|
|
|
|
|
Bill walked quickly but gingerly (as his head was
killing him) towards
the bathroom, his bladder ready
to explode from all the beer he'd drunk the
previous
night. As he passed the bedroom mirror, a vague memory
of a drunken game
he and Bobby had been playing caused
him to stop and turn. He peered bleary-eyed at
the
unwashed and unshaven wreck in the mirror before him.
His bathrobe was hanging
open, exposing his huge
potbellied gut hanging out over his "ThoughtCafe"
boxer
shorts. Remembering the game, he reached down
with his hands, placed them on either
side of his
belly, manipulated his fingers just so, and viola! He
was staring at a
fleshy (and hairy) version of Milton
Berle's face!
In his amazement,
he immediately forgot about his full
bladder, grabbed the cordless phone off the
night
stand and called his brother, Bobby.
"Hey Bobby! Guess what,
man?"
"Wha-aht..?" His brother replied groggily through the
phone,
sounding at least as bad as Bill had just a
moment before.
"I did it,
man! Just like last night, dude! I made
'Uncle Milty'!!"
"Whoa,
really? Did 'ya try Bob Hope?"
"Nah... Hold on. Le'me
try."
Bob placed the phone under his ear and turned back
towards the
mirror. After placing his hands back in
place, he carefully manipulated a glob of fat
here, a
fat-roll there, and, once again...
"Man, that's just amazing!
Looks just like him... In
the seventies variety shows, 'ya know? Not the
younger
guy from the Bing Crosby road movies. Hey, have you
tried any
yet?"
"Yeah," his brother responded enthusiastically. "While
you was
doin' Hope, I did Nixon and Ford. This is a
cool thing we got here, Bro! We should,
like, go on
the road, dude; like, put on our own show, 'ya
know?"
"Yeah, COOL! Let's do it!! But, uh, well, we
probably
shouldn't tell Ma about it, 'ya know?"
"Yep... Boy, would
*she* be mad!"
********** ********** **********
**********
The audience could tell Bill was concentrating hard on
this
one... Beads of sweat were pouring off his
forehead, and down his sides from his hairy
armpits.
His and Bobby's 'creations' had gotten increasingly
difficult as the
show progressed, each subtle
manipulation of hairy, gelatinous flab projected
onto
a huge screen behind them on the stage. Still, though
they were working their
'craft' harder than they'd
ever done before, the applause from the audience
made
it all worth while. And Bill intended this last one to
be the best of
all...
He continued moving his fingers this way and that, a
master
craftsman of fat manipulation. Each sweaty
digit pained him from the effort, and his
hands were
covered in fallen-out belly hair, but still he
continued. Minutes ticked
by, the audience waiting
expectantly, hardly daring to breathe.
And
then it was complete...
The audience leaped to their feet as one,
applauding
madly at the ten foot high projected visage of Hillary
Clinton. Cheers
and whistles erupted from he and
Bobby's adoring fans, roses were tossed up onto
the
stage, and there were shouts of "Bravo!" And
"Encore!
Encore!".
Just as Bill was preparing to let go of his
latest
'masterpiece', the loud and unmistakably shrill voice
of their mother
yelled out from the back of the
theater...
"Damn it,
Billy!!!"
********** ********** ********** **********
Cold
water splashed across his face, jolting him
awake, and he found himself face to face
with his
mother. She had an empty water glass in her right
hand, and her face was
livid with anger.
"I said, Damn it, Billy!!! You were drinkin' with
your
good for nothin' brother again last night,
weren't
you?!!"
"Uh, er, why 'ya say that,
Ma?"
"'Cause you was too drunk to get 'yer lazy ass out a
bed and go
to the bathroom again! And this is the
THIRD TIME THIS WEEK you've peed the damn
bed!"
|
|
|
|
