It was Java’s idea – this whole trip that got me using those words to tell the tale of Winston and his adventure in the ‘Bazooka Bar’. I didn’t think much of the idea at first, as folk may have to refer to that earlier post  or the definitions, and that is sure to be a drag. But then on second thoughts – oh what the hell!

There they were – the salad dodger and the swamp donkey, two unfortunate looking folk, who were sinbads at the best of times. The cube farm they worked in possessed an adminisphere that had to be seen to be believed and the administrivia that they had been inundated with during the course of the day could only be eased by a monkey bath, counted on to take their minds off that accursed seagull manager and his aeroplane blonde, who did little other than testiculate all day – when she wasn’t involved in assmosis.

Earlier it was Maude (the salad dodger) who had been blamestorming with a bunch of her co-workers in the cube farm that let the cat out of the bag about the deadline that had been indefinitely postponed. This of course reached the ears of the seagull manager who proceeded to do everything in his power to make it a salmon day for Maude, as he wanted all those involved in the project to quickly get him the outlines and main points to be dealt with before he flew away. And now that the salad dodger had successfully screwed up his intentions, he would have to hang around this dump putting up with all the prairie dogging and probably remain a sitcom for the rest of his life. To make matters worse, his gizmo had crapped out and all the percussive maintenance he could administer to it couldn’t put it right.

Now that the cube farm had closed for the day, Maude and Myrtle (the swamp donkey) thought that they should head for ‘The Bazooka Bar’ where their favourite tart fuel was mixed by this Johnny-No-Stars, who looked like an underaged pimple factory, but sure fixed a mean drink. On the way, however, Myrtle got a sudden urge to defecate and fortunately for her there was this BurgerKing around the corner. With no hesitation whatsoever, she ploughed right through the door with all the intentions of getting a McShit. Maude, being the good sport she was, ordered herself some fries and pretended to be 404 when the manager asked about where her friend was. It wasn’t too long after, however, that Myrtle, having done her thing, joined her and together they walked on out.

‘The Bazooka Bar’ was virtually empty when they got there, which was not so surprising considering that it was just closing on six in the pm – which is where this story started. ‘There they were…’

The bar was pretty crowded – it was now around 8.30 – and the skinny dude with the bad complexion had worked his way over from the other side of the bar and snagged the stool next to Maude, who although a bit on the plump side, had pleasing features and an attractive smile. He flashed her a grin and asked if he could get her a drink. She smiled back and asked for some more tart fuel – one for her and one for Myrtle. The skinny dude – Winston by name – stuck out a skinny paw and shook their hands as they introduced themselves. The juke box was playing a blues tune by Billy Markham and ‘The Bazooka’ was buzzin, when up came this chick in a greyhound – right up to where Winston sat on his barstool with his skinny legs in those worn out levis spread-eagled in front of him – and proceeded to rub her millennium domes on his arm as she asked the bartender for a shot of mescal. Winston, who was by nature the sort of cat that preferred a more substantial relationship to one of empty promises, eased his arm away and leaned closer to Maude. How he longed to give her one of those Aussie kisses and bounce on her ample frame. A few more drinks and Winston, Maude and Myrtle were nicely high and in great spirits. The blues tune by Billy Markham had long gone and now it was one of those dirgey Leonard Cohen numbers on the box.

Winston excused himself – all that beer had his bladder close to busting point and he had to go break the seal. It took him a few minutes to do his thing, slosh some cool water on his face to clear his head and saunter on back to his stool by the bar, and imagine his surprise to find that the proverbial mystery bus had done its number and there, in place of Maude and Myrtle were two stunners – both wearing greyhounds that left hardly anything to the imagination. He could just taste them Aussie kisses as he wended his way back to his stool and ordered another brew. The two peaches next to him were both blondes and he couldn’t help but wonder if those Aussie kisses would reveal if they were real – all the way down under.

Now it was getting close to 3.00 am and Winston flashed that if he wanted to score, he better do it quick, or there would be nothing left of the night, and so he made his play. To his great surprise the stunner right next to him took him up on his suggestion that they move on out and find some action elsewhere. She just whispered to her friend (they could have been sisters) and took Winston’s hand as they left ‘The Bazooka’, with B.B.King doing his thaang, got them beer coats on and walked out into the chilly darkness. Winston managed to find his wheels and as they set off his beer compass came into play, so finding his way home was a cinch. And then they had fun – boy did they have fun! Winston couldn’t believe his luck.

It was only the next morning that Winston, all bleary-eyed and foggy-headed returned from the loo that he realized in an oh-no second that the mystery taxi had come by – for there on the bed was Maude, her Picasso bum dominating the scene.

Advertisements