Wait just a minute Gil. You knew Harry “Hairy Hercules” Herkelshimer but you never knew that his father was Herk the Mauler? It’s safe to assume at this point that Gil knows Hairy from some sort of wrestling context. Well, Gil never was all that good at connecting the dots.
So, it’s hairy knuckles, crazy moustaches and pro wrestling this summer? Cool.
In case you slept through the Fourth, we bring you a repeat of the gears in Gil’s brain slowly meshing, then on with the exposition.
Pop was part of the regional pro wrestling scene, Gil. Shall we explain “regional” to you? That means the country is segmented into several areas, or “regions”. Pro wrestlers of the day performed as different “characters” in different regions in the service of storylines which may or may not have been crafted to appeal to the fans of that area. Got it, Gil? Okay, shall we move on?
Around “here” Pop was Herk the Mauler, where he basically mauled people. Out west, though, he was good guy Sheriff Johnny Blaze, who basically mauled Mexicans (like El Jarbo, depicted here) and then escorted them to the border if they couldn’t produce their papers.
Regional pro wrestling has come up on this blog many times as we’ve reached back into out past and pulled out phrases like “the squared circle” and crimson mask” and kicked around names and places associated with the “sport”. I grew up in Florida where we had weekly televised wrestling primarily under the banner of Championship Wrestling from Florida with host Gordon Solie. I confess that I wasn’t the biggest fan of the stuff, but you kind of had to at least know who the good guys and bad guys were or you’d be totally lost when their exploits were retold at school. Everyone had to have a dog in the fight when Bugsy McGraw fought Dusty Rhodes for the Florida television championship (which most likely took place in Tampa at the Fort Homer Hesterly Armory). Then, when Bugsy and Dusty teamed up, are you kidding me???
So DP king, Knoxious Fartknocker Foley, eager young wannabe lawyer has been flubbing balls all over the place, and in a delicious twist, grounds into a double play to put the finishing touches on another season short of the title. Also, Marty feels free to rub his nose in it, which is probably not in keeping with standard etiquette for calling high school sports, but I guess we have to take Moon dickishness where we can get it.
OKay Gil, deliver the talk.
Hold your heads high boys. We win together, we lose together. Celebrate the moments of your lives. Life is going to deal you crap way worse than this, believe me, so wipe those dumb looks off your face. It’s not like you just lost a lawsuit or something. Oh sorry, Foley. Strike that part from the record. (See what I did there?) Why don’t you boys go watch the softball team play and cheer them on? I think they’re playing another game…maybe…who knows. Take some of those gals out for coffee or something. Jeez, cheer up would ya? The sight of ya is bringin’ me down! Smell ya later, boys.
Here we are at Tilden and the title’s on the line.
Big Bob’s on the mound, but it’s starting to unwind,
Fielders popping eyeballs and bloopers dropping in
Knocker’s flinging wildly, so when does golf begin?
an excerpt from The Folly of Spring by Delbert Peasprattle
Oh, you have got to be shitting me! Actually, I take that back. Everything we’ve learned so far about the Foley Law Group has suggested that they don’t know the law from the Junior Jumble. So it’s no surprise that they would take Gil’s dad’s case and proceed to this point without somehow verifying that the slip and fall actually took place on the property of the party that they are suing! This isn’t even a question of facts coming to light during “discovery process”. This is incompetence that is, well, pretty much on par with having a high school lawyer wannabe running around town spouting details of potential lawsuits.
So the moral to the story is that the Foley Law Group’s business plan is about as sensible as that of Ransom Hale and his tattoo and not-actual-bootlegged-bootleg-DVD emporium, and thus, on par with the general sense of “there must be something in the water of this tank town” that pervades every other enterprise that exists as a backdrop to the never quite good enough high school sports teams of Milford.
As soon as word of this latest development makes its way back to the baseball team, it seems that Jimmy Jarbo will be justified in drilling Foley in the crotch with every relay throw in the last remaining game.
Darby should also make one more trip to the Coffee Cantina to rub his nose in the misery that is his intellectual and professional lineage, while simultaneously cock punching him with her cast hand for offering her legal advice and potentially exposing her to the type embarrassment that clients of the Foley Law Group encounter.
My unplanned vacation couldn’t have happened at a better time, since these five strips bring us right back to where we were.
Let’s catch up:
Your dad uses bath salts, lots of it? Well that would explain a lot. Has he eaten anybody’s face off lately. What? Oh nevermind.
Freakishly long finger and a crotch frame around HOWARYA!
So, this mock trial is another venue for Stuff and Dinny to do their “Proctologist and Handjobber” routine?
Yes, Gil, call in the “bailiff” and have him do what? Put tape over the mouths of the disruptive jurors or just dispense with some suppressive violence? Maybe the bailiff should get his right arm of justice checked out. I think it deflated.
Okay, we’ve wasted a week sitting here, one more joke from Dinky and the Knob and then we can move on…
and now we’re moving on because this has been put to bed! D’oh! Wait, what? Tie goes to the douche, I guess?
aaaaand here we are. Okay Gil, what else ya got? We can hardly wait.
Now this is more like it! Marty Moon gets wind of the dopey squabble among the Mudlarks and races back to the station (HA! HA! HA!) to dish the dirt for all the Milford shut-ins who turn to the radio for their infotainment! Classic! Boy that Marty can sure turn a phrase. A rocky place? Like Edwina McDunnough’s insides in Raising Arizona.
Meanwhile, Gil makes himself a snack. Hmmm, going with a Mary Worth grip on that spatula?
Now I don’t know about the rest of you, but if Marty Moon had a radio show, I’d be tuning in, recording it, digitizing it and archiving it for posterity because I’m sure his paranoid ranting probably would make Art Bell sound like All Things Considered. But why would Gil bother? He’s generally dismissive of Marty and everything he has to say. Maybe Gil hasn’t figured out how to work his fancy Bose Wave radio and it’s been stuck on WDIG forever. Or perhaps Marty broke in to the regular Saturday afternoon Polka Show to deliver his late breaking news story.
What I can do is….
banish you to the cornfield with my ‘kids’?
drink until this problem goes away?
think of something to say that’s neither sensible nor realistic?
Run you like the Kenyan Olympic team? Clumsy, stilted and probably insincere. The Thorp coaching method in a nutshell.
Really, idiot? You want to drag the consititution into this? Clearly, Knox Foley really needs a dose of Professor Kingsfield:
Hart Douche, here is a dime. Take it, call your mother, and tell her there is serious doubt about you ever becoming a lawyer.”
Well, if Thorpean justice doesn’t do the trick, hand it over to the Council of Sadistic Morons.