“I came in about the sign,” he said with little confidence. “Have a seat-I’ll go get Riley,” was barely muttered from a bored waitress. He recognized the look. He hardly registered as little more than breathing meat in her eyes. Get fucked, Judge Judy, he laughed to himself. You wouldn’t know dick if it was balls deep in your dull existence. He sat down at a table to await the arrival of Riley, a faggot name if he’d ever heard one.
Why do I do this? Oh yeah-fucking money. Blood pooled in his warming fingertips.
A man barely in his 30’s approached, the smell of stale judgment kicked up in each step, looking at him like the asshole that knows the twist-ending to the movie. He sat down across the table from him, wrapping his hands around each other like spooning lovers who’d lost it years ago.
“So you’re a bartender, eh? What’s the difference between a Merlot and a Cabernet?” he asked, barely masking his sarcasm.
“Well, Cabernet is actually a good wine, while Merlot is merely a gateway to better ones,” the old man answered. Hot worms burrowed and made their way down his fingers.
Riley wasn’t amused. He knew the old man was just gonna waste his time and from the looks of him, he had applied the same horseshit technique to his own worthless existence.
What’s the difference between a lager and an ale?”
The question hung in the air like stale cigarette smoke. The old man had heard enough. His hands were on fire. With little thought he thrust his right arm out with his index and pinkie fingers extended, throwing the horns like some rocker kid at a metal show. His digits went deep into Riley’s eye sockets and he was surprised at what little resistance the eyeballs fought back with. What appeared as a mixture of blood and semen ran down his face where a look of disdain and loathing had laid earlier. It was a vast improvement.
The waitress, still bored.
He reached under the table with his left arm and got a strong grip on Riley’s equally worthless cock and balls. As he yanked off Riley’s manhood, he realized it was probably the most action they’d seen in years. He held the bleeding cock over the table and in a circular motion began drawing a pentagram with blood. As he put the finishing touches on his masterpiece, two small demons arose from the middle, grinning big yellow with rotten teeth. Without so much as a thought, the old man handed Riley’s bone-wand over like a baton to the knowing demons. They shared the booty in one hand, held their free hands in each others, and began doing a ring-around-the-rosy before diving back into the pentagram and straight into hell.
By the time they reached Satan, he was in mid-stroke. He grabbed Riley’s cock with his free hand and pulled it over his own like a condom and climaxed, filling and expanding Riley’s four times larger and into the shape of a baseball bat. “Now get lost, ya crazy fucks!” Satan winked. “The devil’s work is never done but goddamned if I’m not enjoying it!”
The demons arose again from the table and began beating what was left of Riley’s head like a pinata with his herculean cock that was now eternally hard with the devil’s seed. The scene played out like a child’s joyous birthday celebration except for the fact that the pinata was Riley’s stupid head. And the stick was his cock filled with Satan’s load. And the kids were demons. And so on.
The old man almost felt regret.
The waitress, still bored.
“What’s the difference between a lager and an ale?”
Riley’s voice was much louder this time, the question posed with contempt.
“Who gives a solid fuck?” the old man cried. “Whiskey is all a man needs, you fucking pussy!”
He was up and out the door before Riley could respond. The wind was cold and ambivalent as he made his way down the street. His disgust with himself was in fierce competition with his disgust for Riley, as if locked in a thunder dome death match. Two men enter, one man leave, he laughed to himself. The sign up ahead was more inviting. “Happy Hour-6 til close!” it called like a sweet siren. He sat down at the bar and ordered a whiskey. “The devil’s work is never done but goddamned if I’m not enjoying it!” This time he laughed out loud.
I drove down to New Orleans last year despite my preconceived notions of hillbilly rape that never came to fruition. And by “notions” I mean “wishes.” Oh well. Easy come, easy go. Notice how I didn’t make a horrible “big easy” joke? You’re welcome. However, I was unfortunate enough to have one of the worst culinary experiences in my life. “Well, fuck my virgin ass,” I hear you sayeth, but friends and neighbors, put down your freshly microwaved shoe-horns and sticks of butter, for I speaketh the truth. Here are 2 things I’ve learned during m’ travels if’n you find yourself in an unfamiliar city: 1. Ask a bartender where to eat. 2. Find the nearest gay bar and get ready to party. Gay bars are awesome cuz drinks are strong and cheap, plus they love a foul sense of humor so you can talk about poop and wieners ’til the cows come home and when they do you can say, “Hey you cows-I’m not through talkin’ ’bout poop and wieners-not by a damn sight! So get fucked, cows!” Or something like that. Normally these pointers are gold, but like everything in this horseshit existence, not infallible.
We sat down to gumbo in a modest cafe, confident in the advice bequeathed upon us from the bartender tending the gay bar the night before. The end of that sentence was fun. Oh yes, some crazy shit went down that eve but I’ll get into that another time. I greeted the first bite with a neighborly smile, excited about the journey ahead into ambrosia, as the food made it’s pilgrimage into my trusting mouth, nurturing my appreciative body, and then….well, out of my ambivalent butt-hole. I was obviously unprepared for the betrayal I discovered with that first bite, and my world imploded as my taste buds cursed my foolish indiscretion. Fear, palpable and crippling, had manifested in flavor. It tasted like Chef Boyardee had choked down some Slim Jim’s and washed ’em through with a can of Campbell’s soup-no, scratch that. More like the off brand at the cheap grocery store like “Best Yet” or even “Wait’ll Next Year” soup and then gagged and barfed it into my bowl, as he’d been watching his figure. Then, to make matters almost unbearable, I heard it.
I recognized the lyrics and melody but only faintly as the structure seemed different. Hmmmmm-is that a doors song? Oh crap-it’s a doors song but done reggae style……great bleeding buckets of shit! It’s fucking UB40!!! Now, for those lucky enough to not know UB40-and oh, how I do envy you-UB40 is basically a shitty white guy making shitty black music out of shitty white music with a couple token black dudes for credibility. At his worst, he will even destroy awesome black music. I feel sick to my stomach and would like to apologize to the uninitiated, but the links are for a point. Now, I’m not a violent person but anyone performing or enjoying a reggae version of a doors song should be taken out back and beaten with a shovel. In fact, I’d be up for following UB40 on tour just to beat every audience member mafia-style without an ounce of remorse. I’m talking teeth in their stomach, blood in their stool, and a limp in their walk. A scene so horrific Martin Scorsese wouldn’t film it. I’d wager they wouldn’t even fight back. “Well, we kinda had it coming. After all, we are at a UB40 concert.” It would be like finding an old Nazi hiding in France. He’s not gonna argue when he’s caught-he knew it was only a matter of time. Now, I’m sure some of you are thinking that comparing a UB40 fan with an atrocious war criminal is a tadexcessive but it’s my blog, so suck it.
May I also remind you that I’m being subjected to this whilst trying to eat pedestrian-at-best gumbo in New fucking Orleans-the birthplace of jazz, for the love of crap! At this point I may as well have been chugging cold diarrhea while deaf people sang church hymns in each ear. Why cold diarrhea and not hot, you ask? Hot diarrhea I imagine would have an even consistency making it easier to chug while cold would be more lumpy and get hung up, only to fall on your face after tilting the glass like some brown slushee from hell. Like the rest of you, I expected the music to be ripped from the speakers and replaced with an apology telling us that yes, everyone’s meal was free, the employee who desecrated your collective hearing was immediately fired and the state of Louisiana would happily lick all of the hair from your balls like kittens at a milk bowl. Ok, I added the lost one cuz I plum ran out of ideas, becoming bored and listless, relying on immature potty humor to bail me out. It wasn’t even that funny and for that, I apologize. My main point is kill whitey.
One of the luxuries I enjoy most in my horseshit existence is watching “The Love Boat” and drinking shameful amounts of beer. Seriously. You could put me in a basement with every episode along with a fuck-ton of Coors and no one would ever see me again. And I would be beyond happy. Like a joyful version of “Leaving Las Vegas.” Anyone could come visit as long as they knew we would just watch “The Love Boat” and suck down Coors like 2 dollar whores in a beer guzzling contest. There would be intermissions that would include eating steaks, listening to 70’s soft rock compilations, and discussing Gopher’s failed yet comical attempts at getting laid, but then right back to “The Love Boat” and beer swillin’. Its a very strict and paradoxical regimen of being completely irresponsible with your very existence. Of course there’d be anecdotes like, “did you see Isaac in that Wattstax documentary?” Or, “Jesus-Captain Stubing has a mighty bodonkadonk.” However, the sad fact that Gopher went on to become a republican senator can never be broached or you will be banned.
“Republican? Bitch, are you fo’ real?!”
I would probably lose most of my friends and family but you know what? Fuck ’em. After all, I’ve got enough Coors to kill a small town and every episode of “The Love Boat.” Oh yeah-and the steaks and 70’s soft rock compilations. But wait-you wanna bring over some Burt Reynolds dvds? You’ve got “White Lightning” and it’s equal sequel “Gator“? That’s cool. We can party. Oh shit-yer also bringing “Every Which Way but Loose” and it’s equal sequel “Any Which Way You Can“? Oh shit yeah we can party! In fact, I recommend watching both sets of these classics several times as drinking beer like the world’s gonna end can make a man forgetful, and who’d wanna forget thisscene from gator? Plus I’m always down to spend some quality time with Philo Bedoe and the gang, singing along with every Mel Tillis song from those glorious soundtracks. Shit-that reminds me of a special night.
Listen to this as you finish the post. It helps.
The only time I’ve ever witnessed the northern lights was also one of the most magical. My good friend Bob had access to a cabin to which the likes of unfiltered heathenry rarely seen by mere mortals was bestowed upon. We totes fucked that fucker up. On this particular evening it was just the 2 of us, as most commoners on this hairy turd-ball of a planet lack the palette for the finer things. We boarded his paddle boat with only the nécessités: a ridiculous amount of beer and smokes along with our newly found friend, “tape buddy.” Tape buddy was an old school hand-held tape deck with a built-in speaker that became our most valuable asset. The only tape we had with us had the soundtrack to “Every Which Way but Loose” on one side and “Any Which Way You Can” on the reverse. Of course. And did tape buddy ever complain as we continued to flip the tape over and over and over during this hours long marathon of binge drinking? Fuck no! He cherished every minute as we.
As we sang along to each song-even the Sondra Locke filler-we turned our gazes upward. At first it appeared to be headlights from the highway illuminating and advancing in the fog. Bob, being Captain Stubing to my Gopher, was the first to realize t’was the northern lights. I was like, “Holy sheep-tits!” or something. We eventually passed out, grateful in the knowledge that we shan’t ever forget that enchanted eve. At least most of it. And then I woke up with a hemorrhoid.