Monday, July 3, 2006

Dat Winkler Gal Be Dumm

Pert near tree munts agin now, I writ up sumptin sayzen dat dat preacher lady dun gone and shot up her hubby, the preacher. I sezs sumtin like der a gonna be “quite a story behind this sad situation,” and “police know the motive. Infidelity has been identified; abuse has received no comment.”

Well, now dem police boys be a talking plenty! They’z undiggeded the motive I tells ya. Here it is – muny. It’z always muny, ain’t it? The rut of a bunch of evil.

Seems she wuz in a hole and still digging. Quite challenzd in budgiten, she wuz. Her husband, that preacher feller, didn’t take much of a shinin to her figurin. So’s she went en got sum Nigerian Internet I’m-the-imprisoned-wife-of-former-President-Nubibi scam thing and sends dem a hole gad of muny. Her good checks in return for ther bad ones. Muny goes away like that road runner funny when dat coyote chases it. Her figurin goes haywire like a bucket of bull piss on the lectric panel. Thez be in debt now!

Hubby finds out. They talk. Next mornin? She shoots him right in bed. Uses his own shotgun on em. Dat’s cold. He looks up, all shot up and bleedin, sezs, “Why?” She sezs she’s sorry and all, then leaves him to bleed out like a stuck pig.

Why’d she shot em? Sezs she knewed she be cot. I tinks sumptin else is lurkin under the surface. Sure, dis story bout Africans and Internet scams sounz gud. Maybe even tru. But me tinks sumptin else be der. The little girls asks about daddy – he’s been hurt, let’s leave the house; he’s in the hospital, so we’re going to the beach! Lacks gud sense. Me radar’s up. Daddy wuzn’t none too close to these girls e-moe-shun-all-lee.

Premeditated? Got dat right! Notice the fone was unpluggeded. Dat girl gonna hang! She make a box of rocks look like that Einstein fella.

She’s so dumb she thinks a quarterback is a refund.
She’s so dumb she thinks Iceberg is a Yiddish name.
She’s so dumb that she makes you feel stoopider (or sumptin).
She’s so dumb she thinks July the Fourth is a monarch somewhere.
She’s so dumb she thinks Sherlock Holmes is a subdivision.
She’s so dumb she thinks a brothel is soup kitchen.
She’s so dumb she thinks a root beer float is an entry in the Macy’s Parade.
She’s so dumb she thinks an innuendo is an Italian suppository.
She’s so dumb she sold her car for gas money.
She’s so dumb her ears rub together.
She’s so dumb she puts stamps on her faxes.
She’s so dumb she studied for her Pap test.
She’s so dumb she thinks TuPac Shakur is a Jewish Holiday.

She’s so ugly she’d make a mule back away from an oat bin.
OK, let’s not go there. We’ll leave it to that weight-pill commercial …

Final thought: I want to die in my sleep like my grandfather, not screaming and panicked like the passengers in his car.

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