“Hey Mollie, come over here. It looks like McGuinty just got a letter from Skibootch and he’s goin to read it to Mick.”
“How can you tell?”
“I seen the postage stamp, it was from Ireland.”
“OK, let’s hear what he tells Mick.”
“What the hell! A money order for $1,200.00. Part payment for my bar tab. Can you believe that Mick, after all these years the guy finally makes a payment. Geez, only $4,800.00 left. I can’t believe it. It’s a miracle…
Old Skibootch finally coughs up a payment – a big one at that! Will wonders ever cease? What the hell made him do that? Last time we were in touch, he was blabbin about all those Little People and their pots of gold. I wonder if he really did get one from them. He’s always fallin in a mud puddle and comin up wearin a new brown suit. Looks like he just added another.
Listen to this Mick: he says he met this dark haired Irish girl at the Black Dog Saloon the other night. Her name was Sheena Gaire. She told him about this great farm in Galway that her father owned, and needed to sell. To sell to someone who might be a lucky enough person to have enough gold to afford it. Someone like Skbootch who could talk with the Little People and spread their wealth to the deserving.
Here’s what she said: ‘Let’s take your fortune and buy my father’s farm up in Galway. Let’s run it together. It’ll work for both of us. You can process bullshit into electricity, and I can make butter. Together, we’ll get all we need to pay off your debts, and to keep me on me dad’s farm.’
So, that Mick, is what that goofy Skibootch is up to now. Sounds like he is tuning up his big horn. You know that huge Tuba he’s always cartin around. He’s gonna get it to make melody instead of breakin eardrums. A welcome tune indeed, coming from the likes of Skibootch.
He goes on to say: ‘Me and Sheena took a bus up to Galway, and it let us off right at the gate to the Gaire farm’s cow pasture. When we are entering the pasture I dropped my book containing your bar tabs into the tall grass. A nearby cow locates it, picks it up with her mouth, and gives it to me. I say: ‘That’s a miracle, the cow actually picked up my book and gave it to me!‘ The cow looks at me and says: ‘Not really, your name was written on the inside cover.’ Then she says: ‘You see that lazy bull sleeping over there? His name is Blarney. All he does is hump us cows, poop in the pasture and sleep. We call him the bulldozer.’ So I says to her: ‘that’s funny, such a fittin name. She doesn’t answer, she just lets it go in one ear and out the udder.’
So, den Skibootch ups to Sheena’s house and hands over a large lump of gold for the farm and all the animals to her father. The widowed father moves out, Skibootch and Sheena move in, and a whole new set of stories begin. He is going to mail them to me, so’s I can keep all you roustabouts informed about all the miracles that come out of the ground from that farm in Galway.
Then he tells me. Get this; he’s not mad at me anymore. He doesn’t have time to waste on anger. He can better use it to turn bullshit into electricity. What a bloody kick in the ass that is! How the hell can I keep crackin down on you deadbeats if I was to get all gooey like dat goofy Skibootch. Even the likes of you Mick, with all your bad habits, would make it hard for me to stay angry if you should suddenly start to pay up. What the hell is this world comin to? I’d have to stop hollerin and shoutin at all you ejits. I might even have to put a smile on me face now and then.
Well, come to think on it, it’s probably another one of Skibootch’s tall tales. You know what? I tink I’ll check in with the Repo man, and see if he’s heard from Skibootch. I’ll even buy him a beer when he comes in. I’ll keep you posted. Talk to ya later Mick…”