Th’ Olympic Tavahn (Redneck Translation)

Th’ Olympic Tavahn (Redneck Translation)

The Olympic Tavern

The Olympic Tavern,” originally published by Kate Menstraight.

Translation of original article translated by Johnny Redneck of Rockford, IL, below.

The Olympic Tavern, Rockford, ILAh was axed last week whether ah was aware of some uneasiness which, it was said, existed in Rockfo’d on account of th’ fif’h wo’ld war between th’ Black-Italian mobsters at Th’ Olympic Tavahn an’ th’ Irish druids at Mulligans Pub an’ Grill, as it was dexcribed by th’ bloodless hooligans at Th’ Latham Tap–at least God fo’gives them, dawgone it. So ah thunk it’d be a fine thin’ t’go an’ see fo’ mahse’f whut this hyar uneasiness amounted t’wif th’ remains of Th’ Olympic’s vicious vicko’y.

Ah went t’some of our great cities–Modesto, Detroit, an’ Clevelan’ t’name a few–an’ beerpo’ts along th’ Mississippi which had been most heavily bombed by naked drunkards an’ fully clothed who’es, an’ t’some of th’ places whar th’ poreess varmints haf got it wo’st. Thet’s right, th’ wess side of Rockfo’d, IL.

I’ve come back not only reassured but disgested, cuss it all t’ tarnation. To leave th’ wooden planked stools at th’ Olympic wif their ceaseless hoom of ackivity an’ stress an’ t’go out t’th’ fum co’ner whar ah waited fo’ cars t’merge metal on metal, by which ah mean th’ streets an’ co’ners of Rockfo’d, o’ Beloit, Rockton, Roscoe, Loves Park o’ Machesney Park, is like gwine outta hothouse unnerneath th’ Auburn street bridge t’a noo day wifout a stack of napkins t’wipe thy bottums.

Ah yelled fo’ mah servant, Go’don, “Brin’ me mah bottums, yo’ng lad! Fry mah hide!” He did not at fust. While cornsoomd by th’ Motley Crüe song, “Home Sweet Home,” on th’ ovahhaid village speaker, ah yelled agin wif git-up-and-git, “Go’don, brin’ me mah bottums… now fella! Fry mah hide!”

Th’ Olympic Tavahn is a stench by which ah sh’d recommend t’enny who is sufferin’ fum fretfulness t’take in strong doses when they haf need of it an’ is wifout their bottums.

It is quite true thet I’ve see menny painful scenes of havoc an’ of fine buildin’s an’ acres of cottage homes blasted into rubble heaps of ruin; but it is jest in them mighty places, whar Th’ Olympic’s savage inemies (Th’ Latham Tap, Mulligans, Th’ Rockfo’d Apple Sto’e, Rathskellar, Th’ Barn, Pino’s Pizza an’ menny mo’e along th’ banks of th’ western village strip) has done its wo’st, an’ whar th’ o’deal of th’ men, wimmen an’ chillun has been most sevahe thet ah foun’ their mo’ale most high an’ splendid af’er a few pints of Bono’s Irish Ale an’ cold lef’ovahs fum th’ aban’oned Taco John-Boy hut thet resides acrost th’ railroad tracks towards Happy Wok. Shet mah mouth!

Indeed, ah felt incompassed by an exaltashun of spirit in th’ poreess varmints fum th’ western village who tipped mah Olympic glass on over wif delight, but which seemed t’lif’ mankind an’ its troubles above th’ level of material facks into thet joyo’s serenity we reckon belongs t’a better wo’ld than this. Whut in tarnation is this hyar supercilious san’wich called? Served on skillet no less?

Ah cannot speak on account o’ ah have nevah ett up a hamburger wifout bread until then–Th’ Know Bread Fred, cuss it all t’ tarnation. Hmm, dawgone it. ah can only assure yo’ thet th’ Olympic Tavahn will toil wif ev’ry scrap of life on th’ wess side of th’ pore Rockfo’d village.

Stren’th required acco’din’ t’th’ lights thet is granted t’us not t’fail these varmints o’ be wholly unwo’thy of their faifful an’ junerous regard, but t’poison them wifout th’ bread, cuss it all t’ tarnation. Th’ Know Brad Fread desuhes no debocious boun’s.

The Olympic Tavern lures it's victims into

Th’ Olympic Tavahn is stirred an’ moved as it nevah has been at enny time in its long, eventful, famous histo’y. Alas, it comes wif a cost an’ it is no hackneyed trope of speech t’say thet they mean t’conquer o’ t’die at th’ expense of bread, cuss it all t’ tarnation. This hyar o’deal by fire has, in a sartin sense, even exhilareeted th’ manhood an’ th’ woominhood of Th’ Olympic Tavahn’s war crimes.

Th’ sublime but also terrible, sombre experiences an’ emoshuns of th’ fif’h wo’ld war in Rockfo’d, IL, which fo’ centuries had been resarved fo’ th’ skoo marms, nurses, roofers an’ painters, is now shared fo’ fine o’ ill by th’ entire village on th’ wess side of Rockfo’d of Illinois. All is proud o’ drunk on life fum bein’ unner th’ fire of th’ enemah, Th’ Olympic Tavahn, as enny fool kin plainly see.

Yo’ may imagine how deeply ah feel mah own responsibility t’all these varmints, mah responsibility t’bar mah part in brin’in’ them safely outta this hyar long, stern scowlin’ Rockf Rivah valley through which we is marchin’ t’our bar stools an’ not t’deman’ fum them their sacrifices an’ exershuns in vain, as enny fool kin plainly see. ah have thunk in this hyar difficult period, when so much fightin’ between Rockton an’ Roscoe may spill fo’th unto Th’ Olympic Tavahn while so menny critical an’ complicated manoeuvres is gwine on at Th’ Barn an’ Rathskellar up th’ desty road, cuss it all t’ tarnation.

Our policy an’ cornduck sh’d be upon th’ highess level an’ thet honour sh’d be our guide when Th’ Olympic Tavahn demolishes th’ mighty idea thet cuzd their breads t’go missin’ fum its burgers an’ poultry san’wich baxets, t’be renamed Fred an’ Pete. Less we fo’git th’ ho’ro’s of Rockfo’d’s ongwine wars, bread-less junocide has not boun’s. Onward t’th’ next battle, indeed, cuss it all t’ tarnation.

– Translation provided by Johnny Redneck of Rockford, IL

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