ChronicJimmy would like to regale his readers with tales from the Queen City. While attending a party in Lower Price Hill, he overheard a conversation by a mysterious man in a lovely silk blouse who recently purchased a home in a gated community in prestigious Brown County, Ohio.
OK, so you are amazed that 1. ChronicJ could gain access to the Price Hill elite and 2. that there could be anything gated in Brown County other than the county jail.
Months after the Madoff arrest, the financial chatter has died down among all the heirs to the various junkyard and Port-o-Let fortunes which through the years have allowed LPH to become a hotbed of culture and philanthropy. Sadly, some lost big in the stock market debacle and have had to move back into tinfoil double-wides with kindly dope-smoking cousins. But I digress.
You see, our hosts in LPH were smart enough to have “diversified assets” and thus escaped utter ruin and continue to live a cultured lifestyle replete with cases of Bud Light 08 (a fine year) and gallons of Jack Daniels whiskey. Indeed, ice is still selling well and they have little worry that they will have to give up their boat, captained by a Bill Clintonesque fellow in a brown velour suit and christened the Slippery Cigar.
Anyway, the gentleman I overheard speaking about a “compound” he was building on the lake seemed to have most details in order. Organic vegetables, nude sunbathing, chemical-free mosquito repellant, and masseuses on hand to keep the Great Leader in a good mood and fullest open chakra (centered of course in the lower abdominal region.) Still, there was one nagging issue.
“I don’t know if I should deflower all the virgins myself or contract the work out.”
“Where are you going to find any virgins in Brown County,” his stunned listener replied.
“We might have to import them from Millersburg.” The future cult leader had a thoughtful mien. I admired his lovely accent, which placed his origins in the environs of Cheviot. Fascinating place.
“You’re going to raid the Amish?”
“Sure. They won’t have a clue what’s going on.”
“How are you going to accomplish that?” The puzzled man poured himself another snort of Jack.
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe I’ll start some sort of band camp where all the counselors speak German. The Amish would send their kids to that kind of thing, wouldn’t they?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll figure something out.” The Great Leader stretched his arms and stated that he was going for a walk along the river.
“Dude, you won’t find any Amish down there.”
“I know, but maybe I’ll find a twelve-year-old without any brothers.”
Now mind you, ChronicJimmy found this conversation quite disturbing. But since he has no intention of ever stepping foot in Brown County, Ohio, he’s not sure there is much he can do about the whole thing. And besides, it was just idle chitchat from one touched eccentric to an incredulous stranger. The Compound will most likely never come to be. Koolaid, anyone?
