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"Rip Van Winkle" is one of 13 satirized stories by famous authors appearing in the new e-book Thirteen Sick Tasteless Classics, Part V. The new adult versions have been put into adult parody form by Jay Dubya.
“Rip Van Winkle”
Whoever has made a pleasurable boat voyage up the Hudson River will automatically be impressed with the Catskill Mountains, especially if the observer previously and exclusively believed and thought that cats kill mice. The Catskills are a segment of the great Appalachian Mountain Chain, and yes, as everyone who studies American geography is quite aware, the Appalachians are parallel to the equally magnificent Peachalachians. And in truth, the magical hues characteristic of the Catskills change from season to season, and the promiscuous wives of elderly impotent male residents are perfect weather barometers, even though few of these sex-crazed nymphomaniacs have any lethal measure of mercury in their un-prudish-but-fully-covered hourglass bodies.
When the daily air and wind pattern is fair and tolerable, the Catskills are cloaked in a majestic blue and purple haze, but when the sky is remarkably sunny and cloudless, the wondrous mountains will accumulate a hood of gray mist around their loftiest summits, a peculiar vapor that simply mystifies (mistifies) the casual observers randomly taking peeks at the peaks, making the apexes appear to be akin to the stellar gleaming of the Crown Jewels of England.
At the base of these fairy (but not gay) fabled mountains, the visitor could on a clear autumn day notice smoke billows swirling-up from various chimneys situated throughout the somnolent village, a hamlet of great antiquity, having been founded by conscientious early Dutch colonists. The houses themselves had been built of small yellow bricks that had been carefully imported across the Atlantic from the Netherlands, the construction materials never ever passing through the famous Holland Tunnel. The mediocre village homes featured latticed windows, gabled fronts and un-circumcised weathercocks adorning the roofs used for the sole purpose of gauging wind direction.
Within this aforementioned nondescript village existed a certain dwelling that was rather shabby and weather-worn, and inside the hideous-looking eyesore lived a lazy indolent asshole named Rip Van Winkle. Several decades before the “Great Revolutionary War”, un-industrious Van Winkle resided in the grotesque-looking abode with his shrewd shrew of a wife, Dame Van Winkle, along with his toddler daughter Judith and seemingly comatose infant son Rip Junior.
As for lethargic Rip Van Winkle, the unmotivated bumpkin claimed to be a direct descendant of the noble Van Winkles of yore, a noteworthy clan that had audaciously battled against savage and peaceful Indians alike in the chivalrous days of valiant Peter Stuyvesant, the last Dutch Governor of New Netherland, before the province became New York under notorious British dominion.
But poor Rip Van Winkle was neither a fighter nor a wife lover. And much to his nasty spouse''s chagrin, Rip was beloved by the lackadaisical men and horny women of the commonplace village’, despite the fact that even Rip''s listless donkey was a totally lazy ass also. So whenever Van Winkle either tilled his potato garden or disked his small field to plant assorted summer and fall vegetables, it was indeed a harrowing experience for the pleasant peasant to endure.
But popular Rip Van Winkle was a kind and humble neighbor and an obedient henpecked husband, who obviously never had ever read and comprehended William Shakespeare''s supreme masterpiece “The Taming of the Shrew,” for Van Winkle was illiterate and never even learned the twenty-six letters of the standard alphabet.
Despite these rather glaring shortcomings, the benevolent man possessed an enormous penis that remained erect for hours on end, several centuries before Viagra, Cialis and Levitra were ever commercially produced by greedy drug companies and then vastly distributed by avaricious left-wing liberal pharmacies along with immoral profit-minded apothecaries.
And without a doubt, the good kinky adulterous village wives, all of whom were infatuated with Rip Van Winkle''s superb perpetual erection, unanimously sided with the Pauper''s “accursed position” against the frequent railing of his dominant shrew, and their abundant gossip always laid the ultimate blame for any one-sided family dispute squarely on sharp-tongued Dame Van Winkle.
“Poor Rip! If only his nasty-tempered wife knew what the hell she was missing,” the village wives would marvel and chatter during afternoon quilting bees, “but unfortunately, she''s a reprehensible frigid bitch who absolutely hates her own damned cunt! God! Rip''s eight-inch-long tongue is almost as delightful as his fantastic foot-long pussy stuffer! How the hell that venomous bellicose frigid witch ever had two kids I''ll never know!”
And psychologically defeated Rip often assisted the younger village boys in making miniature outhouses and massive dildos, and also flying kites exhibiting artistically-drawn nude women, and the innovative experimenter occasionally demonstrated to the hamlet''s youth the proper manner in which to be licking wet pink hairy pussy, how to be shooting square marbles in the thick mud, along with proficiently exploding large quantities of putrid sperm juice into the lower atmosphere.
And finally, Van Winkle was proudly adept at telling the more superstitious male urchins all about dangerous Iroquois Indians, about weird witches possessing three hairy-crack slits, and also about vile pedophile ghosts that ironically raped and tortured unprepared priests, ministers, bishops, parsons, imams, popes and rabbis. So naturally, when Rip was preoccupied napping or slumbering under a secluded tree, the inspired acne-faced juvenile delinquents would obsessively masturbate each other when they weren''t privately jerking-off inside their family''s smelly wooden outhouses.
But truly benign Rip positively despised any form of toil or labor for himself, or more specifically, for his own monetary advancement, but the good-natured loser would gladly help any of his neighbors plow their fields, and as a wonderful reward, the appreciative farmers would allow Van Winkle to sexually service their nympho'' wives when they themselves were too pooped to pop their already overworked weasels. And when the accommodating fellow wasn''t intensively porking the kinky neighborhood sluts, wily Rip would carry his foul fowling piece upon his shoulder into the local woods and shoot squirrels, foxes, rabbits, lemmings, cockroaches and even pet pigeons named Walter.
But regrettably, Rip farted around so much that there was a tremendous gaping gash in the crotch part of his very baggy pants. Van Winkle''s favorite attire was a pair of ancient galligaskins, similar to the oddball garb that the first Hudson River Dutch settlers had worn in the early 1700s. And formidable Dame Van Winkle''s persistent oral tirades made Rip think, ''My wife''s uncouth mouth is too big even to suck on my gigantic dick! If she were any respectable ordinary woman,'' Van Winkle sadly considered, ''my wife could administer a superior blow-job much more adequately than any sex-skilled whore, harlot or hussy residing in the entire Hudson Valley!''
Rip''s truest domestic friend was his sole canine Wolf, who also feared Dame Van Winkle''s wrathful diatribes much more than the trained predator was intimidated by hostile area Indian tribes. However, Wolf was a ferocious attacker of docile pet dogs, often behaving like a fierce cannibalistic sadist, habitually biting-off little puppies'' wieners as well as those belonging to wildly bullying bulldogs, compelling the vanquished victims into licking their own disgusting-looking mangy-furred peckers, which were shaped sort of like lengthy Z-formed lightning bolts. And in regard to his psycho'' dog, grateful Rip earned many a shilling having Wolf lick various old men''s dicks, especially those limp danglers attached to elderly geezers who hadn''t enjoyed either an erection or a decent ejaculation for several decades.
As years of difficult matrimony rolled by, Rip became extremely disenchanted with Dame Van Winkle''s perpetual litany of threatening remarks. ''She''s got the only adult pussy in the village that I''ve never both licked and screwed on the same night,'' Van Winkle lamented in reference to his lambasting partner for life. ''I think I''ll head over to the village inn and see what the fuck my loyal buddies Nicholas Vedder and Derrick Van Bummel are bullshitting about. We three assholes really relish sitting together in the shade around and beneath the hanging sign of His Majesty King George the Third. At least the cozy tavern is one placid spot for me’ to relax and escape my cruel woman''s chronic ridiculing.''
Nicholas Vedder was the inn''s revered proprietor, whose favorite St. Bernard Barf-thalamew would always vomit whenever all-too-aggressive Wolf was busy patrolling and prowling the immediate vicinity. Rip''s thoroughly obnoxious mutt would (without warning) deliberately stick his pecker into a bowl full of vinegar and then force poor Barf-thalamew to lick the sour taste off. This was particularly humiliating to Vedder''s exploited pooch, because Barf-thalamew happened to be the only Muslim animal in the entire Christian hamlet, and the abused cur secretly desired celebrating Ramadan year-round without licking any sour meat.
Erudite Derrick Van Bummel was the sagacious village schoolmaster who had the distinct reputation during every school day of teaching his illiterate students a boring classic that would make the class sick. Each sultry summer and fall afternoon Vedder, Van Bummel, Van Winkle along with three of their undistinguished cronies would sit on the splintery circular bench constructed around a tall oak tree and loudly gossip about local news and current politics, and to make their physical existence more comfortable, there were six square holes hollowed-out upon the rudely fabricated rickety round bench, each senile man sitting upon a separate one, so that if anyone had to take a serious crap during an intriguing group dialogue, the aged fellow in question, not wanting to miss any important conversation being exchanged, quite fortuitously, the curious gent didn''t have to rise and stroll over to the inn''s rear outhouse, but instead, just made a fecal deposit right then-and-there in front of the inn while sitting upon his own private hopper.
And flamboyant Van Bummel would daily fascinate his proletarian audience of five morons from early June until late September, adroitly and impressively employing his enviable vocabulary, articulating certain significant dictionary words like “cunnilingus,” “pornography,” “copulation,” “ejaculation,” “fellatio,” and incredibly, the perverted schoolmaster''s mesmerized listeners really never fully fathomed one iota of what the fuck the knowledgeable pedagogue was adroitly orating.
“You know Nicholas,” garrulous Van Bummel prefaced, his skinny ass seated upon his square hopper hole located beneath the really tremendous oak, “you preposterously verbalize your mediocre pedestrian concepts like you''re a combination of a contemporary Sophist and a sacrilegious Pharisee-turned-Sadducee.”
And then next a rather bewildered Nicholas Vedder indignantly answered, “Derrick, speak normal Swahili so that maybe I could fuckin'' understand your dull dumb-ass bullshit better!”
“Nicholas, don''t you know what the esoteric nomenclature ''coitus'' means?” Van Bummel deliberately asked his very flabbergasted inn acquaintance.
“Yes, I happen to have a bad case of colitis and have to pass gas every time I hear you speak your totally ridiculous drivel,” Vedder all-too-honestly replied, just as the zany innkeeper loudly propelled a large amount of fecal matter down into the wide square hole his fat ass had been hovering over, much to the general amusement of the five other Dutchmen. “I lack the intestinal fartitude to comprehend or endure any of your fucked-up insane gibberish.”
Just then an enraged Dame Van Winkle showed-up in front of the inn, lifted an embarrassed Rip Van Winkle up from his familiar bench, furiously kicked her appalled husband in the testicles three times, and then after dropping her humiliated spouse into the nearby high weeds, grabbed both Nicholas Vedder and Derrick Van Bummel by their exposed necks, hoisted the surprised nitwits up off their square thrones and then violently plunged their heads precisely into their two pungent square shit-holes, whose never-cleaned storage drums were situated directly beneath.
Then without any evident hesitation, the incensed hag latched onto her already-stunned husband''s right ear and forcefully yanked Rip out of the high weeds, dragging him off the friendly premises, cursing and screaming vehemently during the whole bizarre enterprise.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
On a most excellent autumn afternoon, seldom motivated Rip Van Winkle, accompanied by his faithful companion Wolf, initiated an arduous ramble high-up into the interior of the scenic Catskill Mountains, the challenging excursion occurring immediately after petulant Dame Van Winkle had brutally scolded her husband, telling Rip to “Take a long hike off a short crag!”
The crestfallen Dutchman reckoned that he should scramble as far away from oppressive “Petticoat Tyranny” as the persecuted soul possibly could wander. ''I dare not lie down here,'' the disconsolate trekker realistically thought, ''or else Wolf will certainly piss on my face as is the nasty scoundrel''s distasteful habit. My neurotic mutt must have some sort of major urinary or kidney problem. I just gotta'' maintain my spunk and keep ascending. Too damned bad I''m not ascending up into Heaven instead of up from that raunchy village below! Oh well. I suppose this rugged mountain just has to satisfy my weary emotional needs for the time being!''
From a narrow opening positioned amidst the dense tree growth Rip''s eyes again detected the sleepy village far below, and his keen pupils also perceived the incomparable Hudson River glittering like a silver stream off in the distance, shining from the bright sunlight''s weakening reflection. Several small fishing boats (that had learned how to catch pike and shad all by themselves) were recognizable to the south, the vessels obviously heading towards New Amsterdam (New York) where the ambitious fishermen would sell their daily catches at market.
To Rip''s immediate right was an ordinary mountain glen, with steep ridges, and now the overhead crags were gloomily shading that part of the lofty ravine from the fearful adventurer''s eyes. ''I hope I can shoot a squirrel or two with my trusty fowling gun,'' Rip wished and prayed. ''I gotta'' remember to string those fur-babies over my shoulder and conceal them underneath my tawdry wool jacket or else Wolf will wolf-down those luscious suckers before I could ever say ''That gay faggot Attila the Hun'' just once.''
As bedraggled Van Winkle was about to reluctantly descend the precarious incline his cold ears detected a squeaky voice hallooing from a distance, “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" Thirty seconds later Rip''s surprised eyes discerned a freakish-looking midget of sorts, the queer-looking bloke struggling to carry a heavy cask through a tunnel that nature had (over the eons) carved through that remote side of the picturesque mountain.
''That little twerp in desperate need of help is wearing a jerkin that the short piss-head more than likely wears when jerkin''-off!'' Rip mused and smiled. ''And what''s with the wild grizzled beard and the shabby galligaskins the puny asshole is wearing, quite similar to the ones I have on my bony rear-end right this minute; yes, they''re just like the tarnished ones I had inherited from my great-great-great grandfather! Maybe this gay-looking son-of-a-bitch elf is really masquerading as a fucked-up female transvestite in disguise.''
The diminutive wrinkle-faced dwarf gestured for Rip to approach and assist him in enacting and completing his seemingly difficult task. Thinking that he might earn a cup of rum or gin as a reward for his solicited cask-transport employment, Rip readily complied with the strange imp''s tacit hand-signal. The unusual pair clambered onward with their difficult burden, laboring up a narrow shadowy gully, and as the encumbered duo awkwardly ventured on, Van Winkle heard certain long rolling peals of thunder originating a mile or so up the desolate rustic trail.
''That peculiar noise sounds a lot like people playing a game of ninepins!'' Rip recollected. ''I have no money so I hope I can participate in their merry gambol without having to gamble! Come to think of it,'' Rip nostalgically reminisced, ''bowling''s definitely up my alley! But even without a map, I''m aware that we''re perilously climbing just east of Tarrytown! We''re certainly not anywhere near friggin'' Bowling Green, Ohio!''
Soon the un-dynamic twosome emerged from the thin dark tunnel and next ventured into a second hollow that was surrounded by high precipices along with towering coniferous trees that understandably shrouded the glaring sun and made all visibility almost opaque. ''This little asshole companion of mine must have a mild case of laryngitis because the wimpy knucklehead hasn''t spoken a damned word since he first beckoned my name! How did the little jerk-off know my full name to begin with?'' Rip wondered. ''Oh, now I get it!'' Van Winkle comprehended, his inquisitive mind swiftly shifting gears. ''Another name for being a bowler is kegler, and now I''ve been helping this annoying mute pipsqueak deliver this keg of liquor to some sort of mysterious mountain party! Shit! I hope they have plenty of marijuana and drunken whores there too!''
The exhausted transporters slowly entered a natural pristine environment that handsomely formed a remarkable sylvan forest amphitheater, and in the center of the surreal phenomenon stood a company of odd-looking serious-faced miniature gentlemen actively playing an intense game of ninepins. The extraordinary chaps were dressed in the quaint-but-ancient fashion of revered Dutch fellows who had lived several centuries before, all sporting behemoth-sized breeches having decorative rows of buttons down each pant side. ''Those idiotic jerk-offs are wearing jerkins just like my anonymous guide. Holy Hades! I now feel just like Alex in Fantasyland!''
The tiny corpulent ''Dutch leprechauns'' all possessed stone-cold melancholy expressions upon their visages, suggesting that they were fundamentally bored and unhappy with life and with living, and if the oddball phantoms were indeed three centuries old as it initially seemed, one could easily sympathize with their remarkably tired plight.
A stout little gray-haired asshole sporting a short shiny sword dangling from his waistband appeared to be the contingent''s supreme commander. And the entire astonishing assemblage reminded Rip of smaller versions of characters in an old Flemish painting he had once viewed while touring a prominent New Amsterdam museum, and when the speechless festooned personages began coughing-up and spitting disgusting green lungers all over the damned verdant meadow, alert Van Winkle accurately concluded that the diminutive repugnant freaks were indeed ''phlegmish.''
''Those portly Lilliputian Dutchmen must all bathe their cats in vinegar because they''re all showing sour-pusses exactly where natural human smiles oughta'' be displayed upon their faces!'' Rip creatively imagined. ''These frightening petite ghouls oughta'' have been dead two hundred years ago! At least that''s what my inferior education is tellin'' me!''
Suddenly, upon noticing the arrival of their impoverished native human guest, the pint-sized ancient Dutchmen ceased their bowling activities and then concentrated their full attention upon incredulous Van Winkle, whose eyelids immediately began to neurotically flap and winkle. The alien celebrators then emptied the contents of the heavy keg into a sturdy flagon, and next the eccentric group gestured for Rip to wait upon and serve the designated alcohol to them, and upon clumsily completing the obliging servant''s duty, the sad-faced entourage motioned to Van Winkle to indulge in sampling the potent beverage himself.
Rip was delighted to acknowledge that the wonderful drink tasted exactly like the Holland gin that old tavern owner Nicholas Vedder secretly kept as ''inn''s treasure'' down inside his cobweb-infested ''wine cellar''. But being extremely thirsty, Rip ''Let it rip!'' and promptly gulped-down two additional cups of the abominable intoxicant, and soon thereafter, the dizzy and giddy imbiber''s sensibilities had been egregiously conquered, and a few seconds later, victimized Van Winkle''s body collapsed upon the wet soggy turf, and soon poor Rip''s vulnerable mind drifted-off into a deep intoxicated sleep.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Upon waking-up from his extended drunken siesta, Rip found himself’ lying upon a damp knoll, strangely enough, the exact spot where he had first observed the old hobbled dwarf carrying the heavy wooden cask upon his shoulder. Birds were busily hopping, chirping and twittering around the tangled bushes with several rude sparrows zooming-down from tall pine trees and then prodigiously crapping upon Van Winkle''s exposed scruffy head.
''Surely I have not accidentally slept here for a full night!'' Rip''s fuzzy mind evaluated. ''Dame Van Winkle will barbarically castrate me and gladly feed my shriveled-up testicles to hungry Wolf, who will surely voraciously devour them without any particular regret. Say, where the hell is old Wolf anyway? I hope my mutt hasn''t run-off with some dominant Doberman bitch. Perhaps he''s been attacked and eaten by those ravenous black hawks from Chicago that migrate here to the gorgeous gorges every autumn.''
Then the awoken sleeper speculated for a moment. ''How could I ever again say ''Fleas Navidad'' to my psychotic dog on Christmas if Wolf''s permanently abandoned me up here in the Catskills? Oh that flagon! That certainly was a terribly lethal vat of Holland gin!'' Rip remorsefully remembered. Without any more pondering, confused Van Winkle moved his hand down inside his tattered galligaskins. ''Thank goodness I still seem to have my dependable balls and scrotum sac somewhat intact!''
Lying flat on the ground, Rip anxiously rummaged around and soon frantically searched the immediate proximity for his well-oiled fowling gun but instead, the anxious fellow discovered a rusty old firelock that had apparently experienced better times. Van Winkle now suspected that the reveling roisters who had been partying the night before had cast a mischievous black magic spell upon him and that the inane rascals had cleverly traded the well-maintained fowling piece for the “useless piece of junk” he now held in his hands.
“Woe is me!” the beleaguered man exclaimed to his apathetic surroundings. “Woe is me!” Van Winkle repeated to the empty and uncaring forest. “I had been sleeping on cruddy algae and upon slimy ferns, but at least I wasn''t resting on my goddamned laurels!”
After weakly rising from his former prone situation, the disenchanted explorer noticed that his aching back was suffering from severe rheumatism! ''This raunchy pain is absolutely excruciating!’ Van Winkle thought, successfully utilizing an academic word he had learned from all-too-vociferous Derrick Van Bummel. ''Holy shit! I''ve lost my formerly reliable hard-on! Now only if my flaccid dick can get stiff again from my new-found advanced arthritis condition. In truth,'' Van Winkle fearfully conjectured, ''my shrew of a spouse won''t give a flying shit about this exceptional deficient predicament of mine, because we never now have oral, kinky or even standard straight sex. To this very day I don''t know how the hell we ever had two repulsive biological children. But I don''t know if the horny town wives and the equally horny village kids will be able to adjust to and appreciate me suddenly becoming Mr. Softy!''
Cautiously descending from a series of treacherous mountain slopes, Rip next slipped, tripped and tumbled several times among birch-wood and sassafras trees, and after slowly rising to his feet, moments later the confused wanderer trampled through random dense growths of witch hazel and poison oak. Wild grapevines also impeded Van Winkle''s downward progress, the dense brush abruptly interrupting one rollicking downhill roll, but still the stubborn perplexed fellow stumbled, and his frame again rotated round and round in another prolonged frenzied descent.
After eventually smashing into an enormous elm tree, and now fearing the looming prospect of starvation, the famished squirrel hunter courageously persevered and doggedly (without Wolf) continued pursuing his ill-fated destination. ''I can''t die up here in the middle of nowhere!'' the troubled trekker worriedly assessed. ''I need to visit Nicholas Vedder''s wife''s fucked-up erotic tattoo and body mutilation parlor at least one more time before I fuckin'' die!''
After finally locating the huge mountain''s base, a half-hour later the encumbered ambler approached the outskirts of the village, which was easily identifiable since all of the gay-looking hamlet homosexuals were appropriately dressed in short red kilts with accompanying matching pink brassieres.
''Shit!'' Rip instinctively hypothesized. ''I know just about every straight and homo'' asshole cavorting around the whole countryside and yet, I can''t recognize a single one of these nauseous degenerate jerk-offs, who are all staring at me like a gaggle of homos'' as if I''m some sort of LBTG ghost! If this is an innocent dream, it''s rapidly transforming into an intolerable nightmare!''
And then the busy-body village residents followed the new arrival''s path in what actually constituted an improvised parade. One of the Village People, a goofy goon named “Tonto from Toronto”, was elaborately dressed as a savage Indian warrior, and another outstanding faggot wearing tight black leather was indeed a modified backwoodsman, while a third village personage was in the costume of a city policeman, and upon Rip''s baffled scrutiny, the fourth associated fruitcake (prancing around within the unorthodox singing group) voluntarily described his totally naked presence to Van Winkle as attributable to him essentially being an out-of-the-closet British Redcoat “going full-musket bare-ass naked.”
The abnormal un-religious procession eventually reached the village center, and not one friendly dog or unfriendly child pretended to know who the hell the formerly notorious Rip Van Winkle was. But the returning lazy farmer imagined that he was a victorious General leading a triumphant phalanx of soldiers into ancient Rome, but then on second thought, the strange new homes, the unfamiliar names painted upon overhead shingles, along with the fully indecipherable new-town scenario further addled Rip''s already-disoriented thought processes.
And upon managing to rub his grimy cold right hand under his chaffed chin, flustered Rip Van Winkle made a rather startling discovery. ''Holy tits’ flying all-around in Satan''s Hell! My beard''s grown a foot! Thank the Lord it''s a foot without five or more fucked-up toes!''
Indeed, the new arrival was under mental duress and his now-anemic mind was rapidly encountering a wicked identity crisis. Rip''s deteriorating brain was indeed thoroughly disheveled.
''Who the fuck am I?'' the groggy refugee futilely guessed and self-interrogated. ''I feel horribly bewitched without my witch of a wife ever being involved! Of all the lousy fucked-up negative luck! Why couldn''t damned Dame Van Winkle take-up squirrel hunting and get herself lost up in the alluring Catskills, instead of poor old me?''
* * * * * * * * * * * * *''
The still-restless vagabond gradually made his journey to his treasured home, but much to his mounting apprehension, Van Winkle observed an abode existing in abject decay with the windows shattered, the doors unhinged and the roof and shingles half caved-in. An ugly cur that somewhat resembled Wolf (but having protruding rib bones) skulked around, wagging its ruffled mangy tail between its hind legs, growling incessantly from misery while moving among the knee-deep weeds, and then the despicable beast very pathetically managed leaving the greatly neglected front yard. “My very dog finds me quite avoidable!” Rip softly muttered. “Even without the aid of a mirror, come to think of it, I do smell like shit in addition to probably looking like shit too!”
Upon very deliberately stepping into the ramshackle house, Van Winkle instantly determined that the hideous place was far beyond repair. Staggering through the dilapidated shack''s most accessible zone, Rip called-out for his wife and children, but only morbid echoes could be heard bouncing off the decrepit walls and then ringing like ghostly whistles throughout the more distant chambers.
The frustrated fellow next exited his former modest bungalow and made his way to the prior scene of Nicholas Vedder''s Inn, which now displayed a unique shingle reading, “The Union Hotel Owned by the Honorable Mr. Jonathan Doolittle.”
“Jonathan Doolittle,” whispered Rip to himself. “He sounds like a worthless indolent asshole, just like I am and was. We oughta'' get along famously, he and I.”
And then Rip perceptively noticed a shoddy flagpole and the attendant banner atop seemed rather alien to his vague memory, the fluttering cloth characterized by a circle of stars and supplemented with thirteen alternating red and white horizontal stripes. “What the hell''s that weird eyesore?” Van Winkle yelled to a crowd of pedestrian bystanders.
“Why that''s the Flag of the States!” shouted back an astounded citizen. “Where the fuck have you’ been hiding your ass? In fuckin'' Siberia?”
And next Rip peered at the overhead portrait of King George, who was no longer garnished in a bright red aristocratic jacket but now was proudly wearing a blue coat with buff trim, and instead of a scepter in the monarch’s palm, the impressive military figure now held a gleaming sword. “Who''s that strange soldier portrayed up there?” Rip hollered-out. “Who the hell is this new guy General Washington, as that alien sign up there reads?”
“Why it''s George Washington of course! He was instrumental in inspiring the American Continental Army in defeating the dreaded British at Yorktown in the last battle of the Revolutionary War!” a local politician rather boisterously bellowed. “You musta'' slept through the entire major conflict, you dumb old fuck Geezer! And by the way, are you trying to lead some kind of local revolt here with that rusty old piece of shit you''re toting, and are you mischievously leading a disorganized rabble of rebel women and children at your heels? Tell me, Old Codger. Are you a Federal or a Democrat?”
“I think this senile jerk-off is a riot, even with his mob of women and children!” a Second Politician arrogantly boomed as everyone else hardily laughed aloud. “I''m willing to wager that this near-dead Methuselah''s real name is Arthur Wrightis! Ha, ha, ha!”
Meanwhile, throughout the entire stranger-than-fiction spectacle, a third egocentric politician, a laconic African named Maliko Akimbo, stood there reticent in the middle of the clamorous throng, and quickly flashing a broad grin, the gaunt Kenyan, indiscriminately wearing tight leotards, was deftly standing semi-erect with his left arm akimbo and with his right hand leaning against a long silvery cane.
“Alas assembled Ladies and Gentlemen,” cried-out Rip in a timid and dismayed tone of voice. “I''m a simple poor quiet asshole, and yes, a foolish native of this fucked-up place, and quite confidentially, I must admit that I''m also a loyal disciple and a true-blue bona fide subject of His Majesty, King George. God bless his mortal soul!”
“The crazed nutcase intruder is a bleepin'' Tory!” a male voice in the crowd screamed. “This senile Old Fart is a contemptible Tory, a spy, a despised British supporter! Let''s lynch his wrinkled ass from the tall oak tree right here and now!”
“Yes indeed, the reprehensible King had all of the Tories on his side except one,” the opinionated First Politician loudly yelled above the din. “And that asshole''s name was Vic Tory! Ha, ha, ha!”
“Folks, truly I mean no-one any harm,” Rip all-too-candidly testified. “I merely came here to the center of town looking for some old friends that I used to bullshit with.”
“Well then, who the hell are these imaginary chums of your?” snobbishly demanded the cocky Second Politician. “I hope that your old pals aren''t fucked-up hangable Tories too!”
“Where''s my good buddy Nicholas Vedder?”
After a moment''s silence, an elderly curmudgeon stepped forward and replied in a shrill piping voice, “Holy fuck! Nicholas Vedder! That gabby shithead''s been deceased and buried these last eighteen years. A wooden tombstone that''s now rotted away in the graveyard told of his date of birth and also of his date of death! But,” the pencil-necked geek qualified, “Nicholas Vedder''s very shrewd wife still operates the extremely profitable tattoo and body mutilation shop on the corner, and she''s even selling myriad volumes of immoral pornography down in Mr. Doolittle''s dank cellar, which used to be her’ perverted husband''s personal sex and sadism clinic that most people thought was a mere gin storage area!”
“Well then,” apologetically continued Rip, “where the hell''s my favorite drinking crony, Brom Dutcher?”
“Brom Dutcher!” exclaimed a fairly delirious woman standing in the raucous crowd. “Why he was killed in the great siege that had been fought at the base of Antony''s Nose! Old Brom was shot in the face by a musket ball and instantly lost both his enlarged nostrils. The poor bastard couldn''t breathe anymore and his lungs soon expired from a lack of air!”
“Well then, where''s my old talkative pal Derrick Van Bummel, the wise-assed schoolmaster who knew more impractical educated bullshit than either Miguel Shakespeare or William Cervantes?”
“Derrick Van Bummel?” yelled-out an old destitute prostitute who could no longer hump and pump upon either a soft or hard mattress. “That imbecile jerk-off went off to fight in the war, became a fabulous general, and now the disliked windbag is incompetently serving in Congress way down south in Washington.”
Rip''s puzzled mind was swimming in sheer quandary with the amount of new complicated terminology being divulged and delivered to his over-sized dirt-laden ears: Revolutionary War, General Washington, Stony Point, Antony''s Nose, Congress, along with the vague allusions ''Federal and Democrat''. “Does nobody here know an unfortunate hen-pecked fella'' named Rip Van Winkle?”
“Rip Van Winkle!” hooted a loud-mouthed lesbian standing in the volatile mob. “Why that''s Rip Van Winkle leaning against that tree over yonder. Yes, the detestable dolt is as idle as a sleeping turtle! This unbelievable tale you''re spouting Old Man can only be described as the bullshit of all bullshit!”
Rip turned his head and gingerly glanced to his right. His bloodshot eyes beheld an acne-faced punk frenetically scratching his testicles and then alternating to vigorously rubbing his scrawny ass in public. The ragged wretch was indeed as lazy and as phlegmatic as his obedient biological father had always been.
“Hey Old Fuck!” the First Politician haughtily commanded. “Who the hell are you anyway? Tell us your legitimate name or else I''ll summon the town constable and have your butt mercilessly tossed into the clinker!”
“God only knows who the hell I am,” Rip complained with an indication of genuine concern. “I''m at the limit of my wits, to be sure. I''m somebody else other than who I thought I was. No, that''s me screwing around scratching my ass over yonder, but no, that juvenile delinquent is somebody else that''s gotten into my shoes.”
Rip then felt compelled to look-down at his feet and with a degree of worry, confirmed to everyone in his doubting audience the fact that he was now barefooted. “I had been my old happy-go-lucky self just last night but soon I fell fast asleep very fast, and those little trouble-making morons evilly switched my gun, and the naughty creeps also stole my splendid dog, and now everything''s radically changed for the worse. I mean,” Rip lamented, “I''m changed, and now to be perfectly honest, I can''t tell who the fuck I am!”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The still somewhat-interested village witnesses now began looking at each other, impulsively demonstrating a variety of winks and nods, the aggregate of folks simultaneously circling their index fingers around the sides of their foreheads. Some of the more suspicious inhabitants even schemed to secure the rusty gun by wrestling it away from the itinerant old codger, who then un-persuasively prattled-on with his erratic narrative.
At that most critical juncture an attractive young lady frenetically pushed her way through the jabbering crowd, simply to obtain a better peep at the bizarre bearded newcomer. The young female was holding a chubby baby in her arms, the alarmed infant crying at the sight of the aged man inadvertently possessing “the rough gray crocodile skin.” “Hush Rip! Hush you little whimperer! The old hysterical asshole won''t harm you one bit!”
The child''s singular name along with the air of the mother''s voice magically caught Rip Van Winkle''s attention. “Who might you be my Fair Woman?” the undesirable-looking village visitor nervously inquired. “What is your formal married name?”
“Judith Gardener,” the young mother stammered. “I''m as good as divorced right now from my irresponsible husband. But on the positive side of things, I do own and operate a small town landscaping business titled: ''Do your gardening with Gardener''.”
“Do you also have a nursery?” Rip inquired.
“Yes,” Judith eagerly answered. “That''s the back room in my house where I breast-feed my infant son!”
“And your father''s name?”
“Ah, the poor bad-luck slug; Rip Van Winkle was his name. But it''s been twenty years since the frivolous fool marched-up into the mountains with his dog and gun,” Judith sadly disclosed. “His pooch Wolf returned home the following morning without him. Some gossipers say that my pop had been shot by a tribe of inebriated Indians from Cleveland or Braves from Atlanta. But I was only a naïve little girl at the time, excitedly looking forward to experiencing the highly anticipated glory of entering puberty and getting violently raped and laid!”
Rip then sighed heavily, for the distraught geezer wanted his parched tongue and dry lips to produce one more salient question. “Where''s your mother?”
“Oh, she had died several years back,” Judith divulged without any sign of sorrow. “She broke a blood vessel in her throat while excessively yelling at a traveling peddler from Boston.”
''What a marvelous stroke of luck!'' Rip automatically thought. And then the sentimental codger couldn''t control his rampant emotions any longer. Van Winkle aggressively grabbed and gathered his daughter and her shrieking offspring into his grimy arms and boldly announced, “I am your derelict father! Young Rip Van Winkle once! Old Rip Van Winkle now! Does nobody here in this fucked-up lesbian and gay community remember Rip Van Winkle?”
A debilitated hoary old whore nonchalantly stepped forward and raised her withered hand up to her brow, her movement quite closely and methodically surveying and inspecting the old hunter''s haggard-looking countenance. The gruesome-looking wench paused for a pregnant moment and then succinctly proclaimed, “Sure enough, it is truly Rip Van Winkle! Don''t you recall? You had screwed me three times in your stenchy outhouse and twice more upon a neighbor''s haystack, all in the same day!”
Rip''s implausible story was told and retold a plethora of times, for amazingly, the whole two decades being fast asleep had been to Van Winkle as but one crazy sinister night. Virtually every settlement along the Hudson from Tarrytown to Albany knew the exotic tale by heart, and soon Rip gracefully evolved into an overnight sensation, lecturing at esteemed, prestigious colleges and universities such as West Point, Harvard, Princeton and Yale, quixotic safe havens where the new savant''s inimitable oratorical presentations were much in demand and coincidentally, immensely received and savored.
But the authentic and highly-regarded village historian, one venerated Peter Vanderdunk, who was renowned for dipping doughnuts into huge cups of gin-spiked tea concocted by irascible Nicholas Vedder, was well-versed in the various Dutch fables and legends that were prevalent throughout the resplendent Hudson River Valley. Peter immediately collaborated and confirmed the validity of Rip''s totally spectacular tale.
“Every twenty years,” dementia-suffering Vanderdunk commenced his recitation, “noble explorer Henry Hudson and his crew of tiny sailors come up the river and together the disgruntled immortal assholes haunt the royal Catskills. Their ship is still called the Half Moon, meaning that Henry Hudson and his goofball mariners were, at best, only half-assed sea-goers. In fact,” Peter loquaciously communicated, “my delusional father once came upon the four-foot-tall zany shitheads playing ninepins up in the mountains, and the disturbing noise of their balls crashing into bowling pins resulted in frightening blasts of thunder radiating throughout the indigenous ravines and valley passes. I mean,” Peter proceeded with his’ informative exposition, “nobody''s ever goin'' to roll my friggin'' balls down a fuckin'' rocky ravine, that''s for goddamned sure! How the fuck could I ever have a wild and miraculous orgasm screwing some receptive tramp at age ninety-nine without any goddamned testicles merrily bouncing around inside my shriveled-up scrotum?”
Eventually the tragic anachronism affectionately known as “Rip Van Winkle” was able to reunite with several of his old inn companions, and most of them (including a rejuvenated Rip) could still respectively achieve super erections and consequently squirt sticky sperm juice all over the round wooden outhouse table still-situated in front of Mr. Doolittle''s totally ghetto hotel.
And Rip was unanimously accepted as the principal patriarch of the now-bustling town, ingeniously chronicling certain hazy-minded events that had occurred in the Hudson River vicinity years before the all-important American Revolutionary War had evolved.
Despite his now-honored regional reputation, Rip Van Winkle could never fully fathom how he was presently a free citizen of the United States, but in reality, that new-found special liberty meant little to his ultra-sensitive psyche. Losing twenty years of a person''s life’ while still aging that length of time would certainly represent a massive dilemma in anyone''s general mental and emotional development.
The abusive dictatorship of King George the Third of England was truly diminished in Rip''s scattered mind when in essence, the onerous debacle, when compared to the vicious “Petticoat Tyranny” of the all-too-diabolical Dame Van Winkle, was of minimal significance to the now-eminent Van Winkle. And whenever the vengeful shrew''s awful name was incidentally mentioned outside Mr. Doolittle''s Hotel, Rip''s contemporary cronies would all reflexively piss their pants soaking wet, and likewise, amused Van Winkle would concurrently crap a mammoth load directly into his two-century-old galligaskins.
Washington Irving (1783-1859)
Named after George Washington, author Washington Irving was America''s first internationally recognized literary figure. Irving started-out as a lawyer, but from the very beginning of his career the man fully resented the monotony of his chosen profession.
In addition to authoring his first huge success titled Knickerbocker''s History of New York, Washington Irving later achieved tremendous popularity with the publishing of The Sketch Book, which included his classic American stories “Rip Van Winkle” and “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”
In later years Washington Irving had built a beautiful mansion on the Hudson just below Tarrytown, the estate being named Sunnyside. The famous writer also is credited with creating the still-used cliché, “the almighty dollar.”
Jay Dubya
author of 49 books
Google: Jay Dubya Books
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