One Wedding and a Funeral ©

One weekend, one wedding and a funeral, at least you can wear the same clothes to both.

I walked into the room and both my daughters froze where they stood.
Neither has ever seen me in anything other than jeans and a t-shirt.

D2 whispers to D1 and they both look at me again then burst out laughing.
“You look like a mobster”.

Great, in a suit I look like a mobster and in jeans I look like a biker.
No wonder they didn’t let me in the states.
I was wearing jeans with a dress shirt; they probably thought I was Scandinavian.

How do you get away from what you look like or what you like to look like?
I like jeans, t-shirts when I go to the pub.
People look at me and move.
I look in the mirror and my hair is relatively short black with a shadow of gray.
I don’t think I look mean or threatening in any way at least not to me yet people move out of my way.
It might be my size; at 250 pounds I am not small, at least not according to those white resin garden chairs, fuckers.

I was sitting at the park one day watching the drunks beg for change so they could run across the street for another bottle.
I cruiser pulled up and stopped not far from where I was blocking my view.
A cop got out and walked around the car and straight to me.

I was watching this old woman with bags of cans and bottles making her way to the beer store while a couple of beggars circled her waiting for a can or bottle to fall out so they could claim it for their own.

The cop walked right up to me, said hello and asked what I was doing there.

Ten years earlier my hair was down do my ass and when it wasn’t braided into a tight pony tail it was fanned out like a thick curly mane.
Jeans, t-shirt black leather vest; leather jacket and steel toe biker boots was the attire.
On a good night I looked like Satan had eaten to many burritos and crapped me out after.
The cops hated me.

Ten years before that, I was pissing sweat out the bottom pf my polyester ass tight pants and loose satin shirt tearing up the dance floor at the best club in the city at the time.
My hair was really short and combed back.
The cops hated me.

I was walking down the street about midnight on my way to the pub to hang out with the boys when I saw two cops had this guy on the ground.
The guy was barely moving and the cop kicked him in the head again.
Then his partner kicked him in the ribs.
I don’t know what compelled me to say something, say anything.
It’s not like I knew that guy on the ground but I said “Don’t you think that’s enough”?
The cop told me to walk away or I would be charged with obstructing the law but I couldn’t and within fifteen minutes what was probably small turned into brawl with 100 cops and people in the street.

I walked out the back door of the disco and headed up the private staircase when I nearly stepped on her as I opened the door.
She was lying in a heap crying with blood all over the place.
We crowded around her and asked if she was ok.
She was drunk and blubbering something about some guy.
Seems he dumped her for some of the chick so she slashed her wrists in the back.

By the time we got there she decided she didn’t want to die any more.
I looked at her wrist and it wasn’t as bad as it was ugly from being half assed hacked with a broken beer bottle.
I wrapped her wrist and told her we will drop her off at the hospital.
As we were walking to the car a cruiser pulled around and shined his light on us.
If they found out what she done she would have been in a lot of trouble.
Turned out she was a nanny who had moved over from England to work here.
She got into my car and the rest of the boys pulled out behind me and slowed the cop down while I took off.

I squinted my eyes looking through the gap between the cops arm and his body staring at the old lady walking out of the beer store then some guy grabbed her bag with her beer and ran off with it.
I looked up at the cop and told him I was sitting on the bench.
The cops hate me.

Maybe I am a troublemaker.
Maybe I don’t like authority
Or maybe I don’t like people who abuse it
Yeah, maybe my mother is right I just love trouble and always will I guess.

As I walked down the hallway my five-year-old niece stopped in front of me and said, ”Uncle Walker, you look like the President”.
Great, like I don’t have enough troubles and I still had a funeral and a wedding to deal with still.

What do you guys think?



Ok he’s better looking but I got a shinier head HA, HA, HA!!!!

Have a nice day

Walker