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JWR 2.18 - City Boys
“Come lay your bones on the alabaster stones and be my ever-loving baby.”
“You and me and the devil makes three.”
Ever been to Arpin? Me neither until a couple of weekends ago. Arpin is a tiny farm town located between Stevens Point and Backfuck, WI. My friends Danny and Jessie live there with their two daughters, one of whom likes to whomp you in the ass with a toy fishing pole when you’re not looking--really, really hard. “Look out! Get down!”
They have a really beautiful house. I mean, it’s nothing extra special or overbearing, but maybe that’s why I liked it so much--aside from the shower in the downstairs bathroom. I mean, I’m used to a little silver doohickey you pull up that resides on top of the faucet in order to turn on the shower. This was missing in their bathroom. So, I was looking up by the shower nozzle in case it was up there. Nope. So, I had to go out like a dumb bell and ASK how you turn the shower on. Well, apparently in Toe Jam, WI there’s a new way to do it. The little ring where the water comes out initially, you just have to pull that down. Who knew? I really resisted the temptation to ask how to do fundamentally simple things the rest of the weekend. How do you open this can of soda? Just pop the top. Pop the top? Don’t seem right to me. Say, how do you wipe you ass; could you maybe show me that--no, use some of that aloe tissue paper. I like that.
Danny builds highways and roads. Now that’s some work. I call people on the phone and say, “This invoice is still open, why?” Danny builds fucking roads. (In all honesty, he’s probably one of those guys that you see just standing there with a thumb up their butt and the other in the air. Only joking--I have to say that or I might wind up with one fist in my mouth and a foot in my ass. Tonight in Hillbilly, WI, Danny sacrificed me fast, for he laid the smack down on my candy ass. Or at least his daughter did. She’s four.)
Jessie teaches creation in the backwards school. Only joking. She teaches and looks nice. Granted, she’s the age of my oldest brother, but you know me--always been attracted to older women, as well as those that I can’t have.
To be honest, maybe I was more impressed simply because I was expecting some tiny farmhouse with a dirt-floored basement. Not a new twenty-five hundred square-foot house with a three car garage beautifully decorated with very cool tile work on the hard floors and the biggest microwave I have ever seen and an ice maker in the fridge. Perhaps, as we passed through towns with populations like five and three hundred, literally--or as near as you can get to literally these days--one horse towns.
Anybody ever been to Cambridge, WI? It’s a bit north of here beyond Fort Atkinson. Your mothers would love it. It’s a craft town. Little craft shops where local yahoos who call themselves artisans sell their crap--I mean, crafts. My mom would stop there on the way to the WI Dells. She’d shop and my brother and I would walk the distance of the town, from one end to the other. Fifteen minutes to walk. The general store was like a blast from the recent past. I will say, there was one hottie selling stalks of corn on the side of the road.
I thought Arpin would be like that. I don’t really think Arpin had any stores. I didn’t really see any. I may be wrong, but you had to go a town over to get anything. Now, this is the 21st century and we have cars, so this whole going to the next town over thing is not a big deal.
I wanted a quiet weekend away from home. I can have quiet weekends here like the weekend after my Trailer Park visit. I had lunch with an old friend Saturday and aside from that, nothing. I read the Rock’s autobiography in a few hours. Watched O Brother, Where Art Thou? Chilled.
In Armpit, WI, we had a quiet weekend. We got a little loud, but it was relaxing. On Saturday, the ladies had a Party-Lite party and Zach, Danny and I went over a town to Bangers, the bar. THE bar. It was early afternoon. Yeah, they enjoyed the Busch Light and I partook in some of the High Life. Six. And some Swisher Sweets. Then some hillbilly cheese curds. We came back after the party was over and ate the leftover foodstuffs. (I’ll say, a few ladies arrived before we left and some of those farm chicks are hot.)
Farm chicks. I went to the state fair last year for the first time in years. They have livestock in the big buildings there. They award prizes for the biggest pig and the hottest cow or some shit. But I completely forgot how hot a lot of farm girls are. Everyone else was looking at the pigs big balls. Not me. I was checking out the cow milkers, dig?
If I ever get responsible enough, I think I’d like to marry Jessie--well, not Jessie, but a Jessie look alike. Minus the ass-smackin’ kid. Oh, it’s all right. I can be a farmer. Look at me, I’m a farmer. I’m a farmer. A farmer. A farmer.
Well, maybe I couldn’t be a farmer. I live close enough to Best Buy to walk. The mall, Barnes and Nobels, Applebee’s. I can smell the chicken at KFC. I live in a modern-day hub. I have easy access to cheeseballs. My own, too. A haha ha ha ha ha.
I’d give it up, I think. Yeah, sit on the porch with a lemonade and a beer. Let the Party-Lite citronella candles keep the big country bugs away. And the electrified fence will keep the big country crackers away. Then we can all tip some cows, drink some beers and listen to the Backstreet Boys.
Then bury me at the end of a mending wall.
“O come angel band, come and around me stand, for bear me away on your snow white wings to my immortal home. O bear me away on your snow white wings to my immortal home.”
Copyright © 2001 John Lemut