I knew some fucking moron would take the bait -- because dogs can't resist the smell of shit. Especially fucking moron dogs like you.
You fucking moron
#14 | Posted by vernon

Vermin dragged himself across the dragon's blood-red Waziristani sand much as an overfed garbage eating rat snake moves after finishing its feast of pickled octopus, soggy pork rinds, panda grease, and ketchup gleaned from a tour of the rusted-out buckets, bins, and barrels -- for, as Vermin knew, the real treats, the tasty bits, the epicurean treasures to be, well, treasured lay hidden not in the all-too-obvious belly of the dumpster but in the cozier, bubbling interiors of the rusted-out buckets, bins, and barrels bubbling buckets, bins, and barrels crammed into the alley behind that place in Neihu where the waitress who looked astonishingly like the bargirl he'd refused in Bangkok, who slapped him upside his head and sent him crashing to the floor like a bovine hit with the kill-stick at a Jimmy Dean's Breakfast Sausage extermination facility because he was not, as it turned out, in Bangkok (an innocent mistake) but Melbourne and because she was not a bargirl but a girls' school headmistress who'd stampeded him from the bushes in which he lurked beside the chapel as the students entered for Sunday prayer service that Neihu place where the waitress took his order, winked at him, smiled salaciously, wriggled her hips and juggled her jugs and said, ever so sweetly, "You terr me, roun-eye fat boy, wussa word in barbarian for phlegm'?"

("Wish I'd invested my $175.67 nest egg in that restaurant and probably shoulda axed the waitress for her hand," Vermin sputtered, furious that none of the other homeskoolers and Jeebus-loving crooks and shysters he called "friends" bothered to tell him the correct thing to do, "instead of the Malaysian rayon plantation,") (because just about now he was plagued by doubt, wracked by fear, haunted by those myriad insecurities that, coupled with greed, constituted the single motivating force of his life, as he wondered whether the Malaysian rayon plantation even existed or if this was going to be another problem, like that 126-year-old, 5989-foot-long steel-wire suspension bridge he was acquiring on some convoluted installment plan), Anyone who don't know the best bits lurk, smolder, and rot in the rusted-out buckets, bins, and barrels," Vermin spat, hoiking up a loogie from hell, swirling it around in his mouth, caressing it with his tooth and running it along his tongue like an overripe oyster before deciding well, why not? -- to give it some more time to cure up real good, so swallowing it for the second (or was it the third?) time, "is a moron, and I wasn't deposited in familial breeding grounds beside the Spoonie's Omelets To-Go' paddlefish roe extraction plant's cleaning and fermentation pit abutting the zoning authority of Humptulips, Washington, yesterday."

Vermin reached out tentatively and touched what he fervently hoped was, finally, the object he sought, much like the Grail -- which a long, personally humiliating (for reasons he dare not contemplate lest his bum break out in a nasty rash), and fundamentally futile search of cathedrals, mosques, convents, drainpipes, pawn shops and Chinese acrobat training camps told him, too harshly, that the damned thing probably didn't exist (but, he consoled himself, hope does spring eternal, especially for the righteously ignorant and, after all, he blushed, tomorrow was another day) yes, much as he'd relied on blind faith and deep ignorance in his search for the Grail, he was flying (well, not so much flying as groveling and crawling) blind (metaphorically speaking), for his eyesight was impaired, he hoped not permanently, by coconut wine he'd smuggled into Pakistan's Federally Administered Tribal Areas inside the voluminous folds of his sumo wrestler's diaper.

As Vermin reached out with his right hand, clutching his black-and-white checkered porkpie hat (a la mode d'Pincus Leff) with his left, he felt pity for himself (as was his wont) and bemoaned the winds of fate that somehow vomited him up here, in the hell-hot sands within sight and one or two rural route postal delivery zones of the adobe squalor that is Spinkai Raghzai, not far from the road to Jandola, in the middle of Wazir tribal territory where blood feuds punctuated the silence that enveloped this gawdforsaken zone of horrors when then the tribes and the Pakistani doughboys weren't blasting away at one another.

So he reached out and -- yeeeeessss! -- there it was: his missing yellow mesh Chinese bathroom slipper, the one that went missing, the one that brought back those memories that made his leg tingle with images of

"I knew some fucking moron would take the bait," a man (or perhaps bearded lady's) voice muttered, gravelly like sharp stones grinding against gravel and gravel grinding against more sharp stones andwell, gravellywith a soupcon of humor and enough menace to shatter John Deere 9870 Combine (US$ 285,000.00 used, if picked up from the lot in Sandusky), "because dogs can't resist the smell of shit."

"Especially fucking moron dogs like you," the man (or bearded lady) growled, for Vermin realized -- as he watched a felt boot slam down on his hand, nailing his fingers to the lost and found yellow mesh Chinese bathroom that the voice was that of a bushy-bearded man (or lady) wearing a sweat-stained white turban, "because dogs can't resist the smell of shit."

Vermin tipped his hat to the bearded man (or lady) and tried to clear matters up by sputtering, "Sir, uh, madam, uh, sir, uh madam, flummoxed, because he understood man's (or woman's) words, which was, frankly sooprising, because of the languages he spoke more or less fluently English, Chinglish, Goggledegook, and Jabberwock not one of them was even remotely related to the Waziri's melufulous Wazirwola. But, yes, he did understand, for the next thing he heard was the guy (or gal) laughing at him as he (or she) took a ball of opium from the breast (or tit) pocket of his (or her) coat of many colors, pop it into his (or her) mouth and snarl, "You fucking moron."

"'Nother question...do ya'like bustin' Vernon more than hatin' Palin?"

Flip a the coin, son, flip a the coin.

:>)