Ed Farty: The Great White Douche
Years ago, when I was patched into a three month gig on a merchant ship off the coast of Sicily smuggling tasty Hostess Twinkies to aid the subaltern rebels in Uttar Pradesh, an old Merchant Marine pulled me Starboard ho.
He grabbed me by the neck and pulled my ear to him, whispering to me in a grizzled voice:
Someday, you’ll see him.
Who?, I asked.
The Great White Douche. Ed Farty.
A far off look came to his eyes as the boat bobbed in the choppy gefilte fish infested waters.
I’ve hunted him for many a harvest moon. Never to view his scrotey visage in the flesh. he muttered softly, angrily.
But if I see him, how will I know it’s him?, I asked.
You’ll know. He macks on the Boobie Hottie. And he smells like poo.
And he walked down into the cabin deck below.
