Sunday, May 07, 2006

Sucker for a Picture of a Pretty Big Bird


In the hills—many miles away from everywhere—lived a short-fused darling named Wentworth Fitzmackenbash. He came from a medium family: Mother Dumplette, who was right side up; father Ruman, who was in trouble; and two brothers named Philadelphia who took baths together.

Wentworth fought day at and day over. He would fight anyone, regardless of size (as long as they weren’t larger than him). He would go to school every day looking for justification to punch someone’s ass. He didn’t exactly start fights, but he had the uncanny ability to turn anything into a fight.

Wentworth’s principal was very fed up with his violent tendencies and found himself constantly having to spank the angry young boy’s back.

“I’m tired of your fighting every day,” said Principal, pushing Wentworth into a big, black leather office chair, “I’m also fed up with your violet testicles and having to spank your angry young back! You don’t exactly start fights, but you have the uncanny ability to turn anything into a fight!”

Then, standing over Wentworth, like a statue of a principal standing over an angry student in a big, black leather office chair, Principal continued, “You’re NOT going to go fighting day at and day over! Not in this school you won’t! It’s clear to me that you have a bad altitude and a ridiculous haircut!” (Which he really did). “You don’t like anybody or anything!”

Wentworth sprang to his (Wentworth’s) feet bawling, “That’s not true principal! I like—no—LOVE pictures of pretty big birds!” punctuating the sentence with kicks and punches to Principal’s mid section. For this Wentworth was suspended from school and could not come back until his mother and Principal had a conference. And so they did that very evening.

Many things were discussed at the conference, from rugby to Wentworth. Principal leaned over his desk, “Mrs. Fitzmackenbash. Your son Wentworth is –well . . . I’ll be honest with you. He’s a short-tempered, pencil-neck, pizza-faced, foam-headed, waffle-back, grass eating, stupid hair-having, violent little bastard! And I mean it! The only thing he likes—no—LOVES is, get this, pictures of pretty big birds. Can you believe that? Pretty big birds for Chrissake! If you ask me, this kids—”

Before he could finish his tirade, Mrs. Fitzmartiantit spoke out, “Maybe if we could look into his fancies we could look into his fancies and look into his fancies and . . .” She shook her head and started over slowly, “Maybe – if we could look – into his fancies – we could help – him to be – a happier Wentworth. Happier Wentworth I say.”

Principal leaned even more forward, supporting his upper body with his fists, “You mean give in?! What that boy of yours needs is a whooping! A good old-fashioned whooping! Let me do it Mrs. Fitzmuslimcalendar, LET ME DO IT!! What I’ll do is to put a bar of soap in a sock and whoop—”

“Oh I don’t think so. I think a picture of a pretty big bird will do the trick,” interrupted Mrs. Fitzmothersmilk, leaving the office with a splendid zoom.

The next day, while Wentworth was in school, Mrs. Fitzmountainsickness bought a picture of a pretty big bird and prepared a loaf of meat for to make her angry young son ecstatic. But when her Wentworth didn’t come home from school she began to worry. Philadelphias said they’d seen an older boy hitting Wentworth in the mouth with a bike, but that he seemed all right. So they just waited and waited for him to arrive. (Everybody knew he had the bike beating coming to him.)

When Wentworth finally did come home, he had but three teeth left, and they were in the back of his mouth where nobody could see them. By this time, dinner was cold and Mrs. Fitzmushroomcloud was hot. She began stomping about and screaming, “Damn you Wentworth, for coming home all bleedy and incomplete! I got you a picture of some pretty big bird and made you a fine, brown supper and you come home all bleedy and incomplete! Damn you for that Wentworth! Piss on you and damn you!”

“Where’s the picture at?” asked Wentworth, which was the wrong thing to do.

Mrs. Fitzmusclebeach grew red and threw mightily it at him hollering, “ON YOUR FACE!!!”
When Wentworth woke up, he looked at the picture and began dancing with it. He closed his eye (one was already swollen shut) and smiled smiled smiled, revealing all of his no teeth. When Mrs. Fitzmustardgas saw how happy it made Wentworth, she too smiled smiled smiled – knowing damn well he’d never change his dirty, fighting ways.

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