Flashback to Yard 4
The Distaste Harboured by Two Tonys for TV Mourners
“Yesterday,” Two Tonys began, “I turn on my TV set, and all I get is this fuckin’ Gerald Ford guy. They’re showin’ his fuckin’ life, his fuckin’ wife, his fuckin’ kids – on every channel: Ford – Ford – Ford. And everybody’s cryin’ over this fuckin’ guy: wah – wah – fuckin’ - wah. Whatthafuck am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to be mourning this motherfucker who never put a penny on my books? And I look at these fuckin’ schloughs, the people in line lookin’ at Ford’s body, wahin’ away as if their own mothers had croaked, actin’ like they know the motherfucker when they don’t know shit from Shinola. And I’m thinkin’: Ford was probably a nice guy who didn’t fuck his page boys and had his fuckin’ moments, but I ain’t gonna spend my afternoon mournin’ the motherfucker. Whatthafucks wrong with these fuckin’ people?
And it’s the same with James Brown. They’re mournin’ that motherfucker’s ass down there in Georgia. He never put no cash on my books either. And at his eulogy, I don’t hear 'em bustin' out with how he beat his old lady, and how he had fathered bastard kids all over the universe. Give that motherfucker a space-shuttle ticket to Mars, and he woulda had kids up there too. I didn’t hear the Reverend Al Sharpton mention how James fucked everything back stage that wasn’t tied down. And guess who shows up at his funeral? The world’s fuckin’ ugliest chomo: Michael Jackson with his fucked up face.
Death usually comes in threes, I’m told. First James Brown. Then that fuckin’ punk Ford who pardoned the biggest crook next to Dubya to ever get in the White House: Richard Nixon. So I said to myself: who’s gonna be the third? And lo and behold they kill the motherfucker who thought he was the second comin’ of Nebucadnezzar: Saddam Hussein. They put a noose around his neck, and hung him yellin’ ‘Burn in hell, motherfucker.’ Now don’t get me wrong, if ever a motherfucker had a good killin’ comin’ it was Saddam – especially for killin’ all those Kurds with the WMD and chemical weapons Ronald Reagan and Henry Kissinger sold him to attack Iran with. But I liked the way Saddam didn’t snivel. I’d like to go out like that – with no fuckin’ hood. Saddam went out on a strong note. He was a killer and a thug and all that shit, but ain’t they all? Bush is a fuckin’ killer: sixty or seventy thousand dead in Iraq ain’t no collateral damage – it’s straight up killin’, it’s genocide. I like how when they put the noose around his neck, Saddam was yellin’ Mohammed is his messenger, Allah is great, and all that Koran shit. Attaboy Nebuchadnezzar.
When John Lennon got whacked by that fuckin’ nutcake, they were lined up outside his and Yoko Ono’s fuckin’ apartment singin’ Imagine, Give Peace a Chance, and all that shit. Now did I like his music? Yes. Did the motherfucker ever put any money on my books from all his fuckin’ millions? No, not one single penny. Would he have come to my fuckin funeral if some fuckface had shanked me in the fuckin’ windpipe? Definitely not. How many of those motherfuckers out on the streets and at his funeral ever get to have tea and crumpets with the Liverpudlian? Not fuckin’ many. Yet they were out on the streets mournin’ like motherfuckers.
People need to getthafuck over the deaths of motherfuckers they don’t even know. Even if someone’s mom dies, shed a few tears, bury her, and get on with your fuckin’ life. 'Cause lemmetellyasomethin’: death is a part of fuckin’ life. Life and death go together like pork chops and apple sauce. Death ain’t nothin’. True believers in the Pearly Gates can’t wait to die. Same goes for the jihadists and their virgins. I ain’t been, but I’ve sent a few motherfuckers to the other side. But if they were alive today, they’d probably be trailer-park trash eatin’ outta Chef Boyardee cans, so I did 'em a favour. But that’s what I do, I do favours.
These TV mourners have got no fuckin’ lives. All this wah-wah-wah buisness is a cry for fuckin' help in a world that’s slowly becomin’ an insane asylum.”
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Copyright © 2006-2007 Shaun P. Attwood