He hated being called a crook. Even from a young age when other kids would want to play cops and robbers Ol’ Kennedy would be all like 'I'll play cops and robbers, but anyone calls me a crook I'll bash their faces in, I hate being called a crook'.
'Ol’ Kennedy the weird violent crook guy' the other kids used to call him behind his back. 'If only they'd learn that I just don't like being called a crook' he would think as he bashed their faces in when he found out the nick name ‘Ol’ Kennedy the violent guy would be fine' he'd think 'but they throw in that crook and I have to bash their faces in, I just don't like being called a crook is the reason' he'd think, with face blood dripping off his hands.
And so life went on for Ol’ Kennedy, he'd make friends here and there, and most people would think he was a supper nice guy, but then the inevitable would happen, his new friend would watch a prohibition themed movie and start talking like a 1920s wise guy 'oh look at this crook' he'd adlib and it'd cost him three teeth, from having his face bashed in. Another new friend would be joking about Ol’ Kennedy stealing yet another ladies heart and say 'she loves you, you heart stealing crook' and get a broken jaw. And of course everywhere Ol’ Kennedy would go lively games of cops and robbers would break out, as they do pretty much everywhere and with every group of acquaintances, especially in Texas, Arkansas, and Beijing, three places Ol’ Kennedy drifted to regularly, and during a spirited session of cops and robbers that word would come out, and Ol’ Kennedy would be forced to fracture cheek bones, and cause brain hemorrhages as he bashed in people's faces all while thinking 'why do they have to call me a crook, I play cops and robbers at least weekly but I can do it with a civil, don't call anyone a crook, fun loving attitude, and yet here I am again, bashing another persons face in.'
The thing with Ol’ Kennedy was that he didn't like being called a crook. It stemmed from childhood when someone had thought he'd stolen a honey and butter sandwich and called him a crook, and then when he rightly said he didn't do it a scuffle broke out and he bashed in the guys face. Later on he was telling someone else the story and told them how weird it was, seeing as he HAD stolen a honey and margarine sandwich that but that no one had ever even noticed that missing. His friend had said 'maybe what you thought was honey and margarine was actually honey and butter' and Ol’ Kennedy had thought 'wow, maybe you’re right' and from that day on anyone who called him a crook would remind him of the day he bashed in a guys face who didn't deserve it, and he vowed to bash in ANY persons face who would remind him of that awful day, and since then he really hated being called a crook, because it reminded him of that awful day.
Yep life ambled on sadly for Ol’ Kennedy. He'd drift around, making new friends, building a new life wherever he could, but he’d keep finding himself forced to leave when people wouldn't understand why he'd bashed some ladies face in for calling him a crook during a thunderous game of cops and robbers and he'd be forced to drift on once again.
Then his hearing started to fail him. He started to bash people's faces in who hadn’t even called him a crook. There was the chiropractor who had asked if Ol’ Kennedy's neck was crook. There was the waiter who had told him that he could 'ask the cook', and there was the hotel clerk who'd told him 'I'll look in the book.' All three had their faces bashed in, and three more times he had to drift on again. He hated being called a crook you see, and sometimes he would hear a different work or the same word in a different context and think he’d been called a crook and have to bash their faces in, because he hated being called a crook.
Then came that fateful day last week, when Ol’ Kennedy accidentally walked into the farmers auction for chooks. As you all know he tried to bash in a lot of people's faces that day. So many that it gave Ol’ Kennedy a heart attack and he sadly passed on.
Sure we can all take comfort in his final words 'why can't people understand that I don't like being called a crook? Also is that brain on my knuckles?' But I for one will never forgive the diary industry; make it easier to tell the difference between butter and margarine you murderous bastards!