R.W.C. #6: 'Smirnoff Watermelons and the Nappy Headed Hos'

"Cheesesticks & Poon: The Adventures of Robot Winston Churchill Across the Ages"

Part Six

"Smirnoff Watermelon and the Nappy Headed Hos"

No one really knew when it first started to happen. Perhaps it started with the youth, and their non-elder-respecting ways. Others claim the competition in the health care industry was growing too fast and those small town, west coast doctas (straight out the C P T) just couldn't keep up. Though, even with all the controversy, we do still know this. The Good Doctor had served the community well over the years, mainly from the fact that every symptom of every disease his patients ever asked him about recieved the same prescribed treatment: "smoke the muthafuckin' weed every muthafuckin' day". Sure, he wasn't one of those fancy, college-educated doctors, but he got the job done. It was, indeed, a good life.

But somewhere along those lines, the people forgot about Dre. The man who brought the small town Eazy-E, Ice Cube, and the group that said "Muthafuck the Police", seemed a mere legend that the town's elders would talk about on their long, lazy evenings on front-porches. And while the youth of that small, isolated middle western emu-farming town went about their days without offering a single respect nod to the Doctor, there was still one who knew. He had been raised by the Doctor from his first days, when Dre had found the small, cigar smoking, witty-aphorism-spouting android in a back alley behind the town's ma-and-pa run strip club/bondage dungeon. And if we can say anything with certainty, in this crazy, mixed up world, its that Robot Winston Churchill ain't neva forgot about Dre.

These nappy headed hos (the ones who forgot about Dre) needed to straight up die. So, there I was, dressed to kill but sitting alone smoking dank nugs and drinking smirnoff watermelons. It was a delight and a pleasure, but when the light came on the ambiance was lost. But that's okay because the travel channel, which I am somewhat watching/listening to, told me that two turkeys are presidentally pardonned each year. My day today was much more eventful than normal. sitting in greek class at noon plus thirty minutes I had no idea where I would be and what I would be doing in a matter of minutes and half-hours. First, when I got back to my residence I found that my friend was the new, proud owner of a fine, official looking fake id. I needed one. So, I figured out the dets on obtaining said contraband (I just sat for about thirty seconds trying to remember if contraband was the right word for the situation) and proceded to enter my university's resident travel agency and garner up an international student id card. For twenty six members of american currency, I was able to obtain a photo-id (internationally recognized as kick ass) that said my birthday was well into 1986. After that, I got turned down at one liquor store but was able to obtain a fair amount of good malt liquor at the second try. So, for the past three hours I've been listening to the new Summer at Shatter Creek album while drinking Smirnoff and smoking Boulder's finest. Truth.

It was a bloodbath. The wrecked and horribly deformed bodies of countless townsfolk littered the dusty street. As Robot Winston surveyed his work, a special sense of pride welled up like so many pretty bubbles in his hardened, andriod chest. For the first time in his computer-controlled life, he had done something for someone else. And, after all, isn't that what life is about; helping our fellow man maintain his dignity? It was a story for the ages, and one that, as we can all see, takes up a special significance this holiday season.