BOB JOHNSON RIDES AGAIN! 320
320. NOM DE PLUMIER
320. NOM DE PLUMIER
“I guess if I was going to accidentally marry someone, they might as well be wearing a used tux when I do it,” the winsomest girl on the central coast, Trixie Belden, told her drinking buddies (the red haired former librarian and the best third flugelhorn at CL Smith Elementary, Lola Fandango) during their marathon bridal shower (accidentally arranged–they just all liked drinking together!) at McClatchey’s. “Not that I’ve seen it for myself, but I hear it’s even true of Bob Johnson, whose purchase of said used tux was heavily discussed last night on SLO BLOWS, the only local radio arts program hosted by a Cthulhu. Frankly, it doesn’t even bother me that he’s been having his inseams given a proper going over by the woman who sold him the aforesaid used tux; I mean, if he thinks he’s getting them taken care of on our accidental honeymoon, he’s got another think coming. So while we’re at it, you two, where should we go for our accidental honeymoon? The City of Industry or California City, being those are the only locations Bob remembers visiting in his boring life–since all the interesting places that he did visit–such as Seattle and Grant’s Pass–seem to have slipped his mind.”
Lola and the red haired librarian haven’t listened to a word Trixie has said to them for the last hour and a half, since they have been exchanging lascivious, knowing looks with the bartender, former local PI, Clam Hardass who, due to a sudden whim, is wearing the brand new used tux he purchased from Studs, Duds, Suds, and Comix–on South Higuera Street. “Y’gotta chop some beef if you wanta oyster that boiler,” Clam mysteriously quipped to himself. “Or my name ain’t Clam Hardass, private dick.” (“Dick dick dick!” shouted the recently retired from redacting Redactor, who was half sleep in his bar napkins a few stools over.)
“I really wish he’d stop muttering to himself,” Lola told the red haired librarian, offering a toast of her ice cold mug of margaritas. “He looks a lot cuter with his mouth shut–or my name anon’t Lola Fandango. (Which, I dimly recall, it isn’t?)”
Lola and the red haired librarian, you too Trixie, — exchanging lascivious, knowing looks with the bartender, former local PI, Clam Hardass who, due to a sudden whim, is wearing the brand new used tux he purchased from Studs, Duds, Suds, and Comix–on South Higuera Street. “Y’gotta chop some beef if you wanta oyster that boiler,” Clam mysteriously quipped to himself. “Or my name ain’t Clam Hardass, private dick.” (“Dick dick dick!” shouted the recently retired from redacting Redactor, who was half sleep in his bar napkins a few stools over.)
—Stop 🛑 + decease! “Fry me for an oyster 🦪 Bertha Cool is here to cut off a piece of that cake 🍰! Hey Clam, get your Hardass down here, Bertha needs a refill, and perhaps a private dick looksee?