Sorry, not to leave you hanging all cliff-style since Friday's demi-installment of Dickheadz. Here at long last is the gripping conclusion to the saga of B. "Baboon" Baboon.The next time that I saw Baboon Baboon (a.k.a Rhesus Rhesus Ghali Pink Ass) I was a little older, around 15. I was strolling back up to school from down the road where we (and the more haggard of our teachers) smoked cigarettes, and I thought, damn, I'm hungry. How about some snacks. Yeah, snacks.
I crossed the street to where there was a small cluster of shops, including the drug store where I once had the mind-blowing experience of hearing a Muzak version of the theme song from Doogie Howser, MD. I would never even dream to make that up.
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His eyes were fierce.But I was like, hell no, Baboon, and flipped him the bird and walked away.Eventually somebody called the police to tell them about the baboon. Which wasn't necessarily the brightest move as the police where I grew up were half-assed and largely inept. These were the same guys that, when apprehending us as 14 year-olds drinking an astronomically sized bottle of tequila in the park, checked our IDs, confirmed that we were 14, told us to please keep it down before adding as they left, "That's a great tequila, by the way."
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Baboon's probably dead by now, or else a decrepit bum. Or maybe he's running with some gutter punks. Who knows, I never saw him again. But Baboon, if you're out there, somewhere, scratching your pink ass and wondering where next to look surly and unimpressed or act like you're so goddamn cool, let me say just this: You owe me lunch, asshole.
