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The name’s Bud. I’m a god-fearin’ honest man; I’da been workin’ at the assembly plant 45 years makin’ a honest livin’ and puttin’ food on the dinner table. I call a spade a spade and if I don’t be likin’ something yer probably gonna hear it. Well, I’ll tell you all what I don’t like, and that’s some feller tryin’ to get fancy. I served my country in Korea (passed the 38th parallel hundred and fifty times!) and I’ll tell you now, the first men to go down were them that went and got fancy. You see me here now alive n’ scootin’ ‘cause I did things right, not like them Fancy Nancy’s six-feet deep today.
But I don’t think you’re really listenin’. I know you fancy boys out there got no respect for your elders and you’re probably laughin’ and snickerin’ with your newfangled Nintendo’s and iPops. Well I just might have to scare some sense into you then, cause you better learn yourself now the consequences of gettin’ fancy.
Down at Phil’s you used to get a good, honest samwich. None of that cammin’bear Frenchie cheese or Italian blim-blam ham; just some good old American baloney with a smack dab of mustard and Miracle Whip on a couple slices of whitebread. They had good old American tap water in ice cold cups, and boy would that hit the spot on a hot summer day. Well one day things changed; Phil decided he’d get fancy. He thought he’d put a few slices of lemon in his water pitchers for flavorin’. And not just plain old lemons, oh no. Phil had to import Sicilian lemons (or “sissy lemons”, so I called ‘em) ‘cause he says they got a delicate taste that the womanfolk like. Well it so turns out his sissy lemons were infested with some kinda bacteria that eats out your insides like a disease and gets you coughing up blood and your livin’ organs a whole two minutes after drinkin’ just a sip. It was one helluva sight that day at Phil’s. Good old folks bent over their tables face down dead in a pool of their own blood. Glad I didn’t try any of that sissy lemon water. Goes to show what happens when you go and get fancy.
Gettin’ fancy in sports
I was watchin’ a basketball game on the teevee one time. Well actually I wasn’t watchin’ it, it was my grandson. Haven’t cared much about the sport ever since they let the coloreds in. Anyways you get this monkey who’s all alone with nobody around him, he’s a got a free shot at the basket, and all he needs to do is lay it up and get his team some points. But no, this negro feller had to get fancy. He tries some spinny ‘round loop-de-loop backwards dunkshot higgamahooey and hits his head clean on the rim, knockin’ the boy out. Well then he comes down on his leg the wrong way and the next thing you know he’s got a leg bone stickin’ out his right leg and blood shootin’a everywheres. Another monkey followin’ up behind him slipped on his blood, went flyin’ into the stands and knocks his fat noggin flat up against a little girl’s, givin’ her a big crack in the skull doctors say, and that girl is probably eight years old now and can’t even say the alphabet. I’m tellin’ ya, this world has got way too many darkies out there tryin’ to go and get fancy.
My bud Jack, he had him one messed up excuse of a kid. I don’t remember his name, I think was Timmy or somethin’, he was a good kid, said his prayers, went to church, even served as an altar boy a couple times. I would tell Jack, “Jack, you got yourself one helluva kid.” But then one day that Timmy boy had to go and get fancy. He got into some new kinda hocus pocus flim-flam honky tonk religion called bye-high or somethin’. Or maybe it was sheenreekeeo, I don’t remember. Anyways, he says he wants be all humma-lumma meditatin’ on the floor like them chinks or arabs. Well, little did he know, his statue-worshippin’ friends require him to cut off a piece of his manparts in order to join for some kind of satanic ritual they got. And Timmy, you see, he didn’t have a real steady hand, and they used to tell his teachers the boy can’t be given scissors in class, and Timmy, when he went to do the ceremony he went and slipped up and chopped his Johnson clean off. They cleaned him up and put some ice on ‘im, but they had to throw out the unit cause it wunn’t gonna do him no good no more. So now he’s sittin’ down to pee out a hole in his crotch like some kinda girl. He ain’t my boy no more, Jack says, and it’s all ‘cause the boy tried to get fancy.
One sick boy
Worst of all, there was one boy in my family too, I reckon he was my nephew. I told my brother he’d get funny if he let him see that movie with the gays. His name was Bobby. Or maybe it was Billy, I don’t know. That don’t matter. Anyway, he was a good cleanshaven boy; he got good grades, he played on the football team, and he went to the prom with a nice girl with blond hair and a pretty smile. But once he got into college, the boy went and got fancy. He started gettin’ into these so-called “pride marches” and dressin’ up like a goddamn fruitcake. Once he got in with this crowd he started Lord-Jesus-Christ-knows-what with these people all in a big faggot bunch and soon as you know it he’s got AIDS. He got AIDS and so did twenty or thirty of those other fags and they died that night right then and there, all piled up in a big fag stack. It’s a damnright tragedy. I told my brother I feel real bad for him and his boy, but that’s what happens when you go and get fancy.
What’s my point? The point is you don’t be gettin’ fancy, you got that? Some of you fancy boys, I don’t know what they’s teachin’ you in schools. Your parents are payin’ good money for your education and you’re going off getting fancy tattoos and puttin’ holes all up in your bodies. That reminds me, I gotta go now and smack the fancy outta my grandson. I heard he just got some of them girlie earrings in his ears.