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Baluga H Cornholes Ultimatum

I'm Baluga H Cornhole. That's Mr. Cornhole to you, and already I can tell you ain't my type. In fact I sense I hate your damn guts and I'm hoping you don't like me. That would give me a good reason to beat the shit out of you, you pencil-necked geek. These Canadian goons that run this here rag offered me big bucks to write in this digital environment. I'm not the best in the cyber world and all, but I want to make it clear I am unsurpassed in the real world. Pretty famous, I am. I am what I am and that's all that I am. By some slim chance, if you don't know who I am, search that Alto Visto thing for me.... Baluga H Cornhole. And there ain't no period after the H! For you pissheads that are too lazy to search, or don't care enough to, I'll tell you just what I'm about. I'm one rough-tough ombre. Texas born and bred, set in my ways. I'm the union president for the Unionized Central Brothers of the American National Union Society (ANUS), The United Brotherhood of Proletariat Manual Workmen, Federal Brotherhood of Stooge-Lumox Belugas, The Federated Unionized International Brotherhood of CaveBeings, and The International Brotherhood of Unionized ISDN Cable Pullers. I wield a lot of power and all the peons I control know if they don't buckle under to me well, I'll personally kick their asses. I like controlling people and that's precisely why I'm here. I don't need the money these jerkoffs are paying me. I'm here to take over and that's the way it's gonna be. I'm bringing my unions north and we are going after what small potatoes you may have. While you goons are out drinking at your francophone pubs dreaming about Wayne Gretzky, Mario Lemieux, George Chuvalo and Bret "the Hitman" Hart I'll be coming around with my union boys. We'll be humping and pumping your wives, daughters and girlfriends, right in your own back yards, as you sit at your local bar in a god-damn stupor dreamin of your glory days. All of my union boys attended the Bill Clinton Sharp-shooting School and they can hit an esophagus from 3 foot away. So you better have your wives, daughters and girlfriends gargle and brush well for you come back from the bars plastered, as usual. For your Quebec gay boys, we got some Stooge-Lumox Belugas that like that back door stuff and they'll straighten you all up, literally and figuratively!

You have been duly informed. When you hear the sound of "marching charging feet" it won't be from the Rolling Stones. It will be me and my boys taken over. Like it or not, you'll be hearing more from me.

Produced for an ezine, 9/98

3/08

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