This is the second thread that John Fitzgerald Page has appeared in this week.
Let’s not encourage him, okay? 
My late pops (a real M.D. Pathologist) always referred to Ron types as four-flushers, and we have one in our family. His given name is Ron, even, but he has changed it to Abraham 
Together with his decidedly Ronesque wife they survive splendidly together, always at the expense of others. They finally stopped visiting with an out of state checkbook as their sole means of funding their travels, after we declined to cash yet another gas money/ hotel room check for them. So we are spared their company except once in a blue moon.
My favorite Ron-day-oh guy, though, is a former neighbor named Ward. He exhibited some decidedly Ron modus operandi when he lived nearby. He and his adoring mate Beth would scrounge by from monthly gov’t check to the next, often by “borrowing” a pack of hot dogs here and there, a few day old buns, and burning newspapers in their kitchen sink to “roast” their weenies.:eek: Standard staple side dish was that generic mac & cheese with powdered sauce. As soon as they received their next check, though, they would invite friends and neighbors to the IHOP and splurge, often spending all they had after subsidised rent and utilities. Tried to get them some extra money by having them work the polls on election day for $50.00, but that was not enough money for twelve hours of sitting around, according to Ward, and wouldn’t let Beth do it either.
The best, though, was when they decided to stop “throwing money away” on rent and build their dream home. They had gone to the library one day, and happened upon a picture book of unusual homes, and eureka! the plan was hatched. Evidently they imagined they could still get government land out west somewhere for almost nothing, some one dollar homestead scheme I guess. But, before buying the land they decided to start collecting the materials for construction. They had seen a home whose exterior was made from glass bottles and concrete, and knew that was going to be just perfect for them. So, every single day for months they scoured the neighborhood, riverbanks, liquor store dumpsters, little league ballfields, etc. for colored glass bottles. Their collection was rapidly filling their tiny apartment, and because they lacked the basic knowledge of gravity and fragility, they broke many boxfulls of their precious future home. Not sure if they had even thought about how to get their stuff to their destination, but the landlord came by to see why they were no longer making their nominal rent payments. The death trap of boxes stuffed with glass, teetering in every inch except narrow passageways through the apartment earned them eviction, and I’ve not heard from them since. Go figure.
I’m going to lay claim to the title of the “King of all Rons”, the famed Genghis Ron to wit, but I’ll extoll his virtues [sub]or lack thereof[/sub] later on in this thread.
Why later? Because I have a dinner to go to at 7:30PM, and have a tome of stupidity in which to flip through to find a good starting story. Further, I have to gird myself to the fact that my sister married this tool, before I go into more detail.
Some tidbits though:
[ul]
[li]Somehow bought the tools and materials to refinish a kitchen, without the knowledge of said tools or materials to acoomplish the job. He somehow appropriated my father to come do the work for him.[/li][li]At my wedding to my beloved Nawth Chucka, he was seen to be tossing ice cubes into my sister’s cleavage. Tacky isn’t the word.[/li][li]Attempts to converse about Michael Jackson and his paedophilia at Christmas Dinner at my family’s house, with a five and two year old within earshot.[/li][/ul]
Needless to say, I am looking for a way to “contain and neutralize” this Mongol of Morons. I cannot do so which would otherwise land me in jail, but the scene of Bill Paxton’s abduction in True Lies comes to mind.
Tripler
Quoth Shatner, “Roooonnnnnnnn!!! Ronnnnnnnnnnn!!!”
What’s the origin of the expression four-flusher? I have heard it, but don’t know what it means or what the reference is to. It’s not common around here.
Meanwhile, the most memorable Ron I have stumbled upon for my sins was a bloke who was an obvious deadbeat to anyone with an IQ in double digits, but he seems to have had a masterful way with women.
He was an Englishman who apparently had been in Special Forces of some sort (weren’t they all?) together with his first wife as a team in the field. Every year on a particular day he would become morose with a bottle of whisky to subtly encourage the woman he was then with to try and pry out of him why he was so down.
He would tell them that it was the anniversary of the day he and his first wife were in a speedboat with stern mounted machine guns running from the Indonesians. In the course of the blazing gun fight, his wife had been cut in half by machine gun fire. And it still got to him, all those years later.
This palpable BS had the desired effect. The women he would tell this story to would get all sympathetic, and… (cue rocket launches, trains entering tunnels, fireworks, etc).
He married one of them. By then the story had got better. He had been secretly knighted by the Queen, apparently. At the wedding (in some small dusty country town church) all the guests were made to stand half-way through the service and sing “God Save the Queen”. The officiating Minister then handed the blushing bride one of those blue satin thingies with yellow fringes hanging from a stick that you give to kids who win Grade 4 spelling contests.
This thing was hand-written, and purported to be signed by a Rear-Admiral. It announced in that faux-official language that some people seem to think is impressive that the new bride was now entitled to be called “The Lady (Ron)”.
And everyone seems to have bought it.
He went through several wives. By the time I entered the story they were, of course, all deeply embarrassed about how they had been duped, to their credit. He was a deeply unattractive piece of work. But damn, he must have been smoothe with the laydeez.
I would guess that “he’s so full of shit, it requires four flushes…”
Thanks, Maus. For some reason I thought it must have had something to do with poker, but I couldn’t think what.
The damage continues. I read that bit to my husband and Robin, and they proceeded to have a debate over who could eat the most bacon-wrapped cheesedog stuffed manicotti without exploding. I fear for both their hearts and our toilets, and thank god we have two.
This could be, in a word, epic. I am preparing the "I told you it was a bad idea"s in advance, like a good partner does. 
It does.
four–flush
Function:
intransitive verb
Date:
1896
: to bluff in poker holding a four flush ; broadly : to make a false claim : bluff
— four–flush·er -ˈflə-shər\ noun
To expand: a flush (five suited cards) is a pretty powerful hand. A four-flusher has squat but bravado.
Thanks Dras and Os. I couldn’t think why four complete flushes would have been a bad thing. Obviously no imagination. However, I have to say Maus’s explanation, while it might not have a pedigree going back to 1896, has a certain, shall we say earthy, charm. 
Bumping, so that melodyharmonius will hopefully have an easier time finding the thread for the next installment.
Two toilets or two hearts?
I knew a Ron once. His name was Perry, though.
I went on one date with him. Throughout the course of the date he tried to drive home the fact that he made $600,000 a year. Want to know where I picked him up? He needed me to pick him up from work, at Taco Bell (where he was a shift leader). He also informed me that he was in medical school (and only a year from finishing). Nevermind that we were both seniors in high school at the time. Oh, and his car! His car was a custom Nissan 350Z… but it was tied up in customs and it would be weeks before it arrived (which, of course, is why he needed me to pick him up at work)! He was a model for <insert name of cheap fashion outlet here>, too. Lucky me. Towards the end of the date, he showed what a gentleman he really was. He offered to pay for the motel room if I wanted a screw. Classy.
Fortunately, I am no Ron-duh (can guys be Ron-duhs too?) Went home, took a long hot shower and never returned his phone calls.
I can’t believe you let him get away
I know. I lose a lot of sleep over it.
Now, c’mon, you must have some more Ron stories to regale us with!
His car was a custom Nissan 350Z… but it was tied up in customs
Well, that was the custom part.
That’s what happens when you grow up with the saying, “Flush twice - it’s a long way to Chapel Hill.”
I hereby petition for more Ron stories.
More Ron! More Ron! More Ron!
I am not a…
Oh wait. More Ron! More Ron! More Ron!
We demand more Ron(s)!