Castor Oil...sickeningly good

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Travels with Russell Part 2 - Where oxen are cleverer than us!

When last I gabbed Russell and I had met up with a gang of big fat stupid hair-metal ogres who wanted to grab some booze and have a hotel party. We on the other hand wanted to take advantage of their available cash, lose them, and go find some Whitesnake video chick look-a-likes and throw down with the bros in Sweet F.A. We loaded the fleshy giggling beasts of burden into the K-Car and headed to a gas station that was burning neon Bud signs. In we stormed like the Huns, (if the Huns had been skinny, loudmouthed, long-haired wieners from Virginia), grabbing cases of the brew and smokes and other assorted necessities. I recall that we even went for the TasteeKakes….obviously we were living high on someone else’s bankroll.

We got to the counter and Cleetus the gas man drawled out “i stopped sellin’ alkeehawl two minutes ago. Y’allz gotta put dat back in thuh kewler.” Well my good man I think not!!! In a flash of Reagen-esque diplomacy we told Cleetus that we had a K-Car full of chicks and that if he hooked us up we would have him over to the party when he got off his shift. "Mr. Cleetus....RING UP THIS BEER and toss in some beef jerky to boot and pleasures of the flesh by the tonnage await you by dawn!"

Cleetus was kind apprehensive but when I gave him that Motel 6 room key (remember, where we spent the first night) that I had never turned in well his eyes lit up at the thought of laying biblical hands on the giggling large-haired fishnet-clad hamhocks on display before him. Beer in hand Russell gave Cleetus the bro-shake and off we went. Time to execute Phase 2 of Operation Dumbo Drop.

This is where the plan went sour. George Peppard said he loved it when a plan came together and we would have as well, unfortunately we did not have the smarts, the cool black van or Mister T. to help us out. We had to rely solely on our wits to succeed so obviously we were totally fucked.

As so often happens when you party with idiots that can’t hold their liquor one of the herd started whining that she was sick and wanted to go home. Now we wanted to get rid of them, that was for sure, but we needed to do it en masse. The last thing we wanted was a cling-on going with us to the Bro bar…one cling-on can kill the advances of a squad of righteous silicon-topped lovelies and we could simply not have that noose around our necks. All the while we were driving lazily around and Russell and I were shot-gunning beers (he was driving) to drown out the drawly idiotic mewlings from the party girls.

We decided in hushed coversation covered by the pounding of Ozzy flying high again in the background that the only reasonable course of action to deal with the sick individual and keep the booze was to pawn off all of them on Inky (back at the motel) and sneak out back to the Bro bar. We got back to the motel and I went up to the room while Russell tried to get the key out of the ignition (apparently stuck). Inky woke up and was all pissed until he saw female flesh (by the tonnage) come in and then he was Inky Hearty Time to PARTY!!! A bit of time passed with no Russell and worse, the sick lady (term applied loosely) had two new companions in illness and they PASSED OUT IN FRONT OF THE DOOR!! Our only escape route was compromised. We could step over them but the quick sneak back to the car was a no-go. Things were looking bad for the B-Team.

Russell finally walked in with a curious look on his face, grabbed the ice bucket and filled it with water and back out he went. He performed this ritual a few more times and when I asked what he was doing he just shrugged and grumbled at me. It would not be until later that I learned that the key was not stuck at all but that the shotgunning of beers, gazillion shots back at the bar, smell of hairspray from our companions and overall bad health had caused my guardo camino, my road guard, to puke ALL over the inside of the K-Car. Our illustrious plans were totally ruined, our night had come to an end. An end consisting of large drunk women passed out and snoring Ricin breath in the beds, (one canoodling with a very happy Inky), warm beer getting warmer, a pukey K-Car and me and Russell sleeping on the floor. No bros, no hot slutty strippers…truly Memphis was the devil’s town.

I awoke the next morning in a dark room and the hogs were gone. I have no idea where they went or how they got there. Russell and I went to the Waffle House on the other side of the parking lot and left Inky to clean up the puke in the car. It made sense, he had to drive it to Denver and we told him that it was his porky Chiquita that had gotten sick in it in the first place. This wasn’t the first time we lied to Inky nor would it be the last. There was still a long way to Denver and an even longer way back. We pondered our failure over greasy eggs, coffee and cigarettes. Surely redemption was at hand around the bend. We had the will, we had the guts and god fucking dammit we had the hair.

Next stop....Arkansas.

me and inky in better times.....sob


  • you mean better times for HIM i guess, eh Mustaine?

    By Blogger jeff, at 12:16 AM  

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