So Here's What You Do-

This'll be funnier than fuck-

Go to this guy's blog and leave comments on one or more of his posts raving of his genius.

If a bunch of people do it it will blow his mind.

It won't be mean because he's just using it as a file transfer test pad. It's just gibberish. Don't say anything mean, just act flabbergasted at his incisive commentary.

Dude, it'll be SO Being There. Guy'll shit.

And that's good, right?

10.8- Oh, fuck it. Never mind. He changed it into another BORING blog about his run of th' mill existence with Top Ten lists. Never mind.

People just can't stay with the program when they're really on to something, you know? It's like fucking Beefheart going back to playing R&B covers.


I think we could all learn a lot from this dude.

Diller/Lightfoot! 10.7.05!!









10.5.05...I mean 10.7.05...

The tragic outcome that no one could have predicted!


Training and warm-ups with Bruce Jenner!


The lawsuit...


Crushing body blows! Dirty tricks! Betrayal! Redemption!


Feel the danger...


Feel the passion...


Ol' Pal D is Right.

Read it even though I was scared of being hurt. Guy's right.

He's right.

I should have defined what an "ad" is. I think that's what it comes down to. I'm talkin' why help Microsoft or Cokey Cola for a shekel fifty. They wouldn't pull your ass out of a burning building.

Of course people should have a right to make a buck off their shit. The only reason I have any right to bitch about commerce is that I spent a generation tryin' to get on the Crap Train to no avail. Hopefully I don't come off like I'm trying to obscure that. Pisses me off no end to be so good and so talented and so completely without any sort of artistic future. Completely. I couldn't move a unit if it came with a fucking 8-ball. God damn it. And I don't think these pages would reveal an overpreponderance of self-love to any but the most casual observer.

Guy's all right to drop th' tone, dodge the thrust and make his (good) point. I reckon we're both bigger for it. Reckon he thought my attack was maybe more focused and directed than it was.



Instant Fucking Karma

I was accosted on th' street today by a fairly well-put together, seemingly normal woman who turned out to be a psychotic black witch. Like, totally. Someone who had maybe gone off the wrong medication. She threw everything in the book at me, about my mamma bein' a whore and wearing women's underwear (!) and all this. It was amazing. Total demoralizing.

It's not like I could just tell her her shoelace was untied and then bust her in the face with my knee, you know? It couldn't be like my glory days of coldcocking celebrities and dodging gunfire in the desert, you know? I don't think being psychotically, abusively insane offsets the being a woman thing.

Sure did at the time! I tell ya!

God, I slunk away like a lemming. A lemming. I thought I was going to cry. She said she was going to call the cops on me. The cops.

I have dreams like this a lot- check it out: I dreamt Lightfoot was playing some new club in Hollywood where the venue was this huge penthouse on top of some building on like the Blvd. or La Cienega or some ass shit. It was insane. We had our soundcheck and it was sounding so right and we went down to Cantor's to get a sandwich.

We ran into John Meyer at Cantor's and he said he'd come check out the shoe. Fucking John Meyer! That guy can hoist you onto the Crap Train so fast your nuts'll bounce. Yeah, Lightfoot- the asskickingest bar band in Northampton. Straight to the fucking top.

the fucking shoe. What is my major god damn malfunction. So we ride back with John in his Viper and get to the place. But we have to get up the elevators and they're all fucked up. So the other guys in Lightfoot and John Meyer finally ride up one elevator and I get on another one with some Japanese businessmen and then we come back down and get in a shuttle for LAX. And we're like 3 miles down th' 101 when I remember about the fucking show. Fucking John Meyer. Guy's like 13 years younger than me. It's never good when the obeisance flows downhill like that. Not good for anyone.

I'm glad all that's over. I'm glad I never, ever fucked up anything like that. I was a good little difficult artist. I'm glad that I failed on my own merits for reasons beyond my control. Reasons beyond my control. I'm glad that I turned my back on the recording industry before it turned it's back on me. Sort of. A little. Never mind.

I mean, you get all this never give up shit but some things are just like that girl in high school, you know? There are things that just aren't meant to be, no matter how many times you conjure them masturbatorially. And there's a Chump Factor in not knowing when to stop asking Christy Finklestoon to the Tast-E-Freez. And if you do manage to get to th' old tag 'n' bag there's going to be some wart or some odor. Hey, it's not my fault. Don't get all Sister Alice on my ass. I'm just the fucking messenger. Here to deliver the news that life is somehow always less than we want it to be. Yeah, the old liferooni is just a little on the S.A.L. side.

And that has it's own beauty. Because it has to. The more a religion is about being happy with the fucking birds and the trees the better it is.

So what you don't get to marry Finklestoon. You want a woman who cares. A woman who would chase the top of your head over the back of a car in Dallas. Christy Finklestoon would not chase the top of your head over the back on a car in Dallas in '63. Plus, she was born in '66.

Bet YOU'VE never written anything that fucked up, Mr. Smartypanz. Try writing something more fucked up than THAT.


Man, I will FIND and SURPASS the limits of good taste. If it takes ALL NIGHT. And I won't be slowed down by th' faint of heart. And the christers. Of Wimpole Street.

Los Angeles is like a one-armed bandit and the coins you put in it are like years of your life. You sort of have to come with just the amount to spend or your compulsion will destroy you and you'll be one of those dudes. Like you have PTSD. And it's no good if you're really about music. That is not the way to go. When I was right at that motherfucking edge music pulled me back and I ain't stopped making it since. When I get a few days without a gig it's like being back in L.A.

where you don't play any music to speak of. In LA you're all about licking envelopes. And signin' checks. And never cashing any. And licking envelopes. And shoes.

Oh, that shit with the psychotic lady took me right back to square fucking one. Any of you who hate me, this is a day for rejoicing.


When I recount "Bobby Lightfoot's Asshole Celebrity Fight Week #4: Deathmatch In The Frozen Foods Aisle".


I'd Like To Thank Th' Academy

This month the Award From The Lightfoot Foundation of Amusement is presented to the emminent zeitgeist capturer Pinko Punko for the following conjecture regarding your humble author:

Why is my mental picture of Bobby Lightfoot a 5' 3" little dude hopped up on crystal meth wearing a Samhain t-shirt?

Oh. And an eye patch.

That's pretty spot-on, I have to say.

They're making it harder and harder to cook th' meth though.

This might not seem like a big deal but look at the fuckin' prize. It's like 9 1/2 inches long.

Bobby Lightfoot's Asshole Celebrity Fight Week #3: I Work The Gallagher Brothers

Yeah, I know I promised the tale of my dust-up with Scott Weiland of Stone Temple Pilots. Two problems- he's not an asshole (believe it or not, he's kind of funny and always has drugs) and it's kind of boring (he won). Th' only reason I even squared off with th' guy is because Courtney Love spread some shit that he caught wind of. Shit like this happens it's usually Courtney's fault.

So when I do my Nice Celebrity Fight Week (Paul Simon, Alan Alda, etc.) we'll cover the Weiland dust-up. Maybe.

THESE pricks, on the other hand- no problem here with Asshole status. Guys are PROFESSIONAL assholes. They're such assholes they're almost cool again. And when Liam says "we're th' most impohhtant bahnd in the weiirld an' we'll be the most fookin' impohhtant bahnd in th' weirrld until I I fookin' sayyy so!" you almost have to like them in a begrudging way.

Well, let me tell you, when these dickholes dropped in on my big gig at th' Mint Supper Club in Hollywood in '00 it was no goddamn joke. You have any idea how much cash it takes to land a gig at the Mint?? How many little David Geffens you have to drop in front of??

No, I guess you don't. You never dreamt of ridin' the Crap Train. That was MY stupid dream. Oops. Well, at least I got to tie these two dicks in a knot, huh?

So my band is up there, man. We're fuckin' PSYCHED. We got some mags out to review us, a label dick head or two. It's a big deal. So when these two cockknockers roll in from a day at A&M Studios and start heckling us it ain't the least bit funny.

At first when Paul pointed 'em out I was kind of pumped. Paul points with his stick. We're about to kick into "Purple Majesty" from our brand new Space Rock Opera album. Hey, isn't that those dudes from Oasis? Yes indeed it is. Maybe they'll let us open for 'em or some crap. What was I thinking?

"Hey," Liam shouts, "why don't you fags play some Stones like a real band!"

I ignore him.

"Yeah, pussies," Noel adds. "Why'nt you play some HETERO music, mannnn?"

That's weak, man. It's clearly time to act.

"Hey, I don't come to your guy's job and tell you how to write shitty third-rate Beatles rip-off songs, do I?" I ask the gentlemen. The crowd loves it. "You guys gonna heckle us you should at least get those eyebrows waxed, you fucking pussies!"

Liam jumps up all pissed but Noel laughs and pulls him back into his chair. "Nice one, tosser!" he yells at me. I figure it's over and we go into our awesome brilliant and non-Beatles derivative song.

So, the people are digging it and we're about to hit th' second chorus zibba-dibba-zibba-dibba-zum-sum when fucking Liam Gallagher runs up to the stage and chucks a beer on me. Bad move, dude. I'm always ready for this kind of shit. I grew up in these motherfucking places. I got the Straplok off the back of my P Bass in a blink and I swing that fucker up from low and catch that prick right in the side of the head.

"Fucking British pussy ripoff artist!" I grunt as Liam flies into the front row tables. It's ugly. People are pissed and he's covered in blood and nachos. British dudes HATE being covered in Nachos and this fuckin' guy blows his STACK. His voice goes up about two octaves and he's yelpin' and shriekin' for his brother who is promptly at his side. "I'm gonna fookin' kill you, bitch!" Liam screams, gathering his composure.

Where are the bouncers you ask? Well, this is Oasis, man. They can't just wade in and break this shit up. They're just standing there like statues, diggity. So Liam and Noel bum rush th' stage and of course TJ and Paul are outta there lickety-split just like they always were when the cards were down.

I swing my bass in a wide arc, bringing it over my head and windmilling it as I think about my next move.

See, if I can kick these guy's asses I'll get some major headlines out of it. Or hush money. Either way it's win-win if I can take 'em.

I let go of the bass and it flies into Noel's gut. He huffs and falls back to the lip of the stage as Liam advances. He grabs a mic stand and curses and swings it at me but I'm on it and I duck and come in under him, tackling his skinny ass and taking him down onto an EV 15" monitor. I grab him by the hair and give his head three good wacks against the side of the monitor, trying to find th' corner. "OOOOWW! OWWW! YOU FUCKIN' COCK!" he yells as I batter him. Then it's stars and moons for me as Noel sucker smacks me with a mic stand base in the back of my head. I fall off of Liam and curl up, trying to get my shit together as the Gallaghers advance on me. Fuckin' hurts and the blood is pretty spectacular. That ain't the end of it though- those fuckers start kicking me in the ribs from both sides. Ow, Christ! I'm glad they're wearing high tops but I can still feel it when one of my ribs on the right side gives. Shit, fuck. Fuckers are enjoying it by this point. The crowd is yelling Oasis! Oasis! which pisses me off no end.

I manage to grab one of Noel's feet and twist it with everything I've got. I catch a break because he falters and then goes down across me onto Liam. I scurry th' fuck out of there, jump up and huck a monitor into the faithless crowd. I'm rewarded with scattered screams as that bad boy connects with some dick or another.

Noel and Liam are comin' in hard now but I'm ready. Ready and steadied with resolve. My head is pounding and my right side is on fire but all I'm gonna need from here on out are fists and feet, man.

I feint towards Liam on th' left but bust out and hit Noel with an ungodly crack in the fucking jaw. Liam tries to grab me but I spin away and around him and feed him 4 quick rabbit punches that get him howling. Noel is advancing on me but I just bring my right leg up and let his own momentum drive him into it. Oof he grunts as my foot is buried in his pasty gut. I bring it up and give him my Cuban heel back and forth across the mug, bam bam bam. I bring it down and swivel on it, bringing my other leg up and over him in a wide arc that connects with his brother's face.

Then it's another roundhouse as I peg Noel with my left foot in the nose. Blood sprays like a fucking geyser from his ruined schnozz and I give him a ring punch right in the back of the head that has him yelping like a li'l Pomeranian. yeah, those fuckers hurt.

I dance away from the derivative duo, bouncing on my toes as I hit my stride. Then it's back in with both fists pumping as I treat them both to a profound shellacking. Liam winds up and I see his fist comin' at me but I duck and he gives that fucker to his own bro in th' chin. Up I come, grabbing their heads and smackin' 'em together like couple coconuts. Then I fall back into kibadachi stance and give Liam a heartbreaker in th' nads with my right foot. It's over for that fuck.

Then I advance on the staggering Noel, grabbing him by the shirt and chuckin' him into th' drums. I yank th' speed lock on Paul's hihats, pull 'em off the stand and pop the fucker on both sides of his head keeerashhh.

Two more a those fuckers and he's nighty night.

I drag both of 'em to the front of the stage by the hair and drop 'em, raising my hands to the crowd, who go nuts.


Then it's time to load out.


Oh Jesus, th' full weight of how funny this is just came upside me. BLLLEEEARRGGHHH HA HA HA HA

Tomorrow- A Dust-up at Irvine Meadows with Scott Weiland.

Bobby Lightfoot's Asshole Celebrity Fight Week #2: Rumble In Th' Panhandle

Oh, this one's ugly, gang. Not a romantic saga by any stretch. Damn it. Remember in "Thelma 'n' Louise" where the one skirt is all on about never going to Texas? Yeah, I'm on that shit. Never, ever go to fucking Texas. If I was reassigned there after th' goddamn Katrina I would've hightailed my ass to Cabrini Green in six sekkinds flat swear to Christ. An ugly, scary, bad place.

Especially that god damn Panhandle. It's like a Bermuda Triangle of Fuck, man. Wouldn't play there, wouldn't live there. Not even Austin, baby. Not even Austin. Fuck that. Life's too short for that kind of bad vibes, man. Oh. Criminy.

Gotta drive through it though, y'know? Gotta rock that Panhandle if you're a rock band and you're heading east or west.

Well, no more. No more.

So I'm on th' 60 between Hereford and Amarillo. Dead a night. I'm in the old Dodge cargo van. I leave the radiator cap at the gas station a million miles ago like a god damn stoopie. Oh, shit- temp needle's pegged, I'm dry and it's 2 AM, man. I got a bottle of Windex and a bladder full of Nature's Coolant. Almost enough, babe. Not quite. Gets me a mile at a time. Drive a mile, wait a hour. Mile, hour.

Yeah, I'm well and truly fucked. But what's that? I see headlights approaching from th' west. A car! I'm saved! I wave 'em down. Car pulls over thank Christ. But then who should explode from the driver's side of th' goddamned Lexus SUV but ANN FUCKING COULTER!! And she's PISSED!

And the worst thing is she's packing heat! A god damn assault rifle no shit! Hey, I told you about fucking Texas!! Aaaiiiieee! Bad news! But what's she so pissed about???

Then I remember- the bumper stickers! Shit!! I got one of them "somewhere in Texas a village is missin' an idiot" ones and I got one of those Dodge ones from my last oil change sez "yeah, it's got a Hemi" but I anagrammed it into "hey eat this amigo". She probably doesn't care about that one but th' "idiot" one is NOT gonna fly with the Coultinator! Ouch!

What the fuck is your problem, pussyboy? she shrieks, stomping over to me with that rifle on her hip. I'm gonna ventilate your liberal fag college boy ass right here, faggot!

Gun comes up and I think quick and drop and roll under the van. Ann doesn't waste any goddamn time. She flips that safety off and it's pap pap pap! into the tarmac. Pap pap pap! She's got that bad boy on three-round burst pap pap pap! The blacktop is breaking up in front of me and I'm eating hot asphalt and it hurts pretty good as it gauges into my face. I roll and I'm out the other side and into the pitch black field over the shoulder lickety-split, god damn.

Get back here faggot boy Ann screams into the night. She goes full auto and sprays the whole god damned fucking field with her last 11 drrrr-drrrr-drrrr. Bad fucking news, man. I drop and roll again, eating dirt as the earth geysers up all around me from her volley. I'm gonna cap your pussy ass, amigo! Hey, eat THIS amigo!!

I catch a god damn grazer on the inside of my right thigh right then. God damn! Shit! Hurts like a fucker but misses the artery. Misses the plumbing by swear to god two inches. Now I'm pissed. I tear the right sleeve off my Chune long sleeve concert T and tie off, cursing the fucking bitch. Then I'm up and fading back and to the left as Coulter digs in her glove compartment for another clip. Back and to the left.

She's up and back with impressive speed, locked and loaded. Say what you will about that fucking witch Ann Coulter, she can speed load with the best of 'em. She's like god damn Special Forces but smaller and smellier.

Up that fucker comes fast as lightening, but this time I'm ready for her. I chuck a big rock over where I was and she opens up like a fucking spiggot on it and I hightail it in a big arc that gets me to th' back of my van. PA-DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH!!! Fucker erupts like Saint Helens and she leans into that shit. Doesn't move an inch from the kick. She's wearing a cheerleader outfit.

Wait. That's not in this story.

I'm not goin' to wreck the veracity by embellishing, you know?

That's the Phyllis Diller in the Frozen Goods Section story, which will come your way later this week in "Bobby Lightfoot's Asshole Celebrity Fight Week". Stay tuned.

What will this fucking guy come up with next? I ask you? God damn Lightfoot! When's he going to run dry, for Christ's sake?

Oh, just you fucking wait. Just wait.

She's wearing a black coverall and a black baseball cap that she flipped around right before she started rocking and rolling. She's having a good, good old time, the whore. This is like a hobby for her and I suspect she's been trolling the low desert for illegals and got bored.

You fucking down yet, pussy? she screams into the night. You liking what mama's got for you, fucker?

I'm almost back to the rear of my van now, moving low and fast in the dark. Ann is muttering something about waxing herself a motherfucking college pussy fag and I'm sneaking in. Grab another rock. Thigh is hurting pretty good but it's just a flesh wound. Pretty bleedy though. I'll make it.

I've got plans for Coulter.

I throw the rock high far on down the road and when it clatters to the pavement she opens up again. 6, 7, 8 rounds. She likes to heat that fucker up. Out of the back of the van comes my bigass Dodge Extended 1 Ton Van tire iron. Fucker's heavy, feels real good. My hands tingle at the thought of coming down on Coulter with that shit.

Fuck, she yells. Fuck, god damn it...she jogs on down the road a spell, a little confused now. I'm rolling and back under my van by the time she walks back. I see her combat boots coming towards me and I wait until just the right moment and I sweep that bad boy right into her ankles with everything I've got.

Coulter's feet fly up in front of her and she's down like a sack of old shit, her AR70 clattering to the asphalt a couple feet away. I roll out right quick and onto her, getting the tire iron across her throat while she gasps with surprise. I bear down and one second too late I start crossing my legs so she can't do the St. Vitus Attack. I don't get the full brunt of it but her knee in th' pills is no pleasure cruise. My eyes go wide and there's a brief glimmer of triumph in her face pisses me off no end.

I roll of off Coulter and make for her rifle. She's sputtering but trying to grab me by the legs. I kick her in the teeth a couple times and she don't like that action one bit. Her keening shrieks are unpleasant and grating. I get to the gun, check the safety and bring it around and into her face. Here you go you psychotic freak! I yell and come down on the trigger. Clicks. Clicks is all I get. Fucking overheat.

What a bitch that is. I should've known the AR70 would freeze up the way she was burning it up. She's smiling again and I shove the barrel right into her nose whick elicits a shriek and a satisfying crunching sound. Her eyes are bright with a frightening rage and I crawl away from her and regain my feet. She's up and pissed and pulls a 10-inch survival knife from a back holster.

We circle there on th' two lane, two crouched figures in th' headlights.

Coulter comes in fast and low but I'm ready for the bitch and I step in left and give her a whack on the side of the knee with my right foot. She flails but recoups and I barely duck out of the way of that knife coming at me. I catch her wrist and let her own momentum take her off balance. I give her the gun butt in her side and up into her tit. Bring the old elbow around into her mouth. She grabs at the gun with her free hand and I let her have it in the gut with my right knee. I come up three times and on the last one she goes over and horks up her dinner right there splap-a-dap.

You fucking bastard she screams and slams her head into my mouth. Oh, it fucking hurts, man. I see red in a big way and the taste of blood is sudden and thick with pain. I got at least two chips which pisses me off no small amount because I don't have dental and this radio tour is way in the fucking red already. Dammit!

I see that knife come up and that wakes me up right fucking quick, believe you me. I lean back out of the way but just barely. She comes back down with that thing and slices my upper arm a little bit.

But that's when it turns for Ann, see. I work into her side again try the side of the knee thing again. This time is the charm and her leg gives and she goes down bad. Bang. Aaaaahhhh....ahhhh...you cocks-s-sucker...! She screams as she crab-crawls away from me.

I come over, white hot pissed and give her a pop in the face with my hiking boot. What the fuck is your problem, you crazy fucking Nazi witch? I yell at her. Here's some tasty college pussy hiking boot for your ass. Give her another. One with the toe. Wipe the blood off on her shoulder. She's pretty still by now, groaning and cursing, and I get up and head for her Lexus SUV. I pull my shirt off and lean in th' driver's side and open the gas tank. Pop. I twist the shirt up and shove it into the gas tank real good. I head back up and fire the puppy up and back it away a couple feet and point it sideways. Put 'er in neutral and jam the AR70 between the seatback and th' pedal. Fucker revs like a banshee on steroids. Shirt's smelly with gas by now and I fire it up with my Zippo. Burns low. Low and steady. Good.

Back up to the cabin and I jam that fucker into first with everything I've got. Pops like a cannon and whips ass off the shoulder and into the desert. It's ghostly the way she heads on out across the pampas, disappearing into the night. Just when the rear lights wink out there's an ungodly whoomp and she goes up like a roman fucking candle ba-DDDDDOOOOOM.

It's an awesome and belittling sight, something everyone should see. A Lexus SUV lit up in the pitch black desert night like St. Elmo's god damn Fire coming down on th' evil ones and the whisperers.

Coulter is barely conscious and I drag her over to the far shoulder by her legs. And leave her there.

Van's cool enough by now to limp into Amarillo.

Fucking Ann Coulter! How about that, huh?

What a total twat!

A Brief Aside On Th' Job Market

Oh, those goddamn portal pages, you know? Like MSN 'n' Charter 'n' them? Relationship and dieting advice? The Ten Hot Growing Jobs?

A'ight- here's the reality, diggity. Here's Bobby Lightfoot's Ten Growth Careers for yer asses:

1. Polar Icecap Measuring Dude- you get a yardstick. Trust me, it's enough.
2. Bootlicking Neocon Toadie.
3. Hashslinger
4. Soldier
5. Kyoto Treaty Abstainer
6. Fry Maker
7. Customer Service Phone Dude (work on that Indian accent)
8. Sex Professional
9. Wait, there's only 8. Sorry.

Oh, dieting tip- piss is sterile. Don't eat shit.

Relationship advice- don't forget you're an asshole. That way when you're treated like one you won't spring a god damn leak yo.

Bobby Lightfoot's Asshole Celebrity Fight Week #1: My FIGHT With Wilford Fucking Brimley

It all starts in this god damn bar in where was it...god damn...um, Hoboken. yeah. We're talking '88, '89. There was this place in Hoboken called, um, fuck. I forget. Let's say it was the Beaten Path. The Beaten Path in Hoboken. It's a club and a restaurant all in one. It's like one of those places like Green Street Station in Jamaica Plain Boston where they make this crazy food like dirty rice 'n' steak tips and it's like out of this world.

So there's a 200+ capacity live room adjoining the restaurant and it's all the crop of late '80's indie. This would've been with The Malarians. Headlining, baby. What a hilarious god damn band. Mal Thursday, Johnny Tomorrow, Bob Medley, Lyme Ricky and Slater Awn. Hilarious and withering. Hilarious, withering and feverish.

But god damn if it isn't sort of static-y between th' restaurant and the live room. Always is in places like that. You roll the wagons up to a venue like that and you know there's going to be static. Unless it's like that place in Atlanta, The Earl, where the entrance to the music part is like three blast doors.

So god damned if we're soundchecking and some wanker manager comes in from the restaurant there at the Beaten Path and complains because the customers are bitching about the noise. Music is supposed to start at 10 and it's like 9 so it's that whole fucking scene. I'm like, "fine, let's eat. We sound tits," but Mal wants to work something out with the vocal monitor and says he can do it in twenty seconds.

The rest of us are like, "knock yerself out," and hit the restaurant.

So we get a booth and the drinks are going around pretty good and Mal comes over. Halfway down the aisle somebody sticks their leg out and fucking trips the guy. Mal goes down, grabbing a tablecloth on th' way and upends some people's table of food on them. Turns out its god damn Wilford Brimley and his daughter and his son-in-law. Wilford fuckin' jumps up all irate. He's wearing some Chilean seabass and is none too pleased. He starts yelling and calling Mal names and Mal is like, "fuck this" and comes over to our table. God damn Wilford comes after him, demanding that he apologize to the other two, and Mal is like "someone fucking tripped me". Wilford's BULLSHIT by now. You can picture it. Fuckin' red in the face, that stupid moustache twitchin' and twitterin' with food in it and shit. He's all on about "you kids today" and "rude little pricks".

So Mal is just ignoring him. We all are for the most part. Mal turns away from him and god damn Wilford grabs him and turns him back around, yelling some crap about respecting him and don't we know who he is and that. Mal brings his hands up to break the guys hold and knocks Wilford's glasses askew. The sputtering old fool shoves Mal and they both go into yet another table. The manager dude is there by now, and people are splitting. I'm closest to them so I get up to break it up, and Wilford yells some shit and god damn if he doesn't crack me in the nose with his free hand, the cocksucker. I swear and step back and start hammering the old coot in the kidneys, one-a-two-athree. He lets go of Mal who fades back a little and turns towards me.

Guy is fuckin' livid. He steps in and plants one in my gut and when I go over I see his knee and it's all stars. He doesn't get me as bad as he could've but my lip is cut good and I gotta loose molar. Fuckin' bastard. I rip a left into his gut and whip his glasses off. Old fucker is disoriented for a sec and I back off and come in fast, jumping up and giving him both feet in the chest. He goes back 2 or 3 steps and I'm up and into him.

I smack my forehead into his nose and it hurts alright but it fucks him up good. I stomp on his foot with my boot and when he bends over I box the crap out of his ears, once, twice, three times. Then it's into the side of a table with him. He goes over and I give him a couple good kicks in the ass for good measure. The god damn manager is grabbing at me and Wilford comes up with a water glass and rocks it over my head.

It's more show than anything else, but I get a couple good bleeders in my scalp. I get the manager off me and move back in. Brimley is moving with a grim, sick anger now. His face is a mask of crimson rage, blood flowing from his nose, his spectacle-less eyes like those of a gutshot badger. I work a left into his right cheek and a right up under his chin. He's an old brick, the cocksucker, and when I come in for another he feints backwards and fuckin' works one into my side that hurts like shit. He grins evilly and hits me again in the same spot, the meanest old trick in the dirty boxing book.

I stagger a little, trying to get my breath and he grabs a fuckin' beer stein off a table and comes at me. He grabs me by the shirt and raises the stein and I'm thinking it's curtains but I instinctively manage to get my knee up and into his groin. It's a home run of a nutbuster and he sputters and drops the thing and goes to his knees. I step back and hit him with a running roundhouse kick right in the fuckin' face. He whips back like a tree in a gale, blood flying out of his mouth in a thick, wide arc. I give him another from the left and his head snaps back again and he goes over on his back like a fat dead orca, huffing and sobbing.

Wilford god damn Brimley! What a cock! THAT guy!

Next: A Texas run-in with Ann Coulter.