Thursday, February 4, 2016

The Square Peg - Aw, Yer Mudda Wears Combat Boots!

The Square Peg - Aw, Yer Mudda Wears Combat Boots!
© S. Bradley Stoner

I could hear them a block away. Bingo Bob had slipped into Jerseyisms. Duncan was playing bad cop. Now, this isn't particularly unusual... Bob and Duncan are like oil and water most of the time. Hearing them going at it again really wasn't much of a surprise. Oh, it never gets physical, but it does get loud. I couldn't make out all the words, and I wondered what it was all about this time. I mean, I've heard them argue about everything from law and politics down to something as trivial as the merits of real butter versus the I can't believe it's not butter stuff.

I drew nearer, trying to get close enough to hear, but just far enough away to avoid being sucked into whatever it was they were arguing about now. Bob was so mad you could feel the heat he was generating. He punctuated almost every sentence with a jabbing finger. If the sky had been a balloon, he'd have poked a hole in it, letting all the air out. We'd have all suffocated.

"Aw nuts, you got no clue!" I heard Duncan shout in true cop fashion.

"I got a clue... I got a clue!" Bob sputtered. "I got a big damn clue!"

"Baloney! You couldn't find a dog turd stuck to the bottom of your shoe!" Duncan shot back.

"Aw yer mudda wears combat boots!"

"And your daddy wears girl's panties!" Duncan's big mug was shoved dangerously close to Bob's.

That wasn't easy. Duncan stands six foot two in his socks and Bob barely clears five six with his boots on. You might say it's a bit of a physical mismatch. Did that intimidate Bob? Not on your life. There's nothing quite as rabid as a Jerseyite with his dander up. Frankly, I thought Duncan was taking an unnecessary risk putting his nose that close to Bob's teeth.



"Well, we;ll just see!" Bob said defiantly.

"You bet your butt we will!" Duncan shot back and stalked off.

I tried to make myself small. It didn't work. Bob saw me anyway. There was no escape. He stomped, stiff-legged like a pee-oed dog, in my direction. With no other recourse, I smiled, waved, and chirped "Hiya Bob... how's tricks?"

"That blankety- blank..." (he didn't actually say that, but the colorful Jerseyisms might be offensive to some) "Donutz is just bullheaded. He just refuses to face the facts..."

"Would those be actual facts or your facts?" Someday I'll learn to keep my mouth shut and just nod sagely. I guess I haven't reached that level of enlightenment yet.

"Jay-sus, Mary and Joseph! You too?!"

"Me too what?" I asked innocently.

Bob ignored me. "I was just explaining why the Panthers are gonna win this Sunday... Lookit... they got Cam... Superman, for crying' out loud! And they got..."

"Let me stop you right there... I'm a Bronco fan, dyed in the wool, win lose or draw."

"Yeah... well wake up and smell the flapjacks," Bob snorted. "All the experts have Denver as a big underdog."

"Well crap on a cracker, Bob... would those be the same experts who picked the Patriots to dominate the Broncs in the AFC championship? I'd be careful about believing those guys. I hope you didn't bet on the game."

"Ass," Bob muttered.

"Nope... Bronco," I smiled.

"Hmmmph! See ya Sunday? I've got the beer and Duncan is bringing snacks."

"Okay, I'll get the pizza," and added as Bob walked away, "Go Broncos!"

"Shut up!" Bob punctuated it with a single finger... and it wasn't his index finger.