“The Crimes of Uncle Mike”
Just got back from visiting UNCLE MIKE SPILLIGAN at his current address (Jail) as I promised him I would when I made that (somewhat lopsided) Blood-Nephew Vow. This was the first of my two visits– although I’m blowed if I know what he’ll tell me during the next one, because he pretty much covered every detail of his crimes earlier today. (I don’t mean the crimes he committed earlier today. I mean “earlier today” is when he told me about those crimes– a few of which he committed as long ago as last week.) Some of his crimes (i.e. the ones he committed before the ones he committed earlier than last week) have landed him (quote) “inside” where (in his words) he “sits like Buddha in a 3.048 metre cell” (though exactly what crimes Buddha committed– and when– I don’t know).
But thanks to my vow-related visit, I now know more than I ever wanted to know about the crimes of Uncle Mike. Some would label those crimes as being “Of Passion”. Others would say they sprang from a Deep Inner Need to fill a gaping hole within. After listening to Mike waffle on for thirty five minutes or so, I’m plumping for the second lot and what they say.
Oh, he definitely told me stuff I’d rather wasn’t branded on my brain– ’cause it fell squarely into the old “any-information-is too-much-information-on-this-one” category– but what could I do? I made a vow (dammit), so I had to sit there in the Dungeon for crimes I did not commit, listening to the jerk who DID commit those crimes telling me what they were.
Y’see, Uncle Mike Spilligan… is a convicted INTERNATIONAL SAUSAGE-SMUGGLER.
This means that he was caught going through customs with a cabana up his clacker. ‘Twas no ordinary cabana, though. ‘Twas one o’ them highly sought-after COCAINE cabanas. In fact, so fabulously fabled are these foodstuffs that a song has been penned in their honour– a Cuban song, no less, and it goes a bit like this:
It’s a CO-caine
Smuggled up his ASS
Out of Ha-VA-na
It’s a CO-caine
You can’t say it’s plea-sant
But he’s just a pea-sant
With a SAU-saaaage
And as that song plainly stipulates (with clinical coldness) Uncle Mike, in plying his trade, would pry apart the cheeks of his BUTT (Zeus help us) and shove a Minimum of One (1) lubricated pieces of sausagery up there. This had the culinary effect of turning a smallgood into a very large BAD. Once he’d arrived at his hometown airport, he’d find a secluded spot where no other signs of human life would ever in a million years be found (like a toilet with an “Out of Order” sign. Or a cinema where an Australian film was showing) and then he would crowbar the aforementioned sausage out of his cack-dispenser, give it a quick wipe on his shirt sleeve, and freight the thing to such a place as one where it would be in High Demand– especially from persons who didn’t realize how it got in the country to begin with. (Because if they did realize , then the “Demand” would prob’ly not be so “High”. You’d think.) Yes, the fabled Cocaine Cabana is a delicacy in some circles (and a discomfort in others). Which is why connoisseurs of “co-co-ca-baa-baa” (it’s street name) pay big bickies for their festive sausage on the Black Pudding Market.
For many moons Uncle Mike enjoyed the sausage-smugglin’ lifestyle. Drinkin’. Laughin’. Singin’. Walkin’ funny. But in spite of all that, he still had a job to do. And over time, Uncle Mike had earnt the respect of the other smugglers (a crack team, in every sense o’ those words). In particular, he’d often get the kudos of the smuggler-in-chief, Strassberg Sam. In fact, so highly prised were his doings in the eyes of their leader that the syndicate felt it was time to raise him up a notch or two from the humble Cocaine Cabana to the mighty KRANSKI FULL OF CRACK.
Needless to say that when he arrived home from Poland (with a crack full of a kranski-full-of-crack) he drew attention to himself by walkin’ even funnier than usual. And while other lightly-peppered and heavily-garlicked Offal Tubes lodged in his crack had thrown many a sniffer dog off his tail over the years, the knowing nose of one tough German Shepherd was not so easily thrown. At first it seemed he was drawn by the funniness of Mike’s walk.
Or at least… that’s how it seemed.
What was not known by Mike Spilligan was how this particular Sniffer Dog had been trained according to some sort of “good boy, bad boy” policing system wherein the dog (if he was a “good” boy) would be rewarded with– you guessed it– a juicy chunk of top-shelf kranski, possibly fermented in someone’s arse (because they would’a factored that into his training routine). Therefore– believing there was a “Good Boy Moment” on the horizon– our Sniffer Dog bounded up, rudely accosted Uncle Mike, knocked him to the ground, and started lickin’ his rump. Then when all that foreplay was done, the canine started humping the unhappy human’s eye socket, as the guttural voice of the Dog-Handler cried out (in vain):
Right after the kranski was de-cracked (all thanks to a toilet plunger. Whose name was “Jim”) and the secret cargo was identified, Uncle Mike was nabbed ‘n’ cuffed. Thereafter he was Dungeon Bound.
Of course, it wasn’t his first offence. He’d already been arrested once (or twice) for the “crime” (as they call it– NOW) of sexually assaulting an ashtray. When they dragged him away afterwards, legend has it he cried out:
“I JUS’ WAN’A BE STICKIN’ MY DICK IN FILTHY BUTTS, THAT’S ALL!!”
Hmm… I now sometimes wonder about Uncle Mike. And so must his wife, Aunty Beryl.