lystn

A charming castPod with a special appearance by Good ol' Charlie Brown. I was at home and I was not thinking about either Martin Van Buren or the kangaroo. I had real world problems on my mind. The kangaroo was famous, for, among other things, having carved a phallic replica he called “Mr. Pokey.” He carved it from hardwood. Really bang up job. Intricate. You could see the veins. It stood at about 8 1/2 inches, which was awkward if you were trying to conceal it. He told everybody it was 8 1/2 inches, but it was really 7 5/8. Everybody knew. Man is the measurer of all things. And every one of them, when no one was looking, had measured the thing. Some of them, the ones who were not good at math, consulted each other’s notes. That went just about as well as could be expected. Because of the whole issue about concealment, he eventually whittled it down to 3 1/4. It was never the same. But he made the bowl that held the weed, which was snuggled, nestled, really, between the cock and the balls, Bigger. And he tried to toke the disappointment away. He was not as popular after he carved the thing down. Who is to say what happened. Let history decide. As I said, I was not thinking about him. But when he hopped on over to my place, or rather was delivered by another, secure, as if in their pouch, I ended up calling Martin Van Buren. For help. “Hey Martin, how’s it hanging?” And there was some small talk. Not about Mr. Pokey. And then I said, “Hey Martin I got the kangaroo over here.” But that’s not really how it happened. I mean that happened. But it happened an hour or so later. After I had failed to dislodge the kangaroo from my own pouch. So when Martin said, “Fuck the kangaroo,” I had to change my tactic. He was not the first person to say Fuck the kangaroo. That day. And I just wanted him to bounce. The kangaroo came with a military issued shit-bag, so named because it contained all his shit. Notably Mr. Pokey. Nobody wanted to see that little thing. The kangaroo is running on empty. First thing he did was ask me to take him to a garden party. Said they could put him up there. So I put him in my car with his government issued shit-bag. And we took off. But when we got there, people ran into the house. A woman came out. Holding a baby. To prove she meant business. And she looked at me and she nodded and said hello, saying just that, hello and my name. Because she was polite. Then she looked at the kangaroo and said, “You got a lot of nerve coming around here MotherFucker.” And that’s how I learned the back story. Seems there had been a party the night previous and the kangaroo had been present, and drunk. He was also feeding drinks to good ol’ Charlie Brown. After he and good ol’ Charlie Brown got real drunk, wasted, they had a fight over this and that. And the kangaroo, who was an amateur boxer, had gone off and slugged good ol’ Charlie Brown. I pieced this back story together, by listening to the things the woman with the baby was saying. First she came out of the house and she was not angry at me. Rather she was angry at the kangaroo. Everybody today was angry at the kangaroo. And if they weren’t angry at the kangaroo, they would be. Because the kangaroo had gotten his kicks and now the play was turnabout. And she came out and called him a MotherFucker who shouldn’t be showing his face around here again and how dare he. And she waved the baby at him like some sort of a voodoo ritual. That you conduct when you're confronted with a MotherFucker of his type. And she turned around to walk away, with the baby, when she turned back and said “MotherFucker, you hit good ol’ Charlie Brown. In the face.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. I took it as fact. Pegged her as an eyewitness. Her name was Peg, by the way. I tell you this, though you will literally never see her again in this story. But I am not a MotherFucker.   I was cleared once in a tribunal. By the way,