Sucking heads, squeezing tips, sipping hops. Suck, suck. Squeeze, squeeze. Sip, sip.
"Say, Bravermeyer. Save some room. O'Quinn's bringing some deer sausage," Jimmy Chimichanga urges.
"Not me," says Bravermeyer. "It's against my religion."
"What religion is that?" I wonder. "Shysterism?" See, Bravermeyer is a lawyer. Which is OK, since we are a broad-minded group.
"Don't fill up on the potatoes and corn," Bravermeyer advises Seth the Looker. Seth is Bravermeyer's son, only extremely good-looking. "You can get potatoes and corn any time. You should concentrate on crawfish."
Suck, suck. Squeeze, squeeze. Sip, sip.
"Say, Yogi, I can hear the dog wailing. Ain't he gotta be walked?"
"Naw," says Yogi. "It's too wet. He won't go when it's raining. Go outside, I mean. I'll just have to mop up after him."
"Do you mean to say," asks the Professor, "that when the sky itself is full-laden and seeks relief in release, this creature -- with a brain unfavorably compared to a buster crab's -- is repressed?"
"If that means he refuses to pee outdoors, then yeah. Get me a beer. My hands are dirty."
"Lord, he's ugly even for a dog," says Jimmy.
"I got that dog for my wife," Yogi explains.
"Good trade, pal," says Seth the Looker.
"Speaking of ugly, I see old Picou going to the vasectomy clinic the other day," says Jimmy.
"Why's he bothering?" I ask. "He couldn't make out in a women's prison with a fist full of pardons."
"He's an optimist," opines The Professor. "Of the worst kind."
"That old sucker's eyebrows look like azalea bushes and his mustache spreads out like kudzu," Jimmy chips in. "Yet his hairpiece looks like a nutria taking a nap. He's got no hair on his head. It's all on his face."
"He's got a face like a baboon's ass," says Bravermeyer. "Except without all the pretty colors. Hey, look at this one! He looks like a dieting lobster."
Suck, suck. Squeeze, squeeze. Sip, sip.
"I hear O'Quinn's truck," says Yogi, his face smeared with crawfish fat.
"This guy oughta spell his name 'Aucoin,' not 'O'Quinn,'" says Jimmy Chimichanga. "He looks about as Irish as R. Kelly."
"So long as he brings the Bambi brisket," says Yogi. "Hey, O'Quinn, tell us about the Josey Wales Hunting Club."
"Well, our motto is 'If it flies, it dies. If it crawls, it falls.' That's the sign painted on the hunting camp. Inside, we got a telescope, foot plots baiting the edge of the clearing and a rifle with a sniper scope. I got three this season: a buck, a doe and a fawn."
The deer sausage goes on top of the crawfish, corn and potatoes. More sucking, squeezing and sipping. The talk drifts around to women. As I mentioned before, we are a broad-minded group.
"Hey, Seth! I met your girl at Finn McCool's Saturday night," Jimmy says. "Boy, can she hold her liquor!" There is no known way to tell that he is kidding. Or if he is kidding.
"James, that redhead I saw you with at Sid-Mar's," Prof inquires, "Are you her sugar daddy?"
"Naw," says Chimichanga, dripping crawfish juice on Bravermeyer's two-tone loafers. "Before they cash one of my checks at the bank, it's gotta be OK'd by at least a branch manager. I ain't a sugar daddy. I'm more like a NutraSweet daddy. A lot lighter in the wallet area."
"Yogi, I'm sorry your wife ain't here," I say. "Even though it means a lot more crawfish for us."
"Yeah, we spatted before she went by her mama's," Yogi moans. "And for that, she leaves the dog home with me."
"One of my clients, guy named Luckman, is breaking up his marriage and they have this conference in my office," Bravermeyer says. "And she tells him, 'I miss you -- financially.' What a lovebird."
"I know that guy," says O'Quinn. "He doesn't look smart enough to support a wife for an hour and a half."
"He's a lucky man that his daddy was born before he was," answers Bravermeyer. "Maybe that's why his name is Luckman."
"Inherited money," whistles Seth. "Must be nice."
"You'll never have firsthand knowledge," predicts Prof.
"Seth's dating one of those so-so broads," says his father. "You know, one that sounds like this: 'I'm so not happy with her 'cuz she got so drunk at the wedding. I'm so sure!' A so-so broad."
Just then my crawfish-sucking, beer-sipping fun ends because my lovely companion, the Violent Femme, arrives to drive me home. Everyone looks a little guilty because of our topic of conversation.
"We was talking about chicks," Yogi admits. "Say, you think they sit around and talk bad about us?"
"Oh, I dunno. You think?" says the Violent Femme, drollery dripping from her jaws like foam.