The Big Thump

“It’s my event.  My choice.  I decide.”  The Captain would be irate.  A stern eye, possibly two, creating the appearance of looking up, all the while his crown tilting down, staring at each and every contender, his pet safe atop.

“ Only I will select attendee’s to my soiree, for our exchange,” he offered through his rounded, tight aperture, like the mouth of a cartoon carp. 

The befuddled, backpedaling, Mr. Flyflop, sadly would be left out, uninvited.  And he would be actually needed for a fair airing, (not excluding the blurting, verping, belching and the disrespectful emitting of other bodily functions.) 

 Our yacht Captain would proceed to invite Mr. Ebenezer Grinch himself, his prime choice. 

Now, all was well, our host would have us safe, secure in the knowing that each and every citizen would be neatly tucked in their well born place, secure with the full realization of actually being born to parents as known – at least they’d appear to be so.  Here, we could only conjecture,  the still born were not to be invited in any case.

Now, Mr. Strait-shoot, who’d be completely unrelated to the Governor of the border land of the God fearing, hard working folks, of the sitting Governor, would not attend as well, for vastly different reasons.  It became complicated.

Mrs. Shrill, her ready to cash Federal Government check in her dainty hand, would love her invite – yet she’d be left outside, even though she’d alertly blurt, “I’ll take this guy on with my right hand tied to my hip.” 

(Frankly, no one could summon feigned energy to even appear interested.)

All in all she sleeps well, knowing that her non-collagen packed mouth would be ready at the trough, muzzling right in there, with elbows jarring each and every entitled snort, burp and occasional verp  -- no shortage of acid flow, or government program not sopped to the hilt.

And, then, with all ready to proceed, the Captain would demand that the party associates give support, as she’d sucker punch the leader of the opposition, there outside, but with sleight of hand leading right, darting right as well, feinting left, then though whirring away, appearing the dervish a-spin to the delight of the loons outside, bare faces and buttocks alike, pressed against the Captain’s window -- and in so feinting and dancing, lost her footing, in switching leads, immediately slipping and discovering the floor with her bony posterior,  her Federal Farm subsidy check yet in hand.