BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART TWENTY-EIGHT: DAYS OF WRATH
It was late spring, and Cadger Tandy and Count Victor Justin were standing under an awning in Blowtown to escape a sudden downpour.
“What’s that hateful song that’s been going around,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadger Tandy, “What’s it called?”
“Which one, Count?”
“It sorta goes like this: “Humm-de Humm-de-de-dumm, Dum-de-dumm–dumm–dumm….”
“‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart’?”
“That’s the one. It’s downright maddening, damn it. Insipid noise like that is worse than the toothache. And to make matters worse, it’s all the rage. Great God! You can’t even go to a restaurant without some joker asking the band the strike up ‘Let Me Call Your Sweet Tart.’ Or that other one. What’s it called? “Dumm-de-dumm, dumm-de-dumblety–dumm….
“‘By the Light of the Silvery Moon.'”
“Kee-rect. I can see Yob, that you’re up on all the lousy musical novelties. Tell me this–why can’t we go to a public place and hear some of the good old songs, like ‘Old Black Joe’? Or ‘Carry Me Back to Old Virginny’?
“I tell you, my boy, I do try to keep up with what’s new because my line of work demands that I be conversant regarding a great many topics. But once you get to be a certain age, all the preoccupations of women and children come across as kid’s stuff. And who needs it? Time to earn a living, and put away your toys. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll start to come into real money.
“Unfortunately, most people make the mistake of having children when they’re little more than children themselves, and then they spend the rest of their troubled lives expiating for this massive blunder. To atone for their big mistake they work like slaves. No–I take that back–even slaves were never worked that hard by their shrewd and kindly master, who usually paid a great deal of money for ’em. Parenting is a 24-hour job, and no slave I know of was ever compelled to work more than 18 hours in a day, and they were always given the Sabbath off.
“But a man who has spawned a passel of ungrateful bairns is bound to a wheel of fire. I know whereof I speak. I’ve spoken to square Johns the world over, and they all say the same thing–that the way things work out, the little Yobs and Zooks think that Mammy can do no wrong, and that Dad’s a fink. Never mind that he’s sweating like a maniac to provide for his brood–he’s never home enough of the time because he’s always out working, and when he is home, he doesn’t have the time ner the inclination to play with the kiddies–he just wants some peace and quiet. It ain’t too long before his snippy wife and screaming bairns cause him to leave his happy home and go to a saloon, where he can share the company of men such as himself and contentedly snap at a bottle of the good old stuff until the throbbing pain in his brainpan starts to ease off and go away.
“A yellof is particularly out of luck if his wife is a sweet and innocent young thing, instead of a shrewd old veteran whore. Because a young Gal who becomes a mother is like an unbroken colt–she’s just naturally bound to want to be wild. And you know what that means–the brawny Ice Man, the filthy Coal Man, and the reeking Fish Man all pay her frequent visits, and all your kiddies seem to look an awful lot like the red-headed Milk Man–or is it just your imagination? Probably not, sucker.
“It’s adding insult to injury. There you are–Joe Chump–working to provide for a brood of squalling brats that ain’t even yourn. I tell you Yob, the womenfolk who pull that stunt have put all the con men who ever lived strictly in the shade. There’s nothing like a woman’s wiles to make a man go batty. It’s best to leave ’em alone, or consort only with Zooks if you feel as though you’ve simply got to climb the fuzzy tree or else go batty. Diseased whores and their rough-house pimps may rob you blind, but there’s a limit to how much they can get from out’n your pockets. They can’t rob you of what you don’t have! But once you marry up and take yourself a wife, she’ll take everything you make and more, and ask you why you never seem to make enough. It’s enough to make a cat laugh!
“I do believe that without women, this country would half collapse into a utopia of bearded mountain men who only require some ‘baccy and some corn squeezin’s for to ease their solitude. It’s the womenfolk and their incessant demands that have made the men of this country a band of the most miserable henpecked specimens you’re ever likely to see. Especially the City Dubs. Out in the big stick country, the wife is little more than a brood sow, who spits out the bairns and spends the rest of her miserable life in back-breaking labor. But them city tomatoes is got it pretty soft. And they also have plenty of opportunities to stray. If you don’t give her minks and diamonds, then some other smart Yob will. I tell you, the world is one long bunco game, and everybody is always trying to put one over on everybody else. That’s because Americans are born scoundrels. They all came over here because, for one reason or another, Europe didn’t want them or need them. All except the Injuns, of course, and I’m not so sure about them, either.
“You see, for the most part, the womenfolk in Europe don’t get away with half the guff they manage to pull here in the Land of the Free. Their husbands have got them trained. The women know that they’re not likely to do better than the man she’s cotched, and so she behaves herself. But here in America, life is a paradise for the slattern and the divorcee–and nothing but pure hell for the honorable man who tries to do what’s right, only to balls put in a vise grip. I’m telling you right now, Yob, that in a land full of crooks and grifters, nobody has it worse than the honest Joe, who’s mostly as scarce as hen’s teeth– at least hereabouts in good old Blowtown.”
When Nixon became President, Rebozo got his own office and bedroom at the White House, and a security clearance that allowed him to go in and out without being logged by the secret service. Using a false name, says Fulsom, Rebozo even got into Nixon’s hotel suite during a trip to Europe.
The President’s closest colleagues complained at the way Rebozo monopolised Nixon’s time. General Alexander Haig, his last chief of staff, is said to have imitated Rebozo’s ‘limp wrist’ manner and joked that Rebozo and Nixon were lovers.
Why not let the car dealers bid against each other? Here are a few sites with useful information to get you started:
There is an obnoxious Poor People’s Car dealership called J.D. Byrider whose odious commercials, geared to morons, state, “Bad credit? No credit? At J.D. Byrider, you’re good to go!”
Yeah–if you want to pay 19.99% interest on a car loan.
SPIDEY & JESUS: THE UNTOLD STORY
IF THE FAMILY CIRCUS DIDN’T SUCK
Fake news. Sad.
A recent analysis by the Economist…found that, “The data suggest that the ill may have been particularly susceptible to Mr. Trump’s message. According to our model, if diabetes were just 7% less prevalent in Michigan, Mr. Trump would have gained 0.3 fewer percentage points there, enough to swing the state back to the Democrats. Similarly, if an additional 8% of people in Pennsylvania engaged in regular physical activity, and heavy drinking in Wisconsin were 5% lower, Mrs. Clinton would be set to enter the White House.”
A Floater Left with Pleasure in the Executive Washroom
Hell Is Empty And All the Hedge Fund Managers Are At The Bellagio