The Note

It is a silent, dark night out here in the country. Nothing but the sound of grasshoppers trying to get their last few booty calls of the season in, before things turn frosty and frigid… on all fronts…

The stars are nothing more than dim speckles of incandescent time.
And if I didn’t have “Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s The Sex Pistols” cranked on the stereo, most folks would find this whole scene rather tranquil, serene, and peaceful.
Zen and the art of: high volume inner peace.
If you can be relaxed and centered with Johnny Rotten screeching in your ear, well shit, you must be the Zen Master… or a bloody lunatic…
I wonder which one I would be considered tonight?
There doesn’t seem to be too much of a peaceful Zen karma surrounding my keyboard at the moment.
Only a coyly devolish magnetism saturating the end of each nerve in each of my typing fingers…
So, in the name of fun and depravity and twisted fish stories that inevitably turn into epic blue-fin odysseys, let’s allow these fingers to unleash a word horde fitting for this, the season of the Romalea Guttata’s last call…

First off, let me say, if you are at all squeamish or sensitive to questionably offensive content, and/or language… well, you should probably stop reading HERE…….

If, on the other hand, you are sitting down, and you have a broad definition of what is funny, well, let’s dive in…
I’ve been mulling this thing around in my mullet for awhile now. Ever since I first heard it from a good friend. He tells the story better than me. But he’s not here right now.
So…
Like I said, this is a tale that a good friend told me. And a friend told him. And his friend told him… and you can’t make this shit up. Why would you want to? Of all the twisted, crazy, “This Guy walks into a bar” tales out there; this one casts a deep dark shadow of hedonistic, depraved, hilarity onto the cerebellum like no other…

So, This Guy walks into a bar…

…he’s out for a night of beers and cheers at the local watering hole with four or five of his friends. They’re in there drinkin’ beer and playing pool, making fun of each other and laughing like preschoolers high on glue fumes, and drinkin’ beer and whoopin’ it up. It’s a Saturday night, so the place is filled with people. And they’re all drinkin’ and whoopin’ it up too… there’s a band playing some real kick ass music that’s getting everyone up on the little dance floor, drinking and dancing and singing and courting.

Well…
This Guy, he’s a single fella, so, after a couple hours of drinking beer and playing pool, and drinking beer and watching cute, half drunk girls dancing,…
Well, This Guy decides maybe he should find himself a lady to dance, or whatever, with…
Now, under the pretence of heading up to the bar to grab a drink, This Guy ditches his friends and starts to slowly hover his way around the perimeter of the dance floor. Looking for a girl to dance with… or whatever…
Well it wasn’t long until a cute, ½ Drunk Vixen came waltzing on over and into the arms of This Guy. And so the drinking and dancing and singing and courting began.

Right from their first step to that first note, they ignited sparks of hedonistic, drunken, rhythmic ecstasy… They danced and they drank, and they drank and they danced; and they didn’t leave that little dance floor until the last call was called and the last note was played. This Guy had forgotten all about his friends by this point, and The ¾ Drunk Vixen had forgotten all about hers… they were fixed in a lust driven trip.
So when the bartender closed the doors that night, This Guy and The ¾ Drunk Vixen left together, out into the sodium orange horizon of the city streets at night…

Well, by this point it had already been decided that they would walk over to this gloriously drunk and charming young lady’s abode and continue with their lusting of life. She lived a short 20 minutes away by foot. 30 if you’re drunk… And if you decide, at 2AM, to stop along the way at a Taco Bell to quench a whiskey and beer fuelled lust for some faux meat, well, it takes a little bit longer…
So, by the time they got back to her place it was closing in on 3AM. And by this point they were both full of taco supreme’s and drink… Especially since this angel sent down from heaven had a flask of some good quality No.7 stashed in her purse, which they guzzled from, like wild beasts in the midst of the mating season…
So, needless to say, as soon as they were in her place, and the door was closed behind them, well, they were at each other like a couple of drugged-up laboratory swine…
…a whole lot of grunting, and a little bit of sloppy, sluggish, squealing dirtiness that should probably never be spoken of again…

But, I will tell you this: There was a pair of those yellow latex dishwashing gloves, a tub of margarine, a jar of strawberry jelly, a bottle of chocolate syrup, a spatula, a meat thermometer, a wire brush, a rolling pin, a tape measure, a snake light, an empty coffee can, an ice-cream cone, an electric razor, a bottle of hot sauce, a funnel, a toilet paper roll, a lit candle, a Barry White album, a treasure troll, a cigar, a carrot peeler, a snorkel, an empty Texas Mickie, a trumpet, a pair of needle nose pliers, a pack of clothes-pins, some pink duct tape, a Dr. Ho’s muscle therapy muscle stimulator, a roll of plastic wrap, a ping-pong paddle, some ping-pong balls, a corkscrew, and a box of condoms involved…
but that’s all I’m saying…
Any more might cross the line, into the realm of the obscene and the absurd… what your mind chooses to do with that grocery list of items is between you and your therapist…

Anyways… so, to put it to you short: they went back to her place and fucked like dirty drunk rabbits high on cheap Latvian ecstasy and glue fumes… They freshened up in the shower, had another quickie on her bed, and then they passed out, each of them leaning over an edge of the bed, sweating and panting, their heads swirling in the drunken animalistic platitudes that this early morning of lust had carried them up to…
Sleep came silently and suddenly.
They slept the sleep of comatose-drunk hillbillies

And like what unfortunately, yet frequently, happens to a drunk hillbilly; This Guy woke up in the midst of a most unfortunate circumstance…
Well, at first, when he was in that half asleep half awake state, when he was not quite aware of his surroundings, well, all he knew was, he was warm… nice and warm.
Nice and warm and relaxed.
Nice and warm and relaxed and squishy….
squishy?
squishy?!
squishy!!!…

Yes indeed. It seems This Guy found himself in the worst possible place to wake up when in the thicket of one of the worst possible scenarios imaginable…

He was at some strange girl’s house,
A girl that he met at a bar,
They were in her bed,
Backs to each other,
Both of them butt ass naked,

Covered in shit.

And he was pretty sure it was his shit.
Since a little was still oozing out…

What would you say?
What would you do?
If you woke up in a strange girl’s bed
Just after you covered her in poo?

I can’t say what I myself would do. It’s just one of those things that I would only be able to comprehend in the moment.
And hopefully that moment never comes for me…
But the moment came for This Guy. And something had to be done.
So…
This Guy that walks into a bar, that meets a girl and guzzles beer and whiskey and tequila and more beer and dances and drinks and drinks and dances all night long, and inhales a toxic portion of Taco Bell, and makes sweet drunken monkey love to this lovely drunken vixen, and sleeps in her bed, and shit’s out the beer and whiskey and tequila and more beer and Taco Bell and that good quality No.7 and possibly a yellow latex dishwashing glove and some margarine and strawberry jelly and chocolate syrup and a meat thermometer and a rolling pin and a snake light and some hot sauce and a candle and a treasure troll and a cigar and a snorkel and a clothes-pin and a Dr. Ho’s muscle therapy muscle stimulator and some ping-pong balls and a condom; all over him, her, the bed and (somehow?), the wall…
…and I don’t mean just a little leakage.
No!
No slight splatter that could be covered up without getting caught.
NOoo sir.

This was a royal rumble.
A gastric geyser.
A wild wave of warm wet wickedness.
Christ, the wall itself looked like a Pollock painting viewed through a sepia filtered fisheye lens.
Now just imagine what that poor, 7/4 drunk, sleeping sex fiend looked like; laying across the bed from (and directly in front of) this viscous, dripping, curdled catastrophe’s “point of origin” …
So what does This Guy do?…
Well,…
With the consistency, splatter radius, and sheer volume of it all; it would have been impossible for This Guy to know himself what happened, had he not been snapped out of his deep sleep just as the aftershocks were in the process of subsiding.
…and since she was comatose during that literal shitstorm, she would have no clue what happened. She would most likely wake in the same half-here-half-there manner as This Guy. And like This Guy, she would come crashing back to reality once her brain started to reboot and re-establish hardline connections with the body’s nervous system; and process and analyze the input data. Namely those nice and warm and squishy sensations being registered along her legs, buttocks, birthing region, back, shoulders, and nose…
She would probably also experience that same rush of fear.
Of truly not knowing what happened…
That “Oh, fuck… Did I do that?!?” moment.

And that folks, was his out.
The only possible hand he could play was nothing more than a balls to the wall, all-in, bluff.

SoO…
This Guy slid quickly and silently out of that bed like a seasoned, ninja calibre, coyote ugly escape artist; and dashed for the bathroom. He scooped up his discarded (and oddly starchy) clothing along the way. Once in the bathroom he turned the shower on, jumped under the still frigid water, feverously rinsed off, jumped out, dried off with a bathrobe hanging on the bathroom door and got dressed. This took him a grand total of about 90 seconds.
He found a black eyeliner pencil and a scrap piece of paper.
And then, he wrote her the note:
“I can’t believe what you did!!! Absolutely the most fucking disgusting thing ever! Don’t EVER try to contact me. EVER! Jesus Fuck! What a fucking gross, putrid, fucking vile mess! I can‘t fucking believe what YOU DID!!!”

Then, This Guy slid out of the bathroom, and ever-so delicately placed the note on the edge of her night stand where she was sure to see it when she woke up.
And then, quickly and quietly, This Guy slipped out the front door, and down the street…

…and so now somewhere out there, in the vast concrete jungle, there is a girl who will forever experience that primal fear; that paralyzing, nerve jarring, fight-or-flight instant; every time some cute half drunk guy catches her eye on the dance floor of the local watering hole on a Saturday night.
For the rest of her life…
This girl’s sphincter will instinctively clench shut at the prospect of drunken monkey love.
And she will never ever again,
Be able to listen to Barry White…

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s