The Last Straw

My weekends are pretty uneventful. I'm not really a social animal, outside of the occasional sporting event that is. So, my Saturday morning was shaping up to be pretty tame. I was hunkered down under my blankets, the breeze from the window blowing across the one foot that has to be left out of the covers, the dogs asleep on my legs.

Suddenly there was a loud crash against the back wall of the house. Holy Kato Calin! The dogs were barking, I was freakin', and I couldn't find the shells for the shotgun (Good thing too, Bessie hadn't been cleaned since the great squirrel rebellion of 1989!). So I grabbed my trusty Easton "Power Swing" instead and bolted for the back door.

The prodigal son returns. I hadn't heard from Seymour for almost two weeks. He had called me for bail money, but hung up before I could find out where he was. Now he was in my back yard, filthy and smelling of whiskey. The stench was so strong, the dogs wouldn't go near him. He kept muttering something about "watch out for the wombats, they are nasty fuckers."

After a jumbo pot of java and a turn through the washing machine, I began to piece the story together. Seymour had answered the door one day while I was at work (something he is not supposed to do) and greeted two Mormon missionaries with "What the fuck do you want?"

Of course, their goal was to save his soul. What was left of it. He invited them in for morning cocktails. They refused, but Seymour is a wiley bastard. He convinced them to keep him company will he killed some brain cells. In return, he would listen to their sales pitch.

They knew they had their hands full. Seymour is inclined to say things like "sure, enternal salvation sounds good, but I like to drink, smoke a fattie and do a fatty.......ya think the good Lord can compromise on one or two things?"

The Mormans knew they needed help. They called in the kidnappers and whisked Seymour away to a remote location. Seymour's memory is a little hazy at this point. Something about how he was lucky he had his stash of roofies with him, but the story picks up with him and two Mormons named John and Paul at a little bar called "John's Creek" in Mississippi. I've been to John's Creek. It's a redneck dive that serves it's beer by the can that you have to open yourself and is owned by a Nazi named Richard.

Richard welcomed Seymour back and they began to tie one on with his new friends matching him drink for drink. Every thing was going well until one poor sod noticed Richard's swastika ring and commented "Hitler had it coming." Richard proceeded to pistol whip the young man and then went into a Nazi frenzy, screaming "Seig Heil! Seig Heil!" but instead of giving the Nazi salute, every time he said "Seigh Heil" he would pop a round into the ceiling.

Now the Desoto County sheriff's department doesn't mind a fella blowing off a little steam, but you aren't really allowed to shoot up a bar even if you are the owner. Everyone in the bar was dragged off to the hoosegow en masse and that's when Seymour called me. He hung up before he could tell me where he was because the jailer had come to release him. When I asked why they let him go, he just said "the man can't keep a sock down." When I queried about the whereabouts of his friends John and Paul, Seymour snorted "hmph, those rookies? Last time I saw them, some bubba was selling their asses into prison slavery for a pack of smokes." Poor Mormons.

That still didn't explain what Seymour had been doing for the last two weeks. He claims he was "gettin' my grove on dude, just gettin' my grove on."

So here we are. Seymour only came back to get the last of his whiskey. He says he is moving out and is starting his own blog. He thinks I should have treated him better and on his way out the door he said "there may be other socks out there, but you will never find another one like me." Preach on brother Seymour, preach on.



Good night Seymour , where ever you are.