Speaker 1: What is up, guys, Welcome back to softcore History. Happy
New Year. It is me Rob and I wanted to
give you one last Christmas present before we kick off
twenty twenty five, and that is two original sketches from
our Patreonhleball and The Diary of Helen Slegerman Chapter one.
Please listen and enjoy, and I can't wait to give
you more content in the new year.
Speaker 2: Welcome to another episode of Forgotten Heroes of Sport on NPR.
In the world of athletics, few debates are more heated
than those over the goat. Whether it's a sport with
a relatively short albeit rich history like football or basketball,
or games whose history span a century or more such
as soccer, tennis, golf, and baseball, player is the quote
greatest of all time? The goat is a debate that
seems to both rage endlessly and expand as new combatants enter,
first the arena of their sport, and then should the
fans find them worthy? The arena of the goat debates themselves.
Within these debates, perhaps no subject is more contentious than
Era Do Babe Ruth's seven hundred and fourteen home runs,
the last one hit a mere two years into Adolf
Hitler's still then promising administration in Germany really measure up
to the likes of Hank Aaron's seven point fifty five
or Albert Poolhol's even more recent seven oh three. In
these debates, the old are informed confidently by the young
that the heroes of the former's youth do not measure
up to the modern elite athlete. Reminiscent fathers are told
by impatient sons, shut up, you old bitch. No one
asked you shit. Now give me your credit card. Me
and the boys are taking some sluts to the mall.
Even more confoundingly, a star of yesteryear's uttered dominance of
their sport, such as Jim Thorpe or Wilt Chamberlain or
Babe Ruth, is used as proof of the purported weakness
of their era. But even that argument has its limits.
Some dominance is too profound to be ignored. This is
perhaps truer for one athlete of the early twentieth century,
more than any other, the great but forgotten Skippy Laroche.
In no sport in American history was any athlete more
dominant in his or any era than Skippy Laroche. Sixteen
consecutive championships, sixteen consecutive League MVP awards, sixteen consecutive scoring titles,
sixteen consecutive Defender of the Year awards. From eighteen ninety
nine to nineteen fifteen, Skippy Laroche dominated his sport like
no athlete before or since. But the arguments against Laroche
are the same as they are for every other legendary
athlete who had the misfortune of being born before the television.
They played not against today's professionals, but rather nobody's, against
plumbers and factory workers, against part timers and hobbyists, or,
in Laroche's case, far worse. His game was hohleball, and
Skippy Laroche was the greatest hole ball player the sport
had ever seen. Up to that point, holball was at
the time merely a local peculiarity of the rural county
of Perry in southeastern Missouri, but the spectacle of the
game made headlines and sporting pages across the continent, and eventually,
thanks to Laroche, the world. Every Saturday afternoon, while the
cows grazed and their wives prepared supper, the men of
Perry County would gather in a field the liquor flowed freely.
A cloud of tobacco smoke shaded the pitch on which
the contest would be played. An entirely fenced off area
with sharpened sticks pointed inward from the fence so no
player could escape. It was sixty yards long and thirty
yards wide. At each end a hole wherein the points
were scored. It was dug into the ground. They called
them the wells. Inside the fence was every adult in
Perry County who was considered legally insane, cripples, the infirm,
women who were unmarried after thirty, infertile, or had suffered
more than two miscarriages, run of the mill, lunatics, Mormons,
sex criminals, and mongoloids. To begin, all of the county's
maniacs were ushered into a circle in the middle of
the pitch. Whips cracked at their backs and empty bottles
shattered at their feet to herd them there. Once the
humble huddle, as it was called, was formed. A man
on horseback, dressed as the Devil, galloped onto the pitch
holding two lit torches. He threw them into the middle
of the crowd of would be competitors, who then fled
in terror to either end of the arena, and thus
the teams were selected for that week. Once both ends
of the pitch were filled with cowering simpletons and undesirables,
three men would walk to either side with buckets of paint,
one side blue, one side red. They'd splatter the players
with their respective colors so they could tell who was
on which team. Next, the ball with which they played
was tossed onto the pitch. They called it the crapple.
It was a leathered pigs bladder filled with fresh horseshit
and sewn shut just before the match began. Once the
crapple was tossed in, a stray rabid dog was shot
to indicate the contest had begun. The sport was brutal.
In one match, a double amputee and veteran of the
Civil War drowned in a puddle after being trampled by
a contingent of mentally disabled players who'd become frightened by
a bee. The first thirty minutes of a match typically
saw the women on both sides temporarily ally themselves with
one another in order to incapacitate the criminally insane men
they'd been forced onto the field with. On one ocade.
Famed holball enforcer Mean Molly Sampson gouged out the eyes
of a local serial rapist known as the Perry County
Poker as three accused witches awaiting trial held him down.
The poker, who believed God had ordained him to impregnate
every woman in the state with a boy until he
had enough sons to build him a tower so that
he could climb to the moon and build a church
on it, bled to death right there from his face.
The scene of the poker's death was so violent that
a pregnant woman who disguised herself as a retund man
in order to watch the match, suffered a panic attack, miscarried,
and after local authorities confirmed that this had been her
third miscarriage, was forced immediately onto the field. The woman
was quickly knocked unconscious by Mean Molly, who was on
the opposing side. It wasn't until the criminals had been incapacitated,
castrated with nails pulled from the heels of women's boots,
or outright killed that the scoring in hole ball truly began.
Five circles were awarded for every go of the crapple
that made it into the well if the crapple was
thrown into the well with the physically disabled player from
the opposing side holding it, five circles plus a circle
for however many lame appendages the cripple possessed were awarded.
On one occasion, a heated debate broke out between betters
in the grandstands should an extra circle have been awarded
when a dull boy named Roscoe fell into the well
holding the crapple. Red team betters believed that the Red
side should be awarded an extra circle because Roscoe's head
should be counted as a lame appendage. Betters with money
on Team Blue argued that they'd demand and did no
such concession. When Sarah Humphrey, a local woman with an
over sensitive clatorus, was thrown into the Blue well holding
the crapple five hours earlier in the match, things became
so heated between the Red and Blue betters that a
stray dog had to be shot so that play could
be stopped and umpires could determine the ruling. Ultimately, it
was decided by the officiating crew that the simple boy's
head was by all reasonable scientific measures blame, though in
the spirit of the game, the head could not be
honestly defined as an appendage. Sarah Humphreys overactive clatoris. The
umpire's ruled was not lame, but rather awesome. Another stray
dog was shot and play resumed. In the crowd. At
Hohle ball matches, the gambling was rampant. In fact, it
quickly became the entire point of the sport. When a
betting side since defeat, they often turned on their own team,
sometimes throwing bottles, sometimes leaving the bleachers and going back
to the town to burn down the sanitariums, jails, hospitals
and orphanages their losing sides players had come from. Enter
Skippy Laroche. The day Laroche became infamous, there was quite
literally an atmosphere of irritation. It was an unusually hot
Saturday in July. Flies buzzed amongst the whole ball crowd
through the smoke, whiskey breath and muggy Missouri air. The
red roster that afternoon was filled with Perry County's most
intimidating whole ball stars. Mean Molly Horse brain Zeke, a
burly teenager who'd been kicked in the head by a
horse and was now used to pull wagons and carts
in town after he became simple from the head trauma,
and everyone assumed the horse had transferred its soul into him.
Also on the Red team was Clara Frederickson, who was
just a real bitch. Laroche, who'd already been nearing blackout
drunkenness before the start of the match when bets were
being placed, liked the Blue team's long odds, liked the juice.
He told a friend. The bet turned out to be
a mistake. Early in the first half, the Blues were
already down twenty circles and their most promising player, Crazy
Fred Henderson, a syphilitic prone to violent manias, had gone
into seizure, choked on his own tongue, and died. He
was fed to the rabid clock stoppage dogs in their
pen adjacent to the arena, as was the rule of
the sport. Laroche took a long swig of whiskey, threw
his hat down in the dirt, stomped it, and marched
straight to the fence separating spectator from sport. Hell I'll
do it myself, Laroche barked. He leapt the fence and
ran right to the crapple mean Molly saw him and
strode straight toward Laroche. This was far from the first
time someone in the crowd had attempted to come on
to the pitch, though typically it was because they wanted
to beat a simpleton or pregnant unmarried teen with their
belt for poor play, not to participate in the sport itself.
Mean Molly was overheard shouting as she pushed up her
sleeves and marched at Skippy, not today, sir, not today.
After Laroche was done with her, witnesses said the dust
from what was left of her teeth scattered into the wind.
Laroche snatched the crapple up and proceeded to score circle
after circle until the Blue side took the lead for
the first time in the match. Play would have been
stopped at this point, but because the rabid clock stoppage
dogs were frenzied and feasting on Crazy Fred Henderson's body,
one could not be immediately wrangled to be shot in
order to officially stop play. In an attempt to subdue
one of the rabid dogs, referee George McHenry was bitten
himself and forced to immediately enter the whole ball arena
as a newfound hydrophobic. He did not survive the match. Laroche, meanwhile,
continued to score circles at will, that is until mean
Mal regained consciousness and began directing her team against Laroche.
But Laroche was prepared. Mean Molly's first wave was the
Red Side's cripples, all of whom Laroche deceptively gathered into
a group, handed the crapple too, and then pushed into
the well. It was the largest amount of circles ever
recorded on a single hole ball, score five for the
crapple plus and astonishing eleven circles for the eleven lame appendages.
Three run of the mill, lame legs, a drifter who'd
lost a leg in an arm to frostbite, a woman
who lost her hands in a textile factory accident, and
one quadriplegic invalid who was being carried by leather straps
on the back of the handless woman so as to
avoid drowning in the muddy pitch he did anyway. Finally,
after the stoppage, dogs had finished ravaging the syphilitics corpse
and one could be wrangled and shot, play was stopped.
Outraged Red Side betters demanded the contests be ended and
the Blue Side Beach disqualified. Laroche was neither a cripple,
a lunatic, a Mormon, nor a woman unable to bring
a child to term. The umpires at first agreed Laroche
was an average competent Christian man unfit to grapple with
the dregs of Perry County. As punishment for his encroachment,
Laroche was, by the rules of the sport, set to
be forced to eat tree bark until he shat splinters.
Seventeen of the previous twenty encroachers ended up dying from
either post bark consumption infections or internal bleeding from splinters
stuck in their colon. Another suffered rectal incontinence and was
thus forced to become a hole ball player himself, because,
according to local authorities, his butt was retarded. Now Laroche, though,
had luck and Perry County's best lawyer on his side.
Hugo stanton As, was the most notable litigator in southeastern
Missouri at the time. Most recently, he'd successfully tried a
civil suit against famed hole ball player horse brain Zeke's
family for negligence on behalf of the farmer whose horse
had kicked Zeke in the head. As everyone in the
town believed the kick had sent the soul of the
poor farmer's horse into Zeke, and as Stanton argued, a
horse without a soul could not do a Christian man's work.
Because Zeke's parents, Stanton offered, had not properly looked after
their teenaged minor child, they were liable for the damage
he'd done to the farmer's horse, Zeke's family was left destitute.
Aside from being the region's most gifted litigator, Hugo Stanton
was also a degenerate gambler. He too had bet on
blue that day. Stanton hurried out to the pitch as
Laroche was being lashed to a Saint Andrew's cross and
awaiting his bowl of dogwood bark stop Stanton, this man
belongs on this pitch, the officials berated. The lawyer called
him a charlatan, accused him of chicanery. How could Laroche
possibly be considered a moongoloyd or woman of ill breeding stock. Stanton, however,
claimed that Laroche had become so intoxicated he could be
considered legally temporarily insane. Stanton was referencing a case he
himself successfully argued before the Perry County courts on behalf
of Albert Milligan, the son of former Confederate colonel and
local wealthy landowner Ezra Milligan. Albert had been charged with
the murder of Jow Carvalla, a Portuguese traveler, whom he'd
beaten to death in a confused and drunken rage. Upon
hearing the man speak Portuguese, the younger Milligan, who was
fluent in Spanish thanks to a year spent as an
intelligence officer in the United States Army torturing Spanish navy
prisoners during the Spanish American War, assumed that Carvallo was
purposely speaking Spanish Gibberish in order to disorient and insult him.
In the courtroom, Stanton simply instructed his client, the younger Milligan,
to drink three pints of whiskey. Then he instructed the
judge to say, hugidi boogade. Milligan immediately produced a knife
and leapt at the judge in a rage. While Milligan
was at first arrested and held in contempt of court
for his attempt on the judge's life, the judge ultimately
did rule that Milligan had obviously become insane after his
egregious consumption. After the ruling was official, Stanton then argued
that it was unlawful to even imprison Milligan for the
attempt on the judge's life based on the precedent just
set by the insanity ruling. Milligan was immediately freed, and
so Laroche was allowed to compete. From then on. Every week, Laroche,
who was the only man in the county willing to
drink what was required to become legally insane, competed in
hole ball, and a legend was born. At the time,
no team sport had quite completely captured the nation's attention.
While college football was still merely an interest of the
Ivy League and the upper class, and baseball grew in cities.
Whole ball's mystique was spread through newspaper reports of its
crushing brutality, and no player's brutal exploits were more followed
than those of Skippy Laroche. The papers bestowed upon Laroche
titles such as the Titan of Perry County, the Cripple Crippler,
the simple Reaper. From the moment Laroche was allowed to
step onto the pitch after he'd drunken the required boot
of whiskey. He became the most dominant player in that
or any sport in North America. Every week he would
score more circles than the entire other team combined. Every
week he would leave in his wake the tears, blood,
and broken bones of his opponents, the latter of which
Laroche wants. Remarked after a match, you can't break what
wasn't living. Them boys' legs were as dead as logs.
I'll fell no green tree that ain't mine to fell.
But I'm the biggest buck in this town. And if
you bring me firewood to chop, then by God, I'll
chop it up. It was quotes like those, and feats
like Laroche's fashioning of a war chariot out of two
wheelchairs he claimed from opposing cripples pulled by horse brain
zeke that put Hohleball on the front page of sports
sections and newspapers across the nation. From the Rockefellers in
New York City to dirt covered gold miners in Alaska,
Americans marveled at Laroche's exploits. One emissary from the newly
formed German Empire, traveling by train across the United States,
insisted on taking a detour south from Saint Louis to
see Larotian person. Upon watching Holball's Greatest Star fight off
a woman who gave birth to a boy with cerebral palsy,
using the boy who had cerebral palsy as his melee weapon,
the emissary wrote to Kaiser Wilhelm the second, never fight
this nation if they try to come over here at all.
Just sink their boats before they can any of their boats,
no matter who is on them. That should work out fine.
When asked if he feared another assassination attempt after being
shot in nineteen twelve, former president and then presidential candidate
Theodore Roosevelt remarked, no, but I pray not a soul
informs old Skip Laroche that I am now hobbled. I've
no doubt he'd stick two fingers in my newly bored
hole and toss me like a simple boy. With his
new found fortune and his outsized influence. As not just
a local celebrity but a nationally known name, Laroche quickly
became a political juggernaut in Perry County. Any judj or mayer,
or share or councilman backed by Laroche with both his
endorsement and his considerable funds, was sure to win their seat.
It was said that all Laroche had to do was
pat his hand on the shoulder of his preferred cared it,
and God himself would anoint the man to office, sure
as God had anointed Skip to bludgeon his mistakes. An
era ends not because its expiration has a set date,
but because a new one is ushered. In the era
of Skippy Laroche, as the most dominant athlete in holball
and arguably American athletics at that time, ended, It turned
out because Laroche himself unwittingly ushered in that new era.
Laroche the man was many things. An alcoholic, a gambling addict,
a Christian, a pervert, vengeful handsome, a felon, and the
record holder for most kills by a man who was
technically a police officer, but only because he was deputized
by his local police department as a publicity stunt. Twenty
seven was his total. Laroche was also an unapologetic racist.
He once said of the African race, I'd like them
all on fire if it was prudent. However, I am
afraid that one may escape, and having showed them fire,
I would become their prometheus and would give them a
power us gentle whites would not be able to overcome.
Laroche was so racist he did not believe that black
people had yet harnessed the power of fire they had.
Laroche's racism reached into his political beliefs as well. In
early nineteen fifteen, he demanded all politicians, judges, and sheriffs
who'd be elected by his endorsement and with his funding,
become proactive about the quote black problem. In Perry County.
The African American population had risen to an astounding, at
least in the eyes of Laroche, six percent. Laroche convinced
this meant an entirely black government was imminent, and a
world in which white daughters were auctioned at blues clubs
to whomever could pay the most liquor or stolen pistols
to gain them moved quickly to like many counties and
states throughout the South and Midwest during the Jim Crow era,
stripped black citizens of their right to vote. In Perry County,
Laroche's idea was as insidious as it was effective. His
politicians codified into law that every black person in the
county was to be considered legally insane and thus ineligible
to vote. What Laroche had not accounted for, though, is
that they were now eligible to play holeball. Two days later,
Laroche was killed fourteen minutes into the first hole ball
match featuring black athletes. His side lost one hundred and
eighty nine to zero. As was tradition, his corpse was
tossed into the pen of rabid time out dogs and
consumed by the mongrels. However, out of respect for his
contributions to the game and the county, the dogs were
kept alive until it was believed they had sufficiently crapped
out Laroche's remains. The piles of dogshit that contained Laroche's
consumed corpse were shoveled onto a funeral hearse and paraded
from Perry County to the Mississippi River. Throngs of people
showed up in towns like Menfro Crosstown, Shawls, Brazua, Altenburg,
Apple Creek, Longtown, and Wittenberg. Once at the Mighty River,
the dog shit was dumped onto a raft, lit a fire,
and sent off into the water. After eight more weeks
of the black citizens of Perry County winning every whole
ball match they played in the sport was abandoned forever.
Today Skippy Laroche is merely an odd footnote in the
history of this southeastern Missouri county, but for a moment
in time he was an athlete who captivated not only
the nation, but indeed sports fans from around the world.
Speaker 3: The Dorry of Allen Slagermann brought the first class the
Majesty's twenty fourth Regiment of Allz January twenty third, Ian
Andre and.
Speaker 4: Dear Dorry is made.
Speaker 3: Oh Ellen slagerman Sure I haven't been written much lightly.
I become a literate for a spare on account of
a nasty bat of syphilis.
Speaker 4: Doctor said it rotten through part my brain.
Speaker 3: Though funny enough, it wouldn't apart my brain where I
sought out my letters and my word reading.
Speaker 4: Lucky for me, it was only the part of my
brain that remembers.
Speaker 3: It's unsanitary and sacrilegious to eat kadavam, which the doctor
who saw me concluded on a catter he worked in
a Morgan. He'd come down there and find me eatin
kadava me. Oh, I trd to play a lot the
brooke it died, and I still load em a suck
I thought, did have his captain standers sholf I down
my throat, old rabbits and all. But it was a
bit obvious what I'd actually been doing, as the bloke's
tip looked like a chewed up grape by the time
I was discovered. Doctor told me he believed that the
gases from the part of my brain that was rotten
away inside me in closed skull were trapped in there,
putting pressure in all the other parts of my brain
there work't being eating away, thus making them not quite
up to their tasks, which also, in his opinion, included
the parts of my brain that was in charge of
knowing not to crap in my boots and then put
my boots on and walk all around in the crap.
As he did not correctly lend me boots at that time.
We're full of steaming fresh crap that was oozing out
the tops. After I was asked to leave the morgue
quite rudely, though understandably, as I'd gotten back to chewing
on the dead gentleman's truncheon. As the doctor explained his hypothesis,
I thought I'd never be the same, as luck would
have it, though the very next living gentleman I entertained,
stabbed me rotten head, just as I'd begun to suckle
on his whirligigs as he requested, which I now understand
was lotle a rouse in order to gain him a
good angle for which he could stab me in the
head from.
Speaker 4: But like most men, who and to.
Speaker 3: Me whether it's in all I got or all he
decided to mic, he didn't stick around to see how
I fell after.
Speaker 4: Did he put an us pick into my brain? Yes?
Speaker 3: Fortunately, However, for all wellen he hit the rotten part
of my brain, they already didn't work no more, and
I hooley made him mischool released all the gases from
me decomposed brain paths, and thus I can read again,
and have since mostly ceased crapping in my boots, sip
when it's necessary. But my dear Diary, I am sad
to write that besides that, me life and me luck
lately has not been so charmed. One would fing a
girl like me seventeen and in the prime of a life,
would only have cheery news and rosy cheeks. But as
it turns out, the world can also sometimes be a
cruel place. I learnt recently that the sweet little orphan
boy Matthew, who worked me brothel, moppin' up secretions and
miscarriages and the like, no more than twelve years old,
who used to bring me oranges in the mornin' and
harde in me closet, and yank on himself when I
would undress and come running in with a hot iron
a corrasmas stab wounds after a gentleman would go about
trying to murmi, well I learn Matthew died. The boy
was runned over by a carriage, a carriage of some
fancy nobleman who was in a grand old urry another
one of the oars in me brothel. Maggie said his
brain shut out his mouth when the nerves and wheels
grossed his skull, and of course the fancy nobleman popped
his proper head out the carriage made a big to
do about how it was in his fault. Matthew'd been
crushed so violently under off and wheel.
Speaker 4: That his inn had shot out his hiinus like ribbons.
Speaker 3: On account of the boy was obviously dim and ran
out trying to pet their horses on a counter. He
thought they were dogs, and also he wasn't paying good
attention because he was yankin on himself, and it was
on that account that he got himself run over, not
because the Lord's carriage was going too fast already, I
imagine is quite accurate, as the boy did seem to
yank on himself in perpetuity, and often confuse horses for
dogs and dogs for horses. As it would so happen,
he did actually break the spines of and permanently paralyzed
several corgies in an attempt to ride them, replete with
a saddllited fashion from all miscarriage, clean up rags and
discarded chicken skins.
Speaker 4: That he thought was leather.
Speaker 3: Well, in order to avoid a big old foss, the
Lord flipped Maggie a few shillings and wear on his way. So,
after hearing all this, or says to Maggie, where where
is the And she says to me, where's what the
boys remains? And I said, no, no, the boys remained.
What am I gonna do with a bucket full of muffew?
Where's the shillings?
Speaker 2: You right?
Speaker 4: Cut where? She says?
Speaker 3: The Lord gave him the may Well, I'd have none
of that, I told her straight away. I'll let that
boy tug off to me.
Speaker 4: From insidey closet free of charge for years.
Speaker 3: I think, aren't the man nothing less than a sixpence
four from any proper customer? M Oud to that Maggie, sirs,
he wasn't tugging after you. That simple boy pulled on
himself every hour of the day.
Speaker 4: He pulled on himself when he.
Speaker 3: Was staring at the photograph of Queen Victoria hanging in
the lounge, should I mail her, majesty are cut? And
it wasn't harden in your closet to see your dragging others.
He thought he lived in there on that's where his
mother gave birth to him, so her next gentleman cry
who was banging on the.
Speaker 4: Door or making a hold fuss.
Speaker 3: About how he was about to burst, wouldn't notice that
she'd just given birth. And then she left him in
there to go start a new life in Canada, but
died a consumption and decapitation twenty minutes into the voyage
called rest as soul. Then her mother rat found him
and nursed him until he was two when we earn
him living inside the walls and put him to work freeloaded.
Speaker 4: That he was.
Speaker 3: You never wondered why he chio threw parts and killed
scores of cats, or why he only spoken clicks. And
this is well, this was typical Maggie, always making up
reasons to get out of things, saying she can't see
a gentleman because he wants to put his benches up
a bump and go then wear them about town and
kiss his wife.
Speaker 2: And the like.
Speaker 3: But she can't do it because that's where she adds
a derringer. So can I do it for her? That
sort of thing in the lark? And then I still
gotta split there shillings with her. But the laugh will
be on Maggie eventually, because I've been mixing mercury into
her back and a while oil, which is of course
the lubricant all us ares used for sexual encounters. Whales oil,
the oil from a whales blubber. She'll be madder than
a hour and the time it takes to say that's right, Constable,
she's the one that's been sitting on the curb with
their legs in the air, making the postman jam letters
into herminge because she thinks she's a mailbox too, Dear
asylum with her.
Speaker 4: That's not even the worst of me troubles, though, diary.
Speaker 3: I am quite lonely as well, This life of fleeting
pleasure gin and a different gentleman every night, every day,
fixing a supper, a cartilage and wrecked them pie for one.
When does it end? When will be all Ellen Slagerman's time?
I thout ask for much? I'm alone, a few little
ones running around. A nice man whose dyes are slitting
the throats and cutting out the organs of women is
behind them. And know what art give that man? Oh
my love, O me care, oh me oles, even the
one I don't let no gentlemen customers into now, that
being the all in me foot from the accident or suffered.
Speaker 4: Whilst for lightning.
Speaker 3: Impatient Rivet had down at the shipyard, who said he'd
have to keep working while I worked, because otherwise they'd
replace him with an irishman they didn't legally have to
pay until he didn't test positive for potato in the blood,
of which red hair is a sign that you've been
consuming potato. Needless to say, that bloke could be working
for the rest of his life, or three weeks of it. Anyway,
The river had lost control of his senses, as Art
gave him the ole Ellen Special.
Speaker 4: The trick is, once you.
Speaker 3: Feel em getting close, you're on the nursery rhyme when
little Fred went to bed.
Speaker 4: You know, when little Fred went to bed, he always.
Speaker 3: Said his prayers, He kissed his Mamma, then Papa, and
straight away way upstairs. That has him all buckling at
the knee and shooting skates and two snaps of a
twistle brick. Anyway, thataman put a bolt through me foot
and it never healed right. So in the future of
my husband is allowed to fuck it. I do still
have vope, though, Darry, as long as I'm seeing sunrises
and none of me essential organs are floating in jars
in a mentally unwell riched man's billiards room, than I
have more to be grateful for than most. Sincerely, Ellen,