In No Der We Trust

Stunned, my eyes bulged at Deerthug’s audacity.

Deerthug defiantly locked gaze with my bulges. No der hung between us in the backseat’s air.

Deerthug first no dered me when he was nine and suffered an instinctual understanding that it was his job to humble others. We were headed for the trailer, on our way back from The Black Angus Supper Club, where I ‘d watched Deerthug gorge his manorexic body on herring, blue cheese, and banana cream pie, and during this fateful ride home, I’d polluted our air.

I had stated something (likely a meteorological observation) so obvious Deerthug had to check me.

Deign voicing a self-evident truth and Deerthug doesn’t open a can of wupass.

He opens a twangy can of no der.

All men are created equal…”

“No der.”

They are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights...”

“No der.”

“…among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…”

“No der.”

“Adequate medical care and the opportunity to achieve and enjoy good health will ensure a lasting peace.”

“Fascist cunt.”

How come Cher can have Tea with Mussolini but I can’t have a state-subsidized colonoscopy?

Deerthug is now 12 but no der remains artillery in his arsenal of sarcasm.

I will not tell Deerthug this but I quietly enjoy being no dered. Deerthug dishes no ders with nasal sweetness. He receives them with a grin.

In the trailer’s living room, curled beside me on the plaid couch, Deerthug touched my arm.

“Plannin’ on gettin’ more tattoos?”

“No der.”


“No der on my knuckles.”


“I’m an educator.”

No der knuckles would be handy in the classroom.

A kid might ask me, “What’s that?” and point at the following paper:

Typically, I can rely on a smart ass buzzing around my desk to answer silly questions.

Such a smart ass might say something like, “Gerbz’ diagnosis.”

At the asker, I’ll flash these knuckles:

At least my breast doesn’t read LONG BECH.

Deerthug noderishly clung to me for several days, til his grampa told him  him to leave me alone and seek more appropriate playmates.

Having read a page of Darwinian theory in the ninth grade, I understand that to avoid dying, I must adapt. Devoid of Deerthug, I spent hours studying subjects I hoped would enhance my Midwestern cred.

A cumbersome explanation of Go Fish.

After Fishing, I moved on to television. I watched episodes of an educational program, When Vacations Attack.

Beware of flying carp.

TJ’s mom pitied me. She offered to take me browsing and sightseeing on the other side of the river, in McGregor & Marquette. It was almost too hot to go, but circumstances must be extraordinary to prevent me from rummaging through dead people’s possessions.

McGregor & Marquette is primarily antique shops.

We got in Janice’s VW and drove past corn and Cabela’s.

I hear Madonna loves this shit.

We pulled in towns and it was so hot, even the cigar store Indians were moody.

“Humidity violate like Andrew Jackson.”

We hit McGregorville Mall. Its owners call it “UNIQUE, DIFFERENT, QUIRKY, Off the Wall, Fun.”  I call it 6,000 square feet of hep C.


We penetrated the junk.

The most interesting items I found don’t necessarily qualify as black memorabilia.

If you look very carefully, their outfits are cobbled of the teensiest chains.

And, since gays must go to desperate lengths to adopt white meat these days,

I tossed in Cheetos to attract it.

we’re looking towards Malawi.

A Cabbage Tree Grows in Burkina Faso.

Before leaving McGregorville, I got a snack.

McGregorville’s proprietor offered to give me a shirt of his personal design if I promised to advertise it.

My loquat bosom holds up my end of the bargain.

Before driving back to the trailer, we ducked into Paper Moon. Entering Paper Moon is to enter a dream.

The proprietress is snoody.

Paper Moon vends books galore.

Back in my day, they called young readers PUuUuUSSSSsssssiiiieeeeees!

When we got home, I continued studying the ways of the local people.

Survival of the bitchest.

In the next installment of this blog, I may compare and contrast the ideal nation-states envisioned by Deerthug and my father, who has been likened to a Latino Dr. Frasier Crane.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s