Wilford Brimley Has A Modest Proposal

Stop right there, dumbass fuck-nugget!  Not only is Wilford Brimley looking more disheveled than usual, but his pointy-finger is pointed right at you.  And do you know what that means, you snot-nosed dickhead?

No?  Well, then perhaps you should allow Mr. Brimley to apprise you...


"I'm hungry, young man.  I gots the cravings for some meats.  That's right!  Meats!  Plural!   And before you and your Harvard bookworm tongue correct my grammar-- I will Van Damme your raisin bag; so keep that yapper of yours cinched!   I grew up a got-damn Mormon.  We name our children Enos and Amulek.  We wander the hilly countryside wearing forty gallon Stetsons like in that Doyle story.  We swim.  We eat.  And we make little baby sharks.  And that's...  Don't say anything, turd-handler!  I know it's from a movie!  It's a metaphor!  I was supposed to be in that hot-shit movie, but Lorraine Gary stole that part from me!  Guess I should have married a Jew when I had the chance too.  But no- I was too busy roping women and fucking cattle to bother with those no-fun Jesus tattletales.

"I see your eyes, prolapsed rectum-head!  What?  You're surprised we made sweet sweet burning love to our cattle?  Or are you shocked that our ladies were into bondage?  I'm not sure I want an answer from you.  You're an ignorant swath of doofus!  

"Hey!  Didn't I say I wanted some meats?  Where the crap were you on that one?  Nice hustle, Johnny Nowhere-near-the-fucking-spot.  I should backhand you in the maracas.  Let me tell you a story about hasty meats-fetching...

"One day my father walked in my tiny room.  He was wearing overalls.  Not the OshKosh B'Poop kind:  the kind that only a real man would wear who endured hours of torture from swarthy Indians.  His eyes hid long lost pain from long ago.  He sat down next to me on my tiny bed and put his arm around me.  He tousled my hair and gave me a smile.  Then he Jack Johnson'd me in the buckshot bag... "Pow!"  He tousled my hair one more time and then boxed my ears.  He walked out of the room without a word.

"The lesson that I learned that day was Meats-- then God.  Golden calf tastes delicious because it's young; it's tender.  I'm renaming it 'alchemy veal.'  You writing this down, weenis?  Get out your fancy ThinkPad and stylus the dookie out of this shit.  Do you have Mindspring on that thing?  I just got it.  Boobs and NRA updates.  The future is here!  You know what's not here though?  My meats! 

"Holy Charro's knockers, doody-lips!  When I was your age and an elder told me to go forth and return with meats-- verily -- it shall be done!  You're just standing there!  Onward, fart-farter!  And upon your removal from my sight, do tell Mrs. Teschmacher the she and her cock-nibbling talents are needed toute de suite!"

And as you scramble out the room, El Brim Grande finally leans back in his ergonomically appropriate leather cushioned La-Z-Boy and stares at his meats indices.  They're up- just like his blood.  Not in pressure, mind you, but in temperature.  He is a riled man:  a turgid feral beast existing in a world of flaccid corporate nabobs.

Mrs. Teschmacher comes in and gives him a knowing, willing smile.  In moments she is on her knees in order to please.  He who is a god amongst mere mortals pulls out his set of knucklebones and lays them upon his Captain of Industry desk made entirely of tiger's eye...

But not the gemstone.

Image courtesy of:   @screenjunkies

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