Home > Lankville Action News: YES!, Penetrating Interviews > Further Leaves from the Diary of Tibbs Senior

Further Leaves from the Diary of Tibbs Senior

Tibbs Senior, shortly before his disappearance.

5/15/66

I was standing at the stove, boiling my toothbrush, when that intemperate moppet Gump, Junior burst into the kitchen.

“Father,” he said, breathing hard. “I wish to join the Craughing Expeditionary Force. It is my intent to kill many of our Lankville overlords.”

I let out a booming laugh.

The affairs of a simple hotelkeeper preclude involvement in worldly matters but in the service of that odious whore that is context I should note that a series of Lankvillian tyrants have infiltrated the 65th parallel and established a most abhorrent suzerainty over our Northern brethren.

“Why, young Gump,” I said, once my guffaw had subsided, “you are too young, my boy. And, I should add, your services are needed here, at the Murray.”

“____ the Murray, this lousy dungeon of vice!”

I removed my belt and whipped the ruffian mercilessly.

He is clearly his mother’s child.

5/16/66

Young Gump woke ill-tempered this morning and was rude to several guests, including poor Mr. Oakes, who had clearly spent the night in a deep state of inebriation. The fledgling shoat also dropped a plate of gravy fries into Mrs. Stocksdale’s lap, causing the wretched matron to launch into a series of coughing spasms from which, I feared, she would not recover. Later, I encountered the dissolute lad in the parking lot.

“My boy, I would like you to join me tonight in making an offering to the seventh emanation of the divine hierarchy between Earth and the Godhead. I believe it will assuage your boyish desires.”

“Father, it is my most luscious intention to join the CEF. I shall do it with or without your approval.”

“And while we are on that subject,” the plucky schoolboy added, “I would also like to announce my intent to wed Shapely Susan.”

“WHAT!” I screamed. “That common ecdysiast that works at that den of iniquity, the Playpen! A THOUSAND TIMES NO!”

The devilish spawn grinned.

“Father, you are indeed most hypocritical. Is my own mother not one of the premier striptease dancers in all of Craughing? Answer me that?”

I could not. The boy was right.

But such depraved nuptials must most certainly be stopped.

5/19/66

I could not prevent this most eldritch dinner to which I was subjected this evening.

Young Gump appeared in the doorway of an upstairs chamber which I was preparing for a visiting dignitary. Behind him, lurking in the shadowy hallway, was a most curvaceous blonde.

“Father!” he announced. “This is Shapely Susan. My fiance. We shall all break bread together tonight at the Bun Boy.”

I did not want to be rude although I could not fail to notice that this harlot had the face of a half-breed.

And so, we drove to the Bun Boy.

Mr. Failing himself was our waiter. He is a slim, insignificant man, known for his fatuous statements at community association meetings. Failing was staring hard at the bust of my soon-to-be daughter-in-law.

Gump (the pure gall) ordered for our entire woeful assembly.

“Tell me, dear,” I said, after Failing had hopped strangely away to the kitchen. “Of the eternal poets, who pray tell do you hold in the highest regard?”

“Who?” she called out in a most unpleasant voice. “What’s he talking about Gumpy?”

Young Gump tore into a lard bun– the specialty of the house.

“Don’t worry about him,” said the abominable spawn. “His education belies his crudity.”

“Who?” she called out again. A most unpalatable tone, the likes of which I had never before heard. “What you talking about Gumpy? What you all talking about?”

“Forget it, darling,” young Gump declared, his mouth discharging shards of lard biscuit. “You are my soulmate. Tonight, we shall make love all over one of Papa’s giant poetry anthologies.”

That was it, all I could stand. I threw a ten down on the table.

“I will not tolerate such outrages!” I yelled. The dining room of the Bun Boy went silent.

“Hahahaha! Go home then, Father, go home to your miserable hostel. Your kind is not needed at the Bun Boy.”

Then the wretch planted an enormous kiss on the cheek of the pitiable harlot.

I walked home, disgusted.

I must think of a plan.

The Diary of Tibbs Senior will continue in future issues.

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