I had to go into the city on business yesterday — legitimate venture capitalism business, thank you — and decided to grab lunch at the Metropolitan Club. Not to brag, but I’m a legacy member. In fact, my maternal great-grandfather, Tobias Buchanan, wasn’t just one of the club’s founders; he was also the first member to die on the premises.
The cause of death? J.P. Morgan stabbed him through the heart with a gold-inlaid elephant tusk from darkest Africa. A terrible way to go, but it was an accepted manner of settling disputes back in those days and Tobias certainly had it coming. After all, a man can’t make frequent drop shipments of Cleveland Steamers on the chest of a business associate’s daughter and not expect some repercussion, now can he?
But enough about the past. Where was I? Right, lunch at the club. I get along famously with most of my fellow members, but of course every group has a few assholes — and at the Metropolitan, no asshole looms larger than world-famous Jesus freak and chicken sandwich salesman S. Truett Cathy.
Anyhow, I was enjoying a simple repast of baked ostrich, an entire bacon-wrapped ham, two loaves of French bread, and a pitcher of Old Fashioneds when someone had the temerity to poke me in the neck. Expecting violence, I jumped to my feet with raised fists, knocking over the table in the process — only to be confronted by the Chicken Czar himself.
“What’s the meaning of this, Cathy?” I demanded. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Well doggies!” he said, cackling with laughter. “Look at dis fatboy chere! Whajja doin’, fatboy? Who let choo out da pen?”
“Very funny. As you well know, I’ve been out of prison for years.”
“Not dat pen, fatboy! Da piggy pen! Soo-wee, choo a big ol’ piggy! Oink oink fatty piggy! Oink oink I say!”
I stared at him with murder in my eyes. “Seriously?” I said. “You’re nearly a hundred years old — death is right around the corner for you. Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?”
“Oh, simmah down now, simmah down! Choo know I cain’t resist playing wit dem fatboys, ‘specially whens dey’s da son o’ one o’ da best friends I ever had. Ooh, yo’ daddy would be pitching a fit if’n he saw how fat dis little piggy got!”
It is true that Cathy and my father, Oswald Jameson Carver Jr., were close friends until the latter died from syphilis, but that’s another story. Either way, it didn’t excuse what came next — Cathy began making tickling motions on my stomach with his claw-like fingers, laughing and oinking all the while.
“Confound it!” I said, slapping his hands away. “I’ve had just about enough of you. Touch me again and you’ll be hearing from my attorneys!”
“Hokay, hokay,” he said, chuckling softly as he jumped into the arms of his preposterously huge manservant, Claude. “I’ll leave choo be, little piggy.” Then, to Claude: “C’mon, boy! Dis one ain’t as fun as he used to be. Carry me on outta here and let’s hit up dat strip club. I’s gots to be bringing Jesus an’ chicken sammiches to dem whores and der byootiful, byootiful titties. Jesus loves dem all!”
As Truett departed, he looked over Claude’s shoulder and smiled. “One las’ bit o’ advice for choo, piggy piggy fatboy: Eat mor chikin! Ha ha HA ha ha ha ha!” And just like that, he was gone. With my appetite being understandably ruined following such an unpleasant encounter, I gathered up my things and prepared to leave as well.
That goddamn Cathy. Good thing he’ll be dead soon; I really cannot wait to drop a rank deuce on his headstone. I’d take a page from great-grandfather’s playbook and drop one on his daughter Trudy’s chest, but she’s old and looks just like Cathy. And no way in hell am I putting any effort into making anyone in that family look better, that’s for damn sure. OZ-1 out.