‘Puter woke up this morning with a start, immediately realizing two things were very, very wrong. First, ‘Puter was in his own bed and curiously vomit free, and that never happens after all you can drink Courvoisier and Clam Juice night at the Leaping Peacock. More disturbingly, ‘Puter immediately realized Czar, Volgi and GorT had monkeyed with the Goromogons’ website, migrationalizing it using the intertubes or something.
‘Puter doesn’t know exactly what they did to his beloved website, because technology’s not his bag. All ‘Puter knows is that he hates change with a burning fire worse than the one burning in the crotch of anyone who’s ever slept with Miley Cyrus.
‘Puter’s fellow Gormogons knew ‘Puter would not take kindly to the change, or their insistence he learn a new blog software suite, so they
kidnapped hired ‘Puter a secretary, the fetching and talented Miss McGee.* The Gormogons even salvaged an IBM Selectric from the moat, where it had been used as an anchor for ‘Puter’s goose hunting skiff and its attached punt gun.
Sleestak and Dat Ho managed to “find” a pallet of carbon paper so Miss McGee can type up ‘Puter’s musings in triplicate so his words of wisdom can be saved for eternity.
So, while ‘Puter’s not convinced he’s going to like the change, he certainly is enjoying having his very own secretary to refresh his vodka, rocks, olives as he writes and to pick up pencils ‘Puter’s dropped in front of his desk.
This whole new format thingy may not be so bad after all.
* Yes, secretary and not “assistant,” because assistant is a made up, bullshit PC term that means precisely nothing, akin to “wymyn” or “social justice.” Curiously, Mrs. ‘Puter’s not so happy with ‘Puter’s new secretary.
Always right, unless he isn’t, the infallible Ghettoputer F. X. Gormogons claims to be an in-law of the Volgi, although no one really believes this.
’Puter carefully follows economic and financial trends, legal affairs, and serves as the Gormogons’ financial and legal advisor. He successfully defended us against a lawsuit from a liquor distributor worth hundreds of thousands of dollars in unpaid deliveries of bootleg shandies.
The Geep has an IQ so high it is untestable and attempts to measure it have resulted in dangerously unstable results as well as injuries to researchers. Coincidentally, he publishes intelligence tests as a side gig.
His sarcasm is so highly developed it borders on the psychic, and he is often able to insult a person even before meeting them. ’Puter enjoys hunting small game with 000 slugs and punt guns, correcting homilies in real time at Mass, and undermining unions. ’Puter likes to wear a hockey mask and carry an axe into public campgrounds, where he bursts into people’s tents and screams. As you might expect, he has been shot several times but remains completely undeterred.
He assures us that his obsessive fawning over news stories involving women teachers sleeping with young students is not Freudian in any way, although he admits something similar once happened to him. Uniquely, ’Puter is unable to speak, read, or write Russian, but he is able to sing it fluently.
Geep joined the order in the mid-1980s. He arrived at the Castle door with dozens of steamer trunks and an inarticulate hissing creature of astonishingly low intelligence he calls “Sleestak.” Ghettoputer appears to make his wishes known to Sleestak, although no one is sure whether this is the result of complex sign language, expert body posture reading, or simply beating Sleestak with a rubber mallet.
‘Puter suggests the Czar suck it.