Missed me, I expect.
Remind me again, where did Mater and Pater and the butler take you?
Italy, mate. Sardinia to be exact. Beautiful and pretty swank, but, in typical European form, the natives took the piss a little. You know, “Here’s what you paid for, and you get bugger-all-else.” At one point, we asked the bar for some ice, and they wouldn’t give it to us.
There’s an obscure amendment to the Constitution that guarantees Americans the right to as much ice as they want at all times, no matter what flea-infested hovel they’re staying in. I’ve been here so long, I take it for granted. But no ice is an idea I can get behind — when these savages put ice in a perfectly good cup of tea, a part of me dies.
The worst thing about the holiday was feeling morbidly obese, while surrounded by skinny Italian men in their Speedos showing off their wedding tackle. Whereas when I go to Lakeside, it feels as if I have an eating disorder, and the only ones wearing Speedos are people whose prime was in the ’60s.
Serves you right: going on holiday on your folks’ hard-earnt brass at your age. Disgraceful. Anyway, you didn’t miss much, apart from Nazis walking the streets with impunity, the opioid crisis being resolved by hiding painted rocks, and Bevin’s house saga ending exactly as we predicted a month ago. A win for us at last. And UofL’s still hanging on to its place as Kentucky’s undisputed embarrassment Numero Uno.
Plenty of Americans always had a soft spot for Hitler’s ideas. Nothing new, even if the looks of them ought to put any suggestion of Master Race firmly to bed. Threat of nuclear war not on your list? I’d have thought anyone your age would be shitting their pants, frantically digging a bunker in the cellar and stocking up on Milky Bars.
Not much point in getting my knickers in a twist over it. If it happens, I’ll be spared the agony of having to correct your syntax twice a month. Silver linings and all that.
And anyone with your looks has little to fear from a bout of radiation sickness. No doubt you took great delight in the Foundation appointing a known tea-leaf as temporary CFO?
The perfect appointment, and the perfect summation of the Foundation’s Mickey Mouse leadership. One thing puzzles me, though. You know I detest golf as much as I detest iced tea and Donald Trump. But even with my total contempt for golf, I do know that nicking a grand’s worth of gear from a club shop takes some doing. Right?
Right. You can drop a shit-ton of money on golf in a very short space of time — one of the reasons I rarely play these days. It’s not the same as slipping a ten grand watch into your pocket. But I have to admit part of me admires his balls.
You’re not on an Italian beach anymore, son, so less of the bollocks-admiring, please. Still, I wonder who’ll they’ll get to replace him? Maybe go local, Stan Curtis springs to mind. Or go big, some sort of Bernie Madoff figure… assuming neither are still doing stir. You know the mentality: Only Monopoly amounts of cash can attract the right people, because finding anyone with a shred of integrity and decency will ruin the institution’s reputation. So my money’s on Madoff himself: he’s precisely the sort of cast-off polished rogue they’re looking for. Bobby Petrino in pinstripes.
I reckon we can find someone more than qualified at the state fair next week. May I assume you won’t be lowering the tone by going along?
Like you, I’m a snob; unlike you, however, I care about my appearance, so I’d have to be brown bread and as stiff as a board before I was seen at that carnival of expatriated rural redneckery. Bloody thing shouldn’t be within 100 miles of this city.
I thought as much. Got to say, having dragged my children there once a year for the last decade, it feels incredibly same-ol’-same-ol’. There’re only so many giant watermelons and lavish mullets you can admire in one lifetime. Even the livestock looks as if it would rather be waiting in line at the abattoir, simply to end the misery of being in such a foul place.
Honestly, I’d rather lick piss off a nettle than spend a day there walking around in the suffocating heat surrounded by crudely-tattooed alt-righters in their MAGA hats. The state fair’s an anachronism that belongs in an Upton Sinclair novel.
Knowing the kind of people the fair attracts it would probably be a great place for Bevin to hide some of his rocks, though.
Oh, I’d say the odds of him showing up are fairly good; that’s obviously his base. But maybe he’ll take a selfie of a mule’s arse and share it with all of us. If not, I’ll be in touch with your Missus about getting some photos of you in your rock-hiding swimming trunks.