Slept in this morning and C.W. was already busy with my computer when I walked into the living room. I had my morning coffee and was scarcely awake. He had a shape I’d not seen before, sort of a cross between the actors Don Knotts and Jim Nabors. He was wearing farmer’s khakis and a John Deer baseball hat and was typing away.
Careful not to disturb him, I sat quietly and took a sip of coffee. After a moment, he quit typing, looked at me, and said, “Morning, Poo-poo Head.” Then he waited.
“No,” he said, “Too sissy.” He ignored me and went back to his typing. I heard him muttering to himself, “Just like everything else, they think this is easy.” He typed for a few seconds and then looked at me again. “Morning, you stump-broke female of the species Bos taurus, family Bovidae.”
As one might imagine, I sat in stunned silence. He punched a single key and said “Save.” He smiled and started to speak but stopped and began typing again. “Slant-eyed lawn jockey.” He waited for a reaction.
“Stop it,” I said. “Please tell me what you are doing.”
“Busy,” he said, “Got to finish this assignment by Monday at noon.” He started to type again, but stopped, and looked at me again. “Fart-sniffing wiener dog.” He gave a shrug that implied, “What do you think?”
“I’m giving you one last chance,” I said. “You know I have the ‘hot-line number’ to the Falloonian Elders.”
“Working,” he said. “I told you I had a job.”
“It’s not a job. It’s an adventure. You wouldn’t understand you sun-dried douche-bag.” He gave me that look again.
“Wait a minute. Wait just a minute. Who are you working for and what are you doing?”
“I’m working for myself, my own company.”
“And what company is that?”
“Taunts in Twitter Style,” he said. “Want to see some TITs?” he said, holding up a pile of papers. He shook them at me. “You short-stack pile of steaming … ,”
“Stop it,” I said. “Where did you get the idea for this company?”
“From a man named Vince,” he said, “you dried-up testicle bag.”
“I’m calling the Elders,” I said, if you do that one more time.”
“Go ahead, you sewage-sipping half-pint.”
I slumped in my seat. “This ‘Vince’ man, who is he?”
An entrepreneur,” he said, “I think he’s in the entertainment business. Something about the sport or activity of grappling with an opponent and trying to throw or hold them down on the ground, typically according to a code of rules.”
That stopped me. I just sat there shaking my head. Then, realization started coming toward me like a gray horse emerging from the fog. “Are you talking about Vince McMahon of World Wrestling Entertainment?”
“Who else, you dingleberry-nibbling midget?”
|He's Number One, or|
says he is, anyway. - C.W.
“He’s paying you to think up taunts?”
“He’s the go-between man, you crap-collecting moron.”
“I think I understand.”
“About time, you scab-scratching imbecile.”
“Vince McMahon is contracting with you to think up taunts for his professional wrestlers.”
This time, he looked at me with confusion.
I continued. “I don’t think,” I said, “that they would allow some of those on a family-oriented TV show, even a pro-wrestling show.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said, “you scum-sucking child of a hairless baboon.” He smiled, obviously pleased with himself. “I’ll have no problem with any censors.” He laughed to himself and repeated, “Censors my ass, you knuverhataklu.”
“Never mind,” he said. “They don’t allow me to use Falloonian.”
“Even on pro-wrestling? They would probably come closer to understanding Falloonian than they would English.”
“Some of those fans are earth-born, I'll have you know. A few are, anyway. And why do you keep harping on pro-wrestling?” he said, “you piss-ant’s underbelly.”
“Aren’t you into serving the entertainment industry?”
“Heavens no,” he said, “you skunk-sodomizing simpleton.”
“If not for pro-wrestling, then who for?”
“If you must know,” he said, waving a hand at me, “I’m helping out with foreign policy, at the highest level.” He paused and raised one eyebrow. “And I do mean the highest level, Loser Man.”