ASS-id Flashback: A Tale of Two Shitties Part II

If you are reading this whilst eating, you may wanna skip it altogether.

I will keep the second part of this uber-mini-series brief, as it's really all about the ending. Fuck. Was that an accidental pun? I love those! Anyhoo, I was returning home from Seattle with my bandmates and a couple of girls we met at a show at the Off Ramp. We were all going on around no hours or so of sleep. I was coming down from what could be considered a pretty low high and John, the drummer, was "riding the snake" on many hits of pink dot acid. I have only taken acid 5 times in my whole life, and it was usually pink dot. These were little white tablets with......pink dots. Drug dealers should never be expected to be very creative.

John was feeling his acid pretty much full-on. He was also feeling up the girl that was sitting on his lap. I remember feeling ill-at ease about this situation due to the blatant lack of automobile safety involved. I've never claimed to be very rock-n-roll. To this day, I could not tell you the name of the girl but she was very pretty. I have no idea how she planned on getting back home to Seattle.

Steve was at the wheel of his uncle's car (this car was a depressingly large part of my youth) and some other girl was in the front passenger seat. Which left me to cuddle in the backseat with the grope-tastic duo.

John asked steve to pull over so he could "empty the tank". We were somewhere over Blewett Mountain Pass and there were many cars on the highway but no shortage of trees to hide behind.

Steve pulled onto the shoulder and John headed for the woods. A few seconds later he emerges from the dense greenery and yells "false alarm. sorry mangs." still zipping his fly. He repositioned the pretty girl securely onto his lap in the backseat and we were on our way again.

About ten minutes down the line, John said "What the fuck? I think I gotta stop again, mangs."

We all groaned. Steve pulled back onto the shoulder and John once again vanished into the forest. This time he was in there for about 15 minutes before Steve finally honked the tinny horn of his borrowed uncle's car. John stumbled out of the woods looking quite disoriented. He slowly walked toward the car and climbed in onto the pretty girl's lap. She laughed at first but when he didn't get off her, she politely shoved him off. They switched places and we were once again on the road.

Unbelievably, not 10 minutes later we were back on the side of the road. "I don't feel right, mangs. Not one fuckin' bit of me fuckin' feels right." John moaned as he climbed out of the car. He started pulling his trousers down and ran in front of the parked vehicle and toward the highway. Steve honked the tinny horn but John paid it no mind. It seems that in his drug induced confusion, he was thinking that he needed to use the car for privacy from the busy highway. But he was on the wrong side of the car.

He crouched down against the rear wheel............no....no I musn't.....anyhoo, I looked down to witness what appeared to be a very constipated drummer on acid trying desperately to shit on a car. He was failing, however, and after what seemed like a "college try" length of time, he gave up. He yelled a few curses that I could not quite discern over the noise of the highway, and stood up with his trousers still in utility mode. He bent over to pull them up. As he did, his ass exploded onto my window (thank Sweet Jesus it was rolled up) and in an instant my world went figuratively and literally, dark.

Once the initial shock of the 'sideways shit storm' began to fade, we all exited the soiled vehicle to ponder the shitty situation. John was laughing so hard that he was choking for oxygen. Steve walked away from the scene of he crime as not to vomit. The girls were laughing but I got the feeling that inside, they were clicking the hell at of their ruby-red heels. When John finally compsed himself, we forced him to clean his ass pudding from the window. Steve drove home at around 106 mph as to keep the smell as far behind us as possible at all times.

There is no real punchline here folks. I just wanted it on the record.

ASS-id Flashback: A Tale of Two Shitties PART I

I was recently having "coffee" with a pal of mine and I was sharing a story with her about another pal of mine, concerning his last dance with LSD. She chuckled. We paid the tab for the drinks and parted ways.

On the snowy, fog-ridden, drive home I realized that I had actually melded two stories into one. At first I felt silly, but since BOTH stories involve a pal that took way too much acid and consequently had issues with bowel movements, I forgave myself for the melding.

So here is the correct retelling of both accounts, conveniently broken into two parts.

PART ONE

It was 1995 and I was en route to the "Hemp Fest" celebration in Rainbow Valley, an actual "working" -used here in the loosest possible way- hippie commune just outside of Centralia, WA. After getting lost for about 3 hours, we finally found the mythical Valley. When we saw the brightly painted, non-working buses along the road we knew we had arrived.

I was with my girlfriend Jenni, my cousin Bobby, and one of my best pals, Jayson. I was 20 at the time and hadn't smoked pot since I was 15 so I brought a case of Schmidt Ice. Let us pause now for a brief collective shutter. Schmidt Ice................

Anyhoo, once we found a nice parking place in the mud, we walked around looking for the "Rainbow Ceremony". Supposedly a spiritually moving event involving fire-eating and boobs. There was a midget with fire red hair leaning against a small rock near the entrance gate.

"Hey, man. Where's the Rainbow ceremony?" Jenni asked the midget.

My cousin Bobby mumbled " Oh I s'pose you'd like to know where me pot o' gold is too!" in his finest Lucky Charms accent.

Jenni glared at Bobby. Jayson and I were nearly pissing ourselves. The midget must not have heard the joke because he wasn't laughing. He just pointed at the gate.

Inside the gate was a large horse pasture filled with hundreds of creeps. Ok, not all of them were creeps but they all sure as shit GAVE me the creeps. There was no real ceremony going on, just rampant veggie-friendly mingling and plenty of the usual hippie stink wafting through the air. We pitched our tent near the edge of the field for easy escaping if need be. I learned this little trick the hard way.

We hadn't quite put the last stake in the damp ground when a 4-wheeler approached us. Atop this decidedly un-earth-friendly steed were two men. The driver had a green grunge-cut and the awkwardly positioned passenger was sporting foot-long dreads.

"Hey brothers. I'm Captain Good Times. Dig?" said the be-dreaded passenger, still hugging his chauffeur. "What do you need?" he asked.

Jenni, never one to miss a drug cue, stepped out of the tent. "Got any 'sid?" she asked.

Captain Good Times produced a laugh that caused me to look around me to see where the baby goat was. "Gotcha covered, man." the be-dreaded goat said as he pulled out a baggie filled with paper blotter acid.

Jenni and Jayson opted for seven hits each. Bobby and I chose to pass on the tempting offer. They paid the goat, dosed their score and we walked around looking at shit. Bobby got bored and headed back to the tent to eat some of the pot brownies Jenni had baked.

After a couple hours of mingling with creeps, the three of us headed back to the tent. Jenni and Jayson were getting pissed because they were not feeling their high, and they were thinking maybe they had bought junk drugs. Back in the tent we saw a ridiculously smiley Bobby and one empty pan of pot brownies. I don't know how much pot was in those brownies, but judging from the look on Jenni's face upon realizing that it was all gone...it was a lot.

Bobby and I started drinking the warming beer whilst Jenni and Jayson went to get their money back from the fake drug-selling goat. When they returned, they said the goat was amazed that they were not fried out of their brains. He stood by the quality of his product, but offered more hits of acid in lieu of a refund proper. 7 more hits each to be exact, which brings the grand total to 14 hits each.

About the time they had dosed the new hits, the old ones kicked in.

A half hour later Jenni was too high to stand up and she rolled into a ball in the tent, mumbling something about cotton and Jim Morrison. Bobby's eyes were jet black with pot-induced coma and he was going nowhere anytime soon. I was about 10 beers into it and bored so Jayson and I went walking around. He was having trouble speaking but other than that, he seemed fine.

All of sudden he fell to his knees and shoved his ass toward me. "Dude! You gotta help me out!" he yelled. " I think I just shit my pants! Put your hand down there and check!"

I scratched my chin. "Uh.....couple things here, chief. First of all, even if you didn't shit your pants, I would not want the unique experience of pawing around in your trousers. Second, if you DID shit your pants....see where I'm going with this?"

He really could not understand how I could be such a heartless dick. After all, we were buddies, and here I couldn't just fulfill this one simple request. He kept asking me but I stood my ground.

"But...my legs.....the veins are on the outside of my legs!" He yelled.

"Ok, I tell you what....I will feel your legs to check if that's true. If it's not, we can assume that you also have not shit your pants. Make sense?"

He pondered for a second. "My legs!"

I knelt down next to him, rolled up his jeans and grabbed his legs. To my relief, the veins all seemed to be safely inside where they belonged. "Good news! No veins, sir. All tucked away in a cozy bed of.....flesh and.....tissue." I assured him.

He immediately got up and started walking as if nothing had ever happened. "Dude, thanks for making sure I didn't crap myself." he said.

"No, no I just checked your legs, see?" I replied, slightly worried about they way he might recant this story. "But it's all good."

We finally came upon an outhouse where Jayson could do a full-on inspection. He cut in front of about 30 people in line, darted inside and before the door had fully closed, he came back out. His pants were around his ankles and I remember being amazed how he had taken them off so quickly.

"Dude! How the fuck long was I in there? Straight up!" He cried.

"Uh...like 2 seconds. Tops." I said. The crowd began laughing at the strange, panicked, pant-less man.

"No! I was trapped! For like...hours!" Jayson said. " There was a pyramid of shit...and bad a man.... and it was...oh it was just fucking awful!"

I did what any good pal would do in this situation. I joined the crowd in laughter.

Eventually, Jayson shed the unpleasant effects of the drug and we made it back to the tent with little incident. I was relieved that fecal matter never really entered the picture.

The same can not be said of the next story.....

Time machine of sorts.

If I could go back in time...well not like going back to the 50s to see Elvis sing in a barn, or traveling to the late 80s and stealing and recording all of Nirvana's songs before they get a chance to, but more like starting life over again. If I could start over, I think I would prefer to be an asshole.

I think assholes have it made.

But it really needs to be set in motion at an early age. That way, people will sort of grow along with certain aspects of your assholism. I once tried to switch from being a decent guy to being an asshole but I just ended up being a jerk. Nobody likes a jerk. But everyone loves the asshole at the party that says and does whatever the hell the wants. Even if they don't realize it, they love it.

So, that's what I would do if I could go back in time.

I'd also probably kill this one guy.

Ignorance: Phase II

I was once at a small gathering at a home in the hills surrounding Malaga, WA. The affair was casual to the degree of near-pointlessness. There was beer and a couple of ugly girls but other than that, no real amenities. I went there with my good pal Steve because he was invited by one of the ugly girls. Please do not be offended by my liberal and direct use of the word "ugly" here. You see, these girls were ugly on the inside. Well...probably. I never really found out one way or the other because they were so ugly on the outside. Anyhoo, so we were getting ready to bail for a rousing game of Duck Tales 2 back at Steve's palatial studio apartment.

As we were saying goodbye to the unfortunately faced gals, this.....gentleman came into the living room from the kitchen. He was wearing a Adidas t-shirt and a Yankees starter cap with the obligatory douche-bag tilt to the side.

" 'sup Corey?" The least ugly gal asked.

Corey. I don't why but I could have guessed that was his name.

" ' sup homegirls?" He replied, in keeping with proper "wigger" parlance.

Corey was something of an enigma in that most "homies" will act or "front", if you will, the typical tough guy "yeah I'd shoot a muthafucka" bravado. Corey however, was more interested in being perceived as an intellectual. I discovered this whilst perusing some records in a crate at the party. I pulled out a copy of Furtwangler conducting Beethoven's 9th symphony, supposedly one of the more sought after recordings of this particular symphony.

Steve and I were obsessed with Beethoven and I squealed for him to come see. "Look! Furtwangler doing Beethoven!"

Steve stole it out of my hand and we did a dance that could only be safely done in front of wiggers and ugly girls.

Corey grabbed the treasured vinyl from Steve's sweaty hands and glared at it.
"Furtwanger? Why would I wanna hear Furtwanger doing Beethoven?" he asked.

Steve and I looked at each other. "You know classical?" I asked.

"Fuckin' kiddin'? I have all of them." He wisely admitted. "My favorite is the 16th minus A."

Part of me died and went to heaven just then. Folks, he actually said "16th minus A". You know, the famous "math" piece by the great Ludwig Van. Oh it gets better.

"But if I'm gonna listen to Beethoven , I don't wanna hear no cover band. I want the real thing." Corey explained, handing the laughable record back to Steve.

"So you.....have only REAL Beethoven recordings?" I asked.

"Yep. There were my grampa's." Corey said.

"Wow. That must be....hella rare." Steve replied, again in keeping with the parlance of our company.

"Shit yeah, they are!" Corey barked. "Hella rare, homie."

Corey lifted his cap and tilted it toward the left side and exited back into the kitchen. Steve and I headed out the door in a hurry because we could not hold back the laughter a second longer. We would have died.

"Wow!" I said while gasping for air. "That guy rules."

Steve lit a joint in the driver's seat of his borrowed uncle's car, and buckled himself in for safety. "An actual recording of Beethoven. I bet he keeps it on a mantle next to his original Michelangelo on black velvet and a Polaroid of Jesus." He said through a cloud of purple smoke.

We headed back home for Duck Tales 2.

I miss Steve dearly. I remember this day vividly every single time I play the Furtwangler record he stole for me as we left the party.

Ghost

He awoke in a pine box.
It didn’t really matter though. He knew he could pass
through solid objects. As he floated up above to the
ground, he recognized the town. He knew his bearings.
He made a course toward what was once his home. He
missed his wife. He wanted to see her. To embrace her.
To tell her all the things he never did in life. He began
preparing a statement. As he floated down the poorly
lit street he grew more and more excited.
He cracked a smile of hope and anxiousness. A cool breeze glided across his
sunken face. His home was now in view. Almost there. He
could practically smell her trademark candy-like perfume. He
braced himself for the first view of his immortal beloved.
He passed through the closed front door. Up the stairs.
Through the bedroom wall.

Blood. A gun. A body. A note.

“The absence of your presence is overwhelming...”

She is dead.

She awoke in a pine box.

Night Of The Satellite

I remember August 12, 1987. I was a small lad
playing in the swamp near my home. All was normal
until I noticed some frogs exiting the swamp. Three
or four.....then ten...twenty. It was like an
amphibious exile. The only other witness to this absurd
display was a mole watching from a log near the swamp.
I began to grow nervous. I leaned over and peered into
the murky water to see what the hell was going on.

I saw a red blinking light under the slimy moat. It seemed
quite distant which was odd since the swamp was only
three feet deep. Soon it appeared to be about to
surface and I backed away from the water. Then, all of a
sudden..SPLASH! I realized that the light was not
in the swamp at all.

It was being reflected from the sky. It was a falling
satellite! And it fell into MY fucking swamp! The most
amazing thing transpired next. Out of the bubbling
swamp water, from within the steaming satellite
came forth a.....wait. What the hell am I thinking?

Moles can’t see!

The Shit Star

Timothy lived in a hippie commune in 1968. He loved lying on the grass and looking up at the stars. One night he wished upon a very faint and distant star. Then he fell asleep. When he woke, he began the first day of what would be the worst week of his life.

His dog "Santana", died on Monday. Tuesday he fell while hand-fishing in the river and broke his collar bone. Wednesday he contracted Elephantiasis. Thursday he was partially mauled by a cougar. Friday...nothing happened. But still. What a week. On Saturday, Timothy decided to speak with the communes’s soothsayer. Timothy told him about the string of unfortunate happenings. The soothsayer asked Timothy when it all began. Timothy explained that it was after he had wished upon a star. The soothsayer asked Timothy to show him the star. Later that night, he did.

Upon seeing the star, the soothsayer shook his head and said. "That’s the Shit Star, amigo. There is only one in all the galaxy. And you wished upon it." The soothsayer went on and on about the fascinating history of the Shit Star. Timothy was bedazzled by the uncanny science and legend behind the star, and of the astronomical odds of him wishing upon it. But, mostly he was just irritated that someone was taking 45 minutes out of their evening to tell him how much of an unlucky bastard he was.

Ignorance: Phase I

Three months ago I was strolling through a popular trail in the nearby woods at the foot of the Enchantments. As usual, I was not the only person on the path that morning. I passed by a cute Hispanic girl walking her ridiculous looking dog, a small family wearing matching nylon sports suits, and an old man in knee-high tube socks. None of these folks got much more than a slight head nod from myself.

Then, suddenly, a man came barreling around the corner of the trail screaming bloody murder. He wasn't really pronouncing words. It was more of an "AGGGHHHHHH OIGHY AGGH!!!"

He slammed on the brakes when he spotted me. I did the ol' "hey, I wonder what kind of tree that is to my immediate right" routine, as to avoid contact with his crazed eyes. The frazzled man screamed and ran right toward me. I didn't have time pick up a rock to throw before he reached me and grabbed me by the shirt. "The rabbits are all insane!" he cried, through a decidedly frothy mouth. His breath smelled of tobacco and fear. "You heard right! Out of their fucking minds, crazy!"

He shoved me aside and ran down the trail screaming to warn the others of these "insane" rabbits. I was relieved to be rid of him and just assumed the man was somehow experiencing an "enhanced" trail hike. After all, the forest is a pretty awesome place to smoke drugs.

I continued on my way. As I rounded the bend of the trail, I was met with a sight that sent a bolt of shivers down my neck. A dead girl lay in the middle of the trail. A pack of wild rabbits were eating her brains right out of her skull. The rabbits were all walking on their hind legs and their eyes were glowing yellow. One of them spotted me and began to walk toward me. As he drew near I thought to myself, "What the hell is the matter with that guy? They aren't insane. They're clearly zombies. God. How can people be so clueless?"