There goes ol’ Foxy working everyone up into a lather, just like the old days. The fella knows how to push buttons.
Of course, he learned from the best. When Ricky was but a wee pup, whenever Mr. and Mrs. K were especially bored or tripping the light fantastic on Mister Blue, they’d release him from his enclosure and cart him into town. Little Ricky was only 8 or 9 years old then and still wasn’t talking – just a lot of aimless pointing and grunting, with some frantic barking mixed in whenever a stranger or animal would approach or make eye contact.
Oftentimes for fun, Mr. K would send Little Ricky alone into one of the local shops, where he’d invariably hear an unfamiliar sound, or see a new shape or color or sight, like food eaten using plates and utensils. Naturally, this would terrify Little Ricky, initiating one of his dreaded rage frenzies. Despite his young age and grossly malnourished frame, Mr. K said it usually took 5 adults to subdue Little Ricky once he’d get going – one to pin down each appendage, then the 5th to stuff a cloth rag, old newspaper, or whatever they could quickly fish from their pockets or a nearby wastebasket into his mouth to prevent further biting. More than one Good Samaritan lost a digit or two in the midst of one of Little Ricky’s spells. From all the years spent grinding them on his chicken wire pen, kid had teeth sharper than Beelzebub’s tail.
Eventually Little Ricky would tucker out or just plain old lose consciousness from all the shrieking and resultant lack of oxygen to his noodle. At that point, the shop proprietor would carefully carry him out, trying desperately not to wake Little Ricky or trigger another episode.
As this spectacle transpired, Mr. and Mrs. K would stand outside the shop, observing excitedly through the store window, laughing all the while like a couple of Alabama banshees. Understandably perhaps, following the extraction of Little Ricky from the store, the angry proprietor would invariably commence a lecture concerning responsible parenting, raising and socializing a special needs child, the importance of enrolling in school or otherwise pursuing a basic education, that sort of thing. Mr. K thought this was a real hoot, and whenever they’d get home, he and Mrs. K would return Little Ricky to his locked sty, pop a couple of bennies, then reenact the entire scene. Mr. K would portray the role of the shop owner, while Mrs. K acted the parts of the horrified onlookers. This role playing would extend well into the night, and I’m told those were mirthful times indeed.
Obviously, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. You know all about the Fiesta Fox’s drawings, as well as the famous bead gag. Although I’m not privy to the numbers, I’m told the transfer rate among female coeds at Mother So Dear from 1970-74 was the highest in the long history of the institution. I suppose there’s only so many times a broad can awaken to discover a naked man perched on her University-issued dresser, pleasuring himself into her underwear drawer.
But that’s Rick, forever looking to mix things up, always the rapscallion. Now he’s gone and created his own message board, rhapsodizing and playing you good folks like a fiddle. Some things never change, and that’s a fine thing by me.
