“How did you find me?” hollers Orville, and grumbles, “You skinny, long-haired, libturd. You just can’t leave me in peace, can you?”
Stanley looks around. “This was the only bar in town with a yacht in the parking lot, with plates that said BIG ORV on them. Stealthy. This joint is much nicer than your last haunt. I see they’ve arranged the drunks by height. Classy. I’ll have a Coke, bartender, and give the grouchy lad another shot of personality.”
“Oh, shut up!”
“Did you happen to see the paper, the other day, Orv?”
“I’ve seen lots of papers. What day was it for, you loon?”
“Not sure. Anyway, I lean down, look at the front page, and I think, how cute, a panda wearing a checkered shirt. Then I put my glasses on, the ones I use for looking at things, and I wonder why the panda is wearing spectacles. Anyway, the panda turned out to be Rob Port, which was odd because a panda would be mildly interesting — and cute. I didn’t dare look at the centerfold.
Evidently, Port has influence. When he lies, several people are influenced, by gawd. He worked at Home of Economy in Minot and then became a blogger. I’ve had more jobs in an afternoon than that amateur phony.”
Orv turns his head and looks at Stan quizzically. “You’ve had lot’s of jobs, because you have the attention span of a Labrador puppy.”
“If that,” agrees Stan.
“What do you care if Port, who actually writes the truth, unlike the fake news, is on the cover of the Fargo Forum, anyway?”
“Because it’s so much bull$#!*. Port isn’t interesting. I’d be interested in rolling him down the Sixth Dtreet hill, or Hiawatha in Minot, but how long would that thrill last? Robbie will eventually hit something solid. He’s a lying hack. He lies about a guy, and they’re the hater, if they don’t like it. He’s just misunderstood, claims the Forum boss. Oh, I understand the young twerp. If his BS blog is circling the drain, run an ad — not pretend that this mook is news, or fascinating in any way. He’s a shill.”
“So you’re still miffed that he lied about you,” sniffs Orv. “How long are you going to carry on that feud?”
“Hey, I didn’t put his mug on the front page of the paper, which almost gave me a heart attack. And until the day I die, to answer your question. Longer, depending on the situation after my demise. I’ll need to find out the rules regarding haunting.”
“How about this, Orv. Have you seen this video going around of some fat guy in a suit, with asbestos on his head, beating the hell out of a CNN logo? It’s a big deal for some reason. What’s your take?”
“It’s the president.”
“The president of what?”
“The president of the country,” grouses Orv.
“Yes, and the logo had it coming,” snarls Orville.
Stan appears to be pondering. “I’ll be darned. I guess that’s normal these days. Making money while jerking everyone around. The WWE McNuggets have gifted Trump with millions of bucks. The missus got some fancy government job, and lint for brains has been in cahoots with those rasslin’ body slammers for years.”
“Then, some bigot racist used his green olive — with pimento — sized-brain to concoct the masterpiece. Trumpette conveniently retweeted the tweet of the huckster playing fake tough in his natural mythological habitat. Now, with a zillion views, the tills are vibrating anew for the McMahon’s and the usual suspects, that use the expensive golf balls, when driving over water.”
“None of that is true,” barks Orville. “Besides, it’s old news.”
“If people would quit writing down what lard butt says, or record it, he could run out the clock on the back nine at Mara-a-Lago lying to the reptiles and giant insects. The crocs wouldn’t care. I think they expect it, considering their past relationships with golfers. I heard that five of his caddies went missing looking for balls. Trump hits green balls, to keep the searchers on their toes, while wading through the tall grass.”
“I saw Chris Christie sunning himself on the beach the other day. At first, I thought it was a beached manatee. I didn’t deserve that. Nobody did. Holy cow. Where do you suppose he gets his lawn chairs? Bobcat? International Harvester? It would take some top-notch engineers and specialized steel to keep his ass off the ground. And the width. Good lord. It’s like the backseat of a Ford Fairlane 500. That chair could easily seat an entire kids soccer team. You might have to bungee them in, but the little buggers shouldn’t be wandering around when the game is going anyway.”
“I’m not listening,” yells Orville.
“And I guess Chris closed down the public beaches in New Jersey for everyone else. Personally, I don’t get the pleasure of sitting in the sand, but I guess it’s a big deal to some people, especially if the sand abuts a body of water. Generally, if you see a patch of sand, somebody is sitting on it. Anyhow, Jersian’s are ticked.
Have you ever shared a side of beef with Chris, at one of your secret meetings, or the convention, Orv? How many gallons of ketchup are involved?”
“Sidebar, your honor. Remember when George W. said that he thought we were protected from terrorists by the “vast” oceans. Like they had to swim here or something. It’s not any less stupid than thinking that a wall will keep out the dark people south of the Rio. Of course, the pervert wasn’t going after the vote of any deep thinkers.”
“And Kevin Cramer would whip out a rationalization for Trump, if the joker strangled a young otter on stage. That’s how deeply he’s up the bum. Kevin called Mika one of those elitists, after the fuss caused by Trump’s crudest, most misogynist tweet. And a snob. Ouch. What does Kev think Donnie and his cronies are, if not elitist blue blood snobs? If Cramer had been richer, he might have beat out the Texas moron for Energy secretary, but Trump doesn’t trust any nonelitists.”
“The president is going fight back against critics,” shouts Orv.
“So, Mika was bleeding from the face?”
“I don’t know, you loonie yutz.”
“You don’t care, do you, Orville?”
“Or want to know anything that isn’t twit tweeted, in Breitbart, or slobbered by Alex Jones?”
“No. The lamestream media is in the anti-Trump tank.”
“Well, that explains the 37 percent who still approve of orange Julius Caesar. They just stick Armour hot dogs in their ears and chant gibberish like their child king. You’ve got a little mustard on your right earlobe, Orv. Be sure not use recently cooked ones. And if you can still hear bits of truth, use a croquet mallet to pound the wiener further into the auditory canal. It’s a culinary art, to get it just right.”
“Shut up, or go away, you socialist cuck. I can still hear you!”
“Jones is getting to the bottom of the child slave situation on Mars. I sleep better knowing one of Donnie’s pals is on that disturbing case. But the alt-right guys, like Jones, have a seat at the table now, so white men will finally have a chance in America. The big wall will keep some of the brownies out, and the travel bans will help, but it’ll never be white enough for some people. And most of the all white safe places are too cold for these white nationalist sissies.”
“Are you calling me a racist, Stan!” screams Orv.
“You, Orv? Never. Who wants to get buried in a — what do you grow again, Orv?”
“Well, any field. No point in being particular about the crop.”
“Well, I’ll agree with you there. Dirt is dirt.”
“That’s true isn’t it, Orv? There’s been a lot of dirt blowing around in your world.”
“Is that so?”
Stan stares at a guy, sitting at the table behind them, who looks like he died, then says, “Kevin is getting pushed out of the 2018 Senate race. The sane guy in the party wants go with someone less kooky, who doesn’t get spooked by pantsuits, and can shut up. His vote for a law that will actually kill people wouldn’t help either. You know. The small things. Of course, Cramer will do what he pleases, even if it means another primary. I hope this guy behind us isn’t an organ donor.”
“Roscoe has been barking at Cramer and farmer Tom Campbell like a baby pit bull. On the twitter. It’s a adorable, when puppies think they’re big. He’s from Minot and hangs around with Port, his personal mouthpiece and food taster. He wants Kathy Neset to run for the Senate for some reason. What’s his last name, Orv.”
“Right. Streyle. He twitters and writes at the same fourth-grade level as the Trumpster fire.”
“And Rick Becker is making his move. He’s been shouting freedom this, freedom that, all over the state. Hell, his little caucus couldn’t get raw milk legalized. I think bake sales are OK now, though.”
“Of course, he’ll run as a Republican, even though he’s a Libertarian ideologue. Why that is acceptable, I don’t know. The other Libertarians are getting their butts kicked at the polls because they truthfully put an L by their name. Poor Jack Seaman, writes the L down on the parchment every two years and knowingly goes down in flames.”
“Everyone, Democrats included, should run as Republicans and make the voters do their due diligence.”
“That’s stupid,” snarls Orville.
“Stupid like a fox,” says Stanley. “And speaking of stupid like a rock. Trump Jr. met with a Russian somebody looking for dirt on Hillary. It looks like the idiots were willing to collude with the Russians but couldn’t find the kind of information they were looking for. Junior looks less like a ferret than his brother Eric, so he’s got that going for him when he ends up in jail. He should change his name to Mookie Muhammad Carmelo Gomez, while there’s still time.”
“Somebody please shoot me,” screams Orv.
“Hand me your pistol. Where do you want it? In the leg, or that one area in the shoulder that everyone survives on TV. Matt Dillon took 47 bullets in that spot. I’m not sure about Festus.”
“Please go away,” pleads Orville. “Please, Stan, or I’ll have to hit you with a pool cue. Hard and repeatedly.”
Stan looks around. “There isn’t even a pool table in this joint,” he scoffs.
“They still have the sticks,” says Orv, as the bartender hands him a sturdy length of shiny cylindrical wood.
Stan pounds his Coke, grabs his cane and shuffles toward the exit. “OK, Orv, you win. Be sure to put in fresh hot dogs every few days, or they’ll turn on you. I’ll tell you about the G20 next time. I’m pretty sure the dimwit outsmarted the bald KGB guy, and it was bring your daughter to work day, for one flabby hombre.
Toodle-oo caribou,” he laughs. Out he goes.