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The Year of Big Lou


Dwayner

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Last year, we declared 2002 "The Year of Big Lou". Needless to say, it wasn't taken very seriously and the festivities were lackluster and poorly attended. Big Lou ain't no quitter so I'm going to try this again. I will shortly declare this year, 2003, to be THE Year of BIG Lou! Ready? 5...4...3...2...1! Happy Lou Year, everybody!

 

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YOWSA! bigdrink.gifbigdrink.gifrockband.gifbigdrink.gifbigdrink.gif

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Raucous peals of laughter and thunderous applause filled the auditorium. A few hors d'ouvres were thrown, landing in wet lumps on the stage. A bit of foie gras spattered on Dwayner's pantleg, as he stood silently contemplating what his wanton Big Lou-ery had wrought.

 

Dwayner's own awkward silence slowly dripped from the stage, flowed in rivulets out into the audience, slowly engulfing them, drowning the last pockets of laughter. Only Greg, the Great Heckler still stood proud, front row center, gleefully rejoicing in the softly-walked and big-sticked manner in which he had dealt the Dwayner such a humiliating and scathing blow.

 

Sensing that the trouble was only just now beginning, that this was perhaps the calm before what was sure to be a very ugly storm indeed, feeling the slightly disconcerting ooze of foie gras sliding now into his sock, down the arch of his foot, coming to rest in his shiny leather loafer, sure that he had not seen the last finger-food fusillade, Dwayner slowly backed away from the podium towards the curtain. "Have to go, now," he muttered, mostly to himself, as he slid through the opening in the curtain and slunk into the cool darkness backstage, away from those gawdawful hot lights and all those jeering imbeciles.

 

Hours later, Dwayner awoke bleary-eyed in his tidy, well-decorated but decidedly modest or even "low rent" apartment, the floor around him rather untidily littered with Mickey's Malt Liquor grenades, himself smelling not unlike the Mickey's bottling plant his father had taken him to visit on his eighth birthday. He dragged himself to his feet, stumbled down the hall, careening into one wall and knocking a few summit photos from some bygone year to the floor, uncaring, oblivious. He shoved open the bathroom door, too fast, knocking over the small side table and carefully arranged flowers for the nth time in as many days, and lunged for the toilet, wrenching open the lid like Arthur drawing Excalibur from the stone, and up came everything; all of the Mickey's (and how!), the Caesar salad from earlier, the lemon drop martini (oh, how good it had felt to be sipping such a popular, cutting-edge beverage, back in the green room, as he put a last few flourishes into his meticulously polished speech), all of his pride, and all the shame, fear, and humiliation he had suffered, again, at the hands of that bastard Greg W.

 

"Never again," he groaned, silently cursing Greg, cursing Big Lou, the self-absorbed lout, as he slid back away from the big white porcelain toilet (3.5 gallon flush; they don't make them like that anymore, oh no), tracing a lazy arc down, down, his head coming to rest against the carefully organized basket of magazines between the toilet and the sink, all of which featured Big Lou's smiling mug beaming out from the cover, and he knew he'd never read them again.

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How do you respond to the point that Lou is part of the evil pentavrate that plots to control the guided climbing monopoly on our dear Mt. Rainier?

 

By reminding you that the Whitakers were in bed with the Kennedy family. Big Lou and RMI remind us the Kennedy era, when the liberals were in power and America was king. Big Lou and brother Jim remind us of the pioneering spirit of the generation that put us on the Moon.

 

When Al Gore came out to climb the big "R", do you think he requested the guiding service of some small-fry, independent, dope-smokin' pretender? He did not. And I would not. No, RMI and Big Lou should run that show per se.

 

And when our booze-hound President comes out to the PNW, maybe one of you gun-totin' rednecks can strap him onto his stinky trail bike and haul him to the summit of Rainier ('cause he ain't walking).

Edited by pope
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By reminding you that the Whitakers were in bed with the Kennedy family. Big Lou and RMI remind us the Kennedy era, when the liberals were in power and America was king.

 

Ah, part of the rich, liberal elitists who want to control all. JFK had the sense to cut taxes; doesn't sound too liberal. He also saw the "space race" as a key deterrent in the Cold War; why didn't he love the commies to death? Don't be fooled, the liberals of Kennedy's day were nothing like you sick liberal freaks who want to hug all our enemies into submission.

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Don't be fooled, the liberals of Kennedy's day were nothing like you sick liberal freaks who want to hug all our enemies into submission.

 

And he was nothing like the party you voted into office: Jack liked trees, and he liked black folk.

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Okay, maybe I spelled it wrong. Try "pentavirate"; a group of 5 individuals in administrative service. Similar to triumvirate, but with 5. Heard in "So I Married an Axe Murderer" by Mike Myers in Scottish accent.

 

I like Winter's though, too.

Edited by Greg_W
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