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Worst Fetid Nugget Ever

Gus Savoie's picture

"You, in fact" He said extraneously, "are indistinguishable from dog vomit or diarrhea."

"And?" Josie made circles in the air with her hand, yellow rubber boots on her feet. She had me there.

Donald crossed the floor on his own feet. He moved with the loquacity of a ferret in law school.

"Puh-leeze." Josie's hand was having none of it. Not one bit.

Donald was nonplussed. Fortunately he was secretly prominussed and thus safe from implosion. Somebody was knocking on the door.

"Cut that out." Donald snapped at Somebody who ignored him and continued to knock swallows of whiskey on his perch atop the wooden door.

"Are those swallows alive?" Donald's eyes widened as Somebody filled a the bird's limp body with another shot of rye whisky.

"Dead..." Somebody gacked back another pinch of liquor from the tiny beak, "...drunk." he finished. "They are going to wish they had died when they finally sober up."

"What about You?" Donald was cross now, needling embroidery in his mind. "Youmusthavehadasnootfulbynow."

"No idea what You is up to." he placed the flaccid swallow into the test-tube tray he had stolen from the Dime-Store Santas back in the satanic dents of July. He roared, "Fucker never called me back!"

"Somebody had better sleep it off." Donald mused as the knocking resumed.

"Could you please stop talking about me in the third-person?" He thumped his chest with a ragged lobster harmonica. "It really hurts."

"You hasn't called me back yet either" A tear surfaced on Donald's lid. "Without him, we're only speaking in the second-person."