Eye Ahem Da Guvner; Chapter Six

 

Chapter Six:

 

     “We tried it your way, now can we please try it my way?” pleaded Jimmy.

     “Owa, oakay. Eye supose yew mayy bee rite. Eye juss hayt da ideya ov havven da dam guvurmint telen mi wat Eye kan an kant dew,” answered Earle Edgar.

 

     They had come to the Washington State offices to get a state business licence. They set up a meeting with one Tom Jiggerhouse, who would help them through the process. Now they approached the door of his office. They knocked, and a voice answered,

     “Come in!”

     They opened the door and saw that Jiggerhouse was middle-aged and had a face that seemed to have a 'whatever' smile plastered permanentely upon it.

     “Hello, and what can I help you gentemen with today?”

     “Yaya, helo Mistar Jigarhowse, mi naam iz Jon Smith, an dis heer iz mi biznus pardnar, Jimy. Weed lik ta git an biznus lycents.”

     “Well, have a seat.”

     They sat at chairs that didn’t even allow their eyes to scan the table without straining to see over the top. Mr. Jiggerhouse sat and looked down at them.

     “Here’s your application; please fill this out, and while you’re doing that, I’ll just need to see some identification so I can make a photo-copy of it.”

     A sense of panic ran through Earle Edgar. “Awa, kanot wee git a rowend dat? Eye seam two hav lefte mi walit in mi uthar payants.” He had forgotten to bring the new fake I.D. The only I.D. he had was one using his real name, and there was a warrant still out for his arrest.

     “No, we’ve got to see it, but if you’d like, you can fill out the application, and when you retrieve your identification, bring it in and we’ll finish processing the application then.”

     Earle Edgar was trying to think of a way out of this mess without having to show his identification. Jimmy had his I.D. and could apply for the license alone, but then Earle Edgar feared Jimmy, and not him, would legally own the company.  Wel, Eyeyav gotta saay sumpin!, he thought. “Sory ta wayast yer tyme. Aya, weel bee bayak wonse wee git da aplakation fileyd owt. Tanks ayaniweiy.”

 

     Earle Edgar hated the idea of getting an actual business license. The trip to the licensing office had only deepened his doubts. Then, he had the answer; a classified ad!

     “Wantid: Pursun ta mayk upp an fayak biznus lysents. Ife yer intrestid, plees conntac Joyan Smythe, awat...”

     Jimmy ripped the want ad that Earle Edgar was working on at his desk, out of the typewriter, crinkled it up into a ball, and threw it in the general direction of the waste basket.

     “Heya, yew basterd, Eye wuznt dun wid dat!” yelled a red-faced Earle Edgar Nekk.

     “Sometimes I wonder!”

     “Wat da hel dew yew wundar?”

     “I wonder about your sanity; that’s what I wonder about!”

     “Eyma purfecly normel.”

     “Oh really? Would a sane person advertise that he was going to break the law?”

     “Noe, Eye gess nott, butt wats dat gowet ta dew wid wat Eyma planin ta dew?”

     “Oh, nothing I guess, nothing except you’re advertising for someone to help you, and you tell the police exacly what you’re planning to do!”

     “Yeya, sew?”

 

 

     They were sitting on their front porch, tying to think of a way to get in touch with the counterfeiter so they could print up a fake business license, when a mongrel black dog came up to them, sniffed their crotches, and sat begging for some of the potato chips they were eating.

     “Heya, dowen boyy; gett yer frikin noas owet ov dare, an goe frikin awayy!” snapped Earle Edgar.

     The dog sat there looking hungrily at them, seemingly not hearing, or choosing to ignore Earle Edgar.

 

     Come on, fork over the grub!, thought the hungry dog. He was starving, having been dumped by the b*****d who was his former master. He could smell food, and these b******s wouldn’t give him any.

 

 

     No matter what they tried, the damn dog wouldn’t go away. They had finally given up and gone inside the cab of the truck, but the dog was lying outside the door, looking pathetic.

     “Wat iz dis biches problum?” asked Earle Edgar.

     Jimmy answed, “How on Earth can you tell it’s a girl?”

     “Wat duz dat haav tew dew wit iyat?”

 

 

     He was cold, hungry, and miserable. An ice-cold drizzle had started to fall and his hair hung down in dripping clumps. He had nowhere to go. He began to howl out his misery.

     “Sheyut uyap!” yelled Earle Edgar.

     Jimmy said, “He sounds miserable. Maybe we should give him some food and water?”

     “Noe, then da dam ting wyll nevar leeve!”

 

 

     They listened to the poor dog howl for hours, until it was growing dark. At last, Jimmy could stand it no longer. “I can’t stand listening to it howl. I’m going to give it some food and water.”

     Earle Edgar shook his head. “Eyea awlredy tol yew wat Eye tink. Eyea tink yer maken an biyag mistayak,” but he didn’t try to stop him.

     Jimmy looked around for something to feed the dog, and saw the leftover steak they had barbecued over the fire pit they’d dug next to the truck and ate for for last night’s dinner, and started to unwap the plastic wrap which was covering the plate of leftovers that he had taken out of their cooler.

     “Sheit, nott dat; giyev da basterd sumpin wee donut lyk; lyk dis sqwayash.”

     “Squash, for a dog? It’s got to be something he will eat.”

     “Ifn da basterds hungery enuff, heel eet itt!”

 

 

     Jimmy ignored Earle Edgar’s plea’s, grabbed several chunks of the steak, filled a bowl with water, and went out the door. The dog saw him coming, and weakly struggled to his feet. When he smelled the steak, he became excited, barking pathetically.  This guy’s starving, Jimmy thought.

 

 

     The dog saw the door of the pickup open, and a man appeared, carrying something. He struggled to his paws. He no longer had the strenth to wag his tail. Then he could smell meat. He got exited and tried to bark, but he was so dehydrated, it sounded more like a horse croak. The man held out a piece of meat and held it up, saying,

     “Here you go, boy, would you like a piece?”

     Oh, come on; the man was dangling the meat above his head, and just out of reach. Drop the b*****d! He was so hungry, but here this son of a b***h teasing him with food. He was much too tired to play these fricking games!

 

 

     Jimmy tried to get a reaction out of the dog, but to no avail. What the hell was wrong with it? He kept holding the meat just above the dog’s head, but still he got no reaction. Just then, Earle Edgar came up behind him and said,

     “Luek att itt; noe reactun att awl; itt iznt evun grayetful. Wi wayest gud fuud owen an mut dats nott evun grayetful?”

 

 

     Jimmy at last gave up on getting a reaction out of the dog and dropped the meat. Immediately, the dog was all over it, slobbering and wolfing it down, seemingly without chewing.

     “Luuk att dat basterd eeat!”

 

 

Finally, the man had dropped the meat; he pounced on it and swallowed it whole, not taking the time to chew. Then he was in doggie heaven, as the man dropped several more pieces of the meat, and set down a big bowl of water. He didn’t know what to do first, eat more meat, or drink some water. He ate a piece of the meat and then lapped at the water. He couldn’t swivel his head fast enough! He alternated them until both were gone.

     Jimmy announced, “Well, I don’t think he had a home; I’m going to keep him.”

     “Wat? Thayat mayengi mut?”

     “Yeah, that mangy mutt.”

     “Buelshyt, weer nott keapin itt.”

     “Oh yes we are. I’ll take care of him; you won’t have to do a thing.”

     “Wel, Eye kan cee yer miyands maad upp, butt Eyema toteli aganst dis sheit! Wat ar yew goen ta cal itt?”

     Jimmy thought for a minute and replied, “Well, you called him a mangy mutt, so I think I’ll call him Mange!”

     “Maynge? Wat kynd ov an beulsheit naam iz dat?”

 

 

     Mange, for a name? He looked up at his new master with an uncomprehending look, and pretended like he couldn’t understand when Jimmy told him,

     “This is now your new home. Would you like to stay with us? I’m thinking of calling you Mange. Yes, from now on that’ll be your new name!”

     Great, his old name had been Rex, and he had gone from being called Rex; now that was a macho-sounding name; to being called Mange. He gazed up at Jimmy with adoration in his eyes. That’s what he’d learned that humans liked to see. Actually, he could give a s*** who thought of themseves as his master, as long as they gave him food and water and a warm place to sleep. The one called Jimmy seemed alright, but that other b*****d?

 

 

     “Go fetch the stick, Mange!”

     Are you fricking kidding me? he thought. He watched the stick thrown by Jimmy sail out into the field, played dumb like he couldn’t understand, and gave a couple of half-hearted wags of his tail. He watched Jimmy jog out to retrieve the stick. 'See how fun this is? You throw the stick and then run after it; how do you like it?', he thought.

 

 

     Jimmy was trying to train him to do all the things humans found so cute in a dog, but which the dogs themselves found so degrading. Oh boy, a fricking stick, whoo! He was anxious to check out his new neighborhood to gather up all the dogs and play poker. Humans still thought of dogs as incapable of doing most of the things they could do, but wouldn’t they be surprised to learn the truth: dogs were a lot more intelligent and could do more than they let on. They would never show it, however; would you ruin free food, not having to pay rent, and having a warm place to sleep, by fessing up that you were intelligent?

 

 

     Earle Edgar watched as time after time, Jimmy sent the stick arcing into the fading light, and time after time had to go fetch it himself. “Boey, hees qiet an dowg; yewd betur bee carfuwl ya donut where hym owet bye watchen ya featch da dam ting yerseff!”

 

 

     Mange had walked around the neighborhood where the truck was parked, at least for that day. He had met all the dogs and told them to meet in the woods behind the camper. All of them were psyched; they were all sick and tired of acting the way humans expected them to, and were ready to cut loose. One of the dogs had stolen a 6-pack of her master’s beer; one had stolen a box of his master’s cigars, and they all sat around the flat stump of a cutdown-tree, puffing on cigars and slurping a beer. Their neighborhood was extemely quiet.

     “The ante will be 2 dog treats; straight poker, nothing wild; and a 3 treat betting limit,” announced Mange, and he shuffled the cards very handily; and humans always thought dogs didn’t have very good fine motor skills!

     When all the cards were dealt, they looked at their hands. “Rover, it’s your bet.”

     Rover tossed out 2 dog treats, and said in gruff doggie-language,

     “I bet two treats!”

     Spot winced, and said, “That’s too rich for my blood; I’m out!”

     Lady announced, “I’ll see your 2 treats, and raise you one!”

     King said, “Damn your eyes, girls shouldn’t be allowed to play! She’s probably got an ace high, and she’s raising. Well, I guess I’m out!”

     Lady shot back, “Eat it, you canine b*****d!”

     Barky said, “Now, now, someone’s a little hot under her collar; I’m going to fold.”

     Mange then said, “The dealer calls.”

     Rover decided he was out, and Mange said,

     “That leaves just you and me, Lady. How many cards?”

     Lady looked at her cards, and said, “One please.”

     Mange tossed one card Lady’s direction and took two cards for himself; saving the 3 aces he already held. Lady scooped up her card, and gave a satisfied snort.

     “She’s got nothing; whatever she bet’s, call it and raise!” King yowled.

     “Try me and find out!” Lady snarled in response.

     Mange barked, “I’ll call you, and raise you 3 dog treats. I don’t believe you have squat!”

     Lady said, “I’ll call you, and I’ll go all in!” pawing her remaining 8 dog treats into the pot.

     Mange gave her a speculative look, and sighed. He hadn’t gotten the fourth ace in his draw, but he still had the three. Lady had taken one, which meant she probably had two pair, unless she had been extremely lucky. Still, 8 treats was a hell of a lot!

     Lady spoke up, “Unless you’ve already been fixed, I’ll bet you don’t have the b****s.”

     King spoke up, “Call the b***h, she’s bluffing!”

     Mange had made up his mind. “Okay, Lady, I’ll call you; here’s eight more treats; read ‘em and weep, three aces!”

      Lady replied, “A damn good hand, but not good enough; full house, queens over sixes!” and she laid her cards on the stump in triumph.

     Mange stared at her cards as if they would magically change, and yowled, “S***; I thought you were---”

     Suddenly, the sound of Jimmy’s voice sounded from just outside of the woods, “Mange! Where are you, boy?”

     “Damn, it’s my master; quick, hide the beers and ditch the cigars!”

     Immediately, chaos ensued as the dogs threw their half-empty beers into the bushes behind them, stubbed out their cigars and tossed them away and desperately grabbed their cards and laid on them.

     Mange quickly thought better of that idea, and grabbed his and Kings’ cards and handed them to Lady to hide, and snapped at King, “Quick, let’s pretend we’re in one hell of a fight!”

     Immediately, King lunged at Mange, going for his jugular.

     “Not a fight to the death man; take it easy!”

     “Oh, I’m sorry; just habit,” King replied, who let go and started snarling.

     Just then, Jimmy burst into the clearing, and yelled, “Break it up!” and kicked King in the side, driving the two dogs apart. King landed in a heap, whimpering.

     Jimmy shouted, “Get on home Mange!”

     Jimmy could have sworn he smelled cigar smoke, but that was impossible.

     As Mange started home, he put his tail between his legs to make it look good, and passed King, who whispered,

     “You owe me, Mange!” as he licked at his injured ribs.

 

 

     “JimmyJohn Beer: “I’ll Drink to That!” Earle Edgar had thought up the new slogan. 'Dats won hel ov an fyne sloggain!' he thought. He was waiting for Jimmy’s reaction, after showing him.

     “The slogan doesn’t jump out at me!” Actually, he thought the idea blew.

     “Wel, itts nott an slowgun fer a pogoe stiyk, itts ta git peeple two driynk ar sheit!”

     “What? No, I just think we can come up with better.”

     “Fyne, yew keap thiyankin, wyl Eye git selen, bee caus dis iz da slowgen.”

 

 

     They now had an official-looking business licence, having had a counterfeit one made up, and were finally ready to try once again to sell their product to a store. They were parked outside Bloody Bob’s Market in Bellevue, and were finalizing their plans to sell them JimmyJohn Beer.

     “Noww, wen wee git insyd, lett mi dew da talkin. Iyll teyal da gui ar slowgen, qote hym ar reediculusly-loww pryc, an letts cee da dued sayy kno!”

     Jimmy dispiritedly replied, “Do I have a choice?” He was still upset with his opinion about coming up with a better slogan being ignored, and Earle Edgar just using his lame idea anyway.

     “Ov corse yew haav an choise. Eye juss tink itt wuld bee bettgar if owenly won gui tawlked. Wee ned tew luk konfedant, an nott argu inn frunt ov da custemar.”

     “Fine, you won’t hear a peep out of me!” This ship called JimmyJohn is going down by the bow!

 

 

     They walked up to the store and went into Bloody Bob’s. They both wondered why that was the name; it seemed like such a terrible name for a food store. In response to their request to see the manager or owner, a dumpy-looking man in a blood-covered butcher’s smock came walking up and announced,

     “I’m the owner of this store, Bob Smitherton; how may I help you gentleman today?”

     Earle Edgar replied, “Helo, Eyema Joyan Smyth, an dis iz my biznus pardnar, Jimy. Weed lyk ywo tawlk two yew ubout caryen ar wuyndarful bier.”

     “How much is it?”

     “Donut yew evun wante tew kno howw itrt tayasts?”

     “Not really; all I care about is how cheap it is, and how fast you get messed up.”

     “Wel Mistar Smytharten, Eyea tink wee kan dew biznis, cauz dat’s ar atituud two!”

     “Well, then tell me how much money you’re charging me, and how much alcohol is in it?”

     “Howw ubowt .20 cents pur botal, yer cowest, an a*s farr a*s howw mutch alkohaul pur botal, Eyema nott shur. Eyed sayy, alott. Wat dew yew tink, Jimy?”

     Jimmy clenched his teeth. Earle Edgar had told him to keep quiet, and he’d promised not to make a peep, so damn it, that’s what Earle Edgar was going to get. He stared at Earle Edgar with a blank look.

     “Wat da hels rong wid yew?” Earle Edgar asked. Nothing was Jimmy’s response; either to be seen or heard.

     “Owa, Eye cee wats goen owen. Yew saad Eye woodnt sayy aniting. Its ocay ta speek.”

     “Okay, peep; eh, ha, ha!”

     “Dayam it, Jimy, Eye whant tew kno wat yew tink iz da awkahaul concent ov JimyJoyan Bier?”

     “Well, if your customers want to get lit up, fast and cheap, they’ll drink JimmyJohn Beer; I’ll Drink to That!”

     “Don’t tell me that’s your slogan? That one sounds like some 35-year-old 2nd grader came up with that loser!” cut in Smitherton

     Earle Edgar felt the red-hot fire of anger wash over him, but then decided to cast the blame elsewhere. “Yeya, Eye toll Jimy dat itt wuz stoopid, butt hee ovarulld mi.”

     Jimmy looked at Earle Edgar in bewilderment, and started to reply, “That is a crock; try the other way ar---”

     “Sew, Mistar Smythorten, shal wi tri itt?”

     “Yeah, I think that at that price, we can’t go wrong. Our profit margin will be high, even if the taste is less than spectacular. The only thing bothering me is the slogan; sorry Jimmy, but I think we need something better.”

     “There’s no need to apologize to me, you really should apologize to---”

     “Owkay, Bludy Bowb, weel werk onn itt.”

 

 

     “How about: “JimmyJohn, One Bloody Good Beer!” said Jimmy, in jest.

     “Heya, dats an gud won!” replied Earle Edgar.

     “It was a joke.”

     “Buelsheit; Bowb wil tink itts purfict!”

 

 

     “I love it!” yelled Bloody Bob, as he wacked the head off the chicken he was butchering. Crimson colored fountains of blood shot onto his smock and splattered onto Earle Edgar and Jimmy. He wanted to finish his work as they talked.

     “I’m sorry guys, but, if you’ll pardon the pun, “It’s my life’s blood!”

     “Eh, ha, ha, it’s my life’s blood. Eh, ha, ha!” yowled Jimmy, who dearly loved a good play on words.

     “JimmyJohn, a Bloody Good Beer!” Yeah, it’s perfect! said Bloody Bob.”

     Earle Edgar looked smugly at Jimmy, and replied, “Yeya, itt wuz mi ideya; Eye thoght two misef; Johan, Eye thawet, yew hiyt dat won owet ov da bawlparek. Bludy Bowb iz goen two freek; iznt dat rite, Jimy?”

     “Yeah, people will surely sit up and take notice!”  I’m not going to take any credit for this gouter; surely, it’s thedumbest slogan I’ve heard in quite awhile, and don’t call me Shirley.  Eh, ha ha!  he thought.

 

 

     Mange the dog was sitting on the cold, muddy ground and staring at the warm, dry bed of the pickup. Earle Edgar and Jimmy had just left to meet Bob Smitherton at a his store to check on his new display of JimmyJohn Beer. Mange was pissed! They’d left him tied to a tree behind the truck and walked the ½ mile to the store. It had poured buckets that morning, and was cold and clear this afternoon. Earle Edgar and Jimmy had driven the truck to a nearby creek, where they had gone to wash their dirty clothes because Link didn’t have a washer and dryer, as his wife had always sent their laundry out to be cleaned, and had spread the wet things to dry in the bed of the truck while they were gone; never thinking how miserable Mange must be. Sure, it was dry weather, but an ice-cold wind was roaring, and they’d tied him up with nowhere to escape the cold. But they still thought of him as just a dumb dog, who would faithfully await their return, and be grateful for a pat on the head or any other kind of attention. Little did they know that he was a vendictive animal, who could tie and untie knots. The longer he sat there, with the cold wind seeming to go right through him, the madder he became. At last, he could stand it no more. He’d teach them to ignore him! He untied the knot and trotted to the rear of the truck. Weak sunshine beat down, doing nothing to warm him. Screw them! He jumped up into the bed. Earle Edgar and Jimmy’s clean clothes were spread on the sides and bottom of the bed to dry in the weak sunshine. With the great feeling that comes from taking revenge, he lifted his leg and started peeing. He had saved up for a while, and he walked and peed, walked and peed, until his badder was empty, and steam rose from the newly-sprayed clothes and was quickly wisked away by the whipping wind. He looked with satisfaction upon his labors, returned to the tree he’d been tied to, and retied the knot, so that once again he was the rope’s prisoner.

 

 

     Earle Edgar and Jimmy were gazing upon the display for the beer that they’d finally got someone to market. “Buy Plenty of JimmyJohn’s; It’s a Bloody Good Beer!” said a huge sign above several cases of JimmyJohn Beer, with an arrow pointing down.

     That ought to be simple enough to understand for the morons who buy our beer. That arrow pointing down isa stroke of genious; man-o-man!  thought Jimmy.

     Earle Edgar said, “Luuks gud, Bowb!

 

 

     They were leaving the store, and a big manure truck from a nearby farm was heading through town, leaking manure all over the street. As both men were walking along the sidewalk, another car came by and hit a big puddle in the still-wet street, and doused the two men’s clothes.

     “Sum ov an friken byich!” yelled Earle Edgar, as watered manure dripped from both of them.

 

 

     They had made it back to their truck, and Jimmy said, “Man, I’m looking forward to changing into some clean clothes; I’m not going to wait one second longer,” and he started taking his clothes off.

     “Yeya, nott halvin acess two an washur and drier suycks, butt howpfuly, wid ar byg neww dysplay, weel soone bee abal ta bye ar owen playc, wid howet watur an evaryting,” replied Earle Edgar, and he, too, started to strip.

 

 

     Both Earle Edgar and Jimmy stood shivering, sans clothing, near the bed of the truck. They cold wind was torture! Earle Edgar said,

     “Dat friken winned iz an nuyat-shrivalar; Eye kant wayat ta putt owen sum clowes!”

     “I couldn’t agree more!”

     They both grabbed new outfits and hurridly threw them on.

     “Awa, dat feyels mutch beto---wat da hel? Mi clowes smel lik a owethowse!”

     Jimmy smelled his and caught a wiff of pee. “Yeah, mine too!”

     They both turned and glared at Mange, but he was still tied to the tree, exactly where they’d left him. He saw them staring at him, and his tail thumped against the ground as he wagged it.

     Stupid human b******s! thought Mange. 'That’ll teach you that when you piss Mange off, something of yours is going to get pissed on!'

 

 

     Gordon Link was sitting on his couch watching T.V. when the front door swung open and in walked Earle Edgar and Jimmy. “Hi, guys, I’m watching a movie I think you’d like. You guys feel like watching?”

     “Aya, kno tanks. Eye tink weel juss hed upp two ar ruums an reelaxx. Weer bothe kina tird.”

     “Okay, I’ll try to keep the volume down.”

     Earle Edgar and Jimmy had to pass close to where Link was sitting.

     “Good lord, what have you two been doing, swimming in piss-water?”

 

 

     Jimmy couldn’t believe it; sales of JimmyJohn Beer had taken off like a rocket since Bloody Bob Smitherton had put up their new display. It just went to show; if the price of your beer was cheap enough, people would buy it no matter what. It didn’t matter if it tasted like alcohol-laced sewer water, it would still sell great. It was amazing what people were willing to buy, if they felt like they were saving money. He had been wrong, happily so.

 

 

     “Eye tink itts tyme ta luk att muven up inn da wurld. Weer makin dam gud muny noww, sew Eym thinken wee shud luk att an neww howes,” Earle Edgar announced one day.

     It was true; they were selling so much JimmyJohn, they’d had to go full time with their brewing process; they’d hired more people to work the brewery 24 hours a day; they now owned two delivery trucks; and Brainhammer Brewing had expressed a desire to purchase their brewery, and take the beer national. The JimmyJohn Beer Company was in serious negotiations to sell. If they did, it would mean undreamt-of profit, and today was their big meeting with Brainhammer Brewery.

 

 

     “Wel, ifn wee didd sel, weyad lyk ta rewared loyilty; weyed lyk ta givv Gordawn Lynke an larg bowenus, fer gitten uss startid. Weyed al sew lyk to giiv Bowb Smythurtun a bowenus a*s an rewared fer selin JimyJohan.”

     “Certainly,” replied the head of Brainhammer Brewing, Joe Froth, “If you sell to us, all of your concerns will be met by Brainhammer. I’d like to go over our proposal one more time. We will agree to purchase The JimmyJohn Beer Company. We will agree to keep the name JimmyJohn, as it enjoys great name reconition among youths who don’t know the taste sucks. The price will be so cheap; people will overlook the crappy taste, anyway. And the other demographic we expect to do well in is with older Americans, who might care less about the taste, as long as it screws them up, and is cheap. That’s why Brainhammer wants to purchase your beer; so we’ll have a cheap product to go along with our high-end beer, Euphoria Beer, and our middle-of-the-road beer, Brainhammer. We need something that will appeal to the people who clean toilets or the like, you know, ordinary lower-class, and blue collar workers. Your beer is so cheap, even the unemployed who want to get tanked will be able to afford it.”

 

 

     The JimmyJohn Beer Company was bought out by Brainhammer. Joe Froth called and left a message for Earle Edgar and Jimmy to call him back at their earliest convenience. Earle Edgar flew into a rage.

     “Eye supows ta basterds chayangd dar mynds; wel, itts two friken layat noww, wee alredy cayshd da chek!”

     Jimmy replied, “Before we fly off the handle,..”

     “Wat da hel ar yew bablen abowat?”

     “I just mean before we get upset, let’s talk to Froth.”

 

 

     “Yeya, iz dis Mistar Frowth?”

     “Yes, this is Mr. Froth.”

     “Mistar Frowth, dis iz Earal---err---Johan Smyth. Yew sayad yew wantid tew tawlk tew uss? Iff yew wante tew bayk owet ofn da deel, dats tew dam bad, bekaus wee alredy cayshd da dam chek!”

     “Whoa there pilgrim, we don’t want out of the deal.”

     “Eyea aynt goen ta puett upp wyth beein caled, watevar yew juss cald mi!”

     “What? I wasn’t calling you anything.”

     “Den wats an piyl grayamm?”

     “I’m sorry if I offended you; it’s just a figure of speech. I meant no offense.”

     “Owa, sory; noww wat diyad yew wawant ta tawlk ta uss abowet?”

     “We’d like you two to be our spokesmen. We think you guys look like you’re lower class, which is who we’re trying to appeal to with JimmyJohn Beer. What better way than having two lower-class faces telling them to drink our beer?"

     “Now hold on; we’re not going to sit here and be insulte---”

     “Howald owen, Jimy. Ifn Eye undarstan corekly, weed git two bee owen da Tee-Vee!”

     “Yes, that’s correct, you’d be on T.V.,” replied Froth.

     “Yeah, but he called us low class.”

     “Not low class, lower class, meaning average joes; Joe Sixpack. Say, that’s perfect!”

     “Okay, that’s perfect; eh, ha, ha!” responded Jimmy.

     Nott agane, giiv itt an rest! Earle Edgar thought.

     “No, the Joe Sixpack idea; you two would be brothers in our advertisements; Joe and Harry Sixpack. For jobs you guys would do something that reflects blue collar; let’s see, plumbers; you two would be plumbers; blue-collar beer drinkers would relate to you guys. If you agree, I’ll have our advertising firm work something up.”

     “Wel, ifn wee git tew bee owen da Tee-Vee, Eye saa wee shud dew itt.”

     “I still don’t like it; we’d be making fun of ourselves,” Jimmy answered.

     “Sew wat? We’d git tew bee owen da Tee-Vee, an weyad bee lafin awl da wayy ta da baynk!”

     “Don’t you think our faces would get sore? Our bank is quite a distance. Eh, ha, ha! Well okay I guess I’ll agree, as long as we’re well-paid.”

 

 

     Earle Edgar and Jimmy were house hunting, with their new real estate agent, Lane Broadway. They’d sold their company for 30 million dollars, and were set to make another 1 million each for playing the Sixpack Brothers in a series of television advertisements. When Earle Edgar and Jimmy had first walked through the door of The Friendly Neighbor Real Estate Company, Lane Broadway had taken one look at the pair, and fled for the back room. It was Friday afternoon, and he didn’t want to be stuck with these lowlifes; who probably could qualify for exactly s***. He heard his boss tell the two losers that he was just about to head for home, but that there was another agent who would be glad to help them.

     “Lane!” he had shouted, and Lane wished he could somehow escape. Gee, thanks, you b*****d!, “Yeah boss?”

     “I’ve got to get going, but I told these two gentlemen that you’d help them.”

     S***! “I’d be more than happy to.” As he walked slowly in their direction, he was more convinced than ever these guys were a couple of zeros. He gazed longingly at the door, and reluctantly resigned himself to a long night of wasting his time.

     “Hi, nice to meet you, I’m Lane Broadway.”

      “Yeya, hy dare.”

     Broadway waited for more of the introduction, but none was forthcoming, so he inquired, “And to whom might I be speaking?”

     “Eyma Johan Smythe, an dis heers mi biznus pardnar, Jimy.”

     “Nice to meet you both, and what exactly are you looking for?”

     “Owa, an neww howes.”

     Oh boy, a couple of real winners! “And what kind of house are you looking for?”

     “Owa, da uesuel; fore wals, a fewe bedrums, a fewe bayathrums, an an gayrage ta parke inn sew we donut git al sowaked.”

     S***! “Well, have a seat and we’ll talk about finacial options.” That ought to get rid of these pond scum!

     “Owa, dis wil be an caysh on da beralhed deel.”

     Sure! “Oh? And what do you do for a living, if you don’t mind me asking?”

     “Wee wer da owenors ov JimyJohan Brewari, butt wee juss soweld owet ta Branehamor Brewariez.”

     “You guys must really think I’m stupid, asking me to buy that b. s!”

     “Mr. Broadway, I know it sounds like bulls***, but maybe this will convince you,” and Jimmy opened the gym bag he was carrying and dumped wads of $100 dollar bills on the table.

     “Holy s***!” exclaimed Lane Broadway. “This has to be a joke. Nobody is stupid enough to carry around that much in real cash!”

     Then he looked at the two slopeheads sitting across the table from him, and thought; but, then again?

 

 

     Broadway was planning on showing them mansions. He had a long list of exclusive properties to show them, and hopefully he’d earn one hefty commision. “This house just came on the market today. It has 15 bedrooms, 7 bathrooms, and is a very comfortable 10,000 square feet.”

     Looking at the picture, Earle Edgar said, “Sum ov an bich, dats won bigg howes!”

     Jimmy was staring in disbelief at the monster. He couldn’t believe that these were the same two guys that not too long ago were living in a pickup truck and washing their clothes in a river. For once, he was speechless as he gazed upon the huge house.

     Earle Edgar spoke up. “Duwes dat bich cowem wid an butlar naymed Geevs? Mayn, Eyed git lowast inn an plays dis bigg!”

     “Oh, come on, John, let’s go have a look,” pleaded Jimmy.

     “Yes, I’d be more than happy to show it to you gentlemen,” said Broadway, who was already spending his commission in his mind.

     “Owaka, Eye gues itt wuldnt huret ta half an luk.”

 

 

     As they pulled up to the house, they gazed at it with disbelieving eyes. The house was enormous, with three stories towering over their heads.

     “Howli sheit, dis bich iz huweg; da frunt poretch iz bigar dan ani howes Eyeva evar livd inn!” proclaimed Earle Edgar.

     “I still can’t believe we’re looking at houses that cost this much,” added Jimmy.

     “Yeya, Mistar Browedway, exaktli howw mutch iz dis playc?”

     “It’s listed for 18 million dollars.”

     Earle Edgar seemed to choke as he replied, “Eyat miliun? Dats wayy two friken xpensiv; maybee sumpin an lowet cheepor?”

     Lane Broadway could feel his extravagant selling fee slipping away. “Why don’t we at least have a look?”

     Jimmy responded, “Yeah, let’s!”

     “Wel, oka, butt Eyema telin ya, dis bitc iz wayy, wayy two friken ritch fer mi blud!”

 

 

     They stepped through the front door, and both of their mouths dropped open in amazement. A crystal chandelier illuminated a veritable room full of extravagent excess. A hardwood floor; polished until one could see their reflection; an oak dinning room table set for 8 with the finest china; a pure-white sofa, which sat upon a pure-white carpet; a 52-inch plasma television hooked to the most expensive-looking stereo speakers, which in turn were connected to a stereo system that looked to be from outer space; and many other expensive-looking pieces of furniture. A winding, massive staircase wound up away from the ground floor.

     “What’s upstairs?” asked Jimmy.

     “The stairway leads to the 2nd floor, on which you’ll find 8 of the bedrooms, half with private bathrooms, as well as a sitting room, and an entertaiment room, and then up on the 3rd floor, you’ll find the remaining 7 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a couple of private offices, and an exercise room, with an attached suana.”

     “Yer sheiten mi!” exclaimed Earle Edgar.

     “No, I’m not. In addition to the 2 upper stories, it has another full living room in the basement, which the current owners are using as a T.V. room, and another full bathroom down there. As you saw, the house sits on 5 secluded acres, with year-round access to a private lake, and excellent fishing, with what I’m assured are monster-sized trout.”

     “Can we look upstairs?” asked Jimmy.

     “Scarew luken upstares; Eyeva ceen enuf ta kno Eyed feal uncomfertabl inn an playc dis siiz. Dew ya liest anithin smawlor?”

     “Certainly,” Broadway replied, carefully hiding his crestfallen look, while Jimmy looked as disappointed as a kid who gets clothes for Christmas. “We have a lovely 6-bedroom that you should be able to get for around 3 million.”

     “Eye wuz tinken slietely smalar.”

     Lane Broadway had to fight to not let his disappointment show. He’d just gone from possibly vacationing in Bermuda to pitching a used tent in his backyard and pretending the smores he was making over a campfire were chilled caviar brought to him by his own private butler provided him by a 5-star hotel.

 

 

     Dejectedly, Broadway glanced through the listings, desperately scanning for something semi-expensive. “Ah, sure; here’s a lovely double wide mobile home on 6 timbered acres. That way, you could build your own house, and make it exactly the way you wanted.”

     “Eye donut tink wee ned fiyev acars. Howa bowet sumpin dat’s inn an mobul howem parc?”

 

 

     Lane Broadway hadn’t looked at all happy when they’d purchased a 45-year old trailer in the Shady Pines Mobile Home Park. Jimmy was totally bummed out and pleaded with Earle Edgar, as he gazed upon the the 70’s-era 4-door car up on blocks set in front of the neighbor’s trailer,

     “Please, Earle Edgar; we’re rich; can’t we buy something more decent?”

     “Yew donut cawl dis ‘desenat’?” Earle Edgar answered, pointing to the trailer.

     “Ware Eye cowem frum, dis iz an kastal!”

     “Yeah, I suppose; if you come from ‘Loserville’.  That’s not what I meant. It’s just that money’s no longer a concern, so I was thinking maybe we could afford something a little nicer.”

     “Wel, y didnut yew sayy sew? Eyema opan tew maybee byein a tripal wyd!”

 

 

     Jimmy had given up and they’d moved in. Tonight would be their first night sleeping in their new place. But before they turned in, Earle Edgar wanted to christen it, for reasons Jimmy failed to understand. He’d bought a bottle of the bubbly, and before they turned in, Earle Edgar grabbed the bottle and asked Jimmy to follow him outside. Jimmy followed him out to a large boulder sitting by the front door, and he said,

     “Eye donut wayent ta dente da syde, sew dis rok wil half ta dew,” and he stood beside the boulder and said grandly, “Dis bich wil bee ar howem forr qite an wyl, sew Eye cristan dis da Homowayy Frum da Howes Wee Yewst ta Liyav Inn; ayend an Pradukt ov Beein Ritch”.”

     Jimmy thought, do you think you could make the name any longer; or dumber? It’s just a metal box!!

     Earle Edgar swung the bottle against the boulder as hard as he could; the bottle just bounced off. “Sum ov an bich!” he shouted. “Eye muss ov hyt itt rong. Eyela juss tri dat agane.” And he raised the bottle high above his head, repeated his words, and swung the bottle with force against the boulder. Once again it failed to break, and this time the bottle bounded back from the rock and smashed an unprepared Earle Edgar right on his forehead, instantly dropping him in his tracks. He lay upon the ground, not stirring for the longest time, and finally yelling,

     “Y yew basterd! Wat da helis dis friken botal mayd owet ov, dimund?”

 

 

     They decided to forget it, as they were both bone-tired, and trudged their way back onto the front porch. Jimmy was so looking forward to a good night’s sleep, for lately, he was feeling so down and was always tired. As he was following him inside, the bottle in Earle Edgar’s hand barely bumped the doorframe and shattered into a million pieces. As Earle Edgar sat holding the jagged neck of the bottle, and as cheap champagne ran down the wall and soaked the carpeted entryway, he yelled,

     “Y, yew cheep muthar-fu---”

     Suddenly, from behind them a voice timidly asked, “Ah, did I catch you at a bad time? Hello, I’m Mrs Dalrimple from the next row over, and I’d like to welcome you to the Shady Pines Moble Home Community. Technically, it’s a park, not a community, but we like to think of ourselves as one big happy family; is there any way I or we can help you gentlemen?”

     Before Jimmy could reply politely, Earle Edgar rudely replied, “Yeya, maybee yew kan tel mi ware Eye kan bye a friken botal ov dis sheit dat exploeds wen yew hyt itt owen an rok; dis dum basterd didynt uwntill Eye juss bumep iyat, an iyat browek owen diss dor fraym.”

 

 

     They had been living at the mobile home park exactly a week when the phone rang. Edgar Earle answered,

     “Da Brue-Kingss; dis iz Johan Smyth speekenn, howw mayy wee hep yew?”

     The Brew Kings was what they had decided to call themselves. It didn’t actually mean anything, but they figured it would impress people when they called.

     “Yeah John, this is Joe Froth, president of Brainhammer Brewing.”

     “Yeya, howar yew duin?”

     “I’m calling to make sure you two still want to take part in our new ad campaign for JimmyJohn Beer?”

      “Owa, abselutli; Eyma glayd yew caled. Eye wuz hopen Eyed git da chaynce ta akt owen da Tee-Vee!”

     “Oh yes, you 2 are exactly what we need to appeal to our target consummers; the lower class.”

     “Wel, ifn aniting says 'lowar clayas', itts uss!”

 

 

     Early the next week, Earle Edgar and Jimmy found themselves on the set of the new commercial Brainhammer was filming to promote JimmyJohn Beer. They’d each been given clothes that were ripped and full of holes. When Earle Edgar had asked why the crappy clothing, he’d been told that their own clothes were much too nice to ever be worn by the type of person they were aiming their message at, so they donned the new outfits. Each had already memorized their lines. Jimmy had severe doubts about the words they were expected to say.

     “I don’t know, Earle, I don’t much care for the slogan their advertising firm came up with, and which we’re expected to say: “JimmyJohn Beer; Sure It’s Not the Best, But Boy, is it Cheap!” It’s a little demeaning, don’t you think?”

     “Woo givvs an sheit, wee gott ar muny owet ov it.”

     “Yeah, but it’s our names on the outside.”

     “Curecton, itts owenly yer naam, myn iz an mayd-up won!”

     “Still, it’s the pricipal of the thing.”

     “Wat? Eye fayl two cee wat schewl hass two dew wid itt!”

     “No, moral principles.”

     “Owa, Eye donut half ani ov doze.”

 

 

     Jimmy was about to complain about the rest of the scrip, when Director Franlin Dreamer called out, “Places, everyone; we’re going to begin.”

     Earle Edgar and Jimmy crawled into the tent they had supposedly slept in, and the director called for the water in the fake stream to be turned on, and the fake campfire to be turned on; then he shouted,

     “Action!”

     The script called for Earle Edgar to unzip the tent flap, and for Jimmy and him to stagger out of the tent, supposedly with massive hangovers, and then begin speaking. Earle Edgar grabbed the zipper and tried to unzip it. It wouldn’t budge, and he yelled,

     “Cowm onn, yew sum ov an bich!”

     “Cut; what’s the problem, John?”

     “Owa, dis friken ting wowent unazipp!”

     “It really doesn’t matter who unzips it, so why don’t you two switch? Jimmy can unzip it, and then you two come out and say your lines.”

     “Butt dis skrypt sayas Eyema apost tew opin da bich!”

     “I know, but it really makes no difference.”

     “Ar yew sayen Eyema two friken stoopid ta ues an zippar?”

     Well?  “No, that’s not what I’m saying; I’m just suggesting a switch, that’s all.”

     “Owakay, butt sins weer goen ofa da skrypt, Eyema goen ta wyng itt!”

     “No, just read the script exactly like it’s written.”

     “Suur, watevar yew saya, dare Fraynklon, yer da bowes!”

 

 

     Great, that’s all I need, an actor who thinks this is high art!  thought Dreamer. I’m glad I  cided to switch these two; I mean, how smart do you have to be to unzip a tent?' “Action!”

     Jimmy unzipped the tent with no problem, and they both stepped unsteadily through the door. Jimmy emerged first with no trouble, but as Earl Edgar went to step out the doorway of the tent, his foot somehow became entangled on something, and he lurched against the tent to steady himself, and the whole thing came down, right on top of Earle Edgar, who had plummeted to the ground.

     “Sum ov an bich; sumwon git thys morfidyte friken ting ofe mi!”

     “Cut” S**!

 

 

     After a delay of 20 minutes to set up the tent again, they were at last ready to try another take.

     “Action!” shouted Dreamer. This time, Jimmy and Earle Edgar managed to both make it out of the tent, and were beginning their dialog. Jimmy’s opening line was,

     “Well, the sun is up, and I feel terrible!”

     Earle Edgar’s line was supposed to be, “Yeah, me too.”, but instead he said, “Eye tink Eye shudnt half had dat twenetyeth beir!”

     “Cut; what the hell is that?”

     “Wel, Eye thought...”

     There’s your problem, Dreamer thought to himself.

     “dat innsted ov, “Yeya, mee two,” dat, “Eye shudnt half hayd dat twentyeth beir!” wood mayk itt sownd lyk itt woodnt afekt da drynkar woo drayk les dan twenti.”

     “Just say the words that are written in the script.”

     “Butt shudnt wee incorage dem ta driyk a*s mutch a*s dey kan? Yewd sel moor beir dat wayy.”

     Somebody please shut this moron up, thought Dreamer. “No, please just stick to the script.”

     “Oakay,” he said to Dreamer.  wel, da skripd iz ful ov sheit!

 

 

     Dreamer then shouted, “Places,” then a little while later, “Action!”

     Once again, Earle Edgar and Jimmy managed to stumble their way out of the tent. Jimmy then said the opening line.

     “Well, the sun is up, but I feel terrible!”

     “Yeya, me too,” answered Earle Edgar.

     “I think I could use several aspirin.”

     “Weel, awl da asperines ar gowen.”

     Then the pre-recorded voice of the announcer said, “Headaches and the Spinning Soon Will Be Gone; Just Listen to the Lyrics of This Here Song:", and a jingle was added: “Violent Vomitting Will be a Thing of the Past; JimmyJohn Beer Really Kicks your A**!”

     Then the camera showed Earle Edgar and Jimmy emerging from the tent with big smiles, and Jimmy then said,

     “Boy, I feel absolutely no adverse side effects from drinking heavily last night!”

     Earle Edgar replied, “Gud deal!”

     The camera zoomed in on both their faces, showing nothing but happy smiles. The announcer then said,

     “That’s because JimmyJohn Beer is specially-formulated to never cause a hangover, so you’ll feel like drinking all night! Jimmyjohn Beer; Sure It’s Not the Best, But Boy, is it Cheap! ”

     Earle Edgar then said, “Saya, whi donut wee goe owet an haav severel moor JimyJowans agane tewnite?”

     Jimmy couldn’t resist answering, “Okay, why don’t we go out and have several more JimmyJohn’s again tonight?"

     “Cut! What, why didn’t you say the line that was written?”

     “Oh, because this one is much funnier. Eh, ha, ha!”

     “We’re not going for funny, we’re going for serious!”

     “Then it’s my mistake; I thought you were going for funny, seeing as how the claim that JimmyJohn Beer doesn’t cause a hangover is a complete joke. Eh, ha, ha!”

     “We’re only claiming that so we can sell more beer; it’s called embellishment.”

     “You sure could have fooled me; I thought it was known as 'lying'!”

     “Just say the line that is written, and then I won’t have to listen to anymore of your holier-than-thou b.s. Well take it again from when John says, “Good deal!”

 

 

     “Syns wen didyew beecom an preechar?” asked Earle Edgar while they were waiting to begin the scene.

     “Since I realized we have a responsibilty to the consumer, and claiming absolute s*** is not responsible!”

     “Sheit, wat ubowet da responsabulity to ar bayk acowants?”

Before Jimmy could reply, Dreamer called for quite on the set, then, “Action!”

 

 

 

 

     Mange had the house to himself. He had watched as his masters; at least that’s what they called themselves; got in the truck and left; again without him. He was bored, and when he was bored he got creative. At first, he had curled up on his blanket and tried to catch a few zee’s, but after a while, he felt that raising-some-hell feeling and got up, hearing the silence of the empty place swarming around him. He suddenly remembered he was still hungry, even though his ‘master’ Jimmy had filled his bowl with the disgusting brownish mound of s*** that passed for his food. Even the memory of it caused bile to rise in his throat. That crap called ‘dog food’ was horrible! They figured he was ‘only’ a dog, so he would be happy with ground-up pig testicles, or whatever was in that slop. But he had seen the steaks they had brought home from the store and left in the refrigerator so they could be cooked for dinner. The thought of a nice juicy steak made his mouth water. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted that steak, and he wanted it cooked, not raw, as most people thought was the way dogs’ preffered theirs.

 

     He stared at the oven. He probably could figure out how to use it. He had decided; he was going to eat a cooked steak. He trotted up to the refrigerator and pawed open the door. He then balanced by standing on his hind legs and pushed his stomach against the 3rd shelf up, and his eyes searched the interior until he found the steaks. They were sitting on a white china platter on the top shelf. At this point, he went to grab the platter of steaks in his mouth; only as he was pulling it off, the platter came flying out and fell, end-over-end, to the floor, where it shattered into about 10 pieces, and spread broken china everywhere. Damn it anyway! He couldn’t do much about that now. He took the steaks over to the oven, pawed open the door, and put them on the oven rack. Then he tried to remember which dial to turn from when he’d seen the humans cook something, and he remembered the dial; but as he couldn’t read, he had no clue about which setting he should use. He flipped the dial, and it came to rest on a setting that started with a 'B', that much he knew. He sat back down on his haunches and watched as the upper burner began to glow red. With satisfaction, he noticed the steaks begin to sizzle. They were cooking. Not too shabby for a stupid mutt.

 

 

     After a few minutes, he heard popping sounds, and noticed heavier smoke. He started to get concerned. Maybe he should take the steaks out. As he was thinking this, he saw flames that quickly grew into a ball of fire in the glass window! He panicked and quickly reached up and opened the oven door. Flames shot out and quickly ignited the wallpaper. After that, it was a nightmare world of insane fear, as he ran around in circles and barked helplessly. Then he thought,

     I’d better get out of the house!  He trotted to an open window and out into the yard.

 

 

     Earle Edgar and Jimmy where on their way home after filming the commercial; Jimmy was morose, but Earle Edgar was exited.

     “Weer gowen ta bee owen da Tee-Vee; Eyea kant beeleeve yew basucaly cawld Dreemor an lyor!”

     “Well, that’s what he is; that’s what the entire Brainhammer Company is!”

     “Yew shud awlwayys amembor two nevar biet da hawend dat feedes.”

     “Yeah, that’s fine, but they’re telling bald-faced lies to the customers!”

     “Eye donut giiv a sheit ifn dayar claamen dat JimyJowen mayaks an duud flii, a*s loweng a*s daygiiv mi da muny; yew nede ta cliyem dowen offa yer hihores.”

 

 

     As they drove home, several fire trucks zoomed by, for each of which they had to pull off to the side and stop.

     “Sum dum basrerd obvyusly sete hiz owen howes onn fyer, jugen bye howw mani fyer truks ar goen bye.”

     Jimmy didn’t answer; for as they rounded the corner of their street, which was a part of the mobile home park, he saw all the fire trucks stopped in front of their place. “Son of a b***h, that’s our house!”

     “Yer rite!”

 

 

     The truck slid to a stop, and both of them leapt out and ran up their driveway. A man wearing a white fire helmet reached out and blocked their way,

     “Excuse me, no one is allowed up there, especially vagrants!”

     Earle Edgar became enraged. “Woo ar yew calin vagerents? Eyel haav yew kno dis iz ar playac; wee owen itt!”

     “Oh, please excuse me; I thought you were just homeless people looking to steal.”

     “Duz itt luk lyk weer homlis?”

     Then Earle Edgar looked at their attire; they were still dressed for the commercial. Owa! “Nevar mynd, wat happined?”

     “Well, we managed to put the fire out. It looks like the fire started around the oven.”

     “Dats imposabal, weev bin gowen awl afturnoone.”

     “Well that’s what our investigation is pointing to.”

     Before Earle Edgar could inquire about Mange, he felt a nudge on his leg and looked down to find the dog. “Ov coars, yer oakay, butt luuk awat ar friken howes!”