Call Wacko!

I recently found something that filled a profound gap in my existence.

When I threw up blood I happened to throw up blood on my favorite pair of black basketball shorts. I would've proudly worn my bloodshed but Brock and Appu have higher standards for my sartorial choices and opted to throw them out. Since I don't cash my paychecks I spent today conniving a way to obtain a pair of black basketball shorts. Then, I found a pair on the basketball court. Wee!

That's not what I meant to talk about it all but things escape sometimes, like dreams in the night.

The profound gap in my existence has been filled by an intern. My intern is Nick Olah. So far his responsibilities have included discussing the NBA Draft and making prank phone calls for legitimate business reasons. He's leaving a negligible effect on the finished product as am I in a weird way but his presence alleviates the monotony of waiting in a library or filling a prescription. Crossing the lakelike threshold of a business day in Michigan Summer Swelter, we move with brisk business like strokesm, flecking the day with fun by way of sojourns to Arby's for free Arby's. (Blogging about Arby's is copyright of Beavette).

Today. We were picking up a prescription when a Yellow Pick-Up Truck caught our attention. Emblazoned on the back of the pick up truck was a Demon with an eye popping out of his socket. It dangled down to a small logo that read "Call Wacko" then listed a phone number.

We called Wacko immediately. He picked up with a voice that sounded like Malt Liquor. "What's up dude?" was his trademark beckon. Nick asked "What's up?" Nothing was going on with Wacko.

We called again. I discussed the possibility of him doing a "tatt-oooooo" of the Hindenburg on my back. He was a perceptive listener at first but my flamboyant pronounciation of "tattoo" drew his scorn. He swiftly hung up returning to waxing his boat, gelling his goatee, punching Dogs, and other activities of the Wacko. The Wacko does not tread lightly. He moves through this life, taking his desires and no prisoners. Sex on the first date? Never. Wacko has sex before the first date, before he even meets you. That's how the Wacko rolls.

His football shaped eyes are that of an Artist. His football shaped gut is that of a Patriot. He smokes Camel Wides as he swims in above ground pool. He has had fourteen tattoo removal surgeries so he can "redo the canvas with sum current shit." He's removed an American Flag for Ronald McDonald. The portrait of his mother has been editied into Brandon Inge. Brandon Inge is the troll-like Third Baseman for the Detroit Tigers. Before this season his bat left something to be desired but his hustle and defensive acumen have branded him as a "scrapper", a status that nestled him between the clogged arteries of White Trash Hearts throughout Southeastern Michigan. Inge is having the best season of his career, elevating him to deity status. Since season's inception Wacko has added wings, horns, and a spatula to his Inge tattoo.

I called Wacko again. It went straight to voicemail.

"This is Wacko. You know what to do."

Yes I do. All thanks to you.