i met gramma dot

Fatman: My wife is in the hospital.

Me: Why come?

Fatman: Salmonella poisoning.

Me: Eh?

Fatman: She ate -

I interrupt his jibber jabber.

Me: Prob'ly gots it offa toilet seat...

Fatman: Regardless, you tubby son of a bitch, you'll be staying with my grandmother for  a week.

Me: Fatman why that is? I am self sufficient. I can take care of my self.

Fatman: Remeber what happened the last time me and the wife trusted you here by yourself?

FLASH BACK -

The Fatman and Ms. The Lady arrive early from vacation.

They walk in on a perfectly good bar fight. I, dressed in trucker's mesh cap and workboots, swing a chair at 2 burly Hell's Angels. Bottles and chairs fly as I throw punches at bikers and Klansmen. One of the Klansmen attempts to stab me but it tackled by an orangutang. 

END OF FLASHBACK

Me: Why come i be wearin' over alls and an Irish Herringbone Cap? I look like fuckin' mickey fuckin' rooney!

Fatman: 'cause i told grandma dot she was baby sitting an orphaned waif.  Grab your duffle bag and get in the car.

We drive to Grandma Dot's house.

He opens the door to her house and a fluffy white haired 80+ year old wrinkled woman hugs and kisses him.

Grandma Dot: It is so good to see you!

She peers down at me.

Grandma Dot: And this must Be Oscar!

She picks me up and hugs me.

Grandma Dot: You arrived just in time for dinner!

MOVE OVER MS. THE LADY! Grandma Dot has a 4 course dinner prepped me for me and The Fatman! Grandma Dot shuffles off to her kitchen. Seconds later a low grunt catches my attention.

Urghhh! pause. the sound of a large man making the vomit.

My napster TM ears pick up at the sound emmitting from the backroom.

Me: The hell was that?

Fatman: Oh. I forget to metion Uncle John. He just got out of the joint. He stays with Grandma Dot until his P.O. can land him a job.

He's 55 years old and father to half a dozen illegitimate children

Me: Sounds like Sasquateches back there!

Fatman: He did a nickel for drug possession.

Me: Blow caine?

Fatman: Enough Blow caine in the last 2 decades to kill a herd of elephants.

10 minutes later...

Me, Fatman and Grandma Dot sit at the dinner table. I slather helplessly at the sigh of mashed potatoes, chicken dumplings, and black eyed peas.

Uncle John (He's a bloated bearded version of the fatman) shambles into the dining room at we bow our heads before saying grace.
The circus must be in town...

Me: Fatman, are you sure he didn't get released from the zoo? 

Uncle John: Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.

He points finger at me. I point a finger back at him.

Me: Well, well, look what the DEA fingrprinted.

Fatman spits water from his mouth.

Fatman: You know each other?!

Uncle John: We served time together 10 years ago.

Me: Yeah, yeah, sure, you betcha. He was in cell block D. D is for Dummy. Ain't that right, Quasimodo?

Uncle John: Yeah, cell block D. Good times, good times. Y'know, i'll bet the feds are still wondering how you escaped. Heck, i'll bet they still have a bounty on your fuzzy lil' head.

Me: Don't drop no dime on me, butt breaf.

He steps away from the table and shambles towards Grandma Dot's rotary phone.

I pull the rape whistle from under my over alls and exhale with all my strungth.

orangutang rips from out of my duffle bag and pounces on Uncle John. orangutang beats him bloody.

Later, while sipping hot tea on the patio, i felt bad for allowing orangutang to sodomize Uncle John.   not bad enough to keep orangutang from shoving the rotary phone up Uncle John's doo doo hole.

O -out.

moths

The fatman complained that i ain't never held no job. So i got a job.

The fatman walks into the Tailor Shoppe carrying 2 XX- large shirts. He places both shirts on the front desk and clears his throat.

I, wearing my green vest, bi focals, and no pants, greet him with a cold stare.

Fatman: Oscar?

Me: You told me to get a job, remember?

He shakes his head and chuckles.

Fatman: These shirts need repair.

I take a look at the shirts.

Me: You got mofs.

Fatman: Moths?

Me: Yeah! That's what i said, ain't it!

Fatman: Moths are gonna eat a hole in the same place every time on both shirts?

Me: Fatman; who is the Fatman and who has seen Silence of the Lambs 17 times?

Fatman: Just fix the goddamned shirt!

Me: It will be expensive.

I pull an abacus out from under the counter and stroke my chin. The Fatman impatiently taps his shoe.

Me: Hmmm....I'd say....(low whistle) 34 cents...

Fatman: I'm sure i can handle that. Have it ready in 72 hours. And furball? I'd better not find out you were dressed like a ninja and slashing my shirts with a sword.

He walks out. The Fatman is stupid. My ninja costume shrank and I have not yet found a proper replacement.

THAT NIGHT

I attend a Tom Jones concert with my lady-friend Becky.

Tom Jones swaggers on stage, spotlight illuminating his rugged Welsh features. He begins to hum the first notes of "What's new Pussycat?"
and Becky turns to me and stuff a handful of silky undergarments into my paw.

Becky: You were a star pitcher for the Yankees, O. Throw these on stage! Throw them at Tom Jones!

Crickey! She handed me 3 different pairs of drawers!

Becky: One is from grandma, one is from mom, and the leopard skin pair belong to me!

Oi! Doesn't she understand I taught Tom Jones everything he knows! Tom Jones should be throwing these drawers at me!

So, without hesitating, I pitch the 3 generations of under draws at Tom Jones.

Then, after he segues into "She's A Lady", Becky faints.

Great googly moogly, Becky! Don't you understand? I wrote that song!

No matter. My bodyguard is kind enough to carry her into my limo.

DAWN

I, dressed in my finest samurai warrior garb, use my blade o' sharpness to slice into the Fatman's wardrobe. His clothes disgust me. Who shops for this clown? Ronnie Milsap?

BAM! The closet door crashes open!
The Fatman has me cornered! He is angry!

Fatman: Aha! I knew it!

I point the blade o' sharpness at him.

Fatman: You were double dealing! Cutting my clothes so that I would take them to the Tailor Shoppe to get them repaired! And this bullshit -

He yanks the blade o' sharpness from me

Fatman: - isn't even bona fide steel. This is aluminum. And you call yourself a warrior.

I head butt him in the nuts. He collapses.

Me: You still owe me 34 cents.

O -out.

packinese

The 2 policemans circle me. I sit on a chair, my feet dangling close to the barren floor. The Bigger of the Cops tosses a clipboard down on the table. I sneak a glance at the papers stapled to the clipboard. 2nd Cop, fatter and uglier than his partner, stand in the shadows.

COP #1: We've got you, man. 3 counts of public urination, 2 counts of public defecation, and 1 count of indecent exposure.

COP #2: You should really consider investing in a pair of pants, furball.

Me: Investing? You mean like percents?

COP #1: No more bullshit! Sign the confession!

I twitch my tail and blink my eyes.

COP #2: What is your name?

COP#1: We're running your prints through the database right now!

COP#2: What do they call you?

Me: The Fatman calls me Fatso....

COP#1: Phat So, eh?

He points at his partner.

COP#1: Told you he was part of the Vietnamese Mafia!

COP #2: Ever been in the 'nam, Phat So?

Me: Oh yeah, yeah, sure you betcha. I was everywhere: Dat Ngyuen, Hoo Flung Poo, Hung Rhee...I was deep, deep undercover...always vacancy at the Hanoi Hilton...

FLASHBACK -

VIETNAM - 1967

I, dressed in my tattered soldier's uniform, play Russian Roulette with John McCain (also wearing his tattered air force uniform) while a gang of Viet Cong bet on who will shoot themselves in the skull.

END OF FLASHBACK

Me: I was a POW!

COP#1: A what did when?

COP#2: I think he means he was a Prisoner of War.

COP#1: Ohhh...a P.O.W

Me: That's what I said, ain't it!

Their Captain marches in.

Police Captain: Interrogation's over! Let him go, boys.

COP#1: You gotta be shitting me, Captain!

I hop off the chair and struts my way to freedom.

COP#2: How did he -

Captain: I got a call from the Head of Homeland Security, okay? The furball is former CIA. Its a matter of national security.

Me: (muttering under my breaf) We can close each others' eyes real fast, but then nobody's gonna make no money. Natch.

O -out.

call me tubbs

tonight i had the pleasure of meeting ms the lady's girlfriend.

the door bell rings. as usual the idjits bark and carry on like fools.
fatman opens the door and leads a tall red headed lady into the foyer.

fatman: oscar, meet becky.

the fatman turns and yells to announce thatbecky has arrived. when he looks back at me his beady eyes bugg out of his fat skull.

fatman: why are you dressed like Prince?

and I am: purple silk from head to toe, white ruffles at the end of my sleeves. no pants.

me: enchanté

I kiss becky's hand and she giggles.

fatman: poor oscar. becky is only interested in a man if he has a big wallet.

shoot, fatman, i got the skills to pay the bills.

fatman: honey! oscar kissed becky's hand! she probably has ringworm!

me: (to him) you're a ringworm!
i turns my attention back to becky.

me: let me describe my david lee roth IRA. let me tell you 'bout my percents...

She giggles again.

Fatman wanders off, heads into the bafroom...

when he returns we be gone.

12 hours later.
a blackjack table.
monaco.
the famed monte crisco.
becky is at my side while i (wearing a tuxedo) eye the dealer.

me: always bet on black!

i toss a handful of euros at the dealer!

o- out!

a visit to the dentist

the fat man settles into the dentist's chair and opens wide. the stench from his breaf is almost as bad as my anus. DEEP IN MY ANUS.

i, wearing my scrubs, saunter in and check his blood pressure. then i place the dental dam over his mouth. the fatman looks down at me.

fatman: oscar? what the shit?!

that is when the 10 cc's of muscle relaxer kick in. his eye lids get heavy and he slumps in the chair.

i stroke his sweaty forehead.

me: shhh....shhhh...

the dentist walks in.

dentist: are we ready?

me: yeah, yeah, sure, you betcha!

the dentist fires up his drill. i whisper into the fatman's ear.

me: we have ways of making you talk, fatman...

the sound of the drill drowns the whimpers from the fatman.

later that evening.

the fatman finally wakes from his daze. he finds me sitting on his chest, wearing my bib and rubbing butter on his nose.

fatman: errghhh.

me: shhh...shhh...

the lady: OSCAR! STEP AWAY FROM MY HUSBAND!

Damn!

i grudgingly climb off the fatman's sternum. i cast a glance back and am not surprised to see drool drip from his bloody mouth.

the lady: you should be ashamed of yourself! don't you understand it'll never work out between us?

i grab my guitar, my top hat, my wig and i storm out of the house.

time to play my solo!

O - out

percents

the fatman shambles into the living room and heads towards the computer. i, sitting in the chair he has rolled up to the computer's desk, swivel around to face him. I stare at him through my monocle.

me: are you worried about your percents?

fatman: are you wearing an armani suit with a hugo boss tie?

i jerk a thumb at the computer's monitor. all day i have been observing the NASDAQ.

fatman: why aren't you wearing any pants?

me: you sure be very worried about your percents. barrier boulevard is like a mighty rollamacoaster...very unpredictable.

fatman: barrier boulevard? do you mean wall street?

me: pay attention fatman! we are teetering on the verge of a repression! i have an idea on how to protect our percents...

fatman: oscar you do realize that the I.R.S will send you, because you are a former secret agent, to the supermax if you don't report your stock earnings.

i stroke my chin. i hop off the chair and pace and mutter under my breaf.

me: oh yeah, yeah...the ERS...

fatman: you know what happens to you in the supermax, don't you?

THEY RAPE ON FOLKS!

I gasp.

me: the ERS would send me to the supermax! that's where they keep the klaus kinski!

fatman: that's right, they have the unabomber imprisoned there. tell you what; you don't tell my wife about my stash of Cambodian ladyboy porn and i won't tell the I.R.S that you hide your percents.

he holds out his hand. i got no choice but to shake it.

me: deal.

O - out

breakfast of champions

i shuffle into the bedroom wearing my bathrobe, pink fuzzy slippers, and my hairnet. i bang my empty tin coffee cup against the door until the fatman wakes.

fatman: go back to sleep, oscar. it's 6 in the morning.

me: i wants nuts in my coffee.

fatman: you lazy obese bastard. go back to sleep.

at this point the fatman has forced me to annunciate each word.

me: i said i... want. nuts... in. my coffee.

the lady: he says he wants hazelnut coffee.

i light up a cigarette and blow smoke at the fatman.

fatman: the hell?
the lady: oscar, we told you not to smoke in the house.

me: et tu, ms the lady?
she hides under the covers.

the lady: oh for the love of Jesus! just get out of bed and pour him his goddamn coffee!

me and the fatman shuffle into the kitchen and he proceeds to brew my coffee.
i use the tip of my smoldering cigarette to light up yet another.

me: you cause me lots of frustion, fatman.

fatman: frustion?

me: that's what i said, ain't it?!

fatman: that's not even a word.

me: no?

fatman: no.

me: you can look it up in arnold drummond's thesaurus ifffin' you don't believe me, fatman.

fatman ponders the science i have unleashed. he pours my cup of coffee.

fatman: i think you mean webster's dictionary.

me: fatman, you lose IQ points every time you take dump.

i pull a silver flask from out of my bathrobe, pop the top, and pour an ounce of whiskey into the cup of coffee. i shuffle away.

O - out