Hornswaggler | The culture, the humor, a bit of the sports, not so much the politics, and the workplace distraction

Hornswaggle is an alternate spelling of hornswoggle, an archaic word that means to bamboozle or hoodwink. I take my pronunciation from the late Harvey Korman in "Blazing Saddles" --

"I want rustlers, cutthroats, murderers, bounty hunters, desperados, mugs, pugs, thugs, nitwits, halfwits, dimwits, vipers, snipers, conmen, Indian agents, Mexican bandits, muggers, buggerers, bushwhackers, hornswagglers, horse thieves, bull dykes, train robbers, bank robbers, ass kickers, shit kickers and Methodists!"

Culture, Humor, Sports
Workplace Distraction

Wednesday, October 09, 2002

As a reaction to the Philadelphia Eagles' pathetic 28-25 loss to the Jacksonville Jaguars on Sunday, let us once again pay a visit to the parallel universe in which the ups and downs of Philly's football team are mirrored in the fortunes of a mythical kingdom, where a fire has broken out in the monastery. It started when a monk working late into the night on a treatise regarding the psychedelic properties of certain varieties of soft cheese nodded off and let slip his pipe with its glowing embers onto his manuscript. Let's join KRAK-TV reporter Brock Anchorman and his cameraman, who are at the scene of the still smoldering monastery.

"3, 2, 1 ... This is Brock Anchorman, reporting live from in front of the monastery. Tragedy struck early this morning when a late-night writing and bong-smoking session turned deadly. Deadly hilarious, that is!"

Anchorman stopped himself and addressed his cameraman. "Are we live yet, Stan? Okay, let's go."

He resumed his report. "A deadly four-alarm fire broke out at the monastery early this morning and, though the fire is now under control, firefighters are still trying to snuff out the blaze. No one was seriously injured -- although many of the monks and a couple firemen were treated for smoke inhalation -- but a pet hamster named Mr. Woogums did perish in the flames. The tragedy is over now, but just try telling that to Mr. Woogums, because he's dead.

"Let's see if we can find anyone who can tell us what happened. Ah, here is local stoner, chicken herder and MC, Train Rek, whose latest single, 'Baby, For a Crack Whore, You're Alright,' is at the top of the charts. Train, I understand you witnessed the catastrophe while walking your flock. What did you see?"
"Well, Bessie done wandered over in this here vicinity and I looked up and seen ..."
"Wait a second, Train. You seem pretty distracted. Are you high on narcotics right now?"
"Well, now that you mention it, I sure is. Am. Is."
"I see. And do you have your paraphenalia with you?"
"Yep, but I don't unnerstand why ... Is this some kinda bust or wha ... "
"Ha ha. Lord no. Listen. In the name of journalistic integrity and so that the viewers and myself can understand your perspective on this calamity as clearly as possible, I suggest you pack that bowl and pass it over. Let's send it back to the studio for a few minutes until this kicks in."

While the network scrambled to cover for the improvisation of its reporter and drafted his pink slip, Brock sparked up. After fifteen minutes elapsed Anchorman resumed his interview with Train Rek. Both men were slumped against the monastery wall.

"Alright we're back with Train Rek here. Rek, what did you see in the monastery?"
"First I seen flames shootin' out the windows."
"Hmmm. Big flames?"
"Yeah, pretty big."
"Did you see any shapes or anything in the flames?"
"I saw kind of a elephant on a surfboard type deal, now that I think about it."
"Oh that's cool. That's cool. I once saw a leprechaun in a camp fire. It wore a mischievous grin ... Ever wonder what life was like before fire, Train? In prehistoric times?"
"It must've been rough."
"You'd be at the mercy of noctural predators. The big cats. Creatures of the night."
"That would suck, man, no doubt about it."
"And think about, what if you were near-sighted back then? If you couldn't see and but you didn't have glasses or contacts? You'd be fucked."
"You'd be selected out, baby!"
"That's right. Natural selection. Wow ... Hey, what were we just talking about?"
"Being eaten by predators?"
"No, before that."
"No, that's not it. Man, I had a great idea. Oh well." Brock remembered that they were on live television.
"OK, that's the story from the horse's mouth. Back to you guys in the studio."
When the camera switched off, both men stood up and dusted themselves off. Brock addressed Train Rek familiarly.
"Good work, man! Your hick dialect is really coming along."
"Thanks, dude, I appreciate it. But do you really have to call me a stoner on live TV, motherfucker?"
"Dude. I had to set the mood. And lest you forget, you are a stoner."
"You got that right, holmes!!" The two orchestrated an elaborate handshake.
Train Rek spoke to Stan, who was gazing fixedly into the distance.
"Stan Stan the cameraman. What's up, dude?"
"Screw you, queer."
"Right back atcha, cocksucker. So Brockman, BBQ at my place tonight. You in?"
"Aww sheeet. What time?"
"Cool. I will see you then."
Train Rek turned to Stan.
"You comin' by Stan?"
"I'd rather dip my balls in a deep fryer."
"Okay. We won't be expecting you then. Asshole."
"Up yours."

And with that, we'll leave Brock, Stan and Train Rek and their juvenile banter, for there is other news in the kingdom. Back at the castle, the king was waiting for the arrival of his royal physician. The herbal supplements that his royal highness ordered over the Internet ran out, causing, er, complications. Once the king stopped taking the penile enhancers the effects disappeared. The skin that had stretched to accomodate the increased girth of his member now hung like flesh drapes.

"I don't understand it!" the king exclaimed to his attendant while looking out the window of his bedchamber, hands clasped behind his back. "The gentleman who sold me this product ... ah, what was his name?"
"SeriousSize3241@yahoo.com, Sire?" the attendant offered.
"Yes. A peculiar name, I must say. Well, he didn't mention any such side effects. And why can't we order any more of these pills?"
"I'm afraid we can't locate the company that sold them, Sire," the attendant said hesitantly, coughing.
"Well, this is troubling indeed. And what about this fire this morning? Was anyone injured, er, grievously?"
"No, Sire. Although there was an odd news report from KRAK-TV that made rather a big fuss over the death of a pet hamster. Frankly I think ... "
"A hamster, eh? Oh, dear. What was it's name?"
"Name? Mr. Woogums, from what I've been told, but again I don't think ... "
"Send my condolences to its family."
"To the hamster's family, Your Highness?"
"Damn it, just do what I say!" screamed the king, eyes flashing. "You're dismissed. Send in Dr. Giggles."

The doctor, a rotund figure, wobbled into the room and approached the king. He bowed extraordinarily low. The king got right to the point.
"Giggles, I've got to have this situation with the royal appendage straightened out and quickly. The maidens grow restless."
"Yes, your highness. You see, your highness has a condition that specialists in the field refer to as 'Saggy Penis.' It's a relatively novel phenomenon and we're just beginning to understand what we're up against."
"Saggy Penis. I say. That's a mouthful. But what's the course of action, Doctor?"
"That's just it, Sire. Short of an operation, I haven't been able to determine what the best ... "
"No scalpel shall touch this penis!" the king exclaimed. "Not, at any rate, unless I decide to shave myself in a clinical setting. But that's neither here nor there. Find a solution, Giggles. And find it now! You're dismissed."
"Yes, your highness. We'll solve this matter chop chop." The king turned pale. "Very poor choice of words, Sire. I'm sorry."
Giggles turned to go. "Oh, and Giggles," the king called after him. "Do start capitalizing your Your Highnesses, will you? I won't ask you again."
Giggles turned bright red and, spluttering profuse apologies, tottered out of the room.

The king wasn't the only one facing hard times, however. The queen's affair with the dashing Duke John-John D'Artagnan had turned sour. If asked to pinpoint the exact moment she began to have doubts, she'd probably say it was when he asked to be spanked with a fly swatter while wearing lingerie and listening to John Tesh's Greatest Hits at half-speed. But memory is a fickle servant.

The king, having learned of the affair, dispatched the queen's kinky lover on a diplomatic mission to an island inhabited by a tribe of cannibals who had created their language based upon a plastic-wrapped Ann Coulter best seller that had washed ashore one day, unread. But not before the unfortunate duke gave the queen an STD. She was not sorry to see him go.

Heaped upon all this misfortune, Count Wrinklybottoms had escaped from the pit in which he had been thrown with a ravenous anaconda as punishment for his perfidy. But that story will have to wait for another day.

.: posted by hornswaggler 2:21 PM

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