Otis Friday - Part I

A Novel Idea

This entry may be the only rational, reasonable and akjfhkasdfhkjdfh one tonight. Don't beleive me? Just check out the next few posts. But wait - read this crap first!

Call me Otis. Some years ago - never mind how long precisley - having little or no money in my purse, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. Which is precisley how I ended up in a hot tub in Denver with a woman whose name began with the letter 'S'. Sandy? Sally? Slutty? She-Ra? Strap-on? Salamander? I'm not sure.

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. Let's just say I could give a lecture on use of the whip amongst a small group of children.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the age of aquarius, it was the season in the sun, it was what the devil made me do, it was the stairway to heaven.

He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. But he had been playing the Monopoly game at McDonalds and he had won 6 small drinks, 4 medium fries and 2 hamburgers. He only wished now that he had won cheeseburgers for Santiago.

I first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up. I had just gotten over a serious illness that I won't bother to talk about, except that it had something to do with the miserably weary split-up and my feeling that everything was dead. But someone sent me a bouquet of peonies and 'Oh Boy!' am I happy now!

When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and Jem's fears of never being able to play football were assuaged, he was seldom self-conscious about his injury. But yet he was never able to stiff-arm the defense and become a top-round draft pick. He mired as a back-up in the NFL and was scarcely seen on fantasy teams.

The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which. Luckily, everyone knew it was duck season and not rabbit season. And the gunfire began. Poor Daffy.