WALTER CRONKITE PISSED
IN MY BEER
by R.U. Frivolous
One of the most trusted men in
America reveals himself, once again, to be a spiteful, petty old
man with an attitude problem.
WALTER CRONKITE: trustworthy media
mouthpiece, or unsanitary drunken pig?
The answer to that question, dear readers, would depend upon whether
you had ever tried to reason with Uncle Walt in a bar.
Allow me to explain.
It all began on my honeymoon in May of 1997. My new bride, Bimbo
Jones, and I had traveled from our little house in the back alley
of Nation's Burgers in San Mateo, California, to the sunny state
of Florida for two weeks in the sun. Ah, Florida!
Land of fire ants, poisonous birds, and (according to legend)
the "Fountain of Youth".
Tragically, the only fountain we found was the fountain
of Walter Cronkite, which spewed forth not life-giving elixirs,
but a vile and seemingly unending stream of vulgarities.and bodily
fluids!
But I digress...
After a week of basking in the sun and enjoying the warm waters
of the Gulf of Mexico, we decided to venture forth to the American
Mecca: Disney World. Hoping to both expand our minds and shrink
our wallets, we chose to visit EPCOT, our heads swimming with
giddy expectations of what we might find there. Could we really
take a simulated trip under the sea? Could we really see
the General Motors Corporation's vision of the Automobiles of
the Future, and at the same time obtain valuable coupons good
toward the purchase of GM products? Could we really, in
the course of a single day, explore the mysteries of Norway,
the gift shoppes of Mexico and Germany, and sample the
world's finest brews?
Yes, yes, yes, yes, and (tragically) yes.
That evening, after a day filled with English gardens, animatronic
puppets, and plenty of "Disney Dollars," we let our
love of good beer get the better of us: we ventured into the brew
pub.
Oh, but for a hankering for couscous would our lives be different!
Escorted to our table, we settled into our seats and watched as
a graceful, dark-skinned beauty and her old whitehaired boyfriend
danced to the Fine Young Cannibals on the jukebox.. Following
this display, we placed our order, and over the course of the
next hour partook of a couple of tall glasses of fine German brew.
Not even a little tipsy, we decided to order a third, and made
pleasant conversation regarding the day's events.
Until that day, I'd always thought well of Walter Cronkite. This
despite the fact that I'd read an interview with him on The Site
that had saddened me. Mr. Cronkite was campaigning against "irresponsibility"
on the World Wide Web. He'd been stung by a piece that had appeared
on a website called "Circus of Fear."
The piece, titled "Walter Cronkite Spit In My Beer"
had upset Uncle Walt with its entirely untrue allegations. That
Circus of Fear is a humor webzine, and that the piece contained
a disclaimer at the end saying "actual events may differ
substantially from those depicted here" seemed lost on Uncle
Walt. He couldn't bring himself to understand that this piece
had been a parody.
Still, at that time, I still had warm feelings towards the seemingly
avuncular Mr. Cronkite. Today, nearly two years after my encounter
with this bullying sham of a journalist, his leering visage haunts
my dreams, and occupies my every waking thought.
"I beat the snot out of Eddie Murrow, framed Chet Huntley with that hooker back in 1962, and I'm not gonna let some damned kid fuck with Walter FUCKING Cronkite!"
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"There must be someone important at that table behind you,"
Bimbo remarked, glancing over my left shoulder, "the waitress
is giving them an awful lot of attention."
I turned in my seat and saw, to my surprise, Walter Cronkite
"It's Walter," I said quietly. "I have to go speak
with him. I really admire Walter, and I just know I can
get him to understand the joke of that website piece he's so angry
over." Bimbo looked down at her ample breasts.
I wandered over to Mr. Cronkite's table. "Walter, I'm R.U.
Frivolous. I was wondering if I could by you a beer and just
talk to you for a minute about something that concerns me. If
it's not ok, I'll just..."
"Whaa tha FUCHK ish going on here, anyway?" a drunken
voice slurred angrily.
Cronkite balled up his fist and started towards Bimbo, as if to
strike her. I stood to block his advance and asked what the problem
was.
"Prollem? Prollem? I'll give YOU a fuckin' prollem in a minute
there, you fuckin' pussy! I am Walter Cronkite! Do you know who
I am?"
"Mr. Cronkite, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you,
I just..."
By now, the people sitting at the nearby tables had rushed out
of the bar. A hushed silence fell over the rest of the crowd.
"Shut the fuchk up, you . . . you . . . shut up! Speak when
I'm spoken to you . . . you shut up!"
His gargantuan nose protruded from his fleshy face like a diseased
eel jutting from a coral reef. His breath reeked of gin, and as
he loomed over me, I began to fear for my safety.
"I'm sure we can settle this peacefully, sir," I stammered.
"And you know those guys that beat Dan Rather up . . . `What's the frequency, Kenneth?" and all that?
Well …"
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"You make me sick! You puke! You shit eating jerk! I am Walter
Cronkite, you hear? Walter Cronkite! I beat the snot out of Eddie
Murrow, framed Chet Huntley with that hooker back in 1962, and
I'm not gonna let some damned kid fuck with Walter FUCKING Cronkite!"
Here I was on my honeymoon, facing Walter Cronkite -- America's
most beloved journalist -- in a brew pup in Disneyworld in Florida.
I had never felt so alone in my life.
Behind him, the rest of the people at his table rose to leave.
One of them stepped over and placed his hand on Cronkite's shoulder.
"C'mon," the greasy man sneered, "he's not worth
it. Let's go piss off the top of that big ball thing they got
here; you know, the one from that commercial with the mouse."
As Cronkite turned to leave, I heaved a sigh of relief.
"What wass that, boy," Cronkite screamed, running back
towards me, "did you just call me a cock-sucker? HUH? DIDJA?"
"No . . ." I protested, " . . . honest . . ."
"Well, well, well. A shmart-ass! I'm gonna. . . "
Cronkite suddenly stopped.
"Did you know I fucked Danny Rather's wife? He was
at home, too! Haha!"
He leaned in gently and put his arm around me.
"And you know those guys that beat him up . . . `What's the
frequency, Kenneth?" and all that? Well . . ."
Feeling that the tables had turned, and Walter was now my drunk-buddie,
I reached to get a sip from my half-filled beer.
"Whassat? Some kinda cheap American beer? Let me fill it
up for you."
Cronkite grabbled the beer away from me, unzipped his fly, pulled
out a shrivelled-up penis and started to piss. Some went into
the cup. Some missed, and dribbled down the side of his slacks
and onto the floor.
"Hahahahahaha! You, you shit! Fuck you and that piece-a ass
you got with you! FUCK ALL OF YOU!"
His friends were giggling madly.
"Hey, Walter, man! Let's go score some smack!"
"Yer lucky I'm inna good mood, faggot!" he whispered,
and bounded away.
Needless to say, our meal was free.
Yes, the meal was free, but my darling bride and I may
never be; never be free from the nightmares and fear that haunt
us still.
I would like to thank the mysterious Imhotep, a crack-smoking
devil worshipper who believes Spiro T. Agnew would have made a
hell of a good President, for his inspirational words. Remember,
it's not stealing, it's appropriation!
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