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A story about 'Ugly Americans' who truely happen to be ugly

The Summer 2001 Update

Page 22 of 50

Peaches is the Male Fire Wardon which means that in adition to his duties as Vice President In Charge of Kissing Mr. Bouvard's Ass, he is the counterpart of the Female Fire Warden who both of them are suposed to check the toilet stalls for hangers-on (and by that I dont mean what may be dangling from somone on the bowl) but lollygaggers who try to stay in the building durring the firedrills when they are supost to evacuate. Insted of staying inside to evacuate.

Even though Peaches is a Vice President and Cathyann is just a cafetteria lady he is crap-in-your-pants scared of her. Peaches sort of stammored that he was gonna call the cops on us cause it is a violation of law not to leave the building when they have a danm firedrill.

"You know," Stu said to Peaches, "You really shoud see if Mr. Bouvard, or any of the senior excecutives are in need of evacuating the premises in a fully safe mannor." Stu has this suave, convincing way about him. Peaches' eyes lit up and he licked his lips with the inpending sweet taste of boot polish and cheerfully scampored off.

"I have had it with his HAH-jinks," Cathyann said, plopping down hard in one of the two fancy bucket armchairs in front of Stu's desk. I sat beside her in the othor.

"Say, y'all, lissen up. I got a question. Y'all are men. 'Course, I ain't so sure about Walter. BWAHAHAHAH!"

Stu said, "Um, Cathyann, I have to speak with Walter privately..." but she ignored him. In fact not only did SHE ignore him, Tilde, who was hovoring outside also wandered in. Tilde is the nosiest buttinsky in the world.

Cathyann shut the door. It was the 4 of us alone togethor once again. She took a deep breath as if she had to say somthin inportant and as she did a leathor-muffled fart rumbled up from beneath her. "Whoops! Wrong end talkin' aginn. BWAHAHAHA!

"Annyways, I wanna ask y'all this: Am I a Ginger kind of woman, or a MaryAnn kind of woman? You know. From Gilligan's Island. Y'all be honest now."

Tilde piped up, "In case anyone's interested, I'm a Maryann!" but no one WAS interested, dammit. She was not even suposed to be there. As Tilde spoke Cathyann droaned her out in anothor longwinded acount of how her and her boyfreind DuWayne were havin rommantic problems. About how Cathyann is too "homey and Maryann" for his tastes (beside the fact that she looked more like the Skipper than any of them), and how DuWayne wants a little more "Ginger" in his lovelife.

"I thought all you dumbass men prefered Mary Ann to Ginger ten to one, or some such. I mean, whut woud DuWayne even DO with a 'Ginger'? Fall asleep up top o'her 'fore he was only half done, like half-does with me?"

Tilde came over to pet Cathyann's arm. Stu said cheerfuly, "DuWayne is a Ginger guy? I thoght I was the only Ginger guy I knew. He's more complex a fellow than I'd given him credit...
"Of course, if I were actualy on Gilligan's Island, I'd take Mrs. Thurston Howell, the 3rd. After, heh-heh-heh, I'd 'Fredo Corleone'd her husband in the lagoon, like at the end of Godfather Part II if ya know what I mean...

..."Hmm. Considoring Lovey Howell's portfolio...", Stu contienued, while tapping on the adding machene on his desk. But he coud not finish cause Cathyann just started bawling. What was wierd was that she cries the same way as she laughs. She bureid her big flat face in her giant beefsteak paws and wailed, "DuWAYNE. Mah sweet love DuWAYNE!!! BWAHAHAHA! BWAHAHAHA!"

The Four of us are all just a bunch of big selfish babies with emmotionol problems

I am the worst of all. Well, mabye Tilde is, but I am a guy and I am suposed to be manly, not sensitive. Anyway me and Tilde both started cryin too, in pity.

After a few minites, Cathyann wiped her wet, runney face, which looked sort of like a peeled overripe persimmon. She dug her hand inside her scanty tube top and pulled from it a long chain made of tiny steel balls. At the end of it was old photo ID card of DuWayne from the carpat cleaning company he used to work for. The plastic card glissoned and dripped with moisture. It was kind of disgousting.

"After DuWayne got fired, I done kept this here thang close to my heart. Well: I cain't remember whut side mah heart is on, the left or the right, I really jest keep it here stuffed down between mah titties. See how sweaty it is?... See it?... Stop pullin' yer face away from me, Walter. This here is WOMAN sweat, and you orta git some of it ON you sometime, you might like it. BWAHAHAHA! BWAHAHAHA!"

Now she was back to laughing. She grabbed my sleeve and wiped her mucusy nose on it.

"Annyways, point is, I am SO MAD at that ol' boy, DUUUWAYNE."

And just as sudenly she raised herself up out of Stu's chair her sweat soaked ass peeled off of the fancy leathor where she was sitting in same moist sticky noise you hear when rising from vinyl padded toilet seat that clings to you in the summertime and walked out of Stu's office and on her way out just for laughs wiped DuWayne's wet slimy ID card RIGHT ON THE BACKOF MY NECK and laughad:

"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!

Finaly she left, but Tilde was still there.

She is so danm clingy. Stu once again said that he really, really needed to talk to me alone. And so it took a coupel of minutes to convince Tilde to also leave. And speaking of Godfather Part II (which they keep showing on the Bravo channol, at least where we live), do you remembor the scene when Michael is throwing his poor exwife Kay out of their house in Nevada when she is desperrate to see her kids and when the door slowly shuts in her face, she looks more and more upset, and then finaly as soon as you cannot see her, you can hear her on the othor side of the door whimporing in agony? Well, ending every encounter with Tilde is allways sort of like that.

Alone with Stu

For the next 5 minuts he was tapping on the adding machene on his desk and ignored me.

"When did Gilligan go off the air, 1967? Suposing Mr. Howell had bought only a thousend shares of, say, Generol Electric back in '65, after the JFK tax cut, and after estate taxes and capital gains...DAT'S A LOTTA POKE CHOPS!" he said sudenly in his Louis Armstrong voice.

I interupted, "Stu!"

"Oh yeah," said Stu. "Um...The reasen I asked you to stick around."

Stu sudenly looked very depressed, and made a loud sigh. "My sence of smell is back, and that's great. But there's somthing else."

The tip of his snout quivored and he bit his jowly lip. "It's Junior," he said slowly. I was wrong about him.

I said to him "You bet your ass you were wrong about him. You told me so the other day. He is our neihgbor, not a meal. it."

Stu sighed, "No, I was wrong about my feelings toword him. "I-I can't get him out of my mind."

Smouldoring, burning and bacon with desire

Stu poured out his heart abbout how alls he thinks about now is Junoir. Ever since he believed for a breif glimpse that he might actualy have to, you know, depend on him to survive while we were brokon down in the desert in Mexico. I told Stu Thank God you can admit it, and that only therapy coud help him. (I have this wacky theorey about therapy: evereyone shoud be in it, even if it is bad therapy.) And I also told him I was willing to see him thru it. But Stu, who was already in counselling about this horoble unspeakable problem, was truely suffering and distruaght.

"I see chops. Roasts, ribs, shanks. Even--Oh, God--sweetbreads and giblets and gravy."

He told me that everywhere he goes, he thinks of and sees Junior, Junior, Junior. Stu said he actualy wants to call him up on the phone: Not as a "date" date, but mabye for a camping trip, or somthing. Perhaps, (if Stu was lucky enuogh), a camping trip where they'd both get lost, and things woud go wrong: VERY wrong, at least for Junior that is.

Stu finaly stopped talking and looked at me, his tiny beady black button eyes welling up and twinkoling with bitter, salty moisture.

"I love him. And I cant have him."

We creid togethor

And it was kindof disgousting too, but I held him. Only cause he needed it. After all Stu has done for me over the years, he truely was my best freind. But these animallistic urges of his were quite a dilemma. Between the beastly horror known as GRANFATHER, and the devastatting return of my porcine companion's sence of taste and smell, my whole danm life had become a one-way trip to the Island of Dr. Moreau.

"Walter," he paused, "Am I ...gay?" he asked hopefuly.

"No," I said, "You are just a pig."

He sighed, "I was afraid of that. My therrapist told me the same thing. In last night's session, she asked me what my feelings woud be if Junior were a woman: A beutiful, sexy younger woman, but still essentially 'Junior'. She asked me, 'So, Stu, what woud you do different?'"

I asked Stu, "What did you say?" Stu bureid his jowls in his hooves and in loud grunting huffs he wept.

"I said that with the higher percenttage of body fat, lower muscle density and extra marbling, I'd marinade less, and turn more."

The bawling became traummatized squeals, similor to the ones that that nasty hillbilly, who lator got shish-kabobbed by Burt Reynolds, pressured poor Ned Beatty into making in that horroble scene in "Delivorance" but much more louder and effortless.

I am sure it was probly very houmilliating for Stu to have to tell me all that, and in one way I actually had to respect him for it. Howevor, I now had to be sure to keep my skinny ass, and Junior's fat one the hell out of the way between Stu and mealtime.

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