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Floyd and me used to hang out in this little shit-hole dive in Chicago, where the drinks were watered down with lighter fluid and the women all smelled vaguely of potted meat. The main thing about Floyd was that he loved to fuck. The man was a walking jizz-storm, ready at any moment to throw some unlucky woman, boy, farmyard animal or wad of lard onto the nearest countertop, grab and ankle in each hand, hoist and ram 'er home. He had even taught his dick to do tricks. Because his hands were usually busy holding someone's legs apart or tail aside, he'd taught his "splittin' rail" to unbuckle his belt, and eventually even how to hit a middle C chord cluster a la Brubeck, like an eleventh finger, though he wouldn't have given Brubeck the time of day in person. That's not to say he wouldn't have plugged up Dave's colon with about a foot of veiny black anaconda, however. He just wouldn't have wanted to go to school with him. Floyd used to say that it was easier to find things to fuck back in the "chitlin-circuit" days, before everybody started squawkin' about civil this and rights that, because a nigger had been taught to keep his head down and it was a lot easier to find things to fuck while watchin' your feet, and he had a dick so big that when it got hard it pushed his socks down and he had to keep pulling them up anyway. But that didn't matter too much when it came time to play piano. One time he was playing a Bb11th chord and got kinda carried away, and the head of his dick was just a-poundin' the middle C,D and E-flat keys in counterpoint, and suddenly it kinda popped up like it was takin' a look around the room, sniffin' out some cunt. It's hard to forget a solo like that, let me tell ya. He had to keep a big bowl of warm water and a towel beside the piano, to keep the jizz off the keys and gummin' 'em up. But as the years went by, Floyd could only use it to hold down the sustain pedal, and by that time he had to roll it up and hold it with a rubber band, just to keep it from dragging behind him and gettin' all dusty and dirty. It had developed a considerable callous on the head of it by then from all those years when Floyd had a real bad fetish for armadillos and Puerto Rican women. It finally got to the point where he had to work it over with some rolled up hundred-grit sandpaper just to knock enough crust off it that he could feel anything. That's when Floyd could really sing them blues, let me tell ya. I'm sorry to hear he's gone, to tell ya the truth. I mean, 77 years is a pretty goddamn long life, if you ask me. But I'm sure even at the end, ol' Floyd was probably moanin' about all the things he'd never had a chance to fuck; empty whip-cream cans, a Studebaker, giraffes, Lindsay Lohan, that sorta thing. I hate to think of him whilin' away his last days with his ol' meat python wrapped around his shoulders like a big black shawl, rockin' back and forth on his porch bitchin' about that horrible whump whump music them young niggers listen to nowadays. I wish I'd a been there, but I always made it a rule not to get within six feet or so of Floyd anyhow and with his hearing gone I'd probably embarrassed him by yelling shit like "SO, WHEN'S THE LAST TIME YOU GOT TO FUCK A CHAIN-LINK FENCE, FLOYD?!" But I don't think Floyd woulda liked the idea that he had become so old, so forgotten, so utterly fuckin' USELESS that some middle-aged white dickhead with a cut-and-paste fetish who had never once heard of Floyd Dixon (or even his cousin, Willy) once in his tiny little goddamn life until he found his obit on Yahoo news and decided to bore a bunch of people it who couldn't care less, but would listen to a long-winded rant about gigantic black dicks any day of the week. Rest in peace, Floyd. You old ghost-fucker, you.
ANTI POPEYE X FAN CLUB
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