| Author | Message | ||
     Road_thing |
Been there, done that (except for the running point part--squids don't have to do that s**t). Screw the word count--carry on, man, let's get to the hangover! rt By the way, I'm sure your looks have improved with your considerable age, but you're still no thing of beauty... | ||
| Captpete |
Not bad. 1276 words and he hasn’t even passed out yet, let alone awakened to deal with the hangover. But I understand the thing about rules for some folks. “Rules? We don’t need no stink….” Please… press on. I’m certain the story’s just getting started. There are still kitchen nymphs yet to be dealt with. the local constabulary had gone so far as to close the streets for the Hollowe’en party. Dead giveaway for CU.  | ||
| Bomber |
Pete ya got ONE of the letters right ;-} SIU, that most civilian place on the planet, was the general area . . . . . Thang -- too true -- however, I have it on good authority that I was a stud for about 20 minutes in 1974 -- and as a line animal, I never barked my shin on a coming or hatch (cept once, but that another story) to continue (I figured I'd split the word count with Henrik, RT, you're own good self, Court, and Blake -- that way I'll likely only be 500% over) _____________________________________ There WERE, however, speakers. Almost every room in the joint had speakers – some were cheap, borrowed from a local drive-in movie (heavy aluminum castings suitable for self defense in a bar fight down at PK’s, the hangout for 1%er wannabes), while others were as dear as the GI Bill and Illinois’ blood money payoff to returning vets would cover . . . . big old Altec Lansings, set up in corners to load the woofers properly. A turn table sat in the fireplace, the only part of the house not subject to the bouncing created by even a 97-poud weakling walking by, and a pretty decent cassette deck – The music was likely Clapton, CSNY, Joni Mitchell (the subject of many fantasies) with some Sly and the Family Stone thrown in (sing with me – I wanna -- thank u -- for letting me -- be mice elf -- agaaaaiinn). What was NOT allowed on the turntable was Creedence Clearwater Revival. Creedence had provided the soundtrack for the previous three years of my life, and I would not countenance another listening. (I have since relented, enjoying many of their works, but the sounds of “Proud Mary” brings to mind 4th rate Phillipino bands in NCO clubs and warm beer and fights with Marines . . . . . radio stations throughout the greater Midwest have been put on notice). It’s funny, but in that pre-iPod (hell, pre-walkman) time, there was music everywhere I went – of course, much of it was in my head. Remind me to tell you of the evening that several friends and I determined that A7 was, indeed, the music of the spheres. So, no keys in the freezer. Bummer. But there was beer, just a foot below in the icebox, so I grabbed one. Beer, of course, was the minimum one could show up with without dishonor. It was a common practice to have a party simply to replenish the beer supply. Other acceptable tickets included mind and attitude altering substances, gasoline, triumph motorcycle parts, and young women who hadn’t heard our lines yet (not that there was a chance in hell of said lines working, but practice makes perfect, yes?). There was a local brew name of Huber Beer – a wretched, vile-tasting intoxicant (if consumed in sufficient quantities) which had the sole sterling attribute of being cheap. An empty quart (glass) Huber bottle and thirty-seven cents could be traded in for a full bottle of Huber. One could gather thirty-seven cents merely by wandering through the student union and checking the coin returns of pay phones and vending machines. If the coins moved in their dark coin-return lairs, of course. SO, I grabbed a beer that I very likely hadn’t paid for, pinched a girl or three and exited the kitchen. I had engines to find, and something to drive. Our place was out in the toulies – surrounded by farms. This had several advantages – most of the local heat didn’t look for godless, law-scoffing hippies in the more rural areas of the county, and we could get loud without bothering anyone. The nearst structure was about half a mile distant, and even the Altecs would produce THAT kind a sound pressure. There were almost always pieces of farm equipment around, near our place. This evening (actually, it was morning, with just enough daylight to be able to make out large, vague shapes in the fields), all I could see was a haywagon about 200 meters away. Now, for the uninitiated, haywagons have four wheels, one at each corner, with the front two steerable through the means of a crude set of links and tie rods – they attach to the towing tractor (or another haywagon, in case you wanted em lined up link circus elephants) by a long handle-like appendage. Think of a Radio Flier Wagon, about 25 feet long. And I KNEW with the clarity that only an acid head can recognize that anything with four wheels simply MUST have a motor. If it had a motor, I could hotwire it. Hadn’t I, in the not so distant past, hotwired a Walker Bulldog? Yes, by golly, I had, so, therefore, I could! With beer in hand, and cheap eyetalin switchblade in t’other hand (ya gotta have SOMETHING to strip insulation, doncha?), I swaggered over to the haywagon. No mere piece of agricultural implementation was gonna keep ME from driving to wherever it was I need to be, nossireebob! I crawled under the haywagon, and began my search for the engine compartment. Although it was bright enough to see the haywagon as a darker grey lump of a world of shades of grey, it wasn’t nearly light enough to see the haywagon’s engine compartment. I searched using my fingertips, eyes closed, tongue tip poking out of the corner of my mouth (why do we do this? What impact can the tip of the tongue sticking out of the corner of the mouth possibly have on any task?), gently probing the haywagon’s mysteries, looking for the proper wires to interconnect that would bring the haywagon roaring to life. Again, for the uninitiated, know with certainty that no haywagon known to upright humankind has EVER had an engine. After what might have been 5 minutes, or would could very well have been several hours, Esso walked up and inquired what I was doing. “Jump starting a haywagon,” I told the poor unfortunate Esso, who was clearly too stoned to be allowed outside by himself. He sat down to watch for a bit, until I took pity on him, and decided that the Christian thing to do would be to lead him back to the kitchen where there was beer, and where women could be found. Besides, what the heck was I doing laying under a haywagon with the dew forming on my nose? We found the kitchen right off, being men, you see, our eyes drawn to movement and all that, and the kitchen nymphs were gyrating, Lorelei-like, beckoning us with the promise of extremely earthly delights. Or so we hoped. Since we were in the kitchen, it was advisable to have a beer, just to tide us over until we could find the Southern Comfort, don’t you know. Drinkin can be thirsty work. By this time, although no one had actually gone home (their keys hidden cleverly by the seductive and groin kneeing Debber), there seemed to be a great deal more room in the joint as most everyone had found a comfy spot in which to curl, either solo, or with company. Most of the company that was with the guys were canines, as the kitchen nymphs were way too smart to curl up next to a guy in the midst of an acid/Southern Comfort experience – not that we’d represent a threat of any kind, just that we’d be snoring. Loudly. Dogs don’t seem to mind this, and, sometimes, snore along, and are almost always glad of the company (not to mention being allowed on the couch). So the Southern Comfort was much more easily found. By this time, Esso had *POOF* disappeared, so I was forced to drink the cough syrup like concoction on my own. But I was up to the task. I was made of stern stuff. Next thing I knew, I heard a small internal combustion device start. Actually, it was only trying to start. I recognized the labored spinning of Mad Dog’s chevy pickemup, Nadine. Nadine later played a key role (along with Mad Dog and Sun Dog, Mad Dog’s dog) in the Night of the Black Death, but that’s another story. Nadine eventually, as she usually did, stumble into something resembling an idle, and sauntered down the lane, her lack of violent acceleration evidence of both her advanced mileage and Mad Dog’s condition. I chuckled, as he was very likely hung over. The movement of my head caused by the chuckling produced an extremely interesting light show. Now, Light Shows, for those of you born too late to witness such things, were the late 60s version of a Balinese Temple Shadow Dancer, or, to use a more pedestrian analogy, the stoned version of making animal shadows on the movie screen. Various colored lights would be projected on a screen, flashing in time (more or less) with the music provided by a band or bad sound system. High class joints would have the lights projected through various colored oils and gels, which made them resemble some sort of mind-altered single cell life form, grooving away to the band. Or something. Sounds really cool, doesn’t it? Naw, you’re right, of course, it was lame in the extreme, but, just as Monty Python’s Flying Circus is just the most hilarious thing you’ve ever witnessed after sufficient Oreos and Milk, but only really funny without said O&M, the light shows WERE moderately entertaining at the time. At any rate, the vibrations in my head caused by the chuckling started a light show that I was not altogether convinced existed only in my noggin. The milk crates and telephone cable spool that served as the dinette set morphed and oozed a bit, no longer rust flaked and splintery, but tilting off plumb just enough to make my tummy a lil quezy. The vibrations also caused pain. It’s important to keep in mind that, up until my unremembered trip to the land of nod, I’d been smoking and jokin with all and sundry, enjoying cold beers, and drinking either Vick’s Formula 44 or Southern Comfort with abandon. After all, I was in the land of the Big PX, where the lights stayed on all night, and the kitchen nymphs smile, indulgently, at your shenanigans. A smiling nymph is a pliable nymph, or so I told myself. I had also been reducing my investment portfolio with grim determination. I was the Ernie Banks of drug abuse (Ernie used to proclaim, before the start of every game, “Let’s play TWO!” Would that his enthusiasm and infectious love of the game were more in evidence by the investment bankers that play baseball these days. But I digress. Again). In other words, I was trippin. I was monstered. I was stoned. I was drunk. And I was hung over. (there, and you thought I’d never get to the hangover part, dint ya?). All at the same time. My head pounded out some Ginger Baker influenced solo, my tummy roiled and gurgled like Old Faithful five minutes before showtime, if the evidence of my eyes were to be believed, everything within sight was tilting, just a little, in different directions, each discerable color had shifted around the color wheel in random directions and degrees, and, on top of all these gifts, there was a small mammal squatting in my mouth. I was hung over. I knew someone was out to get me – I just hadn’t figured out it was me. I rolled onto my side, levered myself into a sitting position, and, using a nearby Labrador Retriever for leverage, stood up. Kinda. (The Lab grunted. Or mebbe farted. Not sure). I had thought my head hurt while laying down. I was wrong. Standing, my head DID hurt. The degree of pain, of course, varied in time with my heartbeat, which was elevated. It never quite didn’t hurt, but only hurt less between thumps of my untrustworthy heart. While that thankless organ (hadn’t I drug it around the world? Introduced to to girls of many lands? Broken and mended it repeatedly?) was actually beating (Lump-dump. Lump-dump), the pain was exquisite. I turned to find the outdoors, where I hoped fresh air may ease my symptoms slightly, and my heart rate elevated even more (lump-di-dump. lump-di-dump. lump-di-dump.) Crap. There goes my chance to be a pilot. No one ever lets a guy with an irregular heart beat become a pilot. Crap. Outside is where I needed to be. And outside it where I went. I stood on the porch. I had been followed by most of the dogs, who also seemed to be hung over, and watered the tree growing at the end of the porch. This seemed to give the dogs a good idea, but they had the good sense to actually get off the porch first. This proves, of course, that dogs are smarter than men. I took a deep, cleansing breathe, hoping to purge some of the toxins from my lungs. This was a mistake. While my lungs MAY have been marginally clearer, the inflow of oxygen to my brain allowed me to sense with greater clarity, the pain that was rising from the small of my back to the medulla oblongata, the primitive, reptilian brain stem with the fight or flight reaction is born, where the urge to lay on a warm rock appears, and, in my case, where someone had obviously placed a hungry iguana. I could feel it gnawing on the nerve bundle. Each twist of its head produced new sensations, none of them happy ones. It was clearly bent on biting threw the notochord, keeping it’s grip on my spine with whatever appendages iguanas are shipped with (I could not then remember, and have since forgotten this fact). I sat on the porch step. This was a signal for the dogs to return, and offer sympathy and commiseration. They do this through snuffling in you ear (raising the noise level in your head), heat butting you in the shoulder (raising the noise level in your head), and trying to sit in your lap (raising the noise level in your head). I must have fallen asleep (this is, in some cultures, called “passing out”), as the sun was well and truly up the next I remember. I stood up, which disturbed the perfectly comfie positions in which a number of dogs had found, much to their muttering displeasure, and found I felt merely like crap, rather than feeling like Prometheus, punished for bring fire to the humans. I checked my jeans pocket, felt my cheap eyetalian switchblade and motorsickle keys (bless Debber for returning them, damn me for missing her hand in my pocket), and went out in search of an engine to start. I was hung over. (Message edited by bomber on October 17, 2006) (Message edited by bomber on October 17, 2006) (Message edited by bomber on October 17, 2006) | ||
| Road_thing |
Man, I think I had a flashback just reading that... rt Is it too late to withdraw my entry? | ||
| Blake |
Do y'all know what a Texas Hangover is? | ||
| CJXB |
A big belly ???  Bomber, you're a very good writer, I wish I had some hangover stories, but nothing any where good enough to write about, I have some control issues !! Oh well, too old now to start living it up now, I'll just live vicariously through these stories !!  | ||
| Bomber |
Ceej, you are most definately NOT too old to start -- as for control issues, me too -- my issue is that I usta like throwing all the controls away! let your motto become, "hey, how bad can it get?" | ||
| Captpete |
New catagory for the contest: 2500 bonus points for the longest essay, and 25 bonus points for each kitchen nymph.       | ||
| Bomber |
once started, it's tough to stop, ain't it? sadly, no kitchen wenches got anything other than pinched by me that evening -- I was just too easily distracted ;-} | ||
| Rocketman |
Can I just skip the essay and move straight to the kitchen nymphs? Rocket | ||
| CJXB |
let your motto become, "hey, how bad can it get?" I have a feeling that would get me into trouble !!! How about some kitchen "studs" !! LOL | ||
| Bomber |
yer far more likely to find the studs in the garage, Ceej but you already knew that, bless your heart | ||
| Blake |
Good call CJ, you got it. A Texas Hangover is when your belly hangs over your big ol' Texas cowboy belt buckle. It ain't pretty. | ||
| CJXB |
Yea I know, same thing in Arkansas minus the big belt buckle !! LOL I knew the studs were in the garage, silly me !! | ||
| Road_thing |
A real hangover is when you can't even find your belt buckle... Funny story: Two guys are in the locker room, talking about working out. One of them is fat. I mean, really obese, a genuine Texas hangover kinda guy. He's telling his friend that he really hates being so big, and he works out, hard, every day but can't seem to lose any weight. He laments, "Man, I'm so fat, I can't even see my own pecker!" His buddy asks, "Well, why don't you diet?" Fat guy looks puzzled for a second, then asks, "Why? What color is it now??" ...rim shot... rt | ||
| Tx05xb12s |
Bomber - I believe the muse must have guided your fingers on that one. Excellent imagery! I get your sense of humor. And I too miss those days. Why did we stop again? I remember when I was in the service, the only thing on my mind was the next day like what you described. I was broke but happy. Now I'm not broke...and it didn't necessarily make me happy. Figures. | ||
| Bomber |
humor? smile -- I disliked my time in the "service of my country" in the extreme, for reasons that do not bear discussion in this format ;-} that said, I learned a great deal, and am grateful for those lessons . . . . . broke and happy is far better than not broke and not happy, certainly -- as you say, not broke won't make ya happy, but happiness is within most everyone's reach, I beleive -- grab some, brother, you've earned it! | ||
| Captpete |
Y'all shouldn't be so quick to throw CJ outta the kitchen. She was probably thinking stud muffins.  | ||
| Tx05xb12s |
Bomber - So true... I'm hoping happiness is just around the corner though. I'm almost finished with my MBA and then will face three more years getting a JD. There should be some breathing room once I finish my education and don't have to push myself so hard. I'm hoping that if I pay now I can play later, and will have more free time than I currently allow myself and the cash to do what I want in life (though I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up). Whatever I turn out to be, it'll probably revolve around trying to recapture those years I spent with my nose on the grindstone...like everybody else I suppose. *Dream Job: Executive management for a motorcycle company. If I ever get to attend an event where Eric's in attendance, I hope he won't be offended if I shake his hand with my right, and wag a resume at him with my left. I would without a doubt trade my left nut just for an informational interview... Just in case he's scanning...3.5 GPA BSBA, 4.0 MBA, currently in the admissions process looking for a law school that wants me. Honorably discharged veteran, currently employed as a regional coordinator supervising 84 staff members in the Acess to Courts Program in the Administrative Review & Risk Management Division of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. Previous employment includes law enforcement, property management, & technical writing/training in the Information Technology Division of TDCJ. My coworkers and supervisors always say I'm aggressive but diplomatic and a high achiever. Changing industries/markets does not intimidate me one bit as my learning curve is near vertical and my skill set from a wide variety of experiences is heavy enough to need a forklift. Any takers? Looking for a new home in a career that I can be passionate about. I'm bananas about my Buell, so something in the motorcycle industry would be right up my alley! (Pardon the shameless self-promotion) | ||
| Bomber |
Tx -- good for your, sir -- few things beat setting a goal and accomplishing it -- here's to all the happiness your grubby mitts can hold | ||
| Oldog |
Rt, What is the difference between Pink and Purple? Bomber, man that is one wild story! (Message edited by oldog on October 23, 2006) | ||
| Bomber |
Dawg -- story? | ||
| Road_thing |
Dawg: I give up! What is the difference between pink and purple? rt | ||
| Oldog |
Fat guy looks puzzled for a second, then asks, "Why? What color is it now??" RT : Your grip....... Bomber, I have a texas hang over, That is with out a doubt the best story I have read in a while. kitchen, nymphs .......... Mebe a story about the day my feet disapeared.... (Message edited by oldog on October 24, 2006) (Message edited by oldog on October 24, 2006) | ||
| Bomber |
Dawg -- story away, pleaseandthankyousir . . . it's coming on winter, and we can all use a good yarn, yes? | ||
| Firemanjim |
Bomber,you keep making references to this "winter" thing??Please explain. | ||
| Bomber |
FMJ -- where's the emoticon fro that raspberry sound? ;-} I'll be in Sunnyvale next week, and may just bring some winter with me! | ||
| Firemanjim |
Really,staying long? It's only about 1 1/2 away. | ||
| Bomber |
Monday noon-ish through oh-dark-thrity Friday morning . .. . . hmmmmmm -- a look at yer Entropy Lab would be aces ;-} | ||
| Ezblast |
The events you are about to read about are true, however, in my own defense - I was very drunk at the time and my friends only complaints where how bad their hang over headaches where the next day. I was a Machinest Mate 3rd class petty officer stationed on CV59 - the USS Forrestall - a conventional carrier - and worked in the # 1 engine room - proudly known as the longest shaft in the Navy - lol - the engine room averaged 120 degrees temp.s - we worked long hard days, where 60% undermaned, and had pretty lousy attitudes and a very understanding Chief petty officer. I had just been denied shore leave due to smoking on the fan-tale (rear of the ship watching jets take off at night) and my official id had been confiscated so I could not leave ship. Like all good resourcefull sailors though, I had a back up id (actually I had 5) to still go on shore leave with and was ready to go by first call for shore! This was a one day stop so everybody had to be back at the 6am shore-leave boats the next day to report for duty. All my friends where with me and our plan was simple - go to the last bar on the strip and work our way down to the pier - with 5 drinks to a bar. Simple effective way to get drunk and still be close enough to stumble down a single flight of stairs to the shore-leave boats at the pier. So off we go, exchanging money at the first exchange booth and saying no to all the vendors hawking stuff along the way. We get to the last bar on the strip and were a bit loud and laughing looking forward to the nite's fun. "Petty officer Zick!" I hear roared from the back of the bar. I look and - ohh shit its the Chief - "I want you to report to my office first thing in the morning, when you get back aboard ship - thats an order!" - "Aye Aye sir!" I reply, thanking God that neither of us wanted to bother with the other while on shore leave. So my buddies and I think it would be a pretty good idea to do shots to start the evening and get the hell out of there quick! So 5 shots of very bad tequilla later we head for the next bar. The nite starts to get a bit blurry from there - I remember Shawn's bar fight and how many times he missed trying to punch this one guy who basically passed out, while waiting for him to hit him. Steven getting drinks repeatedly poured over his head for using a very bad set of pick up lines, and the endless pool games we played at each bar. 0430 am rolls around and I'm the last guy standing - though I had puked at 1am 5 bars ago. Funny though - the bars are open all nite, yet they don't appreciate passed out sailors at their tables, so it became my job to get every body back to the dock. So I tiped the guy 40 bucks and promised I'd be back in 20 minutes to get the other two guys and proceeded to leave. The feet of each friend firmly held by one arm each. Thank goodness we had made it to the 3rd bar from the pier so we didn't have to far to go. With jackets wrapped around their heads and their feet firmly held in my very drunk arms we headed for the pier - I mentioned the stairs - right? - all I could think was - "I bet thats gonna hurt!" , however, I made it to the loading area, dropped them off still out cold and headed back for my other two buddies. The scene repeats itself all the way down to the thought - "gee - I bet thats going to hurt!" With everybody rounded up, I go back to the last bar and pay for a big bottle of water and head back to the pier. I pour it over Shawn's head and he comes moaning to life, "owe God I'm hung over!" I say - "Lets get the rest of the guys up!", so the process repeats itself 3 more times with each guy complaining of a serious hangover headache. We make it back with no problems. I straighten up and report to the Chief's office, and his first question is "How many id's do you have?" "three" I reply, knowing to always keep at least one in reserve, so he does an informal search of my locker and gear after I give him 3 more id's (the last riding in the heal of my boot) and is satisfied, though I have earned 4 more weeks of no ship leave - lol - time to go to work. Back down in the engine room things are rather quiet with the machinery being extra loud. Everyone is at their station and the bootcamps are doing chores, By 1200pm my own hangover is in full bloom so a pipe of hash is in order to chase it away. So another day passes in the engine room and another hangover is survived. My friends remember that day for their terrible hangovers, and never stopped thanking me for getting them back to the ship on time. This is a true story. Got Thump?! Just Blasting on the Dark side! EZ  (Message edited by ezblast on October 26, 2006) |
