Post by BBQ Butcher on Sept 25, 2008 8:25:19 GMT -5
A good acquaintance of mine, Billy "Johnny" Walker, aka CaptJ passed away Monday Sept 21 from an automobile crash in Colorado.
CaptJ lived and enjoyed life to the fullest. He was a charter boat captain and yacht broker here in Southwest Florida for over 33 years. He is survived by his daughter, brother and girlfriend.
CaptJ was a prolific writer and humorist (I just wish he had kept all his prose on paper ). Below is an example of his sense of humor. It may not be politically correct, but I'm sure for those of you who shop in Walmart, you can identify with it.
CaptJ lived and enjoyed life to the fullest. He was a charter boat captain and yacht broker here in Southwest Florida for over 33 years. He is survived by his daughter, brother and girlfriend.
CaptJ was a prolific writer and humorist (I just wish he had kept all his prose on paper ). Below is an example of his sense of humor. It may not be politically correct, but I'm sure for those of you who shop in Walmart, you can identify with it.
Shopping at Walmart, by CaptJ, aka Johnny Walker
I've been away from my home address in suburban hell for most of the summer and have been either in deep wilderness solitude or in the presence of relatively normal people during this time. After being gone that long, walking through a grocery store within shuffling distance of low rent apartments is a shock, no matter how many times you've been there before.
I just got back from Wal-Mart....oh, hey, gotta take care of something:
For those of you who follow my every syllable awaiting a contradiction, yes, I did once write that I'd never enter a Wal-Mart unless it was to shoot everyone inside. Well, I've had to drop that policy because they put the other stores in the neighborhood outta business. Bummer.
OK, where was I....before going to Wal-Mart, I was soaking in my daily dose of hard, meaningful journalism from the top professionals at Fox News. They spent a nice chunk of time arguing with a really dumb black guy from Alexandria, Louisiana who was pushing a law against having 13 inches of your drawers (that's bloomers to you limeys) showing. It was a truly fine use of valuable news time.
Off to the store I went, and goddamn, everywhere I looked there was a hip gangster wannabe thug with his pants around his thighs. It was fuc*ing hilarious. What really killed me was the way they walked - this kind of duck/penguin thing bringing to mind when the fattest kid in school would get that rash on the inside of the thighs.
This one idiot I saw in the cereal aisle had his jeans no more than 10 inches above his knees. He could barely function as a mobile entity. The dude couldn't have weighed more than a buck ten and was with his charming and adorable family - a 220 lb. sistah with a baby doll top on, huge rolls of fat and stretch marks exploding from the Froot Loops to the Lucky Charms. She had a bizarre, elaborate hairstyle, these horrible long curved fingernails with some kind of design painted on 'em, and was constantly (and LOUDLY) yakking on two cell phones. At least one of the conversations revolved around the content of todays Maury Povich talk show.
This woman was nothing short of grotesque. Oh, and she smelled kinda stinky (with thick perfume attempted covering), too. When I imagined that beanpole of a thug fuc*ing that hog, I had no choice but to start cracking up. Little did I know I'd be laughing much harder shortly.
They had two little mongrel kids, both had their pants around their thighs, too. Each was clutching, of course, a toy rifle from the amusement for children part of the store. Their behavior was atrocious, and despite their very loud hollering, it was difficult to decipher even one word of their constant outbursts. The parents would occasionally try to correct them by snapping at them as if they were pieces of dirt, but to no avail.
Upon reaching the cleaners aisle, the little thugs went wild and started playing urban war games, using the moving shopping carts of other bewildered shoppers as cover. I think they made more noise in two minutes than I made throughout my childhood. It was intense, and fascinating.
The two kids apparently had some kind of a disagreement. I'm not sure what the problem was, since I didn't have an interpreter present (think June Cleaver's role in the film Airplane). One of the l'il picaninnies freaked out, shoved his toy rifle into a shelf display of bathroom cleaner and swept it toward his brother, emptying the shelf amid a shower of housekeeping supplies. Good sht.
Picaninny #2 won't put up with that sht and bashes #1 straight down on the skull with his rifle, breaking it. Mom actually notices this and pulls the phone from her sweaty triple chin to finally take decisive action, which, in this case, is directing the babydaddy to manage the mini-riot.
RO-trell! RO-trell!!! RO-TRELL!!!! Do summin wid dose KEEEE-izzzz NOW.
What the fu*k is a Ro-trell? Ro-tel tomatoes mixed with Prell shampoo? Throw in some skanky Velveeta and you can have a snack while washing your hair. Oh, wait, I think Velveeta might have been the mother's name. Sht, as of now, that IS her fuc*ing name.
RO-trell furiously duck-walks toward the commotion with Groundskeeper Willie zeal, but held to a Monty Burns pace by his britches. The crotch of his underwear is clearly visible, and clearly stained, too. Eeeeee-yew. Nasty, but fu*kin' hilarious.
He grabs the rifles from each child and deposits them on the top shelf. The l'il thugs wail like banshees in protest, and the older one (I need names for these kids....hmmmm, let's go with Roundtree and Cornelius) tries to climb the shelves to get his gun back.
RO-TRELL! Geh 'im offa dat shay-elff!!!
Ro-trell snatches young Roundtree by the neck and plants him on the ground. I freely admit I was hoping he'd plant his best Mike Tyson punch in the middle of the little monster's face. Corn tries to run away, but Ro barely catches him by the shirt before he shakes loose. Ro ain't gonna be beaten - he spins to follow Corn, but on the first step, Roundtree's neck still in his hand, he trips over a bottle of toilet bowl cleaner deposited on the floor by the earlier toy gun-as-hockey stick escapade.
If dressed normally, Ro-trell should have been able to recover easily. But, having one's thighs bound together by a waistband is a real onion in the ointment when you're thrown off balance. Hilarity ensues as Ro wipes out in the middle of the aisle, knocking the sht out of his knee and elbow, all the while dragging a bloody-murder-screaming Roundtree down with him. I saw no serious impact suffered by Roundtree, but, he was apparently a little (deleted) so he launched into a hysterical crying fit. And it all happened so fast. Fu*king awesome.
Velveeta went completely haywire. Surely her little clan was embarrassing her terribly in a public place, right? Nope. She was pised because she couldn't hear her phone call 'cause the kids wuz screamin'. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she summoned her classy group to the cart, smacked each kid upside the head, unleashed a torrent of seething rage at poor RO-tel, and on they went with their shopping, leaving the mess in the aisle for someone else to deal with.
When they reached my position at the end of the aisle, I'm laughing my ass off, unable to hide it, and I'm staring at Ro's exposed drawers like some kind of homo. Ro, apparently recovering one of his balls from Velveeta, snapped at me:
RO: "What tuh f*ck you lookin' at"
captj: "I'm not sure, Hoss. It'll take me a while to work it out."
RO: "Whass dat posta mean?"
captj: "So......you're saying I don't need a new muffler???"
Not quite the answer he was expecting. They move on, Ro muttering something like "dumbass motherfu*ker" in my direction. OK, so Ro don't like me too much, but, being a true fan of free entertainment, that certainly doesn't mean I'm not gonna follow their asses around the store until they're done. They'd best swing by produce 'cause I need a fu*kin' cucumber. I hope they have those long, tasty English ones.
Unfortunately, the little monsters calmed down and the rest of their shopping trip was uneventful. I did count 7 more funny walking fu*ks with their pants around their thighs, tho. Got in line behind this fine family to learn they apparently live on baloney, snack cakes, Cheetos, and generic red soda. Out came the welfare card as I suppressed the urge to proclaim "Right-o, this one's on me, my fine friends".
She had to pay cash for the disposable douches and a pair of size 13 women's slippers, though. I looked at Velveeta, then at the douches. Being a visualizer, I couldn't fight off the image of that nozzle sliding into her atrocity of a birth canal. My knees turned to jelly as a head rush came on. OK, this isn't fun anymore, I gotta get outta here.
I left the store just in time to see RO-trell, Velveeta, and sons speed out of the parking lot at an insanely high speed in a new Chevy Tahoe.
Until the douche nozzle vision, it was a fu*king kick ass trip to the store.
……..CaptJ, August 2006
I've been away from my home address in suburban hell for most of the summer and have been either in deep wilderness solitude or in the presence of relatively normal people during this time. After being gone that long, walking through a grocery store within shuffling distance of low rent apartments is a shock, no matter how many times you've been there before.
I just got back from Wal-Mart....oh, hey, gotta take care of something:
For those of you who follow my every syllable awaiting a contradiction, yes, I did once write that I'd never enter a Wal-Mart unless it was to shoot everyone inside. Well, I've had to drop that policy because they put the other stores in the neighborhood outta business. Bummer.
OK, where was I....before going to Wal-Mart, I was soaking in my daily dose of hard, meaningful journalism from the top professionals at Fox News. They spent a nice chunk of time arguing with a really dumb black guy from Alexandria, Louisiana who was pushing a law against having 13 inches of your drawers (that's bloomers to you limeys) showing. It was a truly fine use of valuable news time.
Off to the store I went, and goddamn, everywhere I looked there was a hip gangster wannabe thug with his pants around his thighs. It was fuc*ing hilarious. What really killed me was the way they walked - this kind of duck/penguin thing bringing to mind when the fattest kid in school would get that rash on the inside of the thighs.
This one idiot I saw in the cereal aisle had his jeans no more than 10 inches above his knees. He could barely function as a mobile entity. The dude couldn't have weighed more than a buck ten and was with his charming and adorable family - a 220 lb. sistah with a baby doll top on, huge rolls of fat and stretch marks exploding from the Froot Loops to the Lucky Charms. She had a bizarre, elaborate hairstyle, these horrible long curved fingernails with some kind of design painted on 'em, and was constantly (and LOUDLY) yakking on two cell phones. At least one of the conversations revolved around the content of todays Maury Povich talk show.
This woman was nothing short of grotesque. Oh, and she smelled kinda stinky (with thick perfume attempted covering), too. When I imagined that beanpole of a thug fuc*ing that hog, I had no choice but to start cracking up. Little did I know I'd be laughing much harder shortly.
They had two little mongrel kids, both had their pants around their thighs, too. Each was clutching, of course, a toy rifle from the amusement for children part of the store. Their behavior was atrocious, and despite their very loud hollering, it was difficult to decipher even one word of their constant outbursts. The parents would occasionally try to correct them by snapping at them as if they were pieces of dirt, but to no avail.
Upon reaching the cleaners aisle, the little thugs went wild and started playing urban war games, using the moving shopping carts of other bewildered shoppers as cover. I think they made more noise in two minutes than I made throughout my childhood. It was intense, and fascinating.
The two kids apparently had some kind of a disagreement. I'm not sure what the problem was, since I didn't have an interpreter present (think June Cleaver's role in the film Airplane). One of the l'il picaninnies freaked out, shoved his toy rifle into a shelf display of bathroom cleaner and swept it toward his brother, emptying the shelf amid a shower of housekeeping supplies. Good sht.
Picaninny #2 won't put up with that sht and bashes #1 straight down on the skull with his rifle, breaking it. Mom actually notices this and pulls the phone from her sweaty triple chin to finally take decisive action, which, in this case, is directing the babydaddy to manage the mini-riot.
RO-trell! RO-trell!!! RO-TRELL!!!! Do summin wid dose KEEEE-izzzz NOW.
What the fu*k is a Ro-trell? Ro-tel tomatoes mixed with Prell shampoo? Throw in some skanky Velveeta and you can have a snack while washing your hair. Oh, wait, I think Velveeta might have been the mother's name. Sht, as of now, that IS her fuc*ing name.
RO-trell furiously duck-walks toward the commotion with Groundskeeper Willie zeal, but held to a Monty Burns pace by his britches. The crotch of his underwear is clearly visible, and clearly stained, too. Eeeeee-yew. Nasty, but fu*kin' hilarious.
He grabs the rifles from each child and deposits them on the top shelf. The l'il thugs wail like banshees in protest, and the older one (I need names for these kids....hmmmm, let's go with Roundtree and Cornelius) tries to climb the shelves to get his gun back.
RO-TRELL! Geh 'im offa dat shay-elff!!!
Ro-trell snatches young Roundtree by the neck and plants him on the ground. I freely admit I was hoping he'd plant his best Mike Tyson punch in the middle of the little monster's face. Corn tries to run away, but Ro barely catches him by the shirt before he shakes loose. Ro ain't gonna be beaten - he spins to follow Corn, but on the first step, Roundtree's neck still in his hand, he trips over a bottle of toilet bowl cleaner deposited on the floor by the earlier toy gun-as-hockey stick escapade.
If dressed normally, Ro-trell should have been able to recover easily. But, having one's thighs bound together by a waistband is a real onion in the ointment when you're thrown off balance. Hilarity ensues as Ro wipes out in the middle of the aisle, knocking the sht out of his knee and elbow, all the while dragging a bloody-murder-screaming Roundtree down with him. I saw no serious impact suffered by Roundtree, but, he was apparently a little (deleted) so he launched into a hysterical crying fit. And it all happened so fast. Fu*king awesome.
Velveeta went completely haywire. Surely her little clan was embarrassing her terribly in a public place, right? Nope. She was pised because she couldn't hear her phone call 'cause the kids wuz screamin'. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she summoned her classy group to the cart, smacked each kid upside the head, unleashed a torrent of seething rage at poor RO-tel, and on they went with their shopping, leaving the mess in the aisle for someone else to deal with.
When they reached my position at the end of the aisle, I'm laughing my ass off, unable to hide it, and I'm staring at Ro's exposed drawers like some kind of homo. Ro, apparently recovering one of his balls from Velveeta, snapped at me:
RO: "What tuh f*ck you lookin' at"
captj: "I'm not sure, Hoss. It'll take me a while to work it out."
RO: "Whass dat posta mean?"
captj: "So......you're saying I don't need a new muffler???"
Not quite the answer he was expecting. They move on, Ro muttering something like "dumbass motherfu*ker" in my direction. OK, so Ro don't like me too much, but, being a true fan of free entertainment, that certainly doesn't mean I'm not gonna follow their asses around the store until they're done. They'd best swing by produce 'cause I need a fu*kin' cucumber. I hope they have those long, tasty English ones.
Unfortunately, the little monsters calmed down and the rest of their shopping trip was uneventful. I did count 7 more funny walking fu*ks with their pants around their thighs, tho. Got in line behind this fine family to learn they apparently live on baloney, snack cakes, Cheetos, and generic red soda. Out came the welfare card as I suppressed the urge to proclaim "Right-o, this one's on me, my fine friends".
She had to pay cash for the disposable douches and a pair of size 13 women's slippers, though. I looked at Velveeta, then at the douches. Being a visualizer, I couldn't fight off the image of that nozzle sliding into her atrocity of a birth canal. My knees turned to jelly as a head rush came on. OK, this isn't fun anymore, I gotta get outta here.
I left the store just in time to see RO-trell, Velveeta, and sons speed out of the parking lot at an insanely high speed in a new Chevy Tahoe.
Until the douche nozzle vision, it was a fu*king kick ass trip to the store.
……..CaptJ, August 2006