THE RATASS GAZETTE

Written By: Brandon Schlong Copyright 2013 Reubenickenobickle You’ll never guess who I bumped into this morning. Nope, nope.  He actually moved back to upstate Warshington I guess, sheeit… Musta been two years ago.  Was it two years ago…? Hadta been cos’, I remember he helped me feed the heifers the morning of Patrick’s birthday. First frost of the year that very same mornin’ come to think of it. Oh, sure! Their daughter Bridgette, runnin’ round a-peein-and-a-poopin ever’ where. I can tell you for Goddamn  sure, that he and Kathy had never been happier. Anyway, it was shorely just a brush-stroke of luck who I… No, it wasn’t her either. Her son died , ya know? Ugh, and it was just so Goddamn messy ! She still wanted an open casket and boy, oh boy…old Hard-nosed Hilda Bickered and fought with Reverend Donaldson till the very last minute. No, they didn’t. Hell, they couldn’t have all them school kids seein’ him the way he looke...

You know, he's the guy who can snare the ladies.  Some loser teaching other losers how to appropriately approach some tender-little-shaver in some hipster beer parlor.  The night ending with you eventually staggering up the road with her, to your sparsely furnished stink-chamber of an apartment to give her the old "Brown Madam."   "Home sweet Hell," you'll say as you dead-bolt the door and accidentally hit your forehead on the door knob as you take off your Spalding's.   This is the guy that understands  the ladies.  This is the dick-head who can identify the needs and moods of all  the ladies, and if you listen to his Abigail Van Buren-like sage wisdom you'll never hear the phrase,  "You smell like poop," again. This line will be spoken of course, by a visibly-uncomfortable-previously-laughing-just-a-minute-ago-girl-but-now-feeling-nauseated-and-frightened-and-wanting-to-immediately-leave-and-move-out-of-town-never-to-return-from-the...