Carville Doesn't Live Here Anymore - A Cousin Kenny Rehash

Cousin Kenny is ill. Perhaps terminally. I'm trotting out his material in syndication and in tribute. Lest y'all forget.  I reckon I understood half his genius.  The other half was either way over my head, or just incoherent babble.  You never could tell with Kenny. 
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Popping the top on the Fresca...lips to the can...the leaping bubbles gently kissing his rather, large and bulbous nose...no time to pour a glass...he'll have to drink from the can..."Ewww...like the negroes?", he asks himself..."Yes...just like the negroes", he answers.  Shuffle...quickly...shuffle to the window...But don't draw back the drapes...They'll see me...He'll see me..."Who dat?...Who dat?...and what's he have in his hands"?...He comes the same time...every year"...a thump...by the front door..."Run...run away"...to my safe place...to the safe place"...Amongst the shoes...and under the coats..."no one can touch me here...no one can touch me here"


Years later...after the clean and green ordinance passed, they would find him...barely breathing...emaciated....surrounded by half-eaten bags of skittles...clutching a crudely constructed mobile...adorned with cardboard likenesses of Martina Navratilova and other female athletes from former communist eastern-bloc states...with special detail given to their over-developed, steroid obtained features...it was yet to be hung...on the porch...by the front door...Fifteen years of Sears and Roebuck's catalogs...in two separate stacks...and on the door, written in blue crayon, on a page ripped from a junior college enrollment catalog, a note, that read simply..."Carville doesn't live here anymore"