LowerManhattanite (might be) coming to Chicago.

For Yearly Kos II: "This Time It's Toddling!"

Maybe.

So OK…calm yourself.

Deep, cleansing breathes.

Gonna hafta pick up the cat poop. And shop. And probably learn Portugese.

Clean up city government. County too.

Get the Neverending I-94 Shred and Stall Project finished.

Find the Cubs a winning lineup.

And get the Streets-N-San crews to make up all the flowerbeds in all the planters down the middles of the boulevards with crisp, hospital corners.

Because LowerManhattanite (might be) coming to Chicago, damn it!

If you don’t know who he is, well Shame, Shame, Everybody Knows Your Name.

He is a regular commenter over at House Gilliard, and while the conversation there is always nutritious and delicious (really), when LM takes down his Ticonderoga Number Two 12-guage, it lights up the joint like a joyful Starburst Shell jacketed in champagne going off in a cozy corner bar.

He’s a friend of this blog , smart as hell, and writes like I wish I could.

And because this particular day Steve is slow and I am not, I have stolen liberated LM’s latest, exquisite opus from the steerage deck of Mr. Gilliard’s comment section.

And so, without further gilding (and a h/t to Kid Charlemagne for the pointer), LowerManhattanite’s “Mudbone Goes to Maryland”, Parts 1 and 2…

1.) MUDBONE GOES TO MARYLAND PT. 1 -- 3:37

Sooo…for those a’ ya’ll unawares—that means all you ignorant mother-f*ckers—m’ name…is Mudbone…and ah hails…from Tupelo, Mississippi—

(MAN IN CROWD CALLING OUT)
“Tupelo? Where the f*ck is that?”

Just outside “One-a-lo”. (BEAT) Trent Lott-lookin’ mother-f*cker Don’t know where sh*t is, askin’ me? Do I look like Rand-McNally, mother-f*cker? Better go find you a page to f*ck, leave me the hell alone. Dis-respectful. Anyways, m’ name’s Mudbone an’…I’m a tell you the stor-ah, ‘bout how I was called to run—a big-time Senate Campaign. Yeah! See, they called my *ss to hep’—‘cause I’m a’ tell ya,--the candidate? He was f*ckin’ it up.! Sh*t the bed--through the linens, the flo’, right through the Goddamn kitchen ceiling. That’s a bed sh*t fo’ yo’ ss, man—s’whatcha call…a-a-a duplex…bed sh*t. F*cked his campaign up somethin’ terrible.

See, they called me an’ said “Lissen, we heard you good with words and whatnot, and you can conneck with folks—can you come an hep the brotha out?” So I says, ‘Well, whass his problem? He can’t talk? Mother-f*cker mute n’ sh*t? Tell me something!’.

They says “Oh no…he can talk…he just get his *ss in trouble every time he do” Now, I know what they mean, but to come up north on that Greyhound five-and-a-half hours to save his monkey-ss, I want some entertainment, so I asks for farts and giggles “Well, what the mother f*cker done said?”

They tell me…this trifling-*ss fool said a gang a kuh-razy Black Power college boys called down a plague a’ mother-f*ckin’ Oreo cookies from the sky on his *ss! Swear to God! Stupid mother-f*cker said ‘the air was thick with ‘em”—like locusts and sh*t! I said, “What the f*ck is this? The Goddamn “Ten Commandments”? Is ya crazy?
They said, “No, no…he said that sh*t.”An’ I said, “Well I know his *ss need my help now, ‘cause this fool don’t know nothin’ ‘bout Black folks at all”. They said, “Well-well what do you mean sir?” I said “You know Goddamn well that mother-f*ckers ain’’t gonna waste no free-*ss cookies!—Sh*t, they’d ate every one of ‘em, washed em down with chocolate milk and then?---Fell the f*ck asleep!” Thick in the air like locusts! You mean “thin in the air like some tasty-*ss cookies!” Goddamn.

So, I agrees to hep’ im out. I says “Send me a roun’-trip bus ticket, and I’ll be up t’morry. We can work out the payment then”. They said okay, an’ then they got reeeal quiet. An’ I said, “On what the f*ck is goin’ on now?” So, they said, “We think it’s only fair to warn you that…he’s Black”—which was cool with me, ‘cause half the folks I run with is still “colored”—an’ I’m always lookin’ to upgrade my surroundings.

“And…he’s a Republican.”

So I took out my Smiff n’ Wesson an’ I shot the Goddamn phone—PYOW! I heard the mother-f*cker on the other end cryin’ an’ sh*t—“Owwww! My ear! My ear! What the f*ck did you do?” I said “I shot the Goddamn phone is what I did--an’ you better be glad we was on the phone, else I’d a shot you in yo’ *ss for tryin’ to run that Black GOP sh*t on a n*gger. ”

Black republican? Sh*t, that make as much sense as freeze-dried watah.

Jus’ add watah and stir. What kinda sh*t….?

But then, I heard the man start talkin’ bout money. Big-*ss money. Enough money to git everybody off Lotto's t*tty for six months. So when I heard that, I picked up the pieces ‘a phone and tol’ his* ss we had a deal. So, ‘bout an hour later, the courier come, hand me my tickets, ask for a tip, I give him one—“Nex’ time ask a mother-f*cker who actually tips”—and I was on my way. Packed light—underwear, good suit, smokes an’ my Smiff—in case sh*t get outta pocket up north. F*ck that end a’ “Livin’ For The City” sh*t, y’know?

Now, when I arrives—they got a limousine waitin’—which was alright, ‘cause it was nice to ride in one a’ them without somebody’s havin’ to be dead for once. But…when I open the door to it, Goddamn thing’s full a’ puppy sh*t! Not dog sh*t , but runny-*ss puppy sh*t! I’m like, “Holy Jesus, holy Jesus!”—an’ the candidate leans out from the puppy sh*t holdin’ a stack a dollas that-swear t’ God—would make Oprah “come” nine times. So, I got in the puppysh*t-mobile an’made myself comfortable. As a mother-f*cker could be in a car full a’ puppy sh*t. An’ then I looked cross from me an seen “the candidate”. Ol’ grinnin’ bal’head, mother-f*cker. Head so shiny, it’d blind Ray Charles a second time—an’ grinning so hard, I thought the top a’ that bal’ head was gonna fall off at the jawline.

“Sir—er…brother-brough-ham, er…My name is Michael Steele.”

An’ he held out his han’ for me to shake—f*ckin’ han’ was covered with puppy sh*t ! Wrist to nail—in the sh*t pail. I said, “Skip the handshakes, ya e.coli mother-f*cker--how can I hep’ ya?” “Well”, he goes, “I need your expertise in bridging the perception gap between myself the urban element of the populace, lest I possibly squander this election.”

Well, I couldn’t understand a word his *ss said, but I knew if he didn’t learn to talk to folks, he was gonna f*ck up an’ lose for Goddamn sure!

So, I was about to hep’ im when I notice, not only is there a puppy sh*t everwhere, but now I see about nine-hundred puppies crawlin’ around in the sh*t—an’ they’s still sh*ttin! An’ I’m wonderin’ if his *ss see ‘em ‘cause while I’m ‘bout to throw the f*ck up—his *ss is still sittin’ there, jus’ a grinnin’ an’ what-not! So I asks him, “Mr. Steele, what is with all these mother-f*ckin puppies--and sh*t? So he says, “I need the puppies to seem less threatening to White folks so they’ll vote for me.”

2.) MUDBONE GOES TO MARYLAND PT. -- 2:20

Now, I ain’t the smartest mother-f*cker in the world, but I know for a fact that a smilin’ fool like him, covered in puppy sh*t ain’’t been elected to a Goddamn thing on this planet. yet! An’ even dog-catcher in crazy-*ss Cujo’s neighborhood is out of the f*ckin’ question—so you know he smelled like all that be damned. But, I figured I’d, you know—“let go and let God". Let the man do his thing—be his own puppy sh*t covered person, and do what I could to get my hands on that stack a’ dead, white-haired crackers he was holdin’.

Just then, the limo stopped and then, the side door ripped off—almost sh*t on m’self man—but I figured considerin’ where I was, “Why bother”—an then I saw this big, kuh-razy lookin’ mother-f*cker standin’ there holdin’ the to’ off door in his hand like it was from a f*ckin’ Hot Wheels car—an he said, just like this—“Howth yout doin’?”That’s when I put m’ han’ on my Smiff—‘cause if this big, bullet-head, Buffy on "Family Affair"-soundin’ mother-f*cker’s gonna start hurtin’ people, I ain’t gonna be the last one. Then “Senator Sh*tty Hands” said “Don’t worry, that’s just my brother-in-law.”, an’ I said to myself “Goddamn n*gga, I’d hate to see what your f*ckin’ sister look like! ‘Cause this cat was ugly. Had two gol’ teeth, little beady-*ss eyes, built like a Goddamn tractor—and he had…this crazy-*ss tattoo—up his neck, ‘round his ear, looked like the flames a’ hell—an’ then down onto his ugly-*ss face.

An’ when he spoke, I swore I smelled earwax on his breath! Swear t’ God!

I thought, “This sh*tty-handed fool let this freak marry into his family? Neville f*ckin’ Chamberlain was a better judge a’ character! That’s the genius that f*cked up and said Hitler wouldn’t hurt no Goddamn body. But, I figured, “How bad can it be?”, so I go out out the car, when all of a sudden, a great, big mother-f*cker ran up on us wavin’ little U.S. flags and yellin’ “Only in America! Only in America!” N*gga’s hair looked like he was the Heat Miser’s cousin O’Dell from the town a’ No-Comb, Arkansas. So now he runnin’ around with these flags pokin’ peoples, jabbin’ campaign buttons through their chests, still yellin’ “Only in America! Only in America!”—f*ckin’ up everybody’s eardrums, when Steele says to me “How do you like my campaign staff?” I said, “Between these mother-f*ckers and these diarrhea-*ss puppies , you lucky if you vote for you.” Well, I shouldn’t have said that, ‘cause right then, the Black Heat Miser started jumpin’ around even more, yellin’ and sh*t, an’ he f*cked up an’ landed on one of the puppy’s tails. The puppy screamed and jumped up an’ bit the crazy tattoo mother-f*cker on the d*ck, he went kuh-razy an’ bit another puppy on the ear—now all the puppies is screamin’ an’ sh*ttin everywhere! Holy Jesus, it looked like somebody gave “Old Faithful” Ex-Lax—a sh*t geyser sprayin everywhere—I mean, that's right...the air was thick with flying sh*t, peoples! Candidate run off, screamin, how the sh*t was "like a Nazi experiment gone awry"—then he took it back--and then, I pulled my Smiff an’ Wesson, car-jacked the sh*t covered chafffeur and drove the f*ck off!

All the way back to Tupelo! Got home, drove through the car wash—‘bout thirty-seven times, stayed in the car with the windows down—an’ figgered at least I got me a nice “hog” for all my troubles, when I look down on the floor and see that stack a bills Steele were gonna gimme for headin’ up his campaign. Thank you Jesus, that you Jesus! So I rushes over to the bank, ‘cause I wanna set me up an account—you know, invest in some T-Bills, so I can afford me some T-Bird in my golden years. Put the money on the counter, say “I wanna set up an account”, teller push it back—“Sorry sir, I can’’t do that.” I said “What the f*ck? You better take this money, b*tch—hard as I worked fo’ it!” I push it to her. She push it back again—“Oh no, sorry sir!” So now, I’m about to be the first mother-f*cker to whip out a pistol to make a bank take his money when she says, “Sir, there’s a problem with your money.”

“What? What’s the problem with my Goddamned money?”

“Well…it’s all poopy”

“Poopy?” And then I looked at it---puppy sh*t, all up in it. Allbetween the bills. Wasn’t worth a Goddamned dime. And right f*ckin’ then Goddammit, I learned a lesson I’m a tell you right now about f*ckin’ ‘round with them Black republicans—DON’T Don't f*ck with 'em! If you see one comin--run the f*ck away, ‘cause just about everything—EVERYTHING about ‘em…is totally fulla sh*t!

Fin.