Mr. Bongo Fury wants a piece of the Rube?
I’ve been busy, man. Why just last night I had to break up a bar fight and knock a bit of the old common sense into a belligerent 300-pounder at Charlie’s End of the World Pub in Bradford, Pa. Got the old rocket launcher twisted up a bit, mind you, but I came out OK. In any case I bet Two-ton Tony will listen up next time when the old Rube tells him to pipe down or else. As they say, you shoulda seen the other fellow.
Last week I saved a young woman in Wheeling, W.Va., name of Ella Speed, from the horror of future virginity. Before that I played in a rugby tournament sponsored by a tavern in Hamtramck, Michigan. We won the whole shootin’ match, and in all modesty I have to say yours truly played some pretty fair country rugby. So I had to stick around a while to collect my pay, which was all the Old Style the old Rube could swill. Suckers! Those fellas thought they were getting over on me. In between I stopped in Hoboken to audition for the role of the general in Mourning Becomes Electra. Keep your fingers crossed for me!
But I am back now and rarin’ to go, Mr. Fury. So you be sure to mind your P’s and Q’s and keep your eyes sharp, for you know a 100-mph fastball ain’t easy to spot in the failing twilight down in the Texas Hill Country.