Sailin-Motherfuckin'-MAN

I’m out with Mack, hittin’ golf balls into the Salton Sea. The place reeks of old, dead fish, (which is fine by me since Mack’s putrid cigar is much, much worse) but it’s a nice place if you want to get away and drink.

I take a drag off of my smoke and hit a sweet shot into the sunset when Mack turns to me and asks, “Hey Chaz,” he’s the only one that can call me that, seein’ as how his ex-girlfriend was stolen by a fucker named Charlie, “ you ever think about Popeye?”

I plop down next to the guy in an extra lawn chair and snatch the half empty bottle of Jack.

“Popeye?”

“Yeah, you know, the sailor man…”

I take a swig and give him the squint-eye.

“I know who the fuck Popeye is, cock-sucker. What about ‘em?”

He looks at the sky for a minute and continues. “Like, I wonder what war the guy fought in…”

I sit back and join in, “I guess something like World War Two. Maybe One.”

“Yeah. Those were tough wars. You think he ever killed anyone?”

I think for a second. “Guess he had to. Guys back then, even Navy guys, were storming the beaches bayoneting the enemy. Probably lost his eye from Japanese shrapnel. Pretty grizzly stuff”

He takes a swig. “Yeah. Think he knew Bluto back then?”

“Yeah. That’s why Popeye has such a hard-on for the guy.”

Mack throws the empty bottle into the soupy water. “Bet you he caught Bluto doin’ something bad, like raping a Japanese woman on leave or something. He looked like the kind of asshole that would rough up a broad.”

I open a fresh one. “Sure he does. But where does that leave Olive Oil? Bluto’s always pawin’ on her. Why doesn’t Popeye just tell her the truth?”

“’Cuz, he’s the kind of guy that settles things with his fist. ‘Sides, she had Popeye’s kid. He doesn’t need to prove anything…”

“I guess so.”

As we finish our “Popeye Back story,” An old ‘67 Lincoln pulls up behind us. Out slides a mountain of a man dressed in a black suit, walkin‘ towards us looking‘ like Satan himself. Sleeve tattoos barely poke out of the cuffs and if I didn’t know any better, he was pakin’ a cannon under his left arm.

He takes a moment to survey the landscape, then look down at us through aviators.

“Seems as if I’m lost. You guys know how to get to the 10 from here?” he says in a voice like gravel.

We tell him where to go and he obliges us with a ride back to our car.

I’m sitting in the front seat of his fine automobile when I notice on his right hand he has a tat’ of Popeye, smokin’ away on his little corncob pipe.

I point it out.
He takes a drink from our bottle, and without taking his eyes off the road, he mutters, “Toughest mother fucker I ever knew about…”

So here’s to Popeye, you old sailin’ bastard. Keep chompin’ on that spinach and kickin‘ ass.