Get Thee Behind Me, Satan

“Be careful, lest in casting out your demons you exorcise the best things in you.”

― Friedrich Nietzsche

Many years ago, I worked for a very small restaurant chain in Florida that was known for offering half-price appetizers during their happy hour. This promotion was loathed by all of the employees and it would attract all of the really cheap and completely broke assholes for miles around and it would basically result in the front of the house staff working twice as hard, for half the money. These entitled motherfuckers would come in, spend their five or ten dollars and they would then proceed to treat you rudely, run your ass off, complain about everything and leave you a shitty tip, if they bothered to tip you at all. It was complete bullshit.

There were always a few gems hidden amongst the throngs of losers that came in for their half-price food; a few decent people that made all of the bullshit worthwhile. On certain nights, we would get a large church crowd in addition to everyone else that would show up for the late night appetizer trough; large and small groups of pleasant and polite folks that were members of a local church; a somewhat strange Christian sect that no one seemed to know much about. All in all, the adults were pretty decent folks who treated you with genuine courtesy, tipped well and were relatively easy to take care of; they just had a few small peculiararities, that's all. Well...

I did make a few observations about those people. I'm not judging mind you, even though we all know damn well that I am, so let's just pretend that I'm not, okay?

There seemed to be some question as to the nature of the religious identity and belief system of these people. Many of my co-workers believed them to be Mennonites, but being familiar with Mennonites and their beliefs and having lived in areas with large Mennonite populations, I can tell you that this just wasn't the case. The men from this church had no facial hair and the women wore no bonnets, whereas Mennonite men grow beards and the women wear a head covering. Mennonites are basically Amish people that choose to live in the modern world.

I never learned the name of the church that they attended, but they would always come in after services, which were always on odd days and at strange times, but it seemed as if their main services would end fairly late in the evening. I guess that everyone worked up quite an appetite, dancing with snakes and speaking in tongues and after the expense of tithing, all they could afford to eat was the shit that we served. They would arrive after ten o'clock and entire families of them would start queuing up at the front door, all wearing their Sunday best; the men and boys dressed in suits, while the girls and women all wore dresses and sported matching beehive hairdos. These were some seriously super stylish dresses. Imagine the Sound of Music seriously super stylish dresses, homespun and everything. It really did look as if the women's clothing was cut from curtains and it sometimes made me wonder if the carpet matched the drapes. Either that, or the damn things were cut from the upholstery of some hideously ugly couch; some castoff relic from a bad 60's acid trip art session,. These were some seriously ugly fucking dresses, let me fucking tell you. Gaudy floral dresses are an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. It was quite a contrast to see the men in their store bought suits compared to the ladies that were stuck wearing curtains and sheets. It seemed as if the men got to ride up in first class, while the women had to travel coach.

Apparently, their church had some mighty strange rules when it came to the respective roles of each sex and to the mixing thereof. I've always thought of those people as being a part of the  Quiverfull movement, where the men rule the roost and the women are completely subservient to their husbands. Stepford women whose assigned roles were evidently that of dutiful wives, nurturing mothers and baby making machines, as the families were all quite large.

All unmarried females over a certain age were completely segregated from the main groups. These spinsters would usually sit together, because an unmarried woman was not allowed to speak to a man unless the man spoke to her first. To me, this seemed more about power and control, rather than traditional gender roles, but what the fuck do I know? I think that any religion that keeps a woman subservient to a man and under his control should cause someone to re-examine their values and beliefs and yet it just doesn't happen. It's amazing how quickly some people will abdicate all responsibility for themselves in order to not have to deal with the more difficult aspects of life, or any part of life, for that matter. People are such willing slaves and happiness is slavery, I guess.

As for the children, the girls were sweet, meek and polite, if dumb, while the boys had to have been among the most obnoxious, ill bred and entitled little shits that I have ever come across. The words "please" and "thank you" never seemed to figure into their vocabularies and the little tyrants would just make demand after demand, trying to run your ass off. Those boys were sadly lacking in social skills, treating everyone that was not a member of their tribe with a smug sense of superiority and moral disdain. Those horrible little heathens certainly could have used a lesson in manners and civility, a lesson involving a belt and an awful lot of humility. Speaking of lessons, the children were all home schooled and it was quite evident that religious indoctrination took precedence over any form of secular education. Basically, these kids were the most ignorant litttle fuckers that I've ever come across. Hell, they made my little bastards seem downright angelic and articulate.

One particularly busy Friday night, we were getting our asses handed to us and I guess that services had ended and church had emptied out; each family making their way over to the restaurant and that half-price food. Thankfully, with the section that I was in that night, I didn't have any tables that could accomodate large parties, so I was saved from having to run my ass off and from having to make nine hundred and forty-three freaking Strawberry Mountain Dews and Mango Fucking Pepsi's. Seriously. Who the fuck drinks shit like that? Worse, what kind of fucking parent lets their kids drink shit like that at eleven o'clock at night? With multiple refills, no less. Even worse, I used to throw in extra shots of sugary syrup just to make the kids even more hyper and to punish the parents, because fuck that and those little bastards drank it up, becoming more and more hyper as time went on. Fuck, even I can't ingest that kind of caffeine and sugar and I live on that shit. It's no wonder that they would spend hours in the parking lot after we closed, letting the kids run around like little maniacs, all hopped up on soda and Jesus.

I only had one table open in my section and the host dropped off a single, older lady in her bright and gaudy finest. She wasn't really older, being somewhat around my age, but her dress, hair and demeanor made her seem about ten years older than she probably was. Plus, I'm old as fuck, so you get what I mean.

I idly admired the print of the curtains that she was wearing and wondered how long ago that particular floral pattern had been hanging in the window of some abandoned home somewhere. As I was about to make my way over to the table and get her drink order (I don't always introduce myself, you don't have a right to know my name and I mostly all of the time wear a fucking name tag, so if you can't fucking read, it's on you, bitch), my manager walked up to me and told me that the woman seated at my table was a regular customer, that she came in by herself every Friday night and always ordered the salmon and that I was to make sure that she was well taken care of and that I needed to make her feel special. I assured my boss that I was up to the task and that I'd take care of it. No worries.

"Steve," she said in a warning tone, "Be nice."

"No worries," I said. "I can pretend to be anything."

I smiled. My boss had a panic stricken expression on her face that I found amusing. I laughed as I turned around and walked off, realized that I was headed the wrong way, turned around again and acted like I knew where I was going.

As I approached the table, I turned on the charm, such as it was, The only thing that this meant was that I was able to hide my normal, "Why don't you go fuck yourself" attitude while I pretended to be a normal and pleasant human being. People actually fall for that shit. People are fucking stupid and easily fooled.

"What the fuck is this?" I remember thinking.

The woman had shielded her face with her hand and averted her gaze, looking away from the rest of the restaurant and staring intently at the menu. I'm shooting in the dark here, but I'm guessing that she did this in order not to inflame the passions in the loins of any nearby men, which is a totally good thing, but she really didn't need to worry about inflaming anything. Trust me. Oh, dear Jesus, trust me.

I actually introduced myself, pretending to be all nice and shit. She fell for it. The moment that I spoke to her, the hand dropped and she turned her face to me. Her master's voice, She introduced herself to me and told me that she came in all of the time. I told her that I noticed that she came in every Friday night (I'd never seen her before) and mentioned that she always got the salmon. She blushed.

"I didn't think that anyone ever noticed me," she said. She was beaming.

Oh, shit. Was she flirting with me? I briefly wondered if there was a possibility of turning her into a pot smoking, alcohol guzzling, gutter slut and stifled an evil cackle that others might have interpreted as a giggle or a laugh. I dialed back the charm a little and got down to business, asking what she'd like to drink. She ordered a "sample" of peach iced tea and a glass of water. I smiled and made my escape.

A sample of peach tea? I call bullshit. She wasn't going to sample the tea and buy one, she just wanted a free drink and this was all about getting something for free, but whatthefuckever and I went off to get the drinks. Every motherfucker wants shit for free.

I returned to the table with her drinks and she spoke to me some more, craving conversation and flirting awkwardly. Most of what she had to say centered around how much she loved our salmon and the artichoke spread that it was prepared with, but then she complained that the salmon was too dry on her last visit and asked me to make sure that it was prepared properly. I apologized for the poor quality of our food and joked about having been fishing that morning and that the salmon was nice and fresh, which it certainly never was. Surprisingly, she ordered the salmon.

I excused myself and headed over to the computer to place her order and I saw that my boss was standing there, waiting for me. I quickly wondered what I was in trouble for and how I was going to spin it, but I needn't have worried.

"You sure were there a long time," boss lady said. "I was starting to wonder if you were going to convert. What the hell were you talking to her about?"

"She was complaining about the salmon that she had last week. She said the fish was drier than her snatch, but she sure does love that artichoke spread. I was thinking about recreating the sex scene from Hot Shots with her."

It's kind of hard to describe the look on my manager's face at that moment. Her face had turned kind of reddish purple, she seemed to be having difficulty speaking and she also seemed to be on the verge of having a stroke or a seizure or something.

"Calm down," I said, "I'm just fucking with you, but she did say it was too dry. The salmon, I mean, not her snatch, although I'm sure it's like Death Valley in there."

The look of relief on her face was palpable, but then she laughed.

"There's really something wrong with you," she said.

"Yeah, no shit. There's really something wrong with you if you've just now figured that out," I replied. I smiled.

She let out a nervous little laugh, turned and quickly walked away. People do that a lot when I smile; I've never understood why.

I finished placing the order and I went off to do some waiter shit, prostituting myself for a few measly dollars here and there, when I noticed that my boss was visiting the chuch lady at her table and she was trapped in conversation. I smirked and kept on waitering.

When the salmon was ready, I brought it to the table, where the church lady was busily carving up a very large Portabella mushromm cap that was overflowing with artichoke spread. It looked disgusting.

"That looks good," I lied. "Where did that come from?"

"Your manager brought it to me," the church lady said. She was smiling from ear to ear. She suddenly picked up the plate and fast as a whip, she thrust it at me. I involuntarily took a step back, nearly jumping out of my skin.

"It's too much for me," she said. "Share it with me."

Awkward...

Where's Sexual Harassment Panda when you really need him?

I thanked her for her kind offer, but went on to explain that I couldn't, that I had Celiac Disease and that I couldn't eat anything with wheat or gluten and that I avoided eating in the restaurant, because it always made me sick.

And that's when it happened, In a flash, she dropped the plate with the mushroom cap and it clattered on the table and her hand shot out, palm first and stopped in front of my stomach and and in a clear, shrill voice, she shouted to the heavens.

"Dear Lord Jesus, cast those demons out of this poor man and heal him in your name, Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior."

Wait. What? What the fuck just happened?

Holy fucking shit, did she really just try to cast out my demons? Get. The. Fuck. Out. This couldn't be fucking happening. Didn't this crazy bitch know who she was dealing with? Satan studied under ME, fer fuck's sake.

I was completely taken aback; stunned. I didn't know what to say. Had she really cast out my demons? Would the voices stop? I hoped not, they had some really cool fucking ideas. If my demons were gone, I wouldn't have any friends. What the fuck? Who was I supposed to snuggle with? I wanted to fucking cry. I might have. Who knows? I'm a sensitive motherfucker.

As an atheist, I was very offended. Who did this woman think she was, to presume that she could just force her religion upon me and pray over me? I felt preyed upon.

A silence had descended over my part of the dining room; people were staring. They were staring at me. I was fucking mortified, let me tell you. I had just been "faith healed" in front of an entire restaurant. In my mind, I stabbed the bitch in the eye with a fork, but in reality, I smiled at that fucking lunatic and I graciously thanked her for her efforts. And here you fuckers thought that I didn't have any class. I don't, really, but I can fake it when necessary. Kind of like what women do to me when we have sex and we both pretend that she had a good time.

She looked up at me and she said, "What you really need is to come home to a good woman and a home cooked meal every night."

The fuck I did. Make me a sandwich and get the fuck out, maybe, but this was almost like a fucking marriage proposal.

I made my escape from the table and avoided her until it was time to clear the table and present the check. Unfortunately, she decided to stay and have dessert. I casually mentioned that there was a very nice Baskin & Robins down the street, but I don't think that she got that ever so subtle hint. Shame.

The final blow came when I dropped off the check; that was when she invited me to go to church with her, that brazen hussy. Like on a date, but to church. And then what? Half-price appetizers and a hummer in the back seat? Let me think about that for a second. Nightmarish visions of gaudy floral print, homespun lingerie floated through my head. I shivered. I thought about that whole gutter slut thing again and dismissed it as a thoroughy bad idea, which was pretty surprising, because I'm usually all about bad decisions, but no. Hell no. No fucking way. I'd rather stab myself in the eye with a fork.

I politely declined, explaining that I worked two jobs and seven days a week. She looked as if I'd just crushed all of her hopes and dreams and that, at least really brightened my spirits.

I didn't say another word, I just ran like hell, only coming back to pick up payment. I was strictly business, saying as little as possible.

Later on, my manager asked me how things went and I told her what happened. She got that panicked and I'm about to have a fucking stroke look on her face again and she asked me what I did. I told her that I was totally cool about it and I think her blood pressure went down several hundred points. I didn't mention that whole eye stabbing thing with the fork. Some things are best left unspoken.

If you believe, that's fine with me, I respect that and you're welcome to believe as you like, but your rights end where mine begin and I expect you to have the same respect for my beliefs and rights as I do for yours. While prayer might make you feel better, it really doesn't do anything for me and it's unfair of anyone, not to mention unseemly, to force their belief system upon someone else, no matter how good their intentions may be. I'm proud of my penis, but I don't show it off and try to shove it down everyone else's throat, even if I do think the whole world can suck my dick. Think about that.

If you enjoyed this rant, give this one a chance:

It's Not Delivery, It's A Porno

Thanks for stopping by!

Did You Really Just Say That?

I once had a roommate who walked up to me one day, quite out of the blue, and he suddenly blurted out, "Do you know that if you fuck a chicken, it drives the chicken insane and they have to kill it?"

And then he just walked away.

I've always wondered how he knew that and I was always too scared to ask.

Some questions are better left unanswered.

That's not the only chicken fucker that I know about. If you need a good laugh, check this story out:

Secret Recipe

The Tale of the White Whale and the Stinky Cheese Man

PART ONE

"Call me Ishmael." - Herman Melville

“There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own.” 

― Herman Melville

     Selling a car is a relatively simple process. The buyer shows up, inspects the vehicle, reaches a decision and makes an offer. The seller can accept or reject the offer, alternatively, the seller can make a counter-offer. If there is mutual agreement, a financial transaction takes place and the vehicle goes home with its new owner. It's not exactly rocket science. It's not a life or death situation. Not usually. However, once you add me to the equation things can go from mundane to absolute chaos in the blink of an eye. In other words, shit happens.

     I've always been a Jeep kind of guy and by that I mean the image and not the reality. Maybe it's that whole manly man doing manly things, wind in my stubble, suave and debonair delusional image that I have of myself, but I'm far too modest to mention any of that. And well, because I'm so butch. To be honest, I've never owned a real Jeep, but I have ridden in them. The Jeeps that I have owned have been Grand Cherokees and don't exactly fit the whole manly man doing manly things, wind in my stubble , suave and debonair delusional image that I have of myself, which I'm far too modest to mention.

     But I digress.

     Ya'll wanna see something really cool, don'tcha?

     I've owned many vehicles over the years, two of which were Jeep Grand Cherokees, One Jeep was great; sturdy, reliable and it played host to many an adventure. If you've read Unsinkable, you're already familiar with one of those adventures. To call the other Jeep a piece of shit would be a far greater act of compassion than I am capable of. Of course, this is a story about the piece of shit Jeep. A Jeep that was not quite affectionately known as "The White Whale." And when I say "not quite affectionately known as," I mean it quite literally. Well, at least I mean the part about "not known as," because that's all bullshit, we didn't call it anything, but I needed a name for the story and there it was. Why? Because fuck you, that's why.

     Anyway, the White Whale had a few minor issues. Little things like the four wheel drive was out, the transmission was shot, it needed a new clutch, new rings; you know, just a few cosmetic details here and there. Now might also be a good time to mention that it wasn't in what I would quite call running condition, hell, that thing couldn't run if it had legs, but it looked great. I mean, other than the few minor flaws that I mentioned, it was a perfectly good vehicle. I'd certainly trust my ex-wife in it, alone, on a steep mountain, going downhill, in the winter, with black ice and no guardrail. Perchance to dream...

     Again, I digress and I used bad paraphrasing, too. My apologies.

     I'm sure that you can understand why I might be considered a very motivated seller of such a fine example of American crapsmanship and why I would shed a tear at the fond memory of many breakdowns spent sitting beside the road, waiting for AAA to come and save my sorry ass.

     But then the Lord shined His light upon me. Fucking Hallelujah!

     You see, sometimes I wonder if there is a God and if I'm just one of those people that He likes to fuck with. Intentionally. Like, for His own amusement. I think He looks over the world, watching it slowly spin around the Sun, mumbling crazy shit to Himself like an old homeless man. You know, He's just enjoying Himself, checking out the beauty of His creation and shit until he notices me and thinks, "Hey, isn't that the asshole that I like to fuck with?"

     Jonah? Yeah... he ain't got shit on me.

     This is how it all went down...

     One day, out of the blue, there was a knock upon my door. I opened the door and... holy shit!

     I heard fucking banjos.

     I smelled cheese. And... shit?

.

      Standing on my front porch was the complete stereotypical West Virginia example of Pa Kettle, an old, tall, skinny, redneck, farmer looking dude. He had it all. The scraggly grey beard, the beaten John Deere trucker hat, the denim jacket with the sheepskin collar, flannel shirt and overalls that were so old and filthy, they looked as if they'd been rolled in cow shit and dried to a fine crust. His dirty work boots looked as if they'd just won a shit kickin' contest. I could feel my nose wrinkle in offense. The stranger's stench rolled over me like a dust storm across the desert; vast and frightening.  He was creepy; he had a really weird vibe. I looked at his hands, expecting to find an axe, probably because I've seen way too many horror movies, which kind of does make me an authority on this kind of shit, but there were no sharp objects or small farm animals in his hands which was strange because I had this guy pegged as either an animal fucker (farmer), child molester, serial killer, or even worse, a Jehovah's witness. He was one or the other, of this I was certain. NOTE - Don't even try to fuck with my math here, people. I hate math. Math sucks giant pickled anaconda balls. There are three kinds of people in this world; those who are good at math and those who aren't. I'm in that third category.

     As if this all wasn't weird enough and stranger still, I also smelled cheese. Not just any kind of cheese, mind you. This was the scent of a finely cave aged Limburger that was stuffed inside of a dirty sock and wrapped with shit stained tightey whiteys prior to aging. He smelled like cheese. And shit. Shit cheese. String shit cheese. Not a pleasant thought, is it?

     I'll get back to all of that in just a second. The cheese, I mean. Okay, the shit too, don't worry.

     For brevity's sake, I'll refer to him as the Cheese Man. Parked behind the Cheese Man was his own Jeep Cherokee. Fucking great, we could be besties...

     Cheese Man inquired if I might be interested in selling the White Whale.

     I did a little fucking dance in my head.

     Sell it? Would I?

     Show me the fucking money; the moolah, the dough, the cash, the motherfucking Benjamins.

     Let's say that I was easily persuaded. Like I said, I was motivated. Superfuckingmotivated, come to think of it.

     Cheese Man made me an offer and I made him a counter-offer. We negotiated a price and reached an agreement and he counted out the cash and handed it to me. The money felt greasy and smelled foul, but I counted it and stuffed the money into my pocket faster than shit through a goose, which judging by the smell, is where Cheese Man kept his cash.

     Now, I just needed to find the title and Cheese Man could be on his way, so of course I couldn't find the title. I looked and I looked and I looked. No bueno. I finally found the damn thing in the filing cabinet, right where it was supposed to be. I had already looked in there several times, file by file and paper by paper and found nothing. Nothing. Zilch. Zip. Nada. And suddenly it magically appears? Right where it's supposed to be? I call bullshit. Magical witchcraft fuckery is what it was.

     With a flourish, I signed the title over to Cheese Man and he pockets it faster than his dick through a sheep and then Cheese Man sticks out his grime covered hand. A handshake? Really? You expect me to shake that filthy shit stained hand? I shook his hand, it felt greasy and foul. "Fuck it," I thought, "I'll just saw off my hand and incinerate it later."

     Cheese Man walked back to his Jeep, started it up and drove over to the White Whale. He emerged from his Jeep carrying a large chain and starts chaining the two Jeeps together, opting to tow the White Whale backwards out of my driveway. Good luck, with that. After a very short run, my driveway was nearly vertical, with an extremely sharp right or left turn at the top, as it met the road. Misjudge that turn and there's a good chance that you'll make a very quick trip down the mountain. I couldn't wait to see this, I'd watched many people fail at trying to escape from my driveway. This was going to be good. Even I had managed to turn a vehicle sideways and almost over the edge of the mountain in  my driveway. Don't ask. Don't even fucking ask.

     After Cheese Man got the vehicles chained together, he inspected his work, gave himself a porcine snort of approval and walked back over to me.

     "Please don't shake my hand again," I thought.

     My worry was quite needless as Cheese Man had one simple question.

     "Do you think you could steer the white Jeep out of the driveway for me, while I pull it up?" he asked me.

     "Sure, no problem," I replied.

     What could possibly go wrong?

     Have you ever looked back and identified that singular moment where everything started to unravel? You know, that moment where you lose all control and you realize that you're completely screwed. This was that moment, although I was too clueless to realize it at the time.

     This was the moment that God decided to fuck with me. The moment when he looked at all of his little angel buddies and said, "Hey, ya'll wanna' see something really cool?"

     I carefully explained how to get out of my driveway to the Cheese Man before climbing into the White Whale and buckling myself in. I was pretty sure that he had listened to my instructions.

     Cheese Man gunned the engine on his Jeep. I felt my sphincter contract. Pucker factor. He gunned the engine again, I felt a quick jerk and we took off up the driveway.

     We came back down just as quickly, which is when I discovered that the White Whale had no breaks. The Jeep came to a sudden stop as it pulled against the chain, throwing me against the seat belt. I loudly informed the Cheese Man that I had no brakes. In response, he gunned his engine again. I'm really not sure what part of "Hey, I have no fucking brakes," is so fucking hard to understand. Fuck me.

     We tried again with the same result. And again. And again. Six fucking times. I was a little over that shit by this point and I had much better things to do with my time, like spending Cheese Man's money.

     Nobody ever fucking listens.

     After the sixth attempt, I got out of the White Whale and I carefully explained to Cheese Man, once again, how to get out of my driveway and reminded him that I had no brakes. I'm fairly sure that he was half-listening to me.

     Cheese Man said that he was good to go and I climbed back into the Whale. He gunned his engine again, another quick jerk on the chain and we were off. Another fail. Cheese Man tried again and I could just imagine the grim determination that furrowed and cracked the crap caked into his brow. He gunned the engine into a deep throated growl as we launched down the driveway once again. Cheese Man made it to the very top of the driveway, gunned the engine again and made a sharp left, adding more power and I felt the Whale pull out of the driveway and onto the road. We made it! It was magical witchcraft fuckery, alright.

     Well, sort of...

     I had no brakes, remember?

     Cheese Man had stopped on the road facing uphill and the Whale was about to smash into his Jeep.

     No bueno.

     I quickly hit the brakes and nothing. Nada, zilch, zip; no fucking brakes. I had forgotten that I had no brakes. That's some serious fucking no bueno shit, right there. The Whale slammed into the back of Cheese man's Jeep and bounced off. Now, this wouldn't have been such a big deal if Cheese Man hadn't stopped his Jeep on an uphill portion of the road, fucking genius that he was and if the Whale had functioning brakes, which it didn't.

     The Whale started rolling downhill. I kept hitting the brakes, somehow hoping that some sort of magical witchcraft fuckery would happen and the brakes would suddenly start working. They didn't.

     The Whale rolled down to the edge of the mountain and before I could so much as shit my pants, the behemoth rolled straight over the edge, quickly picking up speed.

     Things are way the fuck beyond no bueno at this point. My shit was about to get seriously fucked up. I still hadn't soiled myself. Hey, it's a minor point of pride.

     The Whale was speeding down the mountain and headed straight for a copse of very large trees. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion as the trunk of the largest tree grew larger and larger in the windshield. Suddenly, I felt like Captain Ahab, strapped to the side of Moby Dick, about to take that final, fateful plunge.

Yeah, just like that.

     Strangely, I wasn't scared; I don't think there was time for that because everything happened so quickly. My life didn't flash before my eyes and I didn't break out some dusty, old, forgotten prayer to the Invisible Sky Man that loves to torment me. All that I could think about was that I would have to give Cheese Man his money back and that really pissed me off. "Fuck that guy," I suddenly thought, I totally deserved the money after experiencing Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.

     I had just braced myself for the impact with the tree when I felt the chain jerk again and the Whale came to a sudden, violent stop, bare inches from hitting the tree. I was thrown hard against the seat belt, but that was the worst of it. The best part? I still hadn't shit myself.

     Suddenly, there was another violent tug on the chain and Cheese Man was able to pull the Whale out of the gully and back onto the road. Thankfully, he kept going until the road leveled out and, you guessed it, the whale slammed into him again, but I was saved! My money was safe!

     Cheese Man jumped out of his Jeep and asked me if I wouldn't mind steering the Whale while he towed it back to his house. I agreed, because I'm an idiot and lack any sort of common sense, yet lead an obviously charmed life. Fabufuckinglous.

     We made it safely over the river and through the woods to the Cheese Man plantation, until the very last moment, where of course the whale had to give me one last beating, by once again slamming itself violently into the back of Cheese Man's Jeep.

     I hopped out of the Whale and hit the ground, taking a good look around. I made the horrible mistake of taking a deep breath and I was staggered by the stench.

     You see, Cheese man lived on a pig farm. There were pigs everywhere, so many that it was like roving herds of bacon. The smell of the offal hit me like a physical wave and I swallowed my nausea. There were piles of pig shit everywhere, you couldn't avoid them. That was one mystery solved; I now knew why Cheese Man smelled like shit, still, another mystery remained. Why did the Cheese Man smell like cheese? I noticed that there was something else strewn all over the ground, little clear plastic wrappers that upon closer inspection appeared to be Kraft Singles wrappers. Aha! Another mystery solved. One thing still puzzled me though. This guy didn't smell like processed cheese, he smelled like Époisses. Époisses, for those of you who don't know, is one of the smelliest cheeses in the world. Indeed, Époisses has been banned from public transportation vehicles all over France. It is made from raw cow's milk and its rind is washed with pomace brandy. Just a little fromage knowledge for you.

This little piggy went to market.

     I think I might have even thrown up in my mouth a little.

     I walked around to the front of the Whale, wanting to leave this madness behind me as quickly as possible.

     And that was when things started to get a little weird...

     Stay tuned for Part Two.

     If you enjoyed reading this story, please give this one a shot. Thanks!

Someone's Been Sleeping In My Bed

Someone's Been Sleeping In My Bed

A friend is a friend, so good and so true, but fuck your friends before they fuck you.

Many years ago, I had two roommates, Craig and Jeff and we shared a shithole of a trailer that was literally falling apart around us. The three of us were great friends and loyal to one another, but the torments that we inflicted upon each other and the adventures that we shared were the stuff of legend. The stories that I could tell about the things that happened under that sagging and leaking metal roof...

Jeff was this wonderful guy who had the biggest heart and would do anything to help anyone. Unfortunately, his kindness was always repaid by people taking advantage of him. Even worse, Jeff suffered from horrible depression and silenced his pain with copious amounts of alcohol. 

Craig, on the other hand, was this huge mountain of a man who also had a heart as big as he was. You could always count on Craig to lift you up; to make you smile and laugh. 

We also (briefly) had a puppy named Lumpy. Lumpy was a lovable mutt and dizzying ball of energy who loved everyone and everything. The only bad thing about Lumpy was that he had an acute form of canine IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome). That dog was just a shitting machine that spewed volcanic eruptions of fecal matter everywhere. When he started farting, you literally had seconds to get him outside, or you would be scrubbing shit for hours. Literally. It was like the shit had truly hit the fan; it would spray everywhere; the floor, the furniture, the walls and more than once, the ceiling. Imagine the surprise you would feel to come home, plop yourself on the couch and feel something cold and wet splash down upon your head. Your first instinct is to wipe your head with your hand. Bad choice. Instincts can be bad things and nothing says "Surprise!" quite like a splatter of shit to the top of your noggin. Trust me on this one. Even worse was looking up while wondering, "What the fuck?" just in time for the next dollop to land on my face. Not quite the way that I wanted to be welcomed home by my dog.

A couple of quick stories about Lumpy...

One very early morning, Jeff and I were awakened by Craig yelling and cussing up a storm. Thinking that there was either an emergency or a murder, Jeff and I sprinted down the hall to Craig's room, our hearts racing with worry. When we burst through the door, we both stopped short and our concern turned to hysterical laughter. Apparently, Craig had decided to let Lumpy sleep in his bed that night and at some point, the puppy had crapped all over his pillow. Just as apparently, Craig rolled over in his sleep landing squarely on the aforementioned pile of puppy poo. Craig's face was completely covered in crap; running rivers of shit were streaming down his face as he frantically tried to clean himself up. Jeff and I should have and could have helped him clean up the mess, but we were too busy laughing and mocking Craig to be of much use as a cleanup crew. For reasons that I still can't understand, Craig didn't share in our laughter and he never seemed to appreciate his new nickname of Shithead. I've always wondered why... Hell, I still practically piss my pants with laughter every time that I think about it.

After several experiences with Lumpy and his fountain of feces, Craig started locking Lumpy in the bathroom at night and I would liberate the poor pup and sneak him back into Craig's bedroom, where Lumpy would then proceed to leave his little presents on the floor, making miniature minefields of manure. Many was the morning that Craig would wake us up by yelling at us and showing us just how creative he could be with foul language, but I always denied everything and blamed it all on Jeff, who was either still too drunk to wake up, or too hung over to try to defend himself. Craig didn't know who to blame, although, I'm fairly certain that he always suspected it was me. He just couldn't prove it or catch me. Good times...

One night, Jeff came home early, got drunk and passed out in his bedroom. I was out whoring around and didn't make it home until late. Forgetting to liberate Lumpy from his potty prison because I was a bit tipsy myself, I staggered into my room and promptly fell asleep only to be awakened by a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass. Apparently, Jeff had woken up, staggered to the bathroom, hadn't bothered to turn on the light and promptly slipped on a pile of shit. Lumpy must have had a rough night, because it was like a shit slip & slide in there. At some point while he was practicing his shit skating skills in the bathroom, Jeff managed to become airborne and while he was flying around like Superman in his tighty whiteys, he went headfirst into the shower, breaking the glass door. By the time I got to the bathroom, there was blood and shit everywhere; it was pretty bad. It was obvious that Jeff was in need of medical attention, but there was no fucking way that I was going to put him in my car. I wrapped Jeff's head in a towel and Craig carried him outside where he dumped our roommate's limp body into the backseat of his own car and we sped off to the hospital. When we got to the ER, Craig carried an unconscious Jeff inside and up to the counter. The astonished looks that we got were priceless. Here was this giant guy carrying this little guy that was covered in blood and shit. Keep in mind that Jeff was wearing underwear and nothing else. People were tripping over themselves to get the hell out of the way. The triage staff were completely professional and sprang into action, taking him straight back. Poor Jeff, he left there after spending the night, with seventeen stitches in his scalp. To make matters worse, Jeff had to explain all of this to his insurance agent, because he owned the trailer and had to make a claim on his homeowner's insurance. I only heard one side of that conversation, but let me tell you, it was pure gold. Listening to Jeff stammer out that explanation was one of the funniest things I've ever heard and because Jeff had been so drunk, he didn't remember a thing.

And then there's the story of Lumpy and the pizza, but I'm going to be nice and skip that story, just in case you haven't eaten yet. No need to thank me, I'm a paragon of virtue and kindness; the epitome of purity and innocence, I am. I even have a halo around here somewhere. 

Craig found a new home for Lumpy. I was heartbroken.

I decided to bring home a new pet, but the guys made me promise that it would be something that could be easily taken care of, so Craig and I went down to the reptile shop that had just opened to see about buying a monitor lizard. Craig decided it was a bad idea after it tried to bite his finger off. I think he was a little scared of it. For such a big guy, he sure was a pussy. I mean, what's one little finger or toe? You have nine others, right? Hell, if you're the guy that killed Inigo Montoya's father, you even have a spare.

I ended up buying a breeding pair of Giant Day Geckos and all of the associated paraphernalia instead. What could possibly go wrong with that?

I also bought a hundred crickets. I had to feed those little fuckers.

Day Geckos require some special care. They are mostly a terrarium species and are a little shy, but over time,you can get them to eat out of your hand. They really aren't meant to be handled as their skin can slough.

While I was promised a breeding pair, I'm not so sure about that. As far as I know, they never mated and I don't know if I had a male/female pair, or two females. Had they both been males, they would have fought until one of them was dead. I had no way to tell what sex they were and I certainly wasn't about to start looking for a little lizard dick. So, I just appreciated them for their beauty.

The crickets on the other hand, were a fucking nightmare. Do you know what it's like to have a hundred fucking crickets chirping in your house? Even worse, they would escape from their box and hide all over the damn house. The chirping was incessant. Crickets everywhere. I couldn't wait to feed those little bastards to the geckos. To this day, I hate the sound of crickets, they drive me crazy. 

Crazy? I was crazy once. They put me in a round room and told me to sit in the corner...

The geckos were working out well, except for the crickets that kept escaping and that fucking chirping. We would hunt them down whenever possible and we took a great sadistic joy in watching them get devoured by the geckos. It was so cool to watch them feed on the little bastards.

One day while I was in the reptile shop for a refill on the crickets, I saw these wonderful little creatures. 

They were ginormous. And disgusting.

"What the hell are those?" I asked the clerk.

"They're giant mealworms," he told me.

I smiled, thinking of all of the wonderful possibilities.

"How much are they?"

He told me a price that wasn't too bad for what I had in mind.

"I'll take a hundred," I said.

"They're too big for your geckos," he told me.

"They're not for my geckos," I replied, "I have other plans for them."

He quickly bagged up my crickets and mealworms, I forked over a little cash and headed for home. I think that I have the same evil little smile on my face right now as I did back then. Ah, memories.

I got home, fed the geckos a few crickets, completely enjoying watching those little bastards get consumed.

I was the only one home. It was perfect.

I headed for Craig's bedroom and pulled his blanket back from the bed. I then proceeded to dump all of the mealworms onto his bed, spreading them out to get a nice, even distribution.

I quickly covered them up and tucked the blanket back in. This was going to be epic. I practically skipped down the hall on the way to the living room, turned on the TV and waited for Craig to come home. It was a bit of a wait, but I didn't care. I knew this was going to be awesome.

Craig finally arrived home and we hung out for a bit and then he decided to go to bed early. I was so excited, I was ready to piss myself. I waited outside the door to his bedroom.

It didn't take long.

He screamed like a little girl. Like I said, Craig was a big wuss. I burst through the door and I swear that guy was in midair. Seriously, what's the big deal about crawling into bed with a hundred giant maggot looking things? It didn't bother me, but then again, they weren't in my bed, crawling all over me.

I was laughing my ass off.

He started freaking out and stuttering. His face got really red.

I looked death straight in the eye.

"Oh, shit," I thought.

I showed incredible courage. I ran like hell and headed for the door to the trailer.

"I'm going to fucking kill you!" he raged. 

Craig started chasing after me. I made it to the door running like Bruce Jenner headed for a free sex change. He was right on my heels. For such a big guy, he could run really fast, but I was faster. There was no way I was going to let him catch me. I poured on the speed. He sped up too.

"Calm down," I urged him. "It was just a joke."

He told me that he was going to make me eat the mealworms after he finished kicking my ass. No way. Fuck that. I needed to put a stop to this.

"Dude," I yelled back, "If you make me eat them, how will we get Jeff?"

Well, that was the right thing to say, because it was like music soothing the savage beast. Craig stopped running.

"Get Jeff?" he wheezed.

"Well, yeah," I said. "You don't think I'd waste all of that money just to fuck with you, do you? It's better to get two for the price of one."

"Let's do it," Craig said breathlessly, "I can always kill you later."

It was progress of a sort.

We headed back inside and I collected the mealworms and we headed for Jeff's bedroom, where I repeated the process of hiding them in Jeff's bed. Two for the price of one. Yeah, this was going to be sweet. 

Jeff came home  and started drinking. Big surprise. After about an hour of drinking, he told us goodnight and went to bed. Craig and I stood right outside of his door. Once again, it wasn't a long wait. Jeff screamed even louder than Craig had; longer too. It was pure fucking awesome. Craig opened the door and Jeff was cowering next to his bed. The poor guy was so terrified he could barely form a coherent sentence.

"Y-y-you m-m-m-m-motherfuckers," he stammered, "That's not funny. What the fuck is wrong with you guys?"

Craig and I couldn't stop laughing long enough to answer him. I was laughing so hard that I could barely breathe.

After a few minutes, I cleaned up Jeff's new friends and tossed them outside and we all decided to call it a night. Jeff crawled back into bed, Craig headed for his room and I went into mine, locking the door behind me. I pushed my dresser against the door to block it. There was no way in hell that anyone was getting in.

Within a minute I heard Craig yell a string of profanity that was directed at me. 

Oops, must have missed a few.

Sorry, bro.

If you liked this story, you might appreciate this one:

The Rules

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this story, please leave a comment. Positive comments encourage me. If you hated it, leave a comment as well, although I'll probably just tell you to go fuck yourself.

Comments, criticisms and suggestions are always welcome.

They Call It Mellow Yellow

The flow of information at our fingertips today is almost beyond comprehension. You can find anything you want or desire on the Internet. And when I say anything, I do mean anything. There are no limits.

It wasn't always like this.

Back when I was a kid, if you wanted information, you became a human search engine. While it was still possible to conduct your search without leaving home, your search was generally limited to antiquated options such as three to five channel television (yes, there really was such a thing), newspapers, magazines and books, usually old-fashioned things once known as encyclopedias. If you needed more than just basic information, you would actually have to leave the house and go to a book store, where you could buy books or you'd have to walk uphill, both ways, barefoot in the snow, to a magical wonderland called the library, where you could find the information that you needed, sometimes involving pre-computer technology such as card catalogs (shudders) and microfilm (pretty cool, actually). Does all of this sound like a giant pain in the ass to you? Let me assure you, it sure as shit was.

In the modern era, having all of this information at your fingertips could enable you to do some great and amazing things.

At the very least, it could keep you from doing some incredibly stupid shit...

It was during the great weed drought of 1983 and it was drier than a ninety year old woman's vagina. No matter how hard you tried, cried, or begged; no matter how much you were willing to spend, there was no pot to be found. It was heartbreaking and cruel; stoners were begging in the streets and selling themselves for seeds and stems. Dealers wouldn't even bother to answer their pagers and you knew, you just fucking knew that those motherfuckers were holding out on you. You could just picture them in your mind's eye, toking away and laughing while their pagers blew up. Everyone was crying the blues, even my first string, all star pot dealer was asking me if I could hook him up. My second string guy was all hustle with no bustle (I'll bet he's still waiting for that fucking phone call) and even my dealer of last resort, the guy who was such an asshole that he was tolerated only in the most desperate of times. You know the guy I'm talking about, the super-sized sleazy dirtball who overcharges, under delivers and always comes up short. The douchebag that leaves you feeling soiled. That motherfucker. The city had become a barren wasteland; it was like pot had completely ceased to exist.

Luckily, my friend Luke and I believed in leaving no stone unturned in our quest for pharmacological relief. I searched hither and yon,while Luke turned the city upside down and inside out in our holy quest for the Lord's herb. I don't recall how or why it came to be, but Luke caught wind of a book titled, "The Anarchist Cookbook," written by a man named William Powell.

"The Anarchist Cookbook," is chock full of fun ideas, directions, instructions and recipes for useful and practical things, such as weapons, booby traps, explosives and homemade drugs, including lsd.

The book actually has an FBI file. Check it out:

The Anarchist Cookbook - FBI Files

Let me state for the record that we never, ever, ever made any of the explosives, or blew up tons of shit in Luke's backyard and we certainly never made napalm, nope, not us, although I'm sure that it would have been a lot of fun. I'd swear my innocence on a stack of fucking Bibles.

However, we did maybe, kind of, sort of, might have tried a few of the drug recipes.

Hell, what we did was pretty tame, compared to some of the lengths that people will go to in order to catch a buzz.

***WARNING - THE FOLLOWING EXPERIMENTS WERE CONDUCTED BY TWO COMPLETELY UNTRAINED MORONS. KIDS, DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!!!

No, we didn't try to get high from scorpions. Maybe if we had seen this.

Dude, hold my nuts.

The plan was very simple. Luke's parents were out of town for the weekend and we were going to engineer our own little designer drug factory. The very first thing that we tried to do was to get high from smoking peanut skins (it's a very simple recipe, but very time consuming, cracking and peeling all of the peanuts). I know that sounds stupid and it was. Incredibly stupid. No, that still doesn't do it justice. How about incredibly fucking stupid? Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? I can't tell you how incredibly fucking stupid we felt while doing this, but we tried it anyway, mostly because we were incredibly fucking stupid. We were desperate and I wasn't about to sell my body for a buzz. I'm not that cheap of a whore. Cheap? Yes. Whore? Yes again, but I usually hold out for at least a fucking Happy Meal.

Irrefutable Evidence

Getting high with the psychedelic peanut: 

1. Take 1 pound of raw peanuts (not roasted). 

2. Shell them, saving the skins and discarding the shells. 

3. Eat the nuts. 

4. Grind up the skins and smoke them.

We cracked the nuts, shed the skins, ate a bunch of fucking peanuts and then ground the skins, rolling up about eight joints of peanut skins. I fired up the first joint, inhaled and almost immediately coughed a lung across the fucking room. I can still hear the disgustingly wet sound that it made when it hit the wall, or maybe I just shit my pants. It was a loud "splat," okay? With tears streaming down my face and my lungs on fire, I passed the doobie over to Luke, who immediately hacked up his entire respiratory system. It was pretty fucking gross. I still couldn't even form words, but after catching our collective breath, we both agreed it was a pretty smooth smoke. Please watch the video below for a more accurate description of the experience.

Nothing beats a little lung butter...

Somehow, we managed to smoke all eight joints of peanut skins and lived to tell the tale. It was like an endurance contest to see who was the biggest dipshit, neither one of us willing to give up or give in, in front of the other. We waited to see what the effects would be like. We waited and waited and then we fucking waited some more. We tried to convince ourselves that we were stoned. We tried to talk ourselves into being stoned and at one point, Luke even claimed to see a few happy trails, but all that I could see through my still watering eyes was disappointment and a large fucking pile of raw peanut skins.

Being the intrepid drug pioneers (that sounds much nicer than calling ourselves complete fucking morons, doesn't it?) that we were, we smoked the rest of the skins, too. Still nothing. 

You know what they say though, if at first you don't succeed, try something even more incredibly fucking stupid. And so we did. It was almost like we had to. The Lord works in mysterious ways.

The gloves were now off as we moved straight to the hard stuff on our fast and furious road trip to Hell and let me tell you, it wasn't paved with any good fucking intentions, either. Banana peels. No, it wasn't paved with fucking banana peels, you fuckwad, pay attention. In our crazed lust for drugs, we tried the ultimate horror of horrors, one of the most addictive and dangerous substances on Earth. I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but yes, yes, fucking yes, we tried to smoke banana peels. I'm even more ashamed to admit the things I've done for a Klondike bar, in the back of an ice cream truck, but let's not go there, the memories are still too fresh and painful. Oh, and don't approach me with a sugar cone, either, it gets bad, very bad. Don't judge me, I was young and incredibly fucking stupid, but now I'm a lot older. I'm still incredibly fucking stupid, but I have a lot more experience at it. It takes a lot of dedication and hard fucking work to be this incredibly fucking stupid. I almost broke into a sweat once, because I had to concentrate really hard and come up with an answer to a yes or no question. Potato is always a handy word to use in situations like that. People and their fucking questions.

The peanut skins turned out to be just another gateway drug. A gateway to broken promises and a life unfulfilled. A one-way trip to a skid row destination. Living in a van down by the river was just a short hop, skip and a jump away.

The night after the great peanut skin doobie debacle, we decided to try the recipe for Bananadine.

Getting Buzzed with Bananas:

1. Obtain 15 pounds of ripe yellow bananas. 

2. Peel all and eat the fruit. Save the peelings. 

3. Scrape all the insides of the peels with a sharp knife. 

4. Put all the scraped material in a large pot and add water. 

5. Boil 3 or 4 hours until it has attained a solid paste consistency.

6. Spread paste onto cookie sheets and dry in oven for about 20 minutes. 

This will result in fine black powder. 

Usually one will feel the effects after smoking three to four cigarettes.

We should have waited for the Internet.

Fifteen fucking pounds of bananas. Seriously? Just a normal, everyday purchase that definitely wouldn't raise any eyebrows, right? We were off to the grocery store like two dumbasses running from the bulls at Pamplona. You know, the ones you see on television or YouTube and you just know they're going to take it in the nuts. Hell, at least it wasn't Jenkem. You might not want to click that...

There was a small issue, it was well after midnight and all of the regular grocery stores were long closed, but not too far away was an XTRA, which is/was a 24 hour grocery store that was only slightly out of the way, meaning that it was way, way out of the way, but we were going to get our fifteen fucking pounds of bananas, like it was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbows that I shit out of my ass. 

We get to the store and throw a quarter in the cart. I've always thought that was a crock of shit. Like I'm really going to walk all the way back to the fucking store to retrieve my quarter. Fucking thieves. I call it the lazy motherfucker tax, with me being the lazy motherfucker.

We walk into the store and are immediately in the produce section, which is a good thing, because that's where we needed to be. It's just a few feet to the display of bananas.

There's another small issue. There are no scales. How the fuck are we supposed to know when we have fifteen fucking pounds of bananas? No matter, we've got visions of banana skins dancing in our heads.

We decided to just pile the cart up with bananas. At twenty-five cents a pound, it's not like we were going to break the bank. We bought every single fucking banana that they had and nothing else. Just a cart full of fucking bananas. No worries, it's normal behavior, right?. Time to check out.

When we first got to the store it was around one am and the place was empty, but somehow in the two minutes that it took for us to load up the cart, every asshole and their brother had decided to go grocery shopping in the middle of the night and of course, there was only one cashier on duty and the line stretched all the way down the fucking aisle. I mean, who the fuck besides a pothead would go grocery shopping in the middle of the night? Apparently, every asshole and their fucking brother, that's who.

People are starting to notice us. For some reason, we're getting some really odd looks from people. For the life of me, I can't imagine why. It's just a few bananas. Can't a person go to the store and buy a few bananas to smoke? Apparently fucking not.

People started asking questions. We told them it was for a fraternity prank. There were no universities anywhere near us, but people will believe anything. They just shook their heads and smiled. People are fucking morons. Looking back, we should have told them it was for some weird monkey buttsex cosplay, but I'm not sure if that was even a thing back then. Cosplay, I mean. I'm pretty sure there's been plenty of monkey buttsex over the years.

It took us an hour to get to the register, where we had to endure more questions from the cashier, with the same, by now, tired old answer of it being a fraternity prank. Turns out we had misjudged a little bit on the weight. We didn't have fifteen pounds of bananas, we had twenty-seven pounds of fucking bananas. Fuck me running. Better safe than sorry, I guess.

We left the store and headed back to Luke's. It was starting to get very late, but we decided to forge ahead. 

We hadn't driven more than two blocks before we were pulled over by the cops. How do you explain twenty-seven pounds of fucking bananas to the cops?

Two officers walked around the car, trying to decide whether they were going to shoot us or not, I guess. They shined their flashlights all around the car and in our eyes, just being general dickheads, when one of them approached the driver's side window and asked Luke for his drivers license, insurance and registration. The other cop came up to my window and asked for my id, shining the flashlight into the backseat and settling its beam upon the bags of bananas.

"What's in the bags?" asked Officer Friendly #2.

"Groceries," I replied.

Officer Friendly #1, "Do you have any illegal drugs or weapons in your possession?"

"No," Luke answered.

"Mind if we take a look inside the car and and make sure there aren't any? We just want to check for everyone's safety."

Luke asked why we were pulled over and the cop mumbled some lame ass excuse. I'll bet they figured they were about to make a nice drug bust. Good luck with that, dumbass.

The cop again asked for permission to search the car, asking if we had something to hide. Luke smirked and told him to go ahead. The cops rifled through the car, making a mess and just being general assholes while leaving the bags of bananas for last. They searched through the bags finding nothing but twenty-seven pounds of fucking bananas.

"I thought you said there were groceries in the bags?" Officer Friendly #2 said.

"There are," I said. "We just bought them at the grocery store."

"But these are bananas," he replied.

Oh, we're talking genius level IQ's, with these two. How special.

"Why yes, they are. Last time I checked, bananas were considered groceries."

"What do you need so many bananas for?" said #2.

"To feed the fucking monkeys," I answered.

"Don't be an asshole," said the asshole cop. "This might still take a while. We need to run your id's and make sure there are no warrants for either of you."

I shut my big fucking mouth.

After harassing us for a few more minutes, the cops sullenly stalked back to their car and we drove off to Luke's house, giggling the entire way.

At least we had step one covered and we were able to move on to step two.

Peel and eat the fruit. Save the peelings.

Yeah, fuck that. Neither one of us was about to go through all of that, but we did consume a few, with the rest of the fruit tossed in the trash.

Step three! Woo-hoo!

Scrape all the insides of the peels with a sharp knife.

Surprisingly, this wasn't as much fun as it sounds. Surprisingly, no emergency room visit was involved. It was very time consuming. Can you imagine the fun and camaraderie that you'll share peeling and scraping twenty-seven pounds of fucking bananas? It was pure fucking bliss, let me tell you.

Step four - Put all the scraped material in a large pot and add water.

That part was pretty painless but the hour was growing late, very late. 

Step five!

Boil 3 or 4 hours until it has attained a solid paste consistency.

Wait... What? No fucking way. I guess we forgot about that part. We watched a movie on VHS and we watched a lot of water boiling. It was a shit ton of fun.

We boiled that shit for three hours and it was good and pasty. Meanwhile, the sun was peeking over the rooftops of the adjacent houses. We had been up all night for no sane reason and we still hadn't attained any result, but there was only one last step to go.

Yippee-ky-yay motherfucker.

Step Six

Spread the paste onto cookie sheets and dry in the oven for about 20 minutes. Twenty minutes. What's another twenty fucking minutes when you've already invested an entire goddamn night to a stupid fucking endeavor?

We spread the shit out onto the cookie sheets and pop them into the oven. By now, it was getting close to 7:00 am and we were both bone ass tired. Of course, Mr. Murphy had to pop his head in the door one more time before calling it a night, so of course, it took a lot longer than twenty fucking minutes to dry that shit out. It was more like forty-five fucking minutes, but who's keeping track? After the shit was dry enough, I pulled the dried peel scrapings out of the oven and put them aside to cool. I think we were both falling asleep at this point. We decided to get some rest and then take our banana peels for a test drive.

Luke went to his room and I crashed out on the bed in his sister's room. We both woke up around one o'clock and we wandered into the kitchen, prepared to smoke some Mellow Yellow.

If ever there was a WTF? moment, this certainly qualified as one of them.

Our shit was gone. All traces of criminal activity had been erased.

WTF? WTF? WTF?

No, seriously, WTF?

Our yellow gold was gone. The sick baby that I had nursed throughout the night had disappeared without a trace. What could I do? It's not like I could call the cops and report that my bananadine was missing. 

I looked at Luke and as long as I live, I'll never forget the words that I said to him, "What the fuck, dude?"

Just as I'll never forget his fucking reply, "Oh shit, dude, I forgot that the maid was coming today and I guess she cleaned everything up. Sorry."

Sorry? He was fucking sorry? That's some fucked up shit, right there. I had spent the entire fucking night laboring relentlessly toward the goal line, my eye on the prize, only to be cheated out of my moment of fucking glory and he was fucking sorry? FUCK! Luke, when you read this I want you to understand something, that is the one and only time that you came close to death at my hands. Admittedly, it wasn't very close, I mean, I'd have had to dig a hole, clean up the evidence and all that fucking jazz. Not to mention the fact that I'd be suspect numero uno and I know that I'd crack and my ass was just too pretty for prison. Besides there's a whole set of rules for that shit (Read - The Rules). Even more importantly, we all know that I'm much too lazy to be bothered with that shit. 

Luke looked at me and I swear to God, he actually asked me, "Do you want to try it again?"

Are you fucking kidding me? I shook my head no. Violently so.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Who? Me? I'll just sit in the fucking corner and smoke my fucking disappointment."

At least I can console myself with this fun fact!

If you like this story, please try this one. Thanks!

Don't Hiss Yourself