January 14, 2016

The PAC is closed.
The blog has ended.
Go away in peace.

William Charles Hughes

Stick an Eight Iron Up Your Ass, Sir

>Life, Liberty, and what did you say? – Got a gas can?<

Long ago, there was yet another controversy at 23rd & Saint Louis Avenue. What’s the problem? Not only won’t Bill Hughes golf, he has refused to caddy. The reason? “I don’t like those old [mafia] guys.” Yes, I nailed it at age 11, and here’s how it went.

Like Howard, when Charles Hughes hit the golf ball, unlike my human body lately, it went places. And, for several rounds of golf, Charlie would not disabuse himself of “Bill the Caddy” as a viable concept. I said, over and over, “I can’t hit the ball, I don’t like golf, and I won’t do it.” Why not? Apparently, Russian troops were going to land on New Jersey’s shore if I failed to produce the golf club fast enough.

I can handle pressure, but not about a fucking golf club. Charlie’s lecture about the three wood clubs, I may have forgotten. The lecture included when to use the clubs as I was thinking, “Mom will get me out of this.” On the green, I was early to identify Charlie’s golfing weakness as he gyrated and cursed over a missed putt. I ingeniously said, “Why not try a different putter?”, and he did.

I think our Catholic uniform money went toward this magic putter, then I got his lecture about the materials and craftsmanship that went into the modern putter, circa 1965. Because of this weakness, Charles would too often say, “That’s a bogey.” And? The young me said, “I know that, dad.” Me as scorekeeper? I just didn’t get it, as with bowling.

Finally, Charles was cornered by two maternal uncles who said, “Charlie, he just won’t do it.” As for the session at TOWER TEE, God above knows 40 years later, he was still trying. On that occasion I said, “You can buy as many buckets of balls you want, I can’t hit the damn ball.” The happy part of this is, at age 73 the ball would go up in the lights and I still did not know where it landed. The man could hit a golf ball straight, like Howard. Get it, Halliburton?

I then began counseling Charlie on how someday he would be so old, he could no longer play golf. Since I’m so opposed to covert anything, I will disclose it was a GE phone on the wall at 11019 Molerus Drive when he wistfully said, “Bill, this might be the last 18 holes.” I kind of liked the guy, and not my evil relatives who apparently tossed him in in a VA grave with very little fanfare. And the bigger insults are: a). The alleged family members knew where I was “stuck.” b). It is apparently a family tradition to confiscate property. Their problem? I’m not dead yet. I’m Howard’s son. Why do I yell at airplanes at air shows? Because I can, and this is legal.

Meet E. UnqualliIfied Shrikus, Ph.D. He’s got the report!

“Mister Hughes has a long history of shouting at airplanes under the influence of his DNA. This serious condition began with irrational comments on the F-4 Phantom, and continued into adolescence with pathological remarks about the Harrier Jump Jet. He was often heard making inappropriate remarks like, ‘How the fuck does it do that?’ This indicates a clear malfunction in the upper corps cerebral text, manifested by...

 

314-877-0300

             

“Tonight, the show is in Iowa to ask Republican candidates about Area 51 and DARPA flying triangles. Our first guest is Deputy Sheriff Buttkiss, who saw a UFO from his squad car in 1976, our Bicentennial year, Sheriff tell us about the…  

 

Hoosiers! Niggers! Unite! (But Stan is Right – And’s He’s Got MONEY)

>I’m Not Protected by USA’s Amendment #14 –Pepperdine, eh?<

My daddy did not meet with every lousy Democrat mayor you’ve ever had? Yes, he did! (And it was really weird when Poelker was in there, because his brother Carl was our Monsignor). Yes, the good Padre said, “As far as I’m concerned, you are excommunicated.” Young Bill Hughes quickly went to a nun and said, “He can’t do that. Only the Pope can do that.”

Much later, at the Sammy Davis Temple, Hughes would whisper, “I know you read it backwards” and no one stared like an automaton. We sure do know how young Jews nail it at the Bar Mitzvah, then exclaim, “I don’t believe a word of that shit!” That’s Judaism. They never seem to be happy with anything, especially the political arrangements in Jerusalem.

On the MetroLink a.k.a. “MonkeyTrain,” The Hughes saw drug deals go down under cameras and said nothing, but when a black dude mentioned the Checkerdome, I was allowed to talk. How about the old Area during Blue Note, year one, fans? I said, “Dad, how did you get these tickets?” Charlie? He always knew some guy, whereas I know no one. What the hell is that, Francis?

Bill likes LOUD. Bill likes the AUDIO, like sticks off the glass. Don’t those chumps at ESPN remember when I said, “Just open an extra mike near the boards.” Yes, our high school match sounded like the damn NHL, and I got what? Screwed!

What happened at that 1967 hockey game with the Area half-full, white man? Someone took offense at blatant slashing, and all the gloves went on the ice. Fighting, Fighting, Fighting. And, when the ref got in the way, they skated around him and kept Fighting, Fighting, Fighting. Hey liberals! The blood was real, unlike show biz wresting when my college chums were almost ejected from the old Kiel, we acted so crazy. Yep, you could hear the ref yelling, “Get in there!” regarding the Penalty Box, and no Saint Louis cops were summoned. Not one. 

Young Bill Hughes turned to Charlie and exclaimed, “This is cool! I think more people will show up!” Yes, they did, and much later, I’d be watching tepid hockey and talking Blues, as with, “These fuckers will never win the cup.” This was uttered to an Air Force girlfriend. As for the broadcasting red light, I said, “Look across the rink. I think we’re on TV.” Bernie Ferderko knows they destroyed the tape. Sure they did, and I resisted temptation to mess-up Ken Wilson’s hair on the air. Why not? Hughes is “Jail Aversive,” when these days, many are not.

A day late and a dollar short, right KSHE?

“Tonight, we’ll be talking to you live from Jefferson City, Missouri where we will be joined by some primarily Republican public officials who resigned for grabbing intern ass. Later, we’ll go on the road a short distance to Columbia, Missouri to chat with redneck Nazi youth who have reportedly never seen black people. Governor Nixon is slated to drop by and describe his maturation growing up in the white trash hills of Jefferson County, Missouri. We’ll be sure to ask him how he could possibly be a Democrat, and character assassination fired at local hick Stan Kronke has national staying power, so we’ll trash him up. They’ve left the light on at the 6 motel we are so damn cheap, and now, the network is in my ear wanting a ‘shout out’ for UFO chasing white lighting chuggers at our West Virginia station, W…