Coming to the end of Shitsville. Specifically, Roger.

I say a boy. I mean a dude, but boyish, a lad, laddish. Let’s say. I say he rode into town. He had rented a stallion from a Mexican on the side of the highway. Roger was in white leather chaps with fringe down the sides and a white studded jacket with 45-cm long fringe on the arms, it was so beautiful in the wind. And he had a golden moustache and sideburns like General Custer, and cornflower blue eyes and corn-golden hair and a rosy complexion, let’s say a peachy peaches-and-cream complexion because unlike me Roger Shitsville had never been lost in the desert for any substantial period of time. In fact he looked a lot like Brian Jones.

Roger Shitsville was my fourth cousin. His family was my grandpappy Jack “Washington” Shitsville’s brother’s side of the family. They had been living in Missouri. Young Roger lived a knockabout kind of life, by which I mean his hilarious friends had to roll him home drunk from soccer practice from time to time.

So one day Roger Shitsville, the beautiful, boyish, laddish, peachy keen Roger Peter Shitsville, rode into Shitsville on a movie-made white stallion in glinting chaps only a couple of weeks after I had been made mayor, etc.

It was like, oh. What are the chances. The residents of Shitsville had wanted a Shitsville as mayor, they had given it to me. But now – now, there was Roger.

And everyone loved Roger. I loved Roger. He was a sunshine person. He looked so ace in white chaps and with a moustache. He had the most fabulous smile, I will call it a Jack The Ripper smile which is when your teeth are longer and pointier than most; it’s a smile that cuts your heart out and eats it. Roger was a champ, Roger was one of the lads, etc., etc., etc., etc. You should really never underestimate the power that attaches to having fabulously skinny legs in white chaps.

Basically, the tide in Shitsville very subtly turned against me. I could do everything except three things, and Roger could do nothing but those three things, but those three things were what was really wanted in Shitsville.

1. Grow a moustache.

2. Look good in chaps.

3. Have a tinkly Jack The Ripper smile and look endearingly like a Texas prairie angel when slumped across the bar at Ginger’s in a Jack Daniel’s coma.

Read Next: Dialogue ‘twixt sweet Roger and I


2 thoughts on “Coming to the end of Shitsville. Specifically, Roger.

  1. Pingback: Brooks ended & Frankie returns from the mists | missshitsville

  2. Pingback: Blue, blue brilliant cloudless days in Shitsville | missshitsville

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