O.J. AND ROBERT BLAKE BACKSLAP
LIKE CRACK-ADDLED RAPPERS ON THE
QUAY OF SCENIC PONCHARTRAIN LAKE

Dennis Mahagin

Simpson,
gimpy and green
around the gills,
with bubble butt
stuffed into barber
pole Speedos,

executes pigeon-toed
side-step of a dead grackle—
its bloody breast feathers stiff
as Hell’s Angel throttle glove
with knuckle tips stripped
by starving slugs.

Shuddering,
he shambles on,
and soon enough
catches up

to Blake with beady eyes all
rolled back in his head as he
makes marshy waves

with a White’s metal
detector gurgling
in the frothy muck.

“Bob-a-Loo!” O.J. cries. “Am I glad
to see you! This place can be such a
bring-down, what with the cloudy skies
and post-Lent driftwood fly larvae like
marmalade on toast points. It freaking
smells funny, too.”

“Yeah, Juice.
The damned water is like
crotch-deep and won’t recede no matter
how one pleads.
Torch a petroleum spill on this
motherfucker and you’d have a fairly
accurate facsimile of Hades,
I do believe.”

“Whatcha doin’ here, Holmes?”

“Some fucking wetlands benefit thing
on board Sting’s yacht moored in the
parking lot of Tulane University.
Don’t ask me how,
but I ended up on Sting’s
fundraiser list.”

“You lucky prick! Fuck, I never
get invited to anything. Anyway,
nice acquittal you swung there, dawg!
Is jurisprudence a hearty smack
on a newbie baby’s ice blue
nut sack or what?”

“No Ifs Ands or Butts, Orenthal.”

“So tell me: When do your
jurors start writing their books?
I mean you lined up a piece
of that action…right?”

“I’ll just keep that under my
coal black John Cochrane watch cap,
if ya don’t mind there, mister.”

“If it doesn’t fit…God rest his soul.
Speaking of which—whaddya think flipped
the script for you, bro? Because you
were goin’ down, fo SHO! Right?”

“I’m innocent, motherfucker.”

“Yeah…and Mark Furman just
joined the Urban League! C’mon
Bobby, give it up now, you heah?”

“Ya know…this lake really is goddamned
spooky as fuck. Garden of good midnight
evil Cajun voo doo stickpin shit.”

“Oh, I get it, Bob. You wanna whisper
the truth in my ear. I’m your Gadfly
Alter Ego madly shrieking like cockatoo
eating crow. Right? That how it go?”

“Fuck you, Juice. I’m so OUTTA here!
I’m dog-paddling down to the Quarter for some
Dixieland. It relaxes me. Maybe I’ll even
purchase some mighty hermaphrodite
pussy looks just like Kato Caitlin.”

“You’ve certainly earned it, Robert.
Say, are we still on for that Pro Am
in Myrtle Beach next month?”

“That’s affirmative. My agent is even
working an angle whereby Mikey Jacko
will be available to caddie for us, since I guess
he could use the bread pretty bad.”

“As long as he doesn’t wear
The Glove. You know how gloves
seriously freak me out anymore.
I mean it, Bobby.”

“Yeah, well, I was thinking about that:
We could have him take the glove off
at the first tee, while doing one of his
slithery half moonwalks all fucking
Marlene Dietrich seductive-like.”

“You are a Super Freak for the Ages, Bob.”

“Fuckin’ A there, O.J. What else can I say?”