R Is For Rush

R Is For Rush

Is For Rush

I’d been sitting by the phone with naught but a pitcher of Old Fashioneds, a tray of hoagies, and the third season of Downton Abbey for company, waiting on an important call from my close, personal friend Rush Limbaugh. He’d expressed an interest in purchasing some OxyContin through my aftermarket supply lines a few weeks back, and I’d finally managed to put a deal together.

As luck would have it, I was about twenty minutes into a rather explosive episode and two bites into my third hoagie when the phone rang. “Hello,” I said after snatching the handset off its cradle. “Oz speaking — is this Rush?”

“Nah bro, it’s your bro. How’s it hanging?”

I executed a slow, descending facepalm and grimaced. “Roderick,” I said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“C’mon, bro — I’m your bro! Isn’t that pleasure enough?”

I sighed. “Of course. It’s just that I’m expecting a rather important call.”

“Oh ho! From that Rush cat, right? Knowing the crowd you party with, I bet it’s that Rush Limbaugh asshole, isn’t it? Far out.”

“No comment. And not that I don’t appreciate your calls Roderick, but if it’s nothing pressing—”

“Nah, nothing heavy. It’s just that I heard from Mom—”

“Ha! And what sort of twisted lies did the shriveled old bat dream up this time?”

“Well, she told me that she visited—”

“Visited? You mean broke out of her retirement community long enough to insult me, put a cigarette out on my knee, and urinate on my sofa?”

“Look, I’m not trying to get in the middle of anything, I just—”

“Really? Because it seems to me you jumped right to the middle of this situation as if it were a patchouli-scented drum circle! Sorry to disappoint, Roderick, but you’ll find no marijuana here!”

“I know, bro. It’s just—”

“Just what?”

“Just that it was her birthday.”

I tried in vain to think of some clever retort, only to muster: “Oh.”


“Well, how the hell am I supposed to keep all these birthdays straight? I mean there’s mine, yours, hers, my butler’s, the girls at the Emporium — insanity! Did you remember?”

“Well, yeah. Me and Rach sent her a year’s supply of restaurant gift cards, so she could get out to eat with her friend Mrs. Lipschitz once a week.”

Mrs. Lipschitz?

“Yeah. What?”

I performed another facepalm and shook my head. “Nothing. Fine, I’ll give her a call but—” The phone beeped to indicate a second caller. “That’s the other line. Gotta go.”

“OK, good talking to you bro. I love y—”

I hung up on Roderick and clicked over. “Hello? Oz here — is this Rush?”

“Hey pal, how are you?” Rush said. “Got your message—”

“Ah, splendid,” I said. I took a long swallow of Old Fashioned and leaned back in my chair. “So I was thinking we could do the trade-off over dinner, then maybe hit up a strip club or three afterward. I know a great—”

“Ha ha, well, here’s the thing — turns out I’m not going to need your supplier after all. My gardener was able to make a few calls and—”

“Your gardener?”

“Yeah, my gardener.”

“You mean to tell me you’d trust some illegal Mexican to supplement your medical needs over a true American patriot and your peer in the conservative punditry game?”

I heard a sharp intake of breath and a muffled fart before Rush spoke. “First of all, my gardener’s a third-generation American. And a decorated military veteran. And Dutch. Second of all, outside of getting wasted with you once at a regatta, I don’t know you from Adam. Hell, for all I know you’re working with the Feds and this line is tapped. And third of all, my peers, if I have any at all, are giants like Hannity and Beck — not some no-name jerk with a pathetic blog like you.”

“Well, I never—”

“Yeah? Well you have now. Get bent, asswipe!”

The line went dead, and I stared at the handset for some time before placing it down, shoulders slumped in defeat. Ah well, best laid plans and all that. Besides, this means I’m sitting on a considerable stash of sweet, sweet Oxys, even if they are the abuse-resistant variety. Speaking of which, I really need to go get some more aloe saline gel for my nose — the goddamn thing’s starting to look like a baboon’s ass. Ta ta.

[Part 18 of the ‘Blogging From A to Z April Challenge 2013’ series: Prev/Next]

Front page image source: MorgueFile

Categories: Business, Drugs, Food, Leisure

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2 replies

  1. So Rush is an even bigger jerk in person than on TV? I didn’t think it possible. Just glad he’s not president. Good story.


  2. Indeed, whereas I once thought Rush to be above reproach, I now realize that he all but lives in a bucket full of reproach. Oh well, live and learn — thanks for stopping by.

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