Funky has sought out a park bench far away from the crowd in order to limber up his wobbly, creaky, Stilton-toned legs, when along comes Crazy Harry. “Crazy” actually seems kind of normal today. It’s only when he’s in his postal uni and tweed cap, swilling free coffee at Montoni’s counter, that he rambles nonsensically. What does our mailman deliver today? Just a setup for yet another Funky rant about the cost of living.
He may be unstuck in time, but Funky’s ass remains stuck to that park bench in Olde Westview. He continues to soliloquize about how much better we had it in the twentieth century, although he concedes that GPS is a good thing. But were it not for cell phones, Funky would have one less outlet to express his jerkitude. And if not for the 24-hour news cycle, Funky’s ex would find herself out of work…
Sigh. I don’t know. If I found myself transported back to the hometown of my high school years (1972-1976), I’d be all over the place, taking in the sights and sounds, dropping in on family, friends, and old loves, visiting the places that are gone.
This tired old fuck sits on a park bench. What is it with people in this strip with park benches?
Looks like the Fourth of July festivities have ended; the good folk of late-20th century Westview have gone home to watch The ABC Sunday Night Movie, and they’ll be rolling up the sidewalks soon. Old Funky sits alone, enumerating, in order, the things that occupy his thoughts: the economy…his elderly father…and…what’s my son’s name? Oh, yeah, Cody, uhh, Cory.
Son of Stuck Funky 
