Hank-Bob & Petey Go To The Art Fair

I invited my friend, Hank-Bob and his dog, Petey, (the two are virtually inseparable) to come down to the art fair, enjoy the art, and visit me for a while. A few days after I got home from the fair, I got this letter from Hank-Bob...



Hi John,

Me’n’Petey the hound thought we’d drop you this here note t’tell you we-uns was just some kinda tickled to git t’see you at th’ art fair last weekend.

Ever since my “driving whilest liquorated” incident, Petey’s been doin’ all the drivin’. The irony, or unfairness (whatever y’all wanna call it) is that Petey don’t git stopped by no PO-lice even though he’s a-drivin’ with his head hangin’ outta the window and his big houndy lips half blindin’ ‘im as they’s flappin’ in the wind ….. but give me a jug-a hard cider and I’m deemed “incapacitated”. Just don’t somehow seem right. But there y’have it. Petey drove. Found us a darn good parkin’ space too – and this time, despite any natural inclinations to do so, Petey didn’t park in fronta no fireplug.

We entered the fair site and walked three-fourths of the way around the block and I was already lost. On EACH ONE of the sides of the courthouse square they was guys what was sellin they’s vacation snapshots that was dang near identical. I was beginnin’ to think that…

1. I was continual-like walkin’ past the same place an’ making about as much progress a’walkin’ as one of those silly mime guys does when they’s doin they “walkin’ inna the wind” bits.
2. They was a buncha guys what vacationed in hoity-toity YOO-rup, an alla them brought they’s same snapshots t’sell.
3. Maybe they was bunches of photos of YOO-rup available that anyone could just sorta order themselves up and sell at the art fair.

…But Petey finally sets me straight. “Hank Bob”, says Petey (not everone can unnerstand ol’ Petey, but NEVER unnerestimate the communication skills of yer hound type dogs) …anyway……..Petey says, “they’s all different photographers. …No, really, they is! One’s a-shootin’ his shots in TUSKanny, the other in Venice….

…at this point, I don’t wanna be contrary to Petey. The dog’s smart ‘n all, and I don’t often question ‘im. But when he says “Venice” I mentions how I don’t think that a guy could survive on annuther plannit.

Did you’ns know they’s a town called “Venice” and it only sounds like “Venus”? You hang around Petey ‘n’ you learn things and stuff. Besides, as Petey tells me – only one a them two rhymes with… …wait a minute…

…PETEY!? …oh yeah…

…Petey says only one-a them rhymes with “Dennis”.

…Anyway’s Petey points out that, even though these here photos all LOOK the same, they’s actual prolly the work (and Petey uses that word “work” with just the ever-so-muchness of a smirk on his jowls) of more’n one photographer.

Anyways, speakin’ of photographers…

As I starta get my bearin’ at the show, I stumble upon some pikchers of wimin what ain’t wearin’ NOTHIN. They’s all stroon out with they backs all a-stretched out on rocks and tree limbs and such with they private parts in less than private views. And I gotta tell you …. they don’t look none too comfortable with they's bare nekid skin achafin’ agin rocks like that. Petey wonders out loud if they ain’t a given theyselves a bit of a back scratch when the photographer sneeked up on ‘em unawares-like.

Petey figures out that them wimin done been sneeked up on, on accounta…

1. To get them wimins shedda they clothes, that photographer must be real handsome-like – like the second-coming of Billy Ray Cyrus or sumpin ....... and this photographer’s no Billy Ray.
2. (…and this is something that Petey noticed before me…but) none of them wimins is lookin’ direct-like atta camera. They been sneeked up on. Petey noted this because, whereas he was lookin at them wimin’s faces, I was otherwise engaged in oglin’ they’s “non-facial” parts.

I kinda lost my taste for oglin’ when it all of a sudden-like occurred to me that them poor wimin’s families is someday gonna be amongst the thousands of folk what stroll past this photo display in the course of a art fair. I may be a bit backedwards, but even I don’t relish no thoughta suddenly stumblin’ on a wall of pictures of my sister or my mother in they’s altogethers. Might damage my psyche enough to drive me to more liqueratin’.

At this point, I looks down at Petey and I tole ‘im this mournful tale ‘bout just such a incident. Seems that this young feller stopped by just sitch a photography display and he was a-gazin’ at these photos of nekid wimin and a-thinking pure thoughts about the nat’rl unsporled beauty of the humin female form and sitch. After about five minnits of such deep contemplation, the young feller finally takes t’studyin’ the woman’s face inna picture. Yikes and stuff….the woman inna picture is this fella’s sister!

Well, he lets out the most horrible and mournfullest wail as he claws at his eyes ‘til he’s blinded. “This” I says to Petey, “Is what them in the Scientific K’myoonity refers to as “The Law of Unintended Can’t-See-Quences”.

At that, Petey jiss rolls his eyes .... ‘cause, as everyone knows, hound dogs don’t much ‘preciate a good pun.

Petey and me left that photographer’s booth and made our way further down the show – nearly snow-blind from the mass a white tents a-glowing in the noon-day sun.

We stumbled upon a real nice potter fellow from the State-a Ohiya. Actually, it was kinda embarrassin’ but I ended up buyin’ one of this potter fella’s ikky-bannas ‘cause he done caught Petey drinkin’ outta one of ‘em. It’s not a total loss – Petey’s got him a fancy water bowl, and I’m keepin’ that spikey thing in my tackle box – that’ll be just the thing for grippin a bass whilst I’m guttin’ it. They ain’t nothin’ in the universe what’s slicker’n bass guts. I theorize that if they was to find a way to completely cover planet earth with bass guts, the ol’ third rock would slide right outta the solar system. I can’t figure out where that theory would come inta practical application, but I tell you agin – bass guts is slick.

That potter fella started talking to me’n’Petey about his Raccoon pottery. We’ll, me’n’Petey have done us a raccoon or three in our day and we thought we’d be interested in what this fella had to say. We wasn’t. Turns out to be another one-a them “venus/venice” things. I was a-noddin off in the middle of that potter’s L-O-N-G explanation of the raccoon/tea ceremony thing. The onliest thing that kept me from bein’ rude to this fella and fallin’ asleep amidst his boring explanation was to let my mind wander back t’that photographer’s nekid wimin. Thankfully, Petey began to sniff and look a little longingly at the corner of the potter’s display propanel. It’s then that the potter quickly suggests that maybe I need to find Petey some grass to “water”.

Good boy, Petey.


Now’s a bitta bad reportin’ t’do. I’m sorry, Mr Bauman, but I told you that I’d tell you honest-like what Petey thoughta your pottery display….


…let me put it this-a way…

If’n Petey was one a them bomb-sniffin’ dogs, he’d-a been on full point and a-facin’ your direction. And just so’s we’re clear here – when Petey says “you the bomb”, he don’t mean it like no hip-hop slang wherein them clever rap stars employ humorous irony and say “bomb” when they mean “good”.

Petey says that if’n he hadn’t a drank no water or nothin’ for, say, 3 months……..and during that 3 month period Petey had lived in a desert…..and furthermore, during that 3 month period Petey had eaten him a diet that consisted total-like of saltine crackers….

…ol’ Petey wouldn’t drunk outta a Ikky-banna of yours for nothin’.

Sorry.

All in all, me’n’Petey had a fine day at the art fair. Thanks for suggestin’ that we come. Always good to see you,

Hank Bob & cnil emdflk (<---that’s Petey. He can’t type too good, and his dew-claw gits hung up on the spacer bar)