The nephews got me a tape recorder the other day that fits in my pocket. They said it would help me remember stories and conversations so I can put em up here in the internets. It’s one of them tiny little fuckers, I don’t even know where the tape is inside it, but it works pretty slick so I’ve been turning it on every time the police come and bother me in case I need it for evidence. Here are a couple conversations from yesterday.

“Sir, it’s illegal to urinate in public” this cop says to me. I was just pissing in the alley behind the new Union Bar (I ain’t allowed in there since they say I had a lot to do with the old Union Bar burning to the ground).

“I ain’t in public, this is an alley” I says to him.

“This is considered public property sir, why don’t you pull your pants up and come on over here.”

Listening to this recording tells me I was pretty far in the bag, because I only drop my drawers around my ankles to piss if I’m too drunk to operate the fly on my coveralls. I don’t remember the incident in question, but the recording is bringing back a few bits and pieces.

“Why don’t you act like you never seen me and save yourself some hassle son” I said “I ain’t no fun to tangle with and I ain’t hurting anybody back here, just pissing on a wall that was dirty to start with. Best for you to just walk on.”

Now this is pretty fair advice. If I saw a copy about to bother me over some piddly bullshit like that I would give him that advice as a concerned observer. Don’t bother old Willie, he’s a pain in the ass and you’ll be headed home to get a clean uniform and get your car cleaned and a bite wound stitched up if you push this too far. A fella pissing in an alley just ain’t worth that kind of trouble. Let it go.

“I can’t do that sir,” he says “I’m just going to write you ticket and you can be on your way, but I need your identification.”

I can hear some scuffling on the tape right about here, so I imagine I’m getting my pants up. There is also a disgusted “Oouughff” noise that is probably the cop standing behind me as a I bend over and give him a gander of my hairy ass and a set of old man balls that hang down halfway to my knees. I figure this is what I did because I’ve used this tactic before. It usually puts the cops off a bit and sometimes they just leave rather than risk another look up my hind end.

“What are you doing back here anyway?” I ask him “If you’re looking for a hummer you came to the wrong place, the gay place is a couple blocks down on Summit. You’ll know it by the big neon flames in the window and the rainbow sticker on the door. I ain’t never been in there, but I imagine you’ll do just fine for yourself, they love a man in uniform in them places.”

“I’m investigating a report of a drunk old man back here drinking a bottle of Jack Daniels and stomping around yelling.” he says.

“I was too, some folks complained so I came back here and run that son of a bitch off. He took a left on his way out the alley.” I said, being a helpful citizen and letting him know that we were on the same side. “That’s the same direction as that gay place I told you about, so if you don’t catch him you can find yourself a boyfriend.”

At this point there are more rustling sounds on the tape, which is probably Officer Flamer reaching in my coat and taking out a bottle of Jack.

“Hey!” I yell, “I told you I ain’t like that!”

“That’s interesting” he says “a bottle of Jack Daniels”

“Yes sir, that is evidence” I tell him “I took it off that crazy old coot that was back here causing trouble. I didn’t want him getting any drunker and I told him that an open bottle in public was against the law. Had to fight him a bit to get him to give it up, but I got it. If you catch that son of a bitch I’ll testify against him.”

“That’s two tickets” he says.

“Now just a second, I got witness” I say, and there is the sound of a door opening. “These fellas can tell you exactly what happened.” Then there is the sound of a door closing and a door locking and a very angry cop yelling through a door. Sounds like I caught him off guard there with my claim of witnesses and slipped into the back door of that Italian restaurant next to the Union and locked it behind me.

It’s a good run all the way down the alley and around the buildings to get to the front, but he probably would have caught me if I’d run out the front door and off down the block. I just ain’t as fast as I used to be. From the sound of it I sat there for about ten seconds while he headed around the block to try to catch me out front, walked back out the back door and headed over to the park.

There’s a final statement from me before the recorder is turned off.

“That dumb son of a bitch. I warned him that I wasn’t gonna be no fun to tangle with, and sure enough now he’s running all over hell and ain’t gonna catch nobody, all so that he can try and write me a ticket for pissing in an alley.”

There’s also another short conversation that sounds like it came a little later. It’s between me and Chief, the old Indian that drinks in the south end of the park sometimes.

“Hey Chief!”

“Fuck you! Get away from me you treacherous old cock sucker!”

“Hey now, I never did nothing to you Chief, my ancestors weren’t even in this country when you folks was getting shot and trading away all your land for blankets.”

“You always trick me out of my whiskey and make people mad at me. I hate you. And you ain’t getting none of this bottle, no matter what you say.”

“OK Chief, but the cops are coming this way, and they’re pissed. I was just coming to warn you. They beat the hell out of Slow Tom already, just for drinking in the park. I wouldn’t take that bottle from you if you begged me right now.”

“Shit. They really coming through dishing it out huh?”

“Damn right, that big one that always calls you Big Chief Drinkem is with em too. Man that bastard is mean.”

“Double shit, I gotta get outta here. I’m gonna stick this bottle under this here tree. Don’t tell em where it’s at and don’t tell em I was here.”

A minute later there’s the sound of me chugging whiskey. Chief ain’t real sharp, never was.

This little recorder is fun, I’m gonna start carrying it every night!

Want free stuff? Just link to WastedWillie.com on your blog, facebook page, website or twitter account (#wastedwillie) and you’ll be entered in the contest. We (the nephews) have tracking software for all the links, so start linking and we’ll give away a short to one randomly chosen link every month as well as a shirt to whoever sends the most traffic. If your blog or site is comedy oriented, please feel free to contact us and maybe we can work something out. Contact us at wastedwillie@gmail.com (this email goes to us rather than Willie, he’s made enough of a mess with his twitter account and he’s not good with answering email).

You wouldn’t guess it by looking at me, but your old Uncle Willie was given extensive training as a silent ninja warrior. In fact I am a master of the dark arts. Of course a ninja doesn’t go unnoticed forever, the key is to make sure that when you do attack it’s a surprise to your victim and you can take them unaware so that they have no chance to prepare themselves for the onslaught. Swift and violent, that’s my motto. Let me give you an example.

As anybody who knows me can attest, I have a powerful lactose intolerance. A couple of swigs of milk and don’t nobody want old Uncle Willie around no more. And god forbid I eat some cheese. I can clear out an entire pool hall in two minutes flat if I get me a cheese pizza. In fact Fat Tony’s Billiards down on Grant street actually has a sign next to the pizza oven that says “NO CHEESE on Willie’s Pizzas. EVER!” That’s just how powerful my lactose intolerance is. I actually told a judge once that it was a handicap and that I had no control over my condition so he couldn’t throw me out of his courtroom for farting, but he put me out anyway. Prejudiced bastard.

They figured it out pretty quick while I was in jail this last time, and I didn’t get no dairy the whole seven months I was in there, so you can understand why I was awful thirsty for a big glass of milk. I had a little hankerin’ for a hunk of fresh mozzarella too. This morning I went to the Johnson’s grocery and got me some dairy, wolfed it down in the parking lot, and went back inside to do some evil. I found some good targets too, and I crop dusted every one of those motherfuckers.

My first victim was an ornery ass kid. The little bastard was about eight years old and he’s yelling at his mother like he runs the god damned show and she’s his serving girl. “I want this” and “I want that” and acting like he was going to get what he wanted or he was gonna kick some ass. Well I don’t take to that sort of behavior from children much, and I learned my lesson about hittin’ other folks kid in the supermarket years ago, so it was great stroke of luck that his head was about the same height as my ass.

I strolled by about 2 feet from him and let it roll out nice and easy, silent as could be. Sometimes my wrath is so terrible that I can’t believe there ain’t a blue cloud following me around, and this was one of them days. I stopped about ten feet away and pretended I was taking a close look at some breakfast cereal, and watched my victim. I looked at him just in time to catch his reaction.

When he caught that first whiff his face scrunched up like he just tasted something awful, and his mouth snapped shut. Nobody wants old Willie’s ass in their mouth. I’ve seen jaws snap shut hard enough to crack teeth after I get into some dairy and let loose. That means the second breath is all through the nose, and that never wins me no fans neither, but I’ve never seen a reaction quite like this one.

The little bastard actually looked right at me with a look of horror in his eyes. It was clear at that moment that he knew exactly what I’d done to him and he knew it weren’t no accident either. I grinned a little bit and looked right in his eyes so he knew I was relishing the moment. And that’s when I lost respect for the entire younger generation and for this kid’s daddy, because he actually started bawling. Not even a little whimper or some tears, but honest to god bawling out loud. That boy’s daddy raised a sissy.

He pointed at me and screamed like hell as I walked away grinning, leaving another trail of deadly poison to keep em off my trail and his mamma came over to comfort him and find out what the problem was. I glanced back once to see her face all scrunched up too, and I knew I done my job. They even made the mistake of coming down the aisle the same way I went, fighting their way through an invisible cloud that would have cleared trenches in World War 1. The kid was hollering and bawling for a good two minutes. I could hear him all the way on the other side of the store while I was busy with some other folks.

I have to admit, I did get a little cruel. Sometimes the power goes to my head and I start just blasting folks that didn’t do nothing to deserve it. The nice old lady behind the deli counter couldn’t go anywhere to get away, so I blasted what sounded like a fat man playing a tuba full of jelly on the way by her counter and gave her a big wink. She looked appalled at the sound, and when the smell hit her she looked like she was going to be sick. Good worker though, she couldn’t go anywhere, so she defended her post as best she could and started covering up the deli meats and throwing towels over all the baked goods. It probably didn’t do any good, that pastrami probably tasted like rotted cheese and dead things after that kind of up close exposure, but at least she made the effort.

As the deli lady covered things as fast as she could, almost in a panic, I was already on my way over to the customer service counter with a half eaten block of Parmesan. When I get into some dairy I’m Karma come to life, punishing slow customer service and bad behavior, but I try to give them a fighting chance so I didn’t roast him right away.

“Excuse me, I would like to return this block of cheese.” I said to him as I walked up.

“What’s wrong with it sir, it looks you’ve eaten nearly half a pound of it already and there are teeth marks on it.” he says, like I would be returning cheese for no reason.

“It gave me some awful farts, about the worst I’ve ever had. It ain’t right” I replied, giving him more than enough reason to refund my money for this awful cheese. This was his last chance.

“Sir, maybe you ate too much of it, Parmesan is meant to be enjoyed in smaller quantities, grated over pasta or as a small side dish. You appear to have eaten this as if it were an apple, just biting off chunks.” he said “The cheese is not the problem, it’s simply your consumption of it. In any case, we are not able to take returns on a product that has been partially consumed unless it is flawed or spoiled, and what’s left of this block of cheese appears to be fine.”

At this point it was obvious that he needed to be enlightened as to why there was a serious problem with this block of cheese and he needed to experience it for himself, so I let loose a ripper that sounded like the devil himself was tearing his way out of my ass.

“Judge for yourself.” I said as he looked grumpy at me over the sound of my blast and my now regal bearing. The ninja enters as a shadow, but leaves as a king. “I’ll give you a few minutes with that and when I come back you can tell me again how you think there ain’t nothing wrong with that cheese.”

I heard him gagging as the smell hit him a few seconds later, but I was already on my way over to the bulk foods aisle to dispense some justice on all the folks that eat chocolate stars without paying for em. My chocolate star does not like to have it’s brothers stolen and it defends them ferociously as a brother should.

When I stopped back by the customer service counter the fellow had my money ready and the cheese was up on a shelf behind him. I turned my head and I could see the cheese counter from where I was at. Sure enough there was a stock boy pulling all the Parmesan down off the shelf and throwing it in a big garbage can. Apparently they didn’t want any more cheese returns. I also got a hell of an apology from the customer service guy who was very sorry that their cheese had such a terrible effect on me.

On my way out the door I saw the kid and his mom paying for their groceries and I dusted the whole area in front of the baggers to make sure the little fella got a reminder that the Karma Ninja is always watching.

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And follow me on twitter @WastedWillie

We got Uncle Willie a new Android phone and taught him how to use it as his getting out of jail present, and we set him up with twitter. Something so simple he can use it even when he’s drunk, and so far that’s what he’s been doing. Follow him @WastedWillie and receive pearls of drunken wisdom whenever he’s feeling up to it!

OK, I’m out of the joint, and the judge done made me write an apology letter to everybody as part of my probation. The nephews told me to post everything I write here on the interweb pages, so here’s the letter. I ain’t heard from the judge about it, but it’s an apology letter, and that’s all I’m legally required to do.

“Dear folks that I wronged,

I’m real sorry. I got into some fortified wine that some fella brought in from Detroit, and any time I get to drinking that stuff I end up bein’ chased around by a bunch of angry folks and the police take me to jail. I ain’t gonna drink it no more, and if that fella shows up with another bottle of it I’m gonna beat his ass like a misbehavin’ cabin boy.

In the order in which I offended folks throughout the evening -

To the lady who was walking by as I left the house after drinking the bottle of high test: I’m real sorry I told you that you were pretty and asked you if you wanted to go see my favorite fuck spot in the park across the way. That was rude of me. I should have said “love nest”.

To the lady’s husband: I didn’t see you there buddy. Sorry about that. I shouldn’t have said that kind of stuff to your wife in front of you. When you got in my face about it I probably shouldn’t have poked you in your eye or kicked you in the knee or hit you with that shovel. My reaction was bit extreme, though you were kind of being a dick.

To Joe the bartender at the Union Bar on 9th street: I’m sorry I came into your place drunk, pissed in the garbage can, took a dump in the urinal, and wiped my ass on the roll of hand towels. I often relieve myself in unacceptable places when I’m that drunk, and I know I shouldn’t. I’m also sorry I swung that shovel at you when you tried to talk to me about where I was moving my bowels. I should have been more open to that discussion and I should not have been carrying around a shovel anyhow I suppose. I’m glad nobody was hurt too bad.

To Tom Moorehouse who owns the Union Bar: I still don’t remember starting no fires, but folks tell me I done it, so I’m sorry. I’m sure the insurance money was good, and the new bar looks a lot better than the old one. I also don’t know why I got charged with breaking a window in a place that burned to the ground that same night anyway. It’s not like anyone had to fix it or buy a new one.

To the folks in Lafayette Park that night: I know I was cussing up a storm and I probably should have been so loud or hollerin such awful things, but that park ain’t known for it’s peace and quiet or nice company. Maybe you folks should take your kids to fucking Chuck E Cheese instead of a public park full of bums and crazy drunkards yelling foul things. You won’t see my ass at Chuck E Cheese ever again, so it’s much better for your kids.

To the folks at Chuck E Cheese: I’m real sorry I came into your establishment all liquored up and pissed off. I know you folks serve beer in pitchers there and I just thought a few beers might help me get that wine out of my system. I know drinking ain’t usually the best way to get sober, but I test that theory once in awhile to make sure. I’m sorry I threw a stool at the fella that told me I was too drunk, and I’m sorry I bit that big fella who came to escort me out, but he shouldn’t have put his hands on me.

And I’m real real sorry I kicked and spat at that manager with the big forearms, because he beat the almighty livin’ hell out of me. I ain’t never been punched in the balls that hard or that many times, and I sure as hell would not have guessed that he was dragging me up them stairs just to throw me back down them. That man has a serious anger management problem and you may want to get him some classes or something. You definitely won’t see me around no more.

To the Police Officers who arrested me that night: I apologize for all the things I said about your wives and mothers. I wouldn’t do them things to any woman, and especially not one whose child or husband was a policeman. I’m sure that the women in your life have never done any of those things, not with me or any of them other people I said were involved. I do really wish I had not pissed through the screen on to the back of that officer’s head in the police car. I soiled a nice police hat and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ought to behave that way, but I was having a rough night after that fella at Chuck E Cheese busted my nuggets and tossed me down them stairs all them times.

Seven months in county jail will humble a fellow a little bit and I’m takin’ it easy these days. I’m only drinking beer for a few weeks until I get things figured out, and I ain’t gonna hit nobody unless they’re really asking for it. And I sure as hell ain’t even walking down that block on 8th street where the Chuck E Cheese is.

I guess my nephew Tyler ain’t comin’ over for a good while. His mom just called me and she was real pissed. He’s my brother Tom’s kid and I was kind of getting to like him. We were hanging out once a week while they had their little “date night” where they went out for dinner and a movie and pretended they weren’t married and didn’t hate each other’s guts. Anyways I guess I can tell you the story about why Tyler ain’t going to be around for a little while seein’ as how his mom says I ain’t allowed to see him no more.

Tyler is four years old, and the first time they dropped him off at my place Mrs. Gutierrez from next door was watching out the door and said hello to him. She don’t just come running up to kids I got with me ever since she got a kick in the shins and an uppercut to the groin from my other nephew Steven a few months back. She’s more careful now and don’t just run up to every kid she sees pinching their cheeks and shit.

Well anyway she says hello and waves at Tyler and he waves back at her and we go on into my apartment. I didn’t want Tyler getting too friendly with that old bitch, so when we got inside I told Tyler that Mrs. Gutierrez was Puerto Rican and that he should learn to speak Puerto Rican to say hello to her properly. I showed him how to hold his middle finger up, which means “Hello” in Puerto Rican and I told him how to say “Fuck you Puerto Rican whore!” which of course means have a nice day in Puerto Rican.

Tom and Jeanie shelter the boy quite a lot, and I don’t think he has ever really heard any cuss words, so he didn’t know them words from real Spanish and he learned it real good. I told him that you only greet Puerto Ricans that way, and never say that to other people because they won’t understand. I figured we could keep it our little secret and I wouldn’t get in no trouble and Mrs. Gutierrez wouldn’t get all friendly with the boy and start bothering us every time we walked down the damn hallway.

When we walked back out of the apartment to head down to the liquor store, sure enough she cracked her door open and waved at little Tyler again, and he greeted her proudly with his new Puerto Rican vocabulary. She looked aghast and slammed the door, and I told Tyler that Puerto Ricans were very strange people and sometimes they had weird reactions to things. I told him that you never can tell about Puerto Ricans and that you just greet them properly a few times and eventually they warm up to you.

Everything worked out fine, and for a few months Mrs. Gutierrez left us alone and we had a good time sitting in the park every Thursday night, me drinking whiskey and him drinking chocolate milk at a picnic table. Then I got the call today from his mom Jeanie and boy I have never heard that woman so pissed off. Apparently he had a substitute teacher in preschool today, and it turns out that she was Puerto Rican. You can guess how well that went, but here’s the story as the boy’s dad told it to me this afternoon.

The teacher walked in to the room and introduced herself to the class as Mrs. Perez. From her accent Tyler must have recognized that she was Latin or Hispanic or whatever they call themselves these days, and he raised his hand and she called on him.

“Mrs. Perez, are you Puerto Rican?” he asked.

“Why yes I am, how did you guess that Tyler?” she said, probably charmed and delighted that the cute little redheaded boy guessed where she was from and wanted to learn about it. What a nice little Gap commercial world her little classroom will be!

Then he proudly gave her the finger and told her “Fuck you Puerto Rican whore!”. The way Tom told it to me, the teacher says she almost fell down from the shock.

“What did you say?” she repeated.

“Fuck you Puerto Rican whore!” he repeated, louder this time, hoping she wasn’t being weird like some Puerto Ricans can be. He repeatedly flipped her the bird as well, probably very proud of himself.

She grabbed his hand and took him down to the administrator’s office where they asked him why he said that. “I know how to greet Puerto Ricans, but she’s being weird. You never can tell with Puerto Ricans, you just have to keep talking to them and hope they come around.”

I guess the whole thing went over very badly in school since he goes to one of them persnickety fancy schools where everybody is supposed to love everybody else. Anyways, Jeanie is REAL pissed at me and said I can’t hang out with Tyler any more and she said that when she asked him, Tyler told her about me drinking in the park all the time too. I can’t wait until they see a police officer and he tells her that all cops are just donut eating shitheads that like to bother Uncle Willie when he ain’t doing nothing wrong.

And when they see Santa Claus next year and he tries to punch the magic button located between Santa’s legs that guarantees you will get all the presents you ask for, I won’t know anything about it. I expect a couple more angry phone calls, but it’s worth it because I love teaching things to children. I should probably have been a kindergarten teacher.

I got legal troubles again, and all because I didn’t want a new alarm system. Last Monday, round about three O’clock, there is a knock on my door. Now you can’t just get in to my building and go knocking on a fella’s door, you gotta get somebody to let you in through the buzzer system. Since I hadn’t heard my telephone ringing, I figured it must be one of my neighbors complaining again because of all the cussin’ and stompin’ around I was doin’. Some days I do get a little testy if I got a bit of a hangover.

Well it wasn’t one of my neighbors, it was a kid with a clipboard. NowI don’t know about you, but if answer my door and see somebody with a clipboard, I know right away they want either my time or my money. I ain’t never answered my door to find somebody with a clipboard who needed to let me know that my name was on their board and they were here to give me $20 and then leave me alone. No sir. Well I don’t like to be bothered much, and I let this fellow know just that.

“Good afternoon sir, my name is Alex and I..” he said, until I interrupted him right there.

“And you are a fuckhead with a clipboard who wants to knock on my door and try to sell me some bullshit. I don’t want none.” I told him, but I didn’t close the door in his face like usual because I wasn’t done with him yet.

“I’m sorry sir, I don’t want to take up your valuable time, but there have been a number of burglaries in the area and we would love to offer you a $150 rebate on a brand new alarm system.”

“Really? Holy shit! I thought you were just some asshole who was going to interrupt my day and try and sell me something. I’ll take that rebate for sure, that’s a nice thing for you to do. Who bought the alarm system?” I asked him.

“You have to buy the alarm system to get the rebate sir, but we install the system for $200 if you sign a two year agreement.” he says, and looks at me like he’s worried I’m about to hit him, which I was. I might have got a little more worked up than I needed to over this whole deal.

“You filthy cocksucker!” I shouted at him “The old bait and switch huh? Offer the old fool $150 and he’ll sign a contract to pay you $800. Do I look like a sucker to you?”

“No sir, I think you misunderstand” he stammered back at me, lost for words.

Now like I said I might have gotten a little too worked up about this whole thing and maybe I was a little hard on the guy, but I had about enough of this bullshit with people bothering in the middle of the day to try to sell me something. They aren’t even supposed to be able to get in to our building.

“I understand completely asshole.” I says, and walk out the door with Ol’ Hickory in one hand and the other balled up in a fist and shaking at him. “You sneak in to a building full of old folks and start looking for the feeble ones who will sign your clipboard and give you $800 if you convince them it’s a good idea with a few sneaky lies.”

He was speechless, but backing away in a hurry. His back hit the wall and before he could turn to run I shook Ol’ Hickory at him and his eyes were locked on that cane, ready to avoid it if I should swing it his way. He’s a dumbass, and anybody who knows me can tell you that if I’m about to hit you there ain’t no chance you are going to see it coming. I’m god damned treacherous is what I am.

While he was lookin’ scared at that old cane and getting ready to turn and run for it, I gave him a good hard slap across the face with my empty hand. “Don’t let me catch you in here again preying on old folks and waking people up from their naps you son of a bitch, or I’ll beat you with this here cane until you cry for your momma.”

Now I know that he was just soliciting, and usually throwing some water on them solicitors or letting old scooter chase em is the best way to deal with em, but I don’t think it was fair for me to facing assault charges. If I really wanted to hurt the fella I could have invited him in and beat him like a Sunday mornin’ boner, but all I did was slap him, which is really more insult than injury. A little bruise on his face ain’t likely to ruin his life, and he certainly didn’t need to run to the cops with it like a god damned crybaby.

Anyways, I go to court on the 19th, wish me luck.

My nephew Steven came for a visit yesterday. I figured this was the only place I can talk about it because the son of a bitch is eight years old and he still can’t read. His momma says he’s a “special needs” child…

I’ll tell you about his god damned special needs! That little bastard has a special need for me to go upside his head with a sock full of rocks is what he needs. Seems to me like “special needs” is the new-fangled term for idiot, and if that’s true then I live in a whole world of “special needs” folks. And I’m talking about you too, don’t think I ain’t. Sometimes I think my old mutt Scooter has more sense than most of the dumb ass folks that live in my building or those damned idiot kids hanging out across the street with heir hats turned sideways askin’ me what I’m drinking today.

I got this crazy Puerto-Rican woman lives next door to me. She comes out into the hallway when me and Steven are on our way to go get us some lunch and starts whoopin’ and hollerin’ and makin’ a fuss about how the son of a bitch is so damned cute. I hate when women folk get like that.

“Oh yeah, he’s a heckuva kid” I says, figuring she’ll get close enough to him to get herself in trouble. Sure enough she walks right up to him and she gets what I call the “Steven Special” in short order.

The “Steven Special” is his patented move. He’s like Rowdy Roddy Piper only he weighs 52 pounds and he’s retarded. You see the little bastard has to wear special shoes because his feet are messed up. The soles on them things are about as hard as concrete and he just loves to kick and stomp with em. He uses those concrete shoes to get the Steven Special started.

He starts her off with a good hard stomp on the foot with one of them shoes and she ain’t wearing nothin’ but socks in the hallway, so I can hear the crunch when he gives her that stomp on the toes. She looked just shocked as shit, and her eyes get all big and she starts hollering and cursing in Puerto-Rican just as loud as hell. While she’s hopping around on one foot he gives her part two of the Steven Special, which is an uppercut to the groin that he learned from his Uncle Willie.

Let me tell you, that boy hits hard for a “special needs” kid. He hit Mrs. Rodriguez square betwixt her thunder thighs with a world beater of an uppercut and I couldn’t help but be a little proud after being the boy’s boxing coach for these last few years. Well “Crotch Punching Coach” might be a better description, but who’s splitting hairs right?

After he delivers that beautiful uppercut, he bellows out “I love you Santa Claus!” and runs like hell. Do you know how hard it is to stand up after you’ve had your foot smashed like a mashed potato and then taken an uppercut to the groin? Apparently it’s impossible because I’ve taken Steven to the park an awful lot over the last year or two, and there hasn’t been a single person that has managed to stay on their feet after a Steven Special.

Anyways she hit the floor about the same time I did, only I was only on the floor cause I was laughing so hard. With most people I act like I didn’t know he was gonna do that and apologize, but that Puerto-Rican bitch knows I hate her and I didn’t give a damn if she knew that I let her walk right into the ambush. Maybe that bitch won’t run up and hassle every kid she sees from now on huh?

After a few seconds one of our neighbors comes out to see what the noise is all about, and he just looks as confused as a man can get. She’s laying there tied up in a knot trying to hold on to her foot and her crotch at the same time and cursing like hell in Puerto-Rican, I’m laying not five feet away holding my gut and laughing so hard that tears are rolling down my cheeks already, and Steven is running up and down the hallway shouting “I love you Santa Claus!” and looking all cross-eyed and shit with those huge thick glasses. To top it all off he’s looking up at a G.I. Joe man that he’s holding above his head and it don’t look nothing like Santa Claus and he’s running all sideways like he does, which is why he needs them damn concrete shoes.

Our neighbor Tom Cavanaugh just stood there lookin’ confused for a bit and then went back inside shaking his head like he was trying to forget what he saw. Then I saw that Mrs. Gutierrez was crawling back inside and reaching for her cane next to the door and I figured it might be time for us two amigos to get the hell out of there.

All I needed to say was “Who wants to go to White Castle?” and Steven was on his way out the door and headed for the car, making that high pitched squeal he makes that always makes me want to throw the little bastard in the river. I love takin’ him to the White Castle. Just as long as I time it right that can be a fine place to enjoy a meal. As long as I get that timing right.

You see one of the things that’s messed up about the kid is his innards. If he eats the wrong food it don’t take but two hours and the poor little bastard is guaranteed to shit his pants. And I’m not talking about a couple of little turds neither. That White Castle messes him up something fierce. It looks like a whole Thanksgiving worth of brown gravy has been poured down the back of his pants and into them big old shoes. Of course it don’t bother him none, he just jumps around hollering “Poopy Shoes! Poooooopy Shoes!” and running away from anybody who tries to catch him to take them shoes off him.

Since his mom was due to pick him up in about 45 minutes I figured we had time to hit the drive thru, wolf down a few burgers and get rid of the evidence before she showed up to get him. That’s the key to comedy really. Timing. That and a retarded nephew that gets the green apple splatters any time he gets hold of a White Castle.

That’s how my day went, can’t say I give a damn about yours.

The boys seen me buying some chicken and some whiskey tonight and they knew I was about to put up a batch of my famous Wasted Willie’s Whiskey Chicken. They been tryin’ to get that recipe out of me for years, and they says they can pay some of my court fines for pushing over that police motorcyle in the park if I write it out here on the webnet machine, so here she goes.

Wasted Willie’s Famous Whiskey Chicken

First you get yourself a big old chicken. They got good ones at the Shop Mart down there on 4th street, and they only run you about seven bucks a piece. Now you don’t want no frozen chicken, so if you got one in the freezer you best take it out way ahead of time. And don’t touch my bottle of vodka I keep in the door of the freezer there or I’ll kick your ass but good. I ain’t kidding.

Once you got yer chicken, you gotta get you some whiskey. I prefer Johnny Walker, but I didn’t have enough cash on me, so I picked up a pint of Johnny for drinkin and a fifth of cheap Fireball whiskey for the chicken. Now I’m gonna take you through it as I go, cause I ain’t never wrote this recipe down before. In fact I kind of make it up each time as I go, and I don’t remember how I did it last time, so I guess I’ll have it once I get it wrote down tonight.

First thing I do is open this here pint of Johnny Walker and pour me a glass of it on some ice. Usually half a pint is good for a glass with some ice and a pinch of salt, so I’ll get two good glasses of whiskey out of this bottle, and maybe I’ll sneak a bit of that Fireball too. I don’t really need a whole fifth for the chicken. Probably ought to sample it to make sure it’s usable anyway.

It ain’t much good, burns a lot more than the JW, but it’ll do.

Now you have a good long drink of that whiskey that you got on ice, and put the rest of the bottle in the freezer to get nice and cold. Hell I’m damn near done with my first glass already. You better have another drink and get to catchin’ up. Lightweight.

Now you gotta get out the spices. I like some sage or some Mrs. DAsh or some shit, whatever I got around the house, and drrnk some more whiskey too. I gotta get me that second glass of hooch out of the freezer, this fucker’s gone arleady. Good stuff, goes down real smooooth. Now take bid grink out of that glass of whiskey and get our spices and rub em all over that bird and put some black pepper on it too so it’s got some kicks to it. You want a bird wiff kicks.

Now heat up yer oven or fire or whatever you are drinking to about 350 degrees. Damn my whiksey is gone agains. I need me a lil’ sip of that Fireball, might as well pour a glass -m it’s gonna be a fine bird anyhwo. This stuf ain’t so bad this Firball whiskey. So I took the bird and put it up in the oven and I fogrot the whiskey on the bird. I dont even know what I put the whiskey on for the bird or whatever. I’m drinkin this siht now.

Go white Stox#2@@h

Now rebember to turn of taht over if yer drinkin heavy cause you’ll leave it on all nihgt and bern the piss out of yer chicken, so Im just turn it off right now and finish this bottel of licker.

Fukc it, I’m done and i’m go to bed and fucking the chickens. And fcuk you if ya read thid and steal kitchne of the oven or some shit. Dickhead. Byu a shiert!

Whiksey!!!!!!

*Note from the nephews

At this point we actually watched Uncle Willie take the chicken out of the oven, toss it out the kitchen window, and stomp out the front door yelling “I’m going to bed, fuck it!” He spent the next few hours in the park drinking with Chaser Tommy and Big Chief until they got arrested for urinating off the highway overpass. For more stories from Willie, check out his blog at Wastedwillie.com

They put some sort of bullshit they call an “Art Fair” right on my street and blocked up the whole thing. Now there’s god damned yuppie tourists walking all over the place all weekend, and this is just some bullshit I do not need. I didn’t ask nobody to come to my neighborhood and mess up everything, and they sure didn’t ask no permission from me before they started setting up in the street in front of my building. These folks are all getting on my nerves. Read the rest of this entry »