Sal was an idiot. An absolute moron. A stupid piece of shit. A horse’s ass. A dumb horse’s ass. In fact, he’d love to be a horse’s ass, because it would be such a step up from what he was right now: an ass’s ass. Sal was completely lacking in intelligence, and had zero – less than zero, even – powers of observation. Sal had no redeeming qualities, whatsoever. He not only had a face for radio, but a voice suited for the toilet. The stupid toilet.
“Shut the hell up,” cursed Charlie, face contorted in anger. “Sal, you stupid son of a bitch!” He yelled from his chair, and waved his free hand wildly in the air.
Charlie’s other hand held a phone against his ear. Sal didn’t know anything. He didn’t know shit. All the garbage that came out of his stupid mouth was just stupid, worthless garbage. He heard Sal’s stupid voice: “what the problem is, the whole problem, is that they’re not stretching the field on third downs. That’s where the offense stalls, and they’re just giving away opportunity after opportunity to advance the ball.” What a load of shit, Sal! Why don’t you talk about something you know, for once, like, what kind of a dipshit are you?
Randy, finally, Randy was able to get a few words in, edgewise. “I don’t know. I don’t think that’s right. What they need to do, if they want to win, if they really want to win consistently – ‘consistently’ is the key word here – is clean house. It’s time to clean the house. Paul Zajac is not cutting it as a head coach. Week to week his game plan just isn’t cutting it.”
“Yes, yes yes. That’s it.” Charlie was quieter now, eyes locked onto some point in the distance, out of focus, nodding knowingly. “Paul Zajac, that dumb piece of shit,” Charlie whispered to himself.
Randy continued, “Paul Zajac and his defensive coordinator, Paulson, who he hand-picked for the job – they just need to go. Don’t care what it takes. There’s talent on the field. That’s not the problem. We need talent on the sidelines. Now is the time – way past time, if you ask me – to get some coaching talent on the sidelines.”
Charlie seconded these thoughts with some affirmative grunting .
Sal’s stupid-shit voice sounded over the radio again, but this time saying exactly what Charlie wanted to hear. “Okay, okay. Let’s see what our callers think.” Oh Sal, you sorry bastard. “We’ve got a caller on the line right now. Charlie from Southport, welcome to THE MADHOUSE. What’s on your mind.”
Charlie leaned forward and tapped both his feet nervously as he talked. He spoke rapidly and without inflection, like he was reading from a book ..
“Randy good to be here and ‘hey’ to all the Madhouse Crew. Long time listener and I’ve got two points to make and then I’ll hang up and listen to your response. Point one they need to start handing the ball to Jackson he’s a great back and just needs some more carries and to lean on that offensive line a bit,” Charlie took a quick breath, “and wear down the opposing defense just give the kid a chance, alright? Show some dominance on the ground and open up some passing lanes and point number two.” Another breath. Charlie grinned, couldn’t help it. “Point two, Sal – you’re a dumbass. Thanks.”
Jon Mau lives in a house, in the Chicago suburb of Des Plaines, IL, with a family he is currently in the process of cultivating. To what end? No one knows. For the meantime, he is perfectly happy (and suited, what’s more) to write for Untoward Magazine thanklessly; remember his once popular metal blog, Jon’s World of Delusion and continue serving out his “dour, tedious sentence,” i.e. tiny gray cog of the workaday world.