The heartwrenching story of two pals who got on off the right foot.* (Hat tip: James Hudnall)
ey, Binney, you gonna eat that corndog or what!”
“No, Dub, you can have it.”
“Thanks! That's mighty gragarinous of you.”
“Don't mention it,” Dub's swarthy companion replied, adding under his breath, “unless you can pronounce it.”
“What's that! Whadda say? You makin' fun of how I talk, again?”
“No. I was just wondering why you always fail so miserably to pronounce things.”
The panged look on Dub's face was partially hidden by his oversized cowboy hat. “Well, I was just wonderin' myself why you always fail to think that women ain't no good at anything 'cept brushing down your camels!”
The two friends burst into laughter at their old, inside joke.
“I see your--I see your point, there,” Binney got out in between guffaws.
“No you don't,” Dub exclaimed, wiping a tear away from his right eye. “But that hasn't stopped you before.”
“I--I suppose you're right.”
“Right as the day is long, ol' Binney boy,” Dub said, slapping the back of his dear old friend.
The pair's laughter finally subsided, and both fell into a companionable silence. Dub downed the rest of his beer then ordered another from the bartender who stood silently nearby, staring at both of them in equal amounts of shock and awe.
“That reminds me,” Dub told his friend after the bartender handed him his second beer, “if all the women ever do in that big sandbox you call a country is brush camels, where do they find any time to raise youngins?”
“Ah, you still don't see the wisdom of our bedouin system, my young kufr bronko buster. All you know is equal-partner this and liberation that when it comes to your females.”
“That's 'cause y'all ain't got no cacti in them deserts of yours, budda Binney. Yours are nothin' but flat, barren wasteland. Ours is full of those big sharp prickleys that can stab you good if you don't handlin' them just right,” Dub said, swaying slightly rightward on his barstool. “I've seen a man's arm swell up as big as my hat after being stuck by one.”
“You're thinking of a rattlesnake,” Binney corrected him.
“Nooss. I's talkin' about those giant cactuses that populate just about every corner of the desert we have back home.”
“Whatever.” Binney knew better not to argue with his friend after he'd gotten two beers in him. “I'll tell you what, though. If ever I'm in that wonderful desert of yours, perhaps you can show me some of those dangerous plants.”
“Plants! I thought we were talkin' about women!”
The two laughed hard again as Binney yanked the brim of Dub's hat down over his eyes.
“I can't see!” Dub cried out in terror. “I've drank so much I've gone blind!”
Binney nearly fell off his own barstool at the sight of Dub flinging his arms about wildly in the air. He grabbed both of Dub's forearms and held them firmly. “Listen! Listen, Dub. You aren't blind. Look,” Binney said, lifting the brim of Dub's hat back up. “It was just your hat.” He grabbed Dub's arms again and shook him twice.
Dub's eyes were squeezed tightly shut. “I don't believe you. You've got to get me to a doctor, man. Hurry, call an ambalulance! Ask the bartender if you can borrow the phone. Tell him it's an emerginency!”
Binney let go of Dub's arms. He lifted his right leg up then slammed his foot down hard on top of Dub's right boot.
“Hey,” Dub shouted, opening his eyes wide and looking down at the deep, new crease along the top half of his boot, “whadda do that for? That's made of genuine allimagator skin, Binney. You might've ruined it permanently!”
“Well, at least you can see, now.”
“Oh, wow! I can. I can see, Binney! Ah, man, this is wonderful. This is great. Let me buy you a beer so's we can celebrate.”
“Forget the beer, Dub. I'm really rather hungry. Do you mind if I have my corndog back?”
“Nah, go ahead, Binney. What are friends for?” Dub asked, adding under his breath, “It's cold now, anyway.”
* Screenplay based on the novel by Caulif McTerry, Bob Woodward's Feverish Dreamland and Other Fun Fables (Hernibs & Daughter Publishing Co., 2004), excerpted above by permission.
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