Each year The Bugle pays homage to Flubuggers we lost the previous year. This year we lost a lot of people, including a host of Flubug celebrities.
Crotch Johnson, the only son of Flubug’s Founding Father, Z Socrates “Scotch” Johnson, the celebrated race car driver who ran out of gas and decided to stay in Flubug, passed away peacefully in his kitchen on Wednesday after mistaking a can of crankcase oil for his favorite liqueur.
Known for his cheery whistles, Crotch started his career as proprietor of a clock repair business which soon went bankrupt. Unable to fund his dream of owning a filling station, he went to work for Carson’s Car Service, where he became a fixture until his retirement in 1999.
In 2012, Crotch did his father proud when he won the Tour de Flubug. He received several t-shirts for his achievement (due to budget cuts) and followed with a memoir that topped the Best Seller List for five weeks when it was bumped by Nick Carz’ The History of Lotto. Crotch was the only man in Flubug to ever receive a lifetime pass to the zoo.
Johnson was most recently honored with a nomination to head Ramsey’s Department of Transportation, but his name was withdrawn when he was discovered wandering the flames of Tire Fire City in search of his father’s oil drum.
Crotch leaves behind a 1974 Charlatan (one of two in existence), the rights to his father’s oil can (left), the t-shirts he received in lieu of a Key to the City, a half drunk can of crankcase oil and $8,543.00 in back taxes. A service will be held at Jahweh’s Church of Interstellar Disciples on Christmas Eve. His father’s oil drum will be on display for donations which the church has asked mourners to consider in lieu of flowers.
Another tragic passing was that of The Wolf who fell 8,000 feet to his death while crop dusting for boll weivels. His body, impaled on the Nafta Inn sign, went unnoticed for weeks until reluctant staff members investigated the unlit bulbs. A concert level pianist, and consummate entertainer, few knew of Wolf’s obsession that boll weivals had infested his piano and kept it constantly out of tune. Aviation investigators Bob and Kartoum Makowski of Beseech Academy concluded the insecticide from the plane was so thick the day of the accident, the craft tipped sideways causing Wolf to fall from his perch on the wing where he was last heard swearing at insects. A compilation of Wolf’s greatest hits was re-released by Rubber Room Records two hours after the body was found.
Another fixture lost in 2017 was Coombs, the visionary Bohunks barkeep whose marketing genius – Open Mike Nite with Gwen, obese arm wrestling and shuttles to Horseman’s Park in the dilapidated Main Street Circular – led to the bar’s closure in February. Coombs, who locked himself in the walk-in freezer in an act of defiance, was found frozen to death on November 21 surrounded by twenty six empty bottles of Faust. A note to the new owner, scrawled in the frost on the freezer door, read simply “Fuck Faydz.” Services were held in Leesha’s backyard where Coombs was interred (to avoid the shenanigans at the Flubug Cemetery.)
Then there was Esmerelda Watkins who briefly headed Down County’s Health and Human Services Department before an unfortunate breathalizer malfunction led to her departure.
Watkins is probably best remembered for taking the ugliest dog on earth (from wherever the hell she found it) to Best In Show in 2012. Her secret, revealed in a tearful speech hyphenated by bong hits, was a regimen of fold scraps, infrequent walks and complete lack of parasite control. She spent her entire life searching for a cure for the impecunity that accompanied her self-administered lung treatments. She was 47.
Glock died of multiple gunshot wounds to the head when he was mistaken for a ram by a hunter in Tanwater Park. The hunter, Joachim Destry, was later clear after it was determined he registered properly under Sheriff Ramsey’s controversial Catch and Release Program. Glock, whose real name we’ve withheld out of respect for the family, lived at 224 E Illiad Ave. Apt #4 Services (101) 988-2100 was 39. Services were held at Bryce’s House of Style whose owners are still mourning from the lost revenue.
Mick Moxie, who mortgaged his home, sold his boat and dealt pharmaceuticals to elementary school kids to bring his braised sparrow, jackrabbit soup and pan-fried robin to a grateful county, died this November in a choking fit brought on by what his heirs insist was an oversized chicken bone purposely served at his nemesis’ eatery, Dem Bones Family Restaurant. Mick, who turned 120 last July, founded Moxie’s Cup N Saucer on a simple mantra: “Serve the people whatever you want and they’ll pay for it.” At the service, briefly disrupted when Carlton Dickwadd, Jr. drove by yelling, “Any time, mo****f*****s, anytime!” his sons Nick and Mack vowed to continue the cafe and avenge their father’s death.
Pewter Tosh, leader of the elitist reggae ensemble that rebranded Bob Marley songs for the 1%, died at his Kingman’s Slope home this summer when his dreadlocks became entangled in a trash compacter. Known for divisive lyrics like “Privatize It!” “Get Up, Stand Up… Stand Up For Your Yacht” and “No Taxes, No Cry,” Tosh was no stranger to controversy.
In 2008 his ensemble of local toughs received the Key to the City for hurling car batteries at voters opposed to Sheriff Ramsey. Tosh became the center of controversy again in 2012 when his septet, assailed at The Ditch, castigated the crowd as “spoiled, drug-addled losers,” which later became the club’s best selling t-shirt.
Don’t miss our tribute to fallen pets in the All New Bugle due out 2018!