It's been a year?! Damn. It's already been a year.

The other day, while I was taking the boys to school, I switched the radio tuner to the Mancow show. I am not ashamed to admit that I listen to that show, along with whatever strikes me on NPR, Jonathan Brandmeir, and WXRT (if there is a good song on). I am a joy to watch telvision with.

I happened to catch a part of the show where he did a phone interview with Anita Thompson, Hunter's widow. I stopped listening shortly after he said that he wrote his book, Dad, Dames, Demons & a Dwarf, was written in Thompson's style. It was a lackluster interview on the whole, and I couldn't tell if it was Mancow or Anita Thompson who made it so, but I had to get the boy into school, and with the move and all, things just don't seem to interest me as much lately.

I had the revelation described in the title of this post this morning, and thought that I'd post my own tribute to Hunter's style. It's not the first, and it probably won't be the last. Enjoy, please:


I’m careening down Lake Shore Drive at 75 MPH, accompanied by two Puerto Rican hookers, ten cans of warm Pabst Blue Ribbon, and enough ghetto-cut crank to dispatch a South African Cape Buffalo, twice over. It’s a mild April evening, and my trip back from Logan Square is going swimmingly. We’re heading south towards the “S” Curve, and I have no doubt that the archdiocese’s new midnight blue Lincoln Town Car can make the turn at 55, although there is the possibility of some partygoer at the Drake Hotel being at the window just in time to see Archbishop Bryan Roth and his companions jump the guard rail and plow into the first floor of that very building, a landmark of Chicago architecture.

There would be headlines, of course. And Walter Jacobson, that beady-eyed, big-nosed weasel, would probably do an editorial on Fox News about how he knew about me and my predilections all along. That punk’s had my number since he went undercover as a communion wafer to expose the “Silent Seminarian” scandal of 1985.

Whatever. It’s in God’s hands.

Jomayra and Maritza are good stock: thick, sassy bold young things who aren’t afraid of a little chaos. I bailed them out of jail earlier this evening, and now they are feeling very grateful. What is there in this world if there isn’t forgiveness?

They are from hardworking, churchgoing families, and they are discreet, which in my line of work is essential.
Because of this, they have enjoyed experiences their schoolmates could never fathom. They’ve entertained congressmen, visiting dignitaries, and
more than one local children’s television celebrity.

Maritza is snorting a line of crank off of Jomayra’s exposed, ample bosom as I bank the Town Car into the first left-hand turn of the curve. They squeal and wrap their arms around each other, chattering in Spanish something muerte… They’re both 21 and, when naked, could pass for twins.

I churn the wheel to the right, and shout Hot Damn! There’s gonna be some home-fried reckoning tonight, girls! I punch the ceiling of the car and laugh maniacally, my eyes bugging from the crank, my breath sour from beer.

We’re in the straightaway, now; I’ve made it again. Taking a long, deep pull from the beer can, I pray: O my God, at the end of this day I thank you most heartily for all the graces I have received from you. I am sorry that I have not made a better use of them. I am sorry for all the sins I have committed against you. Forgive me, O my God, and graciously protect me this night. Blessed Virgin Mary, my dear heavenly mother, take me under your protection. St. Joseph, my dear guardian angel, and all you saints of God, pray for me. Sweet Jesus, have pity on all poor sinners, and save them from hell. Have mercy on the suffering souls in purgatory.

Illinois Avenue! I pull off at the exit and snake through the side streets, approaching the rectory of Holy Name Cathedral from behind, the way I take Maritza when she is sufficiently wasted and randy. I am 57 years old; she needs a little ramping up for that job. I understand the hazards of her business, and I am willing to help in any way I can.

I pull the car up to the gates, and they open like they always do. Manny, the usual attendant is not there. Instead, there is a small man; his profile distinctive, wait…

Jacobson! You rat-faced swine! I hurl and empty beer can at his head, but I miss. He stands in a false
stoicism, believing that justice is on his side.

Roth, you degenerate chicken-hawk! I’ve got you now! There’s no way you’ll get out of this one. You
thought you had me in ’85. Made me look like a fool, you thought. I’ve caught you, now, you pervert! The uniform he is wearing is too small (Manny is quite small in stature), and he keeps pulling at the bottom of the jacket as if he can make it grow two sizes by sheer will.

First of all, Jacobson, you need to get your facts straight! I have never, nor will I ever, diddle any young boys. Nor old boys, for that matter! I drain my beer and chuck the empty can, this time hitting him directly in the center of his forehead. He doesn’t move.

You can believe what you want, Archbishop! But I was there! There were thirteen naked seminarians wandering the Michigan Dunes, tripping balls on windowpane acid! They all mentioned your name more than once in their insane babble! Explain that one!

His voice is growing shrill, and I realize I will soon need to come up with a plan to calm him down, or three cars full of pissed-off Chicago cops would be arriving at the rectory, and there really would be no way, with such a well-known media icon present, of them overlooking the archbishop of Chicago cavorting with two half-naked Latina prostitutes on a spring evening two weeks from Easter.

Ten of them swore they felt closer to God that night than ever before! I say, opening another can of beer.

Jacobson snorts and pulls at his jacket. Sure! Was that after you had your way with them!?

This time, I throw the full beer at him. It hits him square in the chest, and he flinches slightly as the brew splashes onto his stolen clothes and up onto his face. Let’s get this straight, you treacherous, rotten little sot! You have caught up to me this fine evening escorted by two young, beautiful, Latina women. They have had a rough go of things, and I am comforting them in their hour of need. Hell, in light of the Catholic Church’s recent hits, I should be canonized a saint for my actions! They’re over 18, they’re women, and, good God, they’re talented!

He sneers and finally removes the coat. I can have a news van here in twenty minutes! He shouts, pulling his cellular phone from his pants pocket.

Jacobson! If murder wasn’t a sin, I’d have Maritza’s cousin bash your brains in with a Louisville Slugger, then cut your testicles off and sell them on Ebay!

He closes his phone and leers at Maritza, licking his lips; then, his hands involuntarily come together in a gesture that resembles a fly bathing in its own vomit. Here is my window of opportunity.

Maritza senses my plan and stiffens. It’s true, she may be placing her life into the hands of a psychotic media slut. There’s no telling what this maniac is capable of. But she’s a good girl, and it’s for times like this that her sweet little behind never sits for more than an hour in the holding cell at the Logan Square police department.

Jacobson! Why don’t you and Maritza go up to my room and make yourselves comfortable? I should be up shortly. We can watch CNN, or maybe play a board game.

Maritza kisses me on the cheek, takes the remainder of the crank, and leads Walter Jacobson up to my room by the hand. He follows, muttering incoherently.

The Real Reason Tom Wants Katie Out Of The Spotlight

The group has been a little flighty lately:

I think this about sums up... EVERYTHING.

Back to the desensitization chamber with you, Kat! Another dose of Top Gun will make you a docile little Kitten!

PHOTO CREDITS: DAVID SHRIGLEY, http://www.davidshrigley.com/index.html