boat “The Hamdog.”
“Shut up, you stupid bitch!” I’m not sure what I thought I was accomplishing by screaming in the general direction of the trunk. One thing was for certain, it was time to put Decatur, Georgia in my rearview mirror. If only that god-forsaken “Hamdog” wasn’t sitting so heavily in my gut. The intestinal discomfort was already palpable, and they probably hadn’t even finished clearing my table yet. Never mind that, I thought to myself. It’s time to hit the fucking road!
Horace Greeley might’ve said, “Go West, young man.” But, what the hell did he know? He also founded the Republican Party, and we all see how well that’s panned out. So, forget his sorry, dead ass. I’m heading South and East. Florida, here I come.
“Go ahead! Thump and bump to your heart’s content!” I knew I should’ve slipped more of that shit into her drink. Leon said it would be enough, that stupid pig-fucker. Total vindication, that’s what I’m feeling about having shot that sorry son of a bitch in Atlanta. I knew he couldn’t be trusted.
I’d already worked my way over to I-95 South when it hit me like a wrench to the head. Greeley didn’t even coin that saying about going west. It was some poor bastard in Terre Haute, Indiana. He wrote it in the local newspaper there. But, Greeley stole it and published it in New York. Isn’t that always just the way? People remember who said what in New York. Not so much for the cow diddlers from Terre Haute.
Thank God for small favors. Grandma must’ve passed out again, because there’s no more of that awful thumping noise coming from the trunk. The windows are down. There’s a breeze blowing through my hair. I’ll be chugging down an umbrella drink on South Beach before I know it. I think I’ll call my new boat “The Hamdog.”
posted by haahnster at 10:48 PM
8 Comments:
BRILLIANT! You are headed for the PEN-Faulkner, my friend. Will you thank the sandwich in your acceptance speech?
[Actually, it was quite entertaining. Do you write much?]
"Drunk boy", it would be difficult to imagine skipping out on my sister's wedding. I try not to do too many things from which I know I won't escape unscathed.
Beth: I was channeling the Hamdog. The sandwich deserves all the credit. Well, that and the fever I was running. I think this is a fair sample of my writing, which always comes out like an excerpt. I have lots of ideas, just no beginnings, endings, or coherent themes.
I particularly like how you minimized the drive from to Decatur to I-95, Great writing
It's kind of the opposite of the movie Planes, Trains & Automobiles which shows the sun setting and rising again on a drive from St. Louis to Chicago, which is only about a 4-hour drive.
I like to say Decatur and I like guns. So, you rocked this post.
Our lesbian community flocks to Decatur (home of the Indigo Girls, for instance) ... because, rumor has it, it's pronounced dick-hater.
Haahnster, welcome to my writing hell. And I have four short stories that must be finished by the end of the summer. Sheeeeeesh .............
I hope you didn't think I was being critical. Here in Savannah we would just as soon be beat to death than endure the drive from Atlanta to Savannah & back.(I-16 which connects to I-75 & I-95). It is the most boring, god awful, nightmareishly LONG 4 hour drive. So, I got excited when you shortened it. I'm printing the blog out and using your map instead next time I go to Hot Lanta. I like the writing!!!!!
From the last post I wasn't sold on the Hamdog, but with this narrative all the sudden I'm getting a craving for some deep-fried hot-dog-in-a-beef-patty...
Post a Comment
<< Home