Bloody Sunday

It was dank and cold morning. We had the Franklin stove going, but it hadn't really cranked-up yet. Nobody felt like day-old coffee, so Lardass started mixing up a batch of spicy bloody marys in a bright orange 5 gallon home depot bucket.
"Lotsa ice for me," mumbled Bill. He had a patch over his left eye. He always had something wrong with him. None of us even razzed him about it, anymore. It would just feed his chronic need for attention and sympathy.
"OK Captain Hook," Lardass grinned, "Pass that can of tomato juice will ya?"
"Tomato Jews? Is that some kind of anti-semitic remark?" Bill was always alert to potential defamation.
"Yeah, whatever. Just hand me that can will ya?" Lardass had no sense of discrimination, or smell.
George strode in wearing his usual outfit: faded work shorts and a raggedy sweatshit with the words "No, you suck! You Commie" emblazoned. He had his cell phone out and was (as usual) talking loudly to someone on the other end. "Sell when it gets over a dollar sixty." He flipped the cover of the phone down and growled, "Did I hear the sound of BM's being made? Done and done. What say you, Bill?"
Bill farted, as a greeting. "They should fire that Grady Little."
George nodded. "That fat-faced Zimmer, too. Somebody should remove his feeding tube. What happened to your eye?"
"Hey," I interjected, to keep Bill from going on about his petty aches and pains, "Where are those bloodys!"
Lardass was just finishing the concoction, mixing in a huge glob of horseradish. He ladeled the Bloody Marys into coffee mugs. We don't have much call for coctail crystal here in the cob house.
"Needs more salt," pronounced George.
"Yeah, it's a bit niggardly on the salt," said Bill.
We all just stared at him, horrified.
He just smiled as if he knew something that we didn't.