The story is here, a sordid little tale of raunchy sex, kinky food fetishes, rock and roll blow parties, blackmail, prostitution rings, rings around the collar, the county coroner's addiction to sniffing formaldehyde, the county sheriff's refusal to spread the confiscated drug wealth around and nepotism -- I might have made some of that up, but not this --
Burkhart later asked Chilton if he remembered making the threats.Okay, so the story isn't as entertaining as a low-class gangster yarn but I thought the picture of that handsome devil was comical until I realized that that's going to be me in a few decades, scowling, stringy drool flying left and right and jabbing my finger in the Ben Gay-saturated air towards the invisible children trampling my overgrown, weed-infested grass.
"Sir, I don't remember," Chilton said. "I was too drunk."
Kids, lay off the sauce.
19 comments:
McFoul
Or maybe - "kids,lay into the sauce. What you do will not matter, because you don't remember."
I have strategically placed landmines in my yard. I no longer have to hang at the front door with drool infested ole fart words forming in anticipation of the onslaught of little brats. When a mine goes off, I just smile and go back to my crossword puzzle.
Nothing says "stay off my lawn" like an amputated leg.
I'm guessing all those, er, indiscretions are the reason he's still alive whilst looking like a zombie.
übermilf, I was wondering who'd be the first to say that, and the winner is you. Here's your prize: _______.
Come back, comment deleted, we're not so bad.
mrmacrum, you know, you just might be my hero.
kapgar, hey, the rarest alchemical fluids don't come cheap!
Sounds like a Boston pol...they're just better at keeping it under wraps here in Beantown. Maybe if he'd pulled a Dorian Gray he wouldn't look so fucking olde.
Living on a national park sucks. I share my lawn with 400k+ of my neighbors annually.
He is a good man, a great man
yeah, right fucker. he just beats on his wife and is a drunkard but other than THAT he is a great man--no, BECAUSE of that he is a great man.
thanks for pissing me off Randall!!!
opps, I'm so mad I'm trigger happy ;)
chef, we've got a few of these yokels in good ole Callahooga County.
A national park? You don't get free-wheelin' off-roadin' screamin' clowns flying through there from May to September, do you? Even I'd be tempted to buy a machine gun.
liberality, speaking of people who shouldn't probably own a gun... ;-)
Chilton and McFoul belong in the same cell for a long time. Why do I suspect the "great man" would suffer a loss of hero status after his cellmate learned up close and personal what it's like to live with a violent, abusive dry drunk?
BTW, are these turds immigrants from Illinois?
It's likely by the time you get that old you're going to give even less of a damn than you do now. I realize that's not saying much.
...scowling, stringy drool flying left and right and jabbing my finger in the Ben Gay-saturated air towards the invisible children trampling my overgrown, weed-infested grass.
Ahh, the golden years. I'm looking forward to it and family inherited dementia. My grandfather's brother was famous for getting dressed in a nice shirt, tie and suit but he would leave the pants off and go walking down the street. The kids loved him.
What a tangled web. George W. Bush was looking for a few good men for his administration. Too bad he missed those winners.
If that guy's eyes were any more bloodshot, he'd go blind.
SWA, hard to be a hero when you're eating concrete day in and day out.
And certainly not, we Ohioans pride ourselves on rearing our own special class of dumbass.
susan, oh no, that's very helpful because my 'give a damn' quotient might be in the negative, and I imagine that would be quite soothing.
BB, so you're hoping for bizarre Uncle Buck status? Don't get rid of the blog.
tom, I'm not sure if that's blood or evidence of the unholy elixir he had to ingest in order to reach his third century on this earth.
"Sir, I don't remember," Chilton said. "I was too drunk."
Dammit if that didn't remind me of my Greatest Day Ever.
After a day of rampaging through the city we wound up at an empty mansion in the hills. We were just sitting on the lawn drinking and singing when we saw the police cars arrive and dived into the bushes.
The cops had seen us and just waited until we crawled out a half hour later. I myself was confronted with a very stern lady cop-
Cop: "What are you doing up here?"
Me: "Taking a walk."
Cop: "Are you drunk?"
Me: "No ma'am. I was drunk earlier. I'm sober now."
Cop: "Well you smell like a brewery and your eyes are all bloodshot."
Me: "That's because I was drunk earlier."
Ah, good times.
Dude, now that's fucking funny.
I wonder how far this story was buried inside the paper edition of The Plain Dealer. Suburban officials and nepotism? That's like saying McDonalds and indigestion.
Well, at least he is a class act. Or something.
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