I decided to grab lunch at the Metropolitan Club with two of my former associates from Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs, Charles “Chuck” Luddite XV and Leo Dreisdale. Once our orders were placed and our drinks had arrived, the conversation naturally turned to what is unquestionably the day’s hottest news story: the unveiling of Congressman Paul Ryan’s latest budgetary masterpiece.
“So what do you guys think?” Chuck asked as he sipped his gin and tonic. “I mean, a balanced budget in 10 years, another juicy tax cut for rich bastards like us, shortchanging the 99 percent’s entitlements, and a swift kick in the ass to that Obamacare debacle — seriously, what’s not to like?”
“Mmm shmm mmm,” said Dreisdale, who had only recently returned to work after suffering a rather serious stroke just two weeks after Christmas. “Mmm mmm bmm mmm hmm bmm rmm—”
“Save it for your wet nurse, Dreisdale,” I said while rising from the table and pointing at my crotch. “Frankly, Ryan’s budget gives me a boner. See? You could drive nails with this thing.”
“Whoa,” Chuck said, averting his eyes. “Did not need to see that.”
“Mmm bmm bmm shmm!” Dreisdale said, spittle drooling from the left side of his mouth.
I reluctantly took my seat. “Fine,” I said. “The point is, it’s a damn impressive bit of budgeting. Quite possibly the best budget I’ve ever laid eyes on, lack of specifics be damned.”
“Hmm blmm shmm bmm—” Dreisdale started.
“Couldn’t agree more,” Chuck said. He smiled warmly and raised his glass on high. “In fact, I propose a toast — to Paul Ryan!”
“To Paul Ryan!” I echoed, raising my own glass.
“Tmm pmm rmmrmm!” said Dreisdale, his cup of tea wavering unsteadily in his shaky hands.
“And a goo-goo-ga-choob to choo fellas too!” said an all-too-familiar — and much-dreaded — voice behind me. “Imagine running into y’all here!”
I turned just as Chuck stood up to greet our visitor. Sure enough, it was the notoriously crazed chicken sandwich magnate S. Truett Cathy, once again being carried by his gargantuan manservant Claude.
“Hot damn, Truett,” Chuck said, smiling broadly. “Good to see you. We were just discussing the new Ryan budget. Care to join us?”
“Oh, I would,” Cathy said. “I would indeed. But me and Claude here gots to be going.”
“Thank Nixon for that,” I muttered.
“Oh?” Chuck said. “Where are you headed?”
“Well, I gots Jesus and chikin sammiches to deliver to some strip club whores and der byootiful, byootiful titties, or my name ain’t S. Truett Cathy! Ha ha ha HA ha ha! Yessir, chikin and titties! Oh! And what do we have here?”
Cathy leaned down and began to tickle my expansive belly, chortling even harder.
“Oh ho, look at dis fatboy! Yessir, get choo a load o’ dat!” he cackled. “Whajja doin’, fatboy? Whas dis li’l piggy doing? Oinkity oink oink, fatboy! Ha ha, that’s a good time! Yessir!”
My face turned beet red as Chuck and Dreisdale burst out laughing. Or in the latter’s case, what passes for laughing among severe stroke victims.
“Goddamn it!” I said, slapping away his withered hands. “I warned you last time, Cathy! Touch me again and—”
“I know, I know,” Cathy said as he withdrew. “I don’t know what to tell choo, son! I just see that big ol’ bowl of jelly and I can’t help myself! Ha ha ha ha HA ha ha ha ha!” Then, to Claude: “Alright boy, let’s mosey on out of here. I’ll see you gents later, and don’t forget — eat mor chikin! Ha ha ha ha ha HA HA!“
With that, Cathy was gone, leaving us to enjoy the rest of our lunch in peace. At least, Chuck enjoyed his meal, and I suppose that Dreisdale liked the bowl of brownish-green broth that the waiter brought him. But I can’t deny that Cathy’s brief appearance had drained the joy from my heart and blood from my penis. Goddamn that Cathy! Oh well. He won’t live forever and when he does finally kick the bucket, I’ll be ready to drop a king-sized deuce with his grave’s name on it. Tick tock, Chicken Man. Tick tick tock.