Jeff Whitten, Local Columnist
Welcome to another installment of the Pembroke Mafia Football League, and right off: if Congress keeps up this silliness I’m going to need a therapy animal to carry around Walmart with me.
I’m thinking a pre-owned howler monkey would work, especially if he’s a Colombian red howler, and even more especially if he’s already housebroken so my wife won’t have to clean up the bathroom after him.
Actually, I can hear her now.
“You want a what?” “A howler monkey. A big one. With red hair. It’s for my Congress-induced PTSD.”
“No.” “No, what?” “No, you are not getting a howler monkey. Or any kind of monkey. Remember what happened when you wanted a gerbil?”
“I was a lot younger then.” “You were 58. And you lost it at Kroger.” “Oh yeah, forgot about that, it got out of my pocket and ran under the porkchop counter. But, hey, who wears the pants in this family?”
“You haven’t worn pants since you retired. You wear shorts.”
“Well, who wears the shorts in this family, then? Besides, I’m a veteran. I got needs.”
“I don’t care if you’re Eisenhower. You are not getting a howler monkey, or any other kind of monkey. You’re not getting a dog, or a cat, or a donkey, or a pot bellied pig or a duck or a ferret, or anything else you say you want, because you won’t clean up after it. I know you.”
“Woman, if I want a howler monkey I’ll get a howler monkey. I’ll get five or six of them. But I really don’t want one that much. I’m glad we got that settled.”
Being college educated, I usually remember to quit while I’m ahead. My wife is little, but she’s mean.
Still, there is more than one way to skin a cat. I figure you can’t go wrong with a good, loud-mouthed and hyperactively angry-looking monkey with fur the color of Carrot Top’s hair.
I think every kid should have one.
I could get him a suit and a bowler hat and name him Scooby Whitten, and run him for public office, or even better, Congress.
Scooby Whitten, not Carrot Top.
Lest you scoff, Scooby Whitten would do no worse than the representation we currently have up in D.C., and might be a marked improvement.
But then a can of low-fat Vienna sausages past their sell-by date or my genius flip-flop wearing neighbor who drinks a beer while he uses a corded electric weed eater to weed eat his ditch when it’s pouring rain and lightning could do better than what we got up there now.
Come on, folks. Really? Onward. My thanks to the great Alex Floyd for holding the fort and keeping the PMFL out of the ditches for the past few weeks while I was recovering from an imaginary run-in with ICE.
Well, sort of. Actually I had to go up to Hilton Head for my wife’s vacation. She loves it, but the place in my estimation is akin to a Club Fed Alligator Alcatraz, what with all the sunscreen-slathered invasive species from up north wandering all over the Island wearing Ohio State or New Jersey merch and talking like they gargle with crush and run. And those are just the women and children.
I got PTSD from this latest trip up there, which is really why I want a howler monkey, so I can sic him on folks who stress me out. Which means if Scooby Whitten doesn’t run for Congress he can ride shotgun when I have to go anywhere further than the end of my driveway.
Yep. Soon as I hit Richmond Hill and those fancy signs on Highway 17 pointing me to the City Center I’ll roll the window down and let Scooby Whitten do his thing. I might even let him drive.
He’d howl at the wellgroomed Georgia yankees and other big-shots driving Land Rovers and Audis, just like I do sometimes when my road PTSD gets the better of me.
Yep, it’s good to be back. If you got a used howler monkey you want to get rid of, give me a call.
This week’s standings: The World’s Oldest Sportswriter, aka Mike Brown, is in first with 11 misses. Mike is so old he can remember when we had Congressmen who knew what the heck they were doing and worked for every American, not just people they’re afraid of. They were statesmen and patriots, not partisan hack crooks.
Onward. The Rev. Lawrence Butler, our spiritual guru and hopefully the guy who will baptize Scooby Whitten once I sneak him past my wife, and PMFL CEO and President B.J. Clark are tied for second with 15 misses each.
B.J., by the way, is retired Navy, a Vietnam veteran and a big wheel in Pembroke American Legion Post 164. He used to eat howler monkeys in the jungle back in ‘Nam; they’d fry ‘em up on board the aircraft carrier he served on and eat them with cole slaw and hush puppies. Navy dudes will eat anything that doesn’t eat them first, then go around inking up the place. That’s why we call them squids. Mike Clark, the only PMFL member I ever met with his own groupies, Bryan County Administrator Ben Taylor and me are tied for third with 16 misses each. Ben, by the way, is so small if he glued some orange fur on he could pass for a pretty good Colombian Red Howler. Ben also is a big Georgia fan, so he’s used to painting himself colors and barking at the TV. Hey, six of one, half a dozen of the other.
I used to be editor of the Bryan County News. Then I retired but I can’t go fishing because something like 900,000 transplant influencers are out there in $100,000 outboards getting stuck on sandbars and scaring the fish.
In fourth all by himself with 17 misses so far is King of North Bryan Noah Covington, who for years did a bang up job representing District 1 on the Bryan County Commission and the Development Authority of Bryan County. We’re working on a statue of Noah, by the way, dressed up like a conquistador with a No. 50 football jersey on. It’ll go out there on 119 as you roll into Pembroke. Still working on what to put on it though. Maybe “Hyundai Ain’t My Fault; the governor made us do it.”
County Commission Chairman Carter “Pius Esqueameous Maximus” Infinger and retired Bryan County Fire Chief Freddy “Swamp Ape” Howell are tied for fifth with 20 misses so far. Freddy is from the back 40 of a swamp known as the Okefenokee, and once at a Fireman’s Ball ate a raw snapping turtle without his dentures. Freddy gnawed that sucker into jerky, just like his ancestor Obedabadabbadiah Howell did back in the 1800s, then used the shell for a fire fighting utensil, or implement, or boogie board or something. Don’t mess with the Howells.
Carter, by the way, could run for something one of these days after he finishes making enough enemies in Bryan County. I’m thinking him and Scooby Whitten might make a good ticket for governor and lieutenant governor.
Scooby got potential. ALL HAIL THE SCOOBY (Or he’ll bite you).
Dr. Gene Wallace, DMD, and former Bryan County Assistant Editor Ted O’Neil are tied for seventh with 21 misses. Gene is the funniest dentist who ever lived, but you’d be funny too if you spent 30 years knowing where all the bad teeth are hidden because you took them out of people’s mouths and put them there.
Ted, who looks like Theodore Roosevelt on purpose but is 6-foot-9, is one of the best journalists on the planet up in Michigan, where he pulls for his alma mater, Michigan State. He also probably stands around in snowbanks for fun. I worked with the man for I don’t know how long, and he’d set the air conditioning in the newsroom to 50. He’s like Yeti, only from Michigan.
And finally, in last is District 1 Commissioner Alex Floyd, our hero of the moment with 24 misses. Alex is a good dude, mostly, although I think he’s kind of gotten into bad habits due to hanging out with the PMFL. Next thing you know, he’ll be chewing baccy and scratching himself in public in places he oughtn’t to be scratching. That’s ‘cause pine tree people wear thongs.
This week’s games (or not):
Due to the fact that this column ran long and some of our contestants were late (as usual) in submitting their picks, this week’s games will return next week.
Here’s hoping you have a great weekend and remember to be good. And if you can’t be good, be nice while you’re being bad.
Whitten is an occasional columnist for the News.