A poor attempt at bad humor.
How To Smillew Like Grimsby Hackney
The Smillew Rahcuef Medium Scrabble Special
“What’s that?” Smillew asks, looking at my opening word on the board.
“Look,” I reply with a long exhale, “You invited me to play scrabble, and there are only two skills required; reading and spelling. I’m not going to read and explain every word.
“But that’s not a word.”
This game is already bullshit, but I will do my best because I’m a good sport. “If you drove down the street and saw a word written on a sign, is it a word?”
“Obviously, duh.”
“Good. And if you see a word on a t-shirt, ball cap, book, or billboard, is it a word?”
“Don’t you think I know anything?”
I shoot a glance at his hat and wonder if I should tell him beaver asshole is out of style. “Of course, I think you know stuff. You’re a comedic legend, a blogging icon — “ Smillew’s eyes close, and a smile creeps across his lips. His shoulders are set back, and his neck elongates.
“You’re going to say it, aren’t you? My favorite thing.”
Oh, Christ. Not again. The last time I said it to him, he went off and made a coaching course and spilled it all over TikTok and Instagram. “Manifest Your Smillew and Reach Your Best You.”
It was all bullshit. He didn’t say a goddamn thing that had any value, and his “course” was videos of tourists trying to eat British food. He called it, “You can’t eat British Food.”
It was a fucking hit, and now Smillew has a shelf full of Beaver Asshole hats.
He also went viral.
“C’monnnnnn, Say it! Sayyy it….sayyy it…SAYYY IT!”
“Fuck, fine. If it’ll make you shut up and play. Fine!”
Lacing his fingers into a steeple, Smillew wiggled his skinny ass in the chair.
“You’re an inflewww ….an influuurch..an influencer!”
He replied with a golf clap. “Grimsby is not a word.”
“It’s a word and a town in Ontario, Canada, and someplace in England.”
“and it’s a name! can I please come out now?” A shrill girlish voice called from somewhere in the distance.
I swung my head around left and right, “What the hell was that?”
“Grimsby — nineteen points. My turn.”
Smillew began dropping his tiles on the board and, with another ass wiggle and a giggle, declared his word. “Smillew — 19 points! Ooooh, it’s a tight game! I like a tight game!” he said, giving a happy bounce with each expression of “tight.”
“You absolutely cannot use your own name as a scrabble word. No points. My turn.”
“You can if your name is a verb!”
“How is your name a verb?”
“Let me bring up one of my viral videos to show you,” he said with a wink.
Zipping his phone around, Smillew leaned in close, and his overly hairy finger knuckles held the device much too close for comfort. Something smelled like assholes. A video began playing of a man stumbling out of an English restaurant and throwing up on the street. The concerned videographer asked what made him sick.
The man, visibly shaking and trying to steady himself on weak knees, replied with a heavy French accent. “I ait de roost beuf anzi mooshee piss. De Hinglish cand-not cock. Wat de doo to de food is une parodie, I tell you! A travesstee!”
The videographer, clearly alarmed, investigated further.
“You are French! You know good food. Why would you willingly eat in an English restaurant?”
A beautiful thin woman with sallow cheeks, plump lips, and high cheekbones beneath enormous brown eyes came rushing to the side of the ill-stricken man.
“I tell you why!” She declared as a breeze appeared from nowhere, blowing tendrils of hair on only her right side, revealing a perfectly arched eyebrow. “My usband was Smillewed!”
Aghast at what I was seeing and hearing, I watched on.
“He watches that influenza with the muskrat-at on eez ed who say dis…diss — “ as the woman began furiously stabbing her bejeweled index finger at the restaurant, a perfectly shaped bare breast slipped out from behind her pleated, sleeveless silk blouse. “ — dis BEASTRO will be the newest Michelin trois étoiles restaurant!”
“Wow. He was Smillewed!” I conceded.
“Nineteen points. Your turn,” Smillew said victoriously.
“Hmm..ah-ha! Hackney! 38 points! Can you smillew that, bitch?”
“It’s meee. It’s meee!” the shrill girlish voice filled the room again. “I’m freeeeee!”
“Do you know what you’ve done?” Smillew asked. “I lured him in here with the promise of being his life coach to get him to stop tagging my name onto his writing and dragging down my numbers. I was about to get canceled because of this humorless English twit!”
“Why didn’t you just kill him and stuff him in a barrel?”
Smillew rose from his chair, walked to his hat shelf, and returned with an armful of beaver assholes. Turning them inside out, he showed the words written in each.
“Smillew is Magic.”
“Smillew is Awesome.”
“Smillew I love You.”
“Smillew Is a Unicorn.”
“I wouldn’t be a very good life coach if I did that, now would I? So I told him I would keep him until someone spelled Grimsby Hackney while playing scrabble with me.”
“Wow. He sure got Smillewed!”
As we unlocked the cage and let Grimsby Hackney out, Smillew (not being that smart) asked, “What’s a Hackney, anyway?’
I’m not sure which, but Hackney is either a horse pulling a cart or the horseshit behind the cart.
For reasons I cannot explain, I jumped into this scrabble challenge posted by Smillew Rahcuef. See the rules here.
Other players with better, shorter entries.
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