Around eleven-thirty this morning, Gretchen walked into my office to deliver some news.
“Mr. Collins, there’s this guy, he calls himself “Wrangler Jones” – he sounds young, probably not very sophisticated, most likely an ignorant, nose-picking, mouth-breathing redneck jack-off, actually, and he’s been calling, asking to talk to you, since, like, seven this morning, and he’s on the phone right now, as a matter of fact, on hold, and I was wondering, do you think I could put him through to you, so you could, you know, tell him to go [expletive] himself or whatever, because he’s getting to be a truly monumental pain in the [expletive].”
“Oh sure,” I sighed, with an air of jaded resignation, “sometimes, that’s all you can do.”
Wrangler: Hello, this is… uh… Wrangler Jones. Is this Mr. Tom Collins?
Tom: Yes, sir, it is.
Wrangler: Damn! That’s the first time in my life anybody ever called me “sir.”
Tom: Congratulations. What can I do for you?
Wrangler: I, uh, like, well, I have this friend, see…
Tom: Of course – a guy’s gotta have friends.
Wrangler: Yeah, and, like he told me about these really, really serious problems he has, and me, I’ve got another friend, his family moved to Virginia, like, uh, real near Washington, a couple of years ago, and I called him about my friend’s problem, and this guy, he’s friends with your nephew, Jason Martini, and he says Jason says you’re like, too [expletive] smart and get hundreds of dollars an hour to advise, like totally rich oil ragheads, spear-chuckers with huge bucks from diamonds, slopes and gooks from like, China and [expletive] who got money coming out their [expletive], and fudge-packing faggots from places like [expletive] France and [expletive] England and [expletive], and [expletive] blood-suckers who work for the Zionist Occupation Government and fat-[expletive] business executives and other [expletive]-eating [expletive]-suckers like that.
Tom: Well, I’d say, yes, for Jason’s cohort, that’s a fairly accurate description of what I do – I’m a policy analyst and consultant, here in the Nation’s Capital.
Wrangler: You know, that’s like, a pretty weird name, “Tom Collins.”
Tom: Well, I’m Jason’s uncle, you see, and my full name is Tom Collins Martini. Jason’s father is named Rob Roy Martini. Our father was a bartender in New York at a very famous and swank hotel, and he was obsessed with bartending; obsessed with being the very best bartender who ever lived, and he sort of – well, he took his work home, so to speak, and consequently named his three children after his favorite original martini recipes. My big sister, she’s named Rose Lotus Martini. You know the Appletini, right?
Wrangler: That’s like, a kind of drink that they serve at the Hilton and [expletive]. It tastes like green apples, right?
Tom: Yeah. Now, I wouldn’t say that any old Appletini that you order at TGI Friday’s, or even the Hilton, is going to taste like the original green apple martini my dad invented back in the sixties, but every one of them is an imitation of his work.
Wrangler: Oh. I get it, your old man was a psycho.
Tom: No more of a psycho, I think, than your parents, who apparently named you after a brand of blue jeans.
Wrangler: Ah, yeah; I guess maybe my parents are kind of psycho. They sure are a couple of [expletive] losers, that’s for sure. So, anyway, this friend of mine, he’s like got this girlfriend, and he’s like older than her, but they’re still teenagers, you know?
Tom: Yeah, I know – teenagers – like Romeo and Juliet.
Wrangler: Romeo and Juliet who?
Tom: Never mind. So they’re young and in love. That’s wonderful.
Wrangler: Well, yeah, it was okay, I guess. They were like friends with benefits, you know? I wouldn’t say they were, like, really in love or anything.
Tom: Whatever.
Wrangler: Yeah, right, exactly – whatever.
Tom: So?
Wrangler: So she’s pregnant.
Tom: No kidding? How’d that happen?
Wrangler: Well, you know, how it’s impossible for a girl to get pregnant the first time – so I guess she must have been lying or something…
Tom: Look here, young fellow, I don’t know where you got your sex education…
Wrangler: That’s not allowed in my – I mean, in his school district.
Tom: Not allowed? Good Lord, what pathetic, benighted, backwoods hollow are you calling from, young man?
Wrangler: Ah, out West, kinda – like north and west, I think.
Tom: Like, what, Idaho? Oregon?
Wrangler: Could be.
Tom: Could be some place else, too?
Wrangler: Maybe.
Tom: Like Alaska, for instance?
Wrangler: Can’t say.
Tom: I’m sure you can’t. Wherever your… friend… lives, though, I’ll tell you one thing for sure – that business about a girl not being able to get pregnant the first time is a complete load of malarkey. That’s just a lie guys tell so it’s easier to get into virgin teenage girl’s pants, that’s all.
Wrangler: It is?
Tom: Yeah, absolutely.
Wrangler: But my biology teacher… I mean, my friend’s high school biology teacher, he said so – at the bar around the corner from the school, after class.
Tom: Really? Then I bet he also said that evolution is just a theory and that intelligent design is better because it’s true, and the proof is right there in the Bible, didn’t he?
Wrangler: [Expletive]! You are too [expletive] smart! How the [expletive] did you know that?
Tom: That’s why I get such mad money for my time – I make the right guess more often than not. Okay, so your… friend… got this girl pregnant – what’s so bad about that? If your… friend… and his girl made a really, really stupid mistake, why doesn’t she just terminate the pregnancy and the two of them get on with their lives?
Wrangler: Ah, she… there’s no… It’s like this, Mr. Collins, she can’t, that’s all.
Tom: Why?
Wrangler: Because, like, her mother, she’s this really, really powerful, like… politician, see, and lately, she’s gotten, like, totally [expletive] famous and [expletive], and she makes her daughter [expletive] in a cup every month so she can check the [expletive] for drugs…
Tom: And hormones.
Wrangler: Whatever it is in the pregnant test sticks, yeah, and as soon as she found out her daughter was knocked up, ending it was like, impossible, you know?
Tom: Her mom is big on right-to-life and all that?
Wrangler: Her mom like, I donno, wrote the [expletive] book on that [expletive], as far as I can tell, you know?
Tom: I think I do.
Wrangler: And well, Mr. Collins, if you was to look at my friend’s Face Book entry…
Tom: Face Book?
Wrangler: Well, not exactly Face Book, but one of those Web sites like that…
Tom: MySpace?
Wrangler: Can’t say.
Tom: Doesn’t matter. What’s on your friend’s youth-oriented social networking site Web page?
Wrangler: He says like, “I’m a [expletive] hockey star redneck [expletive] and I like to drink beer and shoot the [expletive] with my buddies and I don’t want any [expletive] kids.”
Tom: And let me guess again – your friend’s girlfriend’s mom pulled some strings in high places and got that page taken down, pronto!
Wrangler: Yeah, right after she got famous.
Tom: Instantly famous.
Wrangler: Uh-huh. Like overnight. First, she was like, you know, dog catcher or something, then a couple years later, she was in the state capital, and now, she’s like, totally famous.
Tom: Seems to me I might know these people.
Wrangler: Oh, no way! They’re only famous here, out West.
Tom: But of course. So, I think I understand your… friend’s… predicament, if that’s what it is.
Wrangler: What?
Tom: Well, I assume that your… friend… has been forced into a situation where he has no choice but to marry the daughter of this powerful, famous woman politician, whom he has impregnated with a child who is undoubtedly his own. Am I correct?
Wrangler: Ah, yeah, that’s about the size of it.
Tom: And your… friend… is concerned that now that the cat’s out of the bag, so to speak, he can’t just emulate what countless other white trash redneck teenage dads have traditionally done in such situations and just hitch-hike out of town and disappear into the logging camps, mines, construction sites and fishing fleets of the great American West, now can he?
Wrangler: What the [expletive] does “emulate” mean?
Tom: Never mind. What I mean is, your… friend… is totally [expletive] nine ways from Sunday, and you called me because you’re hoping I can suggest some way out of it?
Wrangler: Yeah.
Tom: Well, maybe I can, and maybe I can’t; but before we go into that, may I ask a simple question?
Wrangler: Okay. Ask.
Tom: What’s so bad about your friend’s situation, anyway? Look at the facts – if he marries the girl, he’ll be related to a powerful woman politician who…
Wrangler: Teeth.
Tom: Huh?
Wrangler: They say her mom’s [expletive] has teeth and bites off guys’ [expletive].
Tom: Surely, you can’t believe that?
Wrangler: You haven’t met this girl’s mom, Mr. Collins.
Tom: Maybe not, but I do know that having a girlfriend with a mom like that didn’t do Marc Mezvinsky any harm.
Wrangler: Who the [expletive] is Marc Mezvinsky?
Tom: Chelsea Clinton’s boyfriend.
Wrangler: Who the [expletive] is Chelsea Clinton?
Tom: Right. Anyway, what does your… friend… care one way or the other if his girlfriend’s mom’s [expletive] is lined with teeth, rows of rasping hooks, slivers and shards of broken glass, rusty razor blades or nested, interlocking, spring-loaded radioactive weapons-grade uranium meat cleavers? It’s not like he intends to stick his hydraulics where they don’t belong, is it?
Wrangler: Look, Mr. Collins, it’s like I said, you don’t know my friend’s girlfriend’s mother! She takes what she wants, you know? And besides, even if she doesn’t rip his [expletive] off with her [expletive], like they say she does, like all the time, even then, if she didn’t, it would be, like, totally, the complete end of his dude-ness, to get married and be like, changing diapers and not even being able to smoke a little [expletive] weed now and then, because of all the guys in black suits and shades, like watching him, all the [expletive] time.
Tom: But what if your… friend… looks at the other side of the coin? His mother-in-law would probably provide him with opportunities to work in government…
Wrangler: Yeah? You think so? Like, could my friend get a job as a government beer taster, or maybe sports car test driver, or video game inspector, or something like that?
Tom: Well, I don’t think the job titles would read exactly that way, but…
Wrangler: Head of the National Rifle Association?
Tom: That post generally goes to somebody a bit older, but who knows? It’s not impossible.
Wrangler: Hey – I’ve got an idea!
Tom: Do tell?
Wrangler: Yeah, I’ll… I mean, my friend should tell his girlfriend’s mom that unless she wants a [expletive]-load more grandchildren, and then have him run out on the whole pile of them, and everybody watch it on TV and [expletive], she better make him the youngest Commissioner of Hockey in history!
Tom: I don’t think hockey actually has a Commissioner. How about Commissioner of Baseball?
Wrangler: Baseball is for [expletive] wussies and [expletive] [expletive] from those dirty countries where they all speak Spanish and [expletive]!
Tom: Okay. But in any case, your… friend’s… girlfriend’s mother has to win the election for… well, whatever office it is she’s running for in November, doesn’t she?
Wrangler: Yeah, come to think of it, she does.
Tom: So, my advice to your… friend… is to delay the wedding at least until his potential mother-in-law brings home the bacon, so to speak, because, if your… friend… marries this woman’s daughter, and then this woman loses the election, your… friend… is what we here in Washington call up [expletive] creek without a [expletive] paddle.
Wrangler: [Expletive]! That’s [expletive] right! And the election isn’t until…
Tom: Eight weeks from now. How far along is your… friend’s… girlfriend?
Wrangler: Ah, less than six months.
Tom: Oh, yeah, then, I’d say, definitely. Your… friend… should verbally agree to marry the girl, but push off the date until at least November fifth.
Wrangler: What’s so special about November fifth?
Tom: Well, for one thing, it’s Guy Fawkes Day.
Wrangler: What the [expletive]?
Tom: But also, it’s the day after the election.
Wrangler: Oh. Yeah. I get it. Stall until after November fifth.
Tom: Right. And if the Wicked Witch of the West loses, your… friend… can skip town and I guarantee nobody will care one way or the other. If she wins, then your… friend… should accept the inevitable and play the situation for a nice, cushy job working for his mother-in-law, and, maybe even, like you said, blackmail her for something important and high profile, like Assistant Under-Secretary for Electronic Arts, Virtual Reality and Gaming…
Wrangler: Secretary? That sounds kinda gay. How about Chief Snow Mobile Inspector?
Tom: Okay; why not?
Wrangler: Damn! I’m sure glad I called you, Mr. Collins! Thanks! But, uh, like, I don’t have any money at the moment.
Tom: That’s fine, I understand. If your… friend’s… potential mother-in-law wins the election in November, he can always drop by for a few appointments and pay me for some additional advice; and if she doesn’t, it will still have been worth it me.
Wrangler: No kidding? How come?
Tom: Because now, you have absolutely no reason to call me again until November fifth. Goodbye.