Happy Days Are Here Again

My younger brother is getting married at the end of the month and his bachelor party is this upcoming weekend. This is going to be a hullabaloo, a blow out, a shindig, a whiz-banger, a Twenty Three Skidoo and all other F. Scott Fitzgerald synonyms for a party. For those of you who don't know me, I likey the boozey. A lot. I'm drinking right now, in fact. Stage I of the bachelor party is going to be the highlight of the festivities, me thinks. We are going to combine my two passions into one compact and delightful package otherwise known as deep sea fishing. Hold on, hold on... let me get this straight. We get on a boat loaded full of beer and other spirits and take to the high seas like adventurers of yore to kill dolphins? Booze and Dolphin Murder, together? This may be my finest hour. Second finest, actually. The first was when I piloted Spitfires during the Battle of Britain. Shot down 31 Kraut Messerschmidt BF-109's, most likely piloted by dolphins. But as the second finest hour, I think this will suffice. I'm going to get hammered and drop dynamite into the ocean. When the sensitive inner ear of the dolphin is thus confused, they'll surface and I'll hit the fuckers with a two by four with a couple sixteen penny nails driven through the appropriate end. Then, hauling my quarry ashore, I shall pose for triumphant photos away from the prying eyes of the Fish and Game Commission or the EPA or the Rotary Club. Then I'll go to an illegal taxidermist, get those bastards stuffed and then go to a rifle range and use the dessicated corpses for target practice for future dolphin executions. What a glorious time it is to be alive knowing that the Bush Administration hates nature more than fiscal responsibility or American Soldiers (actually, that might be wrong - pretty sure Bush hates American Soldiers more than any other entity on earth) thus allowing me the carte blanche to kill as many as I can carry, and since I'm so strong, I can carry one. But hell, we're not walking the Appalachian Trail - this isn't carry-in carry-out. I'll just kill 'em and leave 'em. Sorta how I treat women. Listen babe, I can't be tied down. Now where'd I park my hog?

{Walks around the corner, sobs silently, gets on pink Vespa, rides to independent book shop}