Peg Leg Meg

I’ve started spending a lot of time at the gay sports bar near my new apartment. What’s great about it is that a) it’s as funny as it sounds like it is, and b) it’s funny in exactly the way it sounds like it is. Where else do you get to hear a drunk say, “It’s a football, not a dandelion, you jackass! Kick the damn field goal! Boy, Garrett Hartley sure is cute. TOO BAD HE CAN’T KICK FOR SHIT. I wouldn’t KICK him out of bed, though. Get it?”*

During the time I’m not at the bar, though, I’m thinking about money. I’m a little ashamed of my bald-faced plea for a patron last week. I still totally want one, I just think I should have gone about the hunt with a little more class. That said, what Meg and I have decided to do is start a business. If it succeeds, we won’t need a patron; if it fails, it makes us that much more adorable (in a sad way) and we might get pity bucks. Here are our proposals so far:

Mom and Pop shopkeepers: We could cut off one of Meg’s feet and open a chicken farm and bulk beer outlet by the interstate called “Peg Leg Meg’s Kegs n’ Eggs.” Disadvantages: it’s hard to get a wedge onto the end of a peg leg.

Publishers: I feel like we could tap into the growing feel-good market with titles like Chicken Soup for the Illiterate Soul, an excerpt of which appears below:

L

L................................J

L.............J

L J

L heart! J

J J

Is that a tearjerker or what? For the literate, we would have as our first effort Eat, Pray, Queef**, the inspiring story of a woman in her early thirties who, after going through a divorce and finding herself dissatisfied with her career, starts drinking heavily, eating gas station nachos, and fucking anything in pants.

Miss Helen Thinks You’re A Sorry Son of a Bitch.biz: A friend of mine’s family is “having problems.” The specifics aren’t important (although it does involve an argument over making payments on a trailer), but the end result is that the son has infuriated Miss Helen, the mother’s best friend. Miss Helen is a plain-talking mountain woman who says things like “Whenever I go out, I always wash my face and my ass.” The mother is not long for this world, and Miss Helen is making plans to, after her death, publicly prove the son to be a sorry sack of shit. Wouldn’t you pay for Miss Helen to do this to an enemy of yours? Gather all his acquaintances in a room, turn on a projector, and give a 30-minute presentation on why he’s an asshole? I figure if we get a van, we could make it a mobile service and do several a day. We could go on the road. “Miss Helen will be in the Gulfport area May 11-14. If you know a sorry son of a bitch and would like it proven, please call 1-800-I-ALWAYS-WASH-MY-ASS.”

Screenwriters: “2Birds1Blog productions and Manischewitz Kosher Wines present the gripping story of a driven career woman torn between the pressures of job and family. Now, faced with the biggest case of her career, will this tough female DA who isn’t afraid to play hardball with the big boys be able to finish her closing arguments before being treated for an ectopic pregnancy? Find out in Miscarriage of Justice, tonight on Lifetime.”

Hired killers: Heh, can you imagine two lazy, anxious assassins?

“I think we should go back and see if she’s dead. I’m just not sure…”

“I think we should go home, lock the door, put on Designing Women, and drink Turning Leaf Pinot Noir until we pass out.”

“Sold.”

And

“I told you, the senator needs to be dead by Tuesday’s meeting!”

“Yeah, yeah. It’ll get done. Actually, can you pick me up a gun or something while you’re out?”

And

“Okay, on three. One, two…”

“Wait. One, two, shoot on three or one, two, three, shoot?”

And

“Which bottle of Kendall-Jackson Chardonnay did you poison?”

“Uh. Well. Okay, well, we’ll drink a little of each one, and whichever one make us feel a little sick we’ll recork and hide in the banker’s kitchen.”

Phone sex operators: Pretty much the same issues as the assassins, really.

“What are you wearing?”

“Oh, uh. Boxer-briefs and a Styx t-shirt with a big Kool-Aid stain.”

“Oh. So, uh, what do you want to do?”

“Tell you what I want to do, hoss, is just kind of relax here and let you get your business taken care of. How does that sound, slugger? I bet if you try you can get done in about three minutes.”

I expect I would get fired after referring to a client’s scrotum as “your little coin purse.”

AA sponsors: “No, I think it’s more impressive to have just one drink. Then you’re really showing them you’re over it.”

Life coaches: “Oh, I’m sorry, do you need me to call the waaaaahmbulance? You don’t need a coach, you need a kick in the ass.”

Suicide hotline responders: “Wow, that REALLY sucks. I don’t know how you’re hanging on.”

And if all else fails, we can work at a candy factory.

See? We have plans. We’re entrepreneurs.

*Yeah, it was totally me

** NOTHING is better than hearing Meg say “queef.” She caresses it with her voice in this weird seductive way and it’s wonderful. [Ed. Note: NEW BUSINESS IDEA! For $5 I'll give you my phone number and you can call me and I'll say queef. BOOM. I realize it would be smarter to get your number, but, you know, dialing...]