Due to the uproarious clamor and urging from legions of people, especially my legal team, the prosecution’s legal team, and random high school mock trial organizers, I have decided to finally come clean and tell what might pass for the truth. I shall reveal the details of an event from my life that at best I had hoped to forget about, at worst I would be reminded of it by whoever happened to recognize my name at the DMV when I would be erroneously trying to renew a CDL license that I never possessed in the first place.
As I recall these events, a foggy flood of memories and varying
reactions occur. I start to feel rather
embarrassed and then quite impish and spritely.
Finally I have a unreasonable feeling of dread, getting rather damp
right around the ankles. (For like all
great people in history, I sweat the most around the ankles when frightened
and/or intimidated. For instance,
Winston Churchill would have to wring out his pant cuffs every few minutes
during the conference at Yalta.) Now
with this entire interminable introduction aside, I shall talk about the one and,
to date, only time that I had ever killed someone.
Immediately I know what you're thinking, "Hey just wait one gosh durned minute! He's definitely killed more than one person! Who’s he trying to kid?" Well that’s as maybe, however I should clarify. I meant to talk about the only person I killed accidentally, not those that I had perish either by willful intent or by willful negligence or by the willful hiring of a professional assassin. Because if I had to go over a list of all the souls that I have had a hand in exterminating, believe you me there are not enough bytes in the whole Wonderful World Wide Web ™ on the planet to contain that cornucopia of information. If one had the time, resources, and gullibility, one could then make a family tree that could conceivably incorporate everyone that has died.
Immediately I know what you're thinking, "Hey just wait one gosh durned minute! He's definitely killed more than one person! Who’s he trying to kid?" Well that’s as maybe, however I should clarify. I meant to talk about the only person I killed accidentally, not those that I had perish either by willful intent or by willful negligence or by the willful hiring of a professional assassin. Because if I had to go over a list of all the souls that I have had a hand in exterminating, believe you me there are not enough bytes in the whole Wonderful World Wide Web ™ on the planet to contain that cornucopia of information. If one had the time, resources, and gullibility, one could then make a family tree that could conceivably incorporate everyone that has died.
Now if one goes back to trace the cause of several of those deaths,
one could see that I had a hand in eliminating not only James Dean, but also
General Charles DeGaulle, Helen Hayes, former tennis star Bill Tilden, and of
course, Bing Crosby. (But as I should
think that last one is rather obvious, I am rather embarrassed I even had to
mention it.)
Few people know of my past as a bouncer inNebraska
What was I talking about again? Oh yeah, the dead guy.
Anyways, fortune had smiled upon me and with only 7 and ¾ cents to my name, I found myself near a tavern on the outskirts of Oxandplow, Nebraska. You know the kind of town: small, two liquor stores for every church, several outdated strip clubs, an outdoor Jiffy Lube, an indoor Pep Boys, a couple of condemned massage parlors, an underground Meineke, and the world's oldest slice of Virginia ham on display in a pavilion near Lake Omigawdiamdrowninghere.
The tavern was called "Le Dijon Prix Mousse", which in Spanish-French means "You are standing upon my doorknob, fresher lawns". Not the best phrase or even a concept understood by mankind, but the owners, The Turkmenistans, a couple of unquestionably dysfunctional people, thought the tavern's handle was catchy enough for Oxandplow. Apparently they thought just calling it “Bar” would bring in a hoity-toity clientele that would demand upper class trappings such as clean glasses, clean ice to go into the glasses, clean bathrooms, and free popcorn that didn’t have abnormal levels of discarded peanut shells and animal hair mixed in with it.
Few people know of my past as a bouncer in
What was I talking about again? Oh yeah, the dead guy.
Anyways, fortune had smiled upon me and with only 7 and ¾ cents to my name, I found myself near a tavern on the outskirts of Oxandplow, Nebraska. You know the kind of town: small, two liquor stores for every church, several outdated strip clubs, an outdoor Jiffy Lube, an indoor Pep Boys, a couple of condemned massage parlors, an underground Meineke, and the world's oldest slice of Virginia ham on display in a pavilion near Lake Omigawdiamdrowninghere.
The tavern was called "Le Dijon Prix Mousse", which in Spanish-French means "You are standing upon my doorknob, fresher lawns". Not the best phrase or even a concept understood by mankind, but the owners, The Turkmenistans, a couple of unquestionably dysfunctional people, thought the tavern's handle was catchy enough for Oxandplow. Apparently they thought just calling it “Bar” would bring in a hoity-toity clientele that would demand upper class trappings such as clean glasses, clean ice to go into the glasses, clean bathrooms, and free popcorn that didn’t have abnormal levels of discarded peanut shells and animal hair mixed in with it.
Without prompting whatsoever on my part, I was told later by the
local drunken bishop that the Turkmenistans had married each other initially
for tax purposes, then for rather nauseating sexual intercourse, then for tax
purposes again, then because of the full moon, and finally because they
realized a deep yearning betwixt them that caused recognition of the firmest
foundation of all: they didn't want to spring for removing their monogrammed
initials from the finest bidet drying cloths that money could buy.
I was blissfully oblivious to all of the claptrap contained within the previous two paragraphs when I waltzed into their tavern during the summer of '95, seeking nothing more than a tall flagon of putrid ale and an overflowing spittoon that doubled as a urinal. Fortuitously, the tavern sported both of these grand items in spades. Bobby Jo-Jo Turkmenistan, who if I squinted I could probably describe as the male owner of the tavern, took one look at me and then immediately proceeded to look at me again, this time with his glasses on. As the lenses had no glass in them to speak of whatsoever, it got rather uncomfortable and whilst downing a glass of what one man would call bile and yet another would call spoiled bile, Bobby Jo-Jo offered me a job. And then he clarified what he meant by “job” by offering me employment when he barely noticed my mentioning that I did not indeed swing that way.
"I need a bouncer…" Bobby Jo-Jo said. Postulating that he was going the way of the aforementioned "job" again, I was about to turn him down outright. "…For watching the place and kicking the scruffy troublemakers out", he continued. I inwardly said, "Whew!" and then I said it outwardly as well; I felt that confident in doing so. Noticing my sigh, Bobby Jo-Jo said, "Great, you're hired!” Apparently in the Turkmenistan clan or perhaps in the whole of Nebraska, sighs are definitive affirmative confirmations when given in response to questions regarding employment.
I was blissfully oblivious to all of the claptrap contained within the previous two paragraphs when I waltzed into their tavern during the summer of '95, seeking nothing more than a tall flagon of putrid ale and an overflowing spittoon that doubled as a urinal. Fortuitously, the tavern sported both of these grand items in spades. Bobby Jo-Jo Turkmenistan, who if I squinted I could probably describe as the male owner of the tavern, took one look at me and then immediately proceeded to look at me again, this time with his glasses on. As the lenses had no glass in them to speak of whatsoever, it got rather uncomfortable and whilst downing a glass of what one man would call bile and yet another would call spoiled bile, Bobby Jo-Jo offered me a job. And then he clarified what he meant by “job” by offering me employment when he barely noticed my mentioning that I did not indeed swing that way.
"I need a bouncer…" Bobby Jo-Jo said. Postulating that he was going the way of the aforementioned "job" again, I was about to turn him down outright. "…For watching the place and kicking the scruffy troublemakers out", he continued. I inwardly said, "Whew!" and then I said it outwardly as well; I felt that confident in doing so. Noticing my sigh, Bobby Jo-Jo said, "Great, you're hired!” Apparently in the Turkmenistan clan or perhaps in the whole of Nebraska, sighs are definitive affirmative confirmations when given in response to questions regarding employment.
This of course presented a myriad of problems. First off, I was fairly certain that there
was no dental plan involved with this job.
I mean a dental plan beyond the rusty pair of pliers and the well-bitten
and rather dingy leather strop that was obviously used many times prior to my
walking into what passed for a tavern door in Oxandplow. Also given the slovenly surroundings coupled
with this rather corpulent owner of ill-defined hygiene, exactly which patrons
would Bobby Jo-Jo Turkmenistan consider “scruffy”? Or for that matter, how would this place
define “troublemakers”?
However, all of these questions would have to wait for what I hoped would be a future barrage of never-ending redundant management team meetings at this tavern because Bobby Jo-Jo Turkmenistan's wife, Draconia, appeared at the top of the stairs which I hadn't noticed before. During her descent down the gilded gaudy balustrade that had mysteriously escaped my attention previously, I wondered if my attention might be better spent on this lady. That notion soon left my head as I peered at what some would call a woman, yet what others would more than likely call not a woman, but rather a grizzled veteran goaltender from the 1925 Montreal Canadiens dressed in a gown that only a horse could make reasonably beautiful. If pressed I would go with probably a Palomino, but not an Arabian for that would be too much to ask of the breed.
Our eyes locked and fortunately I had the key, a crowbar, and an acetylene torch to free myself so the look did not last as long as she would have liked. Taking the hint that I wasn’t interested, she lustfully sauntered up to me and hoarsely whispered in my left ear, "Hey, there. You wanna go get some Now 'N' Plentys?" I wittily retorted with what some would call a shoulder roll over the bar, but I prefer to think of it being my interpretive way of saying, "No thank you, my little plumber's helper."
Oh and when I rolled over the bar, I stepped on the throat of a hitherto unnoticed bartender, killing him instantly. He must have come down on the stairs that I hadn’t noticed beforehand. And unfortunately that was the story of how I killed someone. Turns out that the bartender’s name was Jack Turnester and he was married with three beautiful children.
But if his wife or the authorities ever found out about that, he would have been locked up...but that's another story.
However, all of these questions would have to wait for what I hoped would be a future barrage of never-ending redundant management team meetings at this tavern because Bobby Jo-Jo Turkmenistan's wife, Draconia, appeared at the top of the stairs which I hadn't noticed before. During her descent down the gilded gaudy balustrade that had mysteriously escaped my attention previously, I wondered if my attention might be better spent on this lady. That notion soon left my head as I peered at what some would call a woman, yet what others would more than likely call not a woman, but rather a grizzled veteran goaltender from the 1925 Montreal Canadiens dressed in a gown that only a horse could make reasonably beautiful. If pressed I would go with probably a Palomino, but not an Arabian for that would be too much to ask of the breed.
Our eyes locked and fortunately I had the key, a crowbar, and an acetylene torch to free myself so the look did not last as long as she would have liked. Taking the hint that I wasn’t interested, she lustfully sauntered up to me and hoarsely whispered in my left ear, "Hey, there. You wanna go get some Now 'N' Plentys?" I wittily retorted with what some would call a shoulder roll over the bar, but I prefer to think of it being my interpretive way of saying, "No thank you, my little plumber's helper."
Oh and when I rolled over the bar, I stepped on the throat of a hitherto unnoticed bartender, killing him instantly. He must have come down on the stairs that I hadn’t noticed beforehand. And unfortunately that was the story of how I killed someone. Turns out that the bartender’s name was Jack Turnester and he was married with three beautiful children.
But if his wife or the authorities ever found out about that, he would have been locked up...but that's another story.
No comments:
Post a Comment