Willie’s nephew Chris here, and I just wanted to relay a conversation I overheard between uncle Willie and a police officer recently. Willie wasn’t really doing anything wrong, he was just having a few drinks at a picnic table and playing me in a game of checkers, but the park police don’t like him having a bottle of wine with him in the park and they stopped and asked him to put it away. The following conversation is word for word as I remember it.

“Willie, you know you can’t be drinking out here, we’ve talked about this enough times.”

Uncle Willie got a big smile on his face and replied with, “You’ve talked to me about it but it ain’t happened yet. I’ve talked to you about bangin’ your wife but that ain’t happened either, so I figure we’re even.”

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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 8 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. If so 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 their hats turned all funny askin’ me what I’m drinking today.

I got this crazy Puerto-Rican woman lives next door to me see? 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.

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I got a church down the street from me, one of them Protestant churches that has services on Saturday nights when good people are already out drinkin’ and chasing pussy around the bar. As y’all probably know I don’t trust nobody that don’t drink at least a little here and there, and I sure don’t trust nobody that goes to a church on a Saturday night. Goin’ to church on a Saturday night is sacrilege I say.

If you go to God’s house on a Saturday night, you ain’t doing no better than folks who piss on a grave in my eyes. Saturday night is for drinkin’ and getting’ drunk, and God knows it cause he made it that way. Why the hell would the good lord have made it Saturday night if he didn’t want folks getting drunk and havin’ a good time? Don’t make no sense. If he wanted us to be in Church every God-damned day he would have made em all Sunday. Then I’d always know what day it was too.

So they throwed me out of the Union bar a little early this Saturday night. Usually they let me stick around until at least eight O’clock, but I guess I was carousing a bit and I hit a fella with a chair and kicked a lady in the crotch, so I guess it was time to head outside and get me some air. Boy that lady was mad too! Acted like she was better than everybody else, talking in a British accent and drinking coffee and acting like she didn’t never have a drink or two, so she got what was coming to her.

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