I am the Big Shot.
You heard me right the first time.
Name of bachelor Johnny Cool.
Occupation: Big Shot.
Occupation at the moment: just having fun. What a party that was – the drinks were loaded and so were the dolls.
I narrowed my eyes and poured a stiff Manhattan. Then I saw… Hotsie. What a dame. A big, bountiful babe in the region of 48-23-38. One hell of a region. She had the hottest lips since Hiroshima: I had to stand back for fear of being burned. Whiskey wow wow. I breathed. She was dressed as before the bed. In that kind of outfit she could get rolled at night… and I don’t mean on a crap table.
It’s kind of revealing, isn’t it? Revealing? It’s positively risqu – I like it. She said: “You’re a man with a thousand Gs, right?”
“A thousand what?” I quipped. “G-men, girls, guns, guts.”
“You’re my type.”
“Wrong, baby” I slapped her hard. “I’m a `L’ man: strictly liquor, love and laughs.”
She stared over my shoulder: “Play it cool, Johnny.” Play it what? I flipped. “Listen, I fought my way up from tough East Side New York. Lead-filled saps and sub-machine guns, like this.”
She said: “Johnny, this is a deadly game, have a few laughs and go home.” I shuddered. Normally I pack a rod in pajamas – I carry nothing but scars from Normandy beach. I said “Wrong, baby, you can’t fool me.” She spat playfully. “I’m ahead of you, Johnny.” I studied the swell of her enormous boobs and said: “Baby, you’re so far ahead it’s beautiful.”
“You, you are, you are eccentric, I like that.”
“Electric cheri, bonked off my, tout comprende?” We spoke French fluently. Our lips met again and again. “Yeah, yeah yeah” I slobbered. Hotsie said: “You’re slobbering all over the seat, kid.”
I went home late. Very late. What could I say to my wife, “Darling I’ve been beatin’ up again”? Let’s face it she’s credulous as hell.
“A punk stopped me on the street, he said you got a light, Mac?”
“No but i’ve got a dark overcoat.”
–Bonzo Dog Band–