loco gringos 9.3

LOCO GRINGOS 9.3

“Weeeeell.  This kind of looks like taking a fuck at a rolling donut.  Obviously there ain’t anything left in there-looks like the Johnson of an electrician who suicided.  Down the river to your bitches place?”
“Her name is Susan, and yes, to the bitches place.  I’m thinking we dump the damn buckets.  It doesn’t look too great a prospect for food.  If we need to we can just come on back for them.  I’ll tell ya, Randy, I’m getting a bit discouraged here.  Okay, I didn’t have the highest hopes, but I was hoping for some damn thing.”
“No worries, little buckaroo.  Hell, just a big bag of rice per weapon here-and I’m willing to wager your anal virginity on actually getting more than that- and we gain like 10% more in food stores.  Well, okay, five percent.  But any way you look at it we can substantially increase the amount of time before starvation.”

“So, what I’m hearing is that we are fucked, but not as bad as previously thought so everything is hunky dorey.”
“Exactly!”

“How much longer can we eat if we butcher up Bush?
“That fucker?  Day or two.  Not that he is going to be much of a sweet eat, all that ass he licks.  Now, Susan.  A week or two just off her ass.”

“That baby does got some back.”
“Tell me again why we are going to rescue her?”
“Cause she’s got back.”
*
Randy was well-nigh enjoying himself.  Sure, they had found about zero food.  But just this morning he had eaten his fill of bovine bounty, then made a one in a million crotch explosion shot.  Now they were FINALLY moving on to the important task of acquiring female companionship.  All in all, a darn fine morning.  John was just pissy he only had a leg shot and had to finish with an old school clubbing- a combat coup de grace that lacked finesse or extra brownie points.  Whereas Randy got DOUBLE maximum Brownie Points for his.  Okay, double maximum was kind of an oxymoron.  But if any exception should be made for a score limit, his was it.  John  was going to collect Big Butt Susan who might go along with their plans of global repopulation.  Not that Randy was going to hop on to that quivering mound of cellulite.  That was all on John.  Okay, Susan was definitely past procreating age-thank god.  A cross between morose John and fat Susan was a pudgy whiney offspring.  Who wanted a guy like that over for a party at their post-apocalypse hovel?  So, why wasn’t his Collapse Buddy ( come the collapse, buddy up for safety! ) a bit more happy?  It was almost enough to depress Randy himself.  Sure, they were all going to starve soon enough unless they came up with a brilliant plan.  But why be sad about that?  That was worse than previously when you died in a retirement home, a colostomy bag banging up against your shriveled junk?  Don’t worry, Apocalypse Bitches, be happy!

END

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