From a Friend of a Friend: On Augusta , KS

Sent to me by a friend, who's friend grew up in the aforementioned small KS town. I present "Disgusta," "Disgusta Redoux," and "Disgusta Retoix"...

It was a town like no other. Filled with 7,000 friendly people. People who would give you the shirt off their back, the fists off their arms, and the toes off their boots (after burying them in your ass). People who worked hard every day and never farted. People who would shoot first and ask questions later. If they could think of any questions. A place where a boy could finger-fuck his dachshund without interference from the state. A place where everyone was happy, yet no one was gay. A place where the son of a preacher man could grow up to be King of the Gypsies. A place where the son of a high school guidance counselor could set a path for his youngest son that would lead to fame, joy, and job satisfaction. A place where the son of a refinery worker could grown up to be Satan or Hitler or an odd combination of both. And a place where both those sons could join together to torture a poor, neurotic, fat orphan who came to town in the fourth grade. That was my Augusta, m;y friend. And that ain't the half of it.

Augusta. A place where a boy could slam vokka and snort MDA until his liver popped. A place where everyone was treated with dignity and respect, whether your name was Kootch, or Crazy Suzy, or Booger Red, or Hey Nigger. A place where a well-meaning youth club could teach you how dangerous it was to run cross-country by knocking out a few of your teeth (and isn't that a cheap price for such knowledge?). A place where, if you had a van, you could cut a lot of meat. A place where people never confused the Sex Room with the Slave Room. A place where a Fat Jap could break the limbs off your Dad's new tree, and no one would drop an atom bomb on him. A place where any red-blooded American boy, could be proud to catch Old Joe or Brown Nuts from a skanky slut, knowing he could still cop a script for antibiotics from Dr. Frank, who wouldn't tell your mom like your family doctor would. A place where there were enough blind drunks around that a big girl didn't have to resort to homosexuals for dancing partners. And that, is just a little bit more about my Augusta.

Augusta. It was a town where you did not fush wif Moody. A town where you could pick up an enormous, hissing possum and cradle it like a baby while you tried to punch out the back window of a 1963 Impala. A town full of tater suckers who are not jealous or envious of those with teeth. A town where Snag Burris still rides tall on the street sweeper every summer night, still wondering how a woman could get so mad at him that she'd burn the head of his dick with a lit cigarette. A town where cheese is a verb, not a noun. A town where you could set a man's hair on fire and not feel guilty about it. A town where people were proud of you when you clamped a bottle of whiskey under your car hood and ran a plastic tube from the bottle to the glove compartment so you could take shots on the move without having to worry about the pigs, man. A town with its own bouncing big Buddha boy. A town without shame. A town without dingleberries.