CIRCLING THE DRAIN
by Unholycow
Dig. A few months back, you know, when certain ?associates? of mine were unsure of their social standing, my brother Nine moved east, out of the city. He still contends that the fact that I was behind bars, by virtue of a mysterious set of particulars, had practically nuthin? to do with his sudden distaste for urban living. Be that crocka crap as it may; he and his flame, Bait and their two kids are now professing to be hip, young suburbanites. It?s like the most ill-conceived illustration of an ill-advised illusion what I have ever happened upon, fellas. Trust me, if you knew Nine, you?d agree with me in spades. About that, I got no reservations. I mean, picture the Pope getting a lapdance. Ya see what I?m sayin?? That card just ain?t gunna bingo, Charlie. I don?t care how many numbers you call!
Anyway, I hadn?t been out there to see the joint yet, so last night I made the scene, as it were. No, not to see the new pad, really. Or even to partake of a much-needed home-cooked meal. And I wasn?t goin? so as I could busta gut at how outta place them two were obviously gunna be, neither (although admittedly, them things did have a certain appeal). Nope, the real reason I made the trip was to call on two of the coolest non-players what I have ever had the pleasure of hangin? with.
Sammy and Joe Williams are my youngest and hippest nephews. And that ain?t a phrase that I dish out casually, ya follow? I mean, consider this. My oldest nephew, Chris Williams, plays lead guitar and is the driving force behind Chrisafix; an eardrum-splitting party band down at the suddenly fashionable university in Corvallis known as Oregon State. D?ya see what I?m sayin?? This kid has got cool wafting offa his stool, for chrisake! And even he?ll sometimes look to his cousins, Sammy and Joe for some pointers. Leastwise, he oughtta.
So I?m drivin? the ?Lac through the ?burbs ? and beyond ... way beyond. We?re talkin? all the way to the freakin? tasseled border of society, fellas. Are ya with me? Now Bait, (actually, her name is Gayle. Gaylebait, get it? Don?t need no I.D? Ah, forget it) she actually had the nerve to tell me that their place was ?right on the outskirts of Portland.? To that, I can only ask why. Why must you dames continually lie to me, huh? Why? WHY? I mean, this just in, doll. That ain?t the freakin? outskirtsa Portland, ya savvy? It?s the outer freakin? limitsa civilization!
Anyway, I get lost somehow, as you knew I would, and find myself wandering around out where the roads are winding and the cows are like, ?real.? Yikes! That is one handsome animal, ain?t it?
For what seemed like hours, I carefully guided the Kitty through amber waves of undistilled grain and frantically tried to find Nine?s new house. BTW ? Theodore Samuel is what our Mom calls him. I?ll let you tryta crack ?that? one on yer own. And so anyway, by about this time I?m getting? a little pissed off at myself. What the hell was I doin? out here, for cryin? out loud? I mean, I ain?t no Daniel Crockett. Ya see what I?m sayin??
The roads was all startin? to look the same to me, the radio signal for the ballgame had faded to static and I felt like I was on the planet Boredom, driving in big, lazy circles. There wasn?t even no kinda like scenery or nothin? to look at. No cops hasslin? gangsters, no workin? girls standin? on the corner. Check this out, pal. There weren?t even no corners! Just these rolling hills of green grass, or gold hay, or wheat, or whatever. And trees! Jeezuz, there was trees all over the place! What?s goin? on with alla that, huh? It?s difficult to describe, but it?d get to be like a gawdam forest in some places! I guess there used to be territories like that all over, but I dunno. All I can tell ya is it was pitiful, fellas. It near about sickened me, in fact! I mean, how freakin? lazy are those people, anyway?
I hope everyone reading this appreciates what it is that they got, because apparently many of the technologies what are takin? for granted by us city-dwellers ain?t never been made available to them unfortunate souls out there on the edges. The poor, dumb hick bastids don?t got no traffic lights, no pool halls, no 7-11 stores (hmmm, I wonder where they get their ice?) Hell, they don?t even have no billboards ta, you know, liven up the freakin? landscape! And I?ll tellya somethin? else too, Cletus! If you?d put in a gawdam phone booth where the skies ain?t cloudy all day, yuz wouldn?t hafta drive the John Deere all the wayda freakin? Pixley every time Ma has a hankerin? to ring up yer fat ass Aunt Gladys!
Oh, wait! I almost forgot. You?re gunna love this. Nine had been braggin? to me about how his bar was fully stocked with top-shelf booze, see? So, like a damned boob, I took off without a freakin? drop. I understand that yuz probly don?t believe me. How could that even be possible, right? Hell, I don?t hardly buy it myself. It?s like I?m off to see the wizard, and I?m drivin? dry. Me! I still don?t believe it. But I didn?t grab nuthin? cuzza all Nine?s braggin?, okay?
Fortunately, the canteen in my glove box was brand new. It was a welcome home gift from Snacks and I hadn?t even popped its cherry yet. ?Sweet justice,? I thought, reaching across the seat. The flask looked pretty cool, like it was made from some sorta crystal, almost. The case was a rich chocolate-brown leather, lined in sumptuous burgundy crushed velvet. A little swishy for my taste, but bless that cousin of mine, it was fulla Crown!
I repeat . . . was.
The freakin? cheap-ass piece of ugly, no-good defecation had a flawed lid, Sid! Can you believe it? Everything in the glove compartment; my auto registration and insurance papers, a coupla ten dollar stogies, them snapshots of that 17 year-old runaway what I helped out. Everything but the inner parta that freakin? flask, in fact, was drenched! Absolutely marinated in Crown Royal.
I?m dancin? madly backwards, my friends. And I can?t seem to stop the music.
Perfect! I swear, this is the same stupid corner that I drove around just ten minutes ago! Where in the hell is everybody? I ain?t seen a human being for miles. Hell! The only sign I?ve seen of any intelligence at all in the last half-hour is a freakin? weathervane! A WEATHERVANE! Christ! I ain?t in Accident, Maryland, am I? I better watch out for the damn deer.
Shoot the freakin? dice, man! Look at the time! I?ll hafta fill yuz in at some mutually suitable occasion in our future. Please forgive me. I mean, not because I?m leavin? ya hangin?, but, you know, in case my luck actually worsens, sending me on some kinda Woody Harrelson/Natural Born Killers bender of sensationalized ultra-violence and I don?t never get a chance ta see ya again, ya follow? And say for example that perhaps, you know, in case you were hoping to hear the end of my cheesy little anecdotal adventure and I was unable to accommodate you because of circumstances beyond my control. Well, I mean, in case ?that? happens, I?d like to apologize in advance. Please forgive me.
Wow, was that lame, or what? Sounds sorta like my picks of late, don?t ya think? Speakina which . . . no. Maybe next time.
This is Unholycow and I?ve been circling the drain . . . so you don?t have to.
by Unholycow
Dig. A few months back, you know, when certain ?associates? of mine were unsure of their social standing, my brother Nine moved east, out of the city. He still contends that the fact that I was behind bars, by virtue of a mysterious set of particulars, had practically nuthin? to do with his sudden distaste for urban living. Be that crocka crap as it may; he and his flame, Bait and their two kids are now professing to be hip, young suburbanites. It?s like the most ill-conceived illustration of an ill-advised illusion what I have ever happened upon, fellas. Trust me, if you knew Nine, you?d agree with me in spades. About that, I got no reservations. I mean, picture the Pope getting a lapdance. Ya see what I?m sayin?? That card just ain?t gunna bingo, Charlie. I don?t care how many numbers you call!
Anyway, I hadn?t been out there to see the joint yet, so last night I made the scene, as it were. No, not to see the new pad, really. Or even to partake of a much-needed home-cooked meal. And I wasn?t goin? so as I could busta gut at how outta place them two were obviously gunna be, neither (although admittedly, them things did have a certain appeal). Nope, the real reason I made the trip was to call on two of the coolest non-players what I have ever had the pleasure of hangin? with.
Sammy and Joe Williams are my youngest and hippest nephews. And that ain?t a phrase that I dish out casually, ya follow? I mean, consider this. My oldest nephew, Chris Williams, plays lead guitar and is the driving force behind Chrisafix; an eardrum-splitting party band down at the suddenly fashionable university in Corvallis known as Oregon State. D?ya see what I?m sayin?? This kid has got cool wafting offa his stool, for chrisake! And even he?ll sometimes look to his cousins, Sammy and Joe for some pointers. Leastwise, he oughtta.
So I?m drivin? the ?Lac through the ?burbs ? and beyond ... way beyond. We?re talkin? all the way to the freakin? tasseled border of society, fellas. Are ya with me? Now Bait, (actually, her name is Gayle. Gaylebait, get it? Don?t need no I.D? Ah, forget it) she actually had the nerve to tell me that their place was ?right on the outskirts of Portland.? To that, I can only ask why. Why must you dames continually lie to me, huh? Why? WHY? I mean, this just in, doll. That ain?t the freakin? outskirtsa Portland, ya savvy? It?s the outer freakin? limitsa civilization!
Anyway, I get lost somehow, as you knew I would, and find myself wandering around out where the roads are winding and the cows are like, ?real.? Yikes! That is one handsome animal, ain?t it?
For what seemed like hours, I carefully guided the Kitty through amber waves of undistilled grain and frantically tried to find Nine?s new house. BTW ? Theodore Samuel is what our Mom calls him. I?ll let you tryta crack ?that? one on yer own. And so anyway, by about this time I?m getting? a little pissed off at myself. What the hell was I doin? out here, for cryin? out loud? I mean, I ain?t no Daniel Crockett. Ya see what I?m sayin??
The roads was all startin? to look the same to me, the radio signal for the ballgame had faded to static and I felt like I was on the planet Boredom, driving in big, lazy circles. There wasn?t even no kinda like scenery or nothin? to look at. No cops hasslin? gangsters, no workin? girls standin? on the corner. Check this out, pal. There weren?t even no corners! Just these rolling hills of green grass, or gold hay, or wheat, or whatever. And trees! Jeezuz, there was trees all over the place! What?s goin? on with alla that, huh? It?s difficult to describe, but it?d get to be like a gawdam forest in some places! I guess there used to be territories like that all over, but I dunno. All I can tell ya is it was pitiful, fellas. It near about sickened me, in fact! I mean, how freakin? lazy are those people, anyway?
I hope everyone reading this appreciates what it is that they got, because apparently many of the technologies what are takin? for granted by us city-dwellers ain?t never been made available to them unfortunate souls out there on the edges. The poor, dumb hick bastids don?t got no traffic lights, no pool halls, no 7-11 stores (hmmm, I wonder where they get their ice?) Hell, they don?t even have no billboards ta, you know, liven up the freakin? landscape! And I?ll tellya somethin? else too, Cletus! If you?d put in a gawdam phone booth where the skies ain?t cloudy all day, yuz wouldn?t hafta drive the John Deere all the wayda freakin? Pixley every time Ma has a hankerin? to ring up yer fat ass Aunt Gladys!
Oh, wait! I almost forgot. You?re gunna love this. Nine had been braggin? to me about how his bar was fully stocked with top-shelf booze, see? So, like a damned boob, I took off without a freakin? drop. I understand that yuz probly don?t believe me. How could that even be possible, right? Hell, I don?t hardly buy it myself. It?s like I?m off to see the wizard, and I?m drivin? dry. Me! I still don?t believe it. But I didn?t grab nuthin? cuzza all Nine?s braggin?, okay?
Fortunately, the canteen in my glove box was brand new. It was a welcome home gift from Snacks and I hadn?t even popped its cherry yet. ?Sweet justice,? I thought, reaching across the seat. The flask looked pretty cool, like it was made from some sorta crystal, almost. The case was a rich chocolate-brown leather, lined in sumptuous burgundy crushed velvet. A little swishy for my taste, but bless that cousin of mine, it was fulla Crown!
I repeat . . . was.
The freakin? cheap-ass piece of ugly, no-good defecation had a flawed lid, Sid! Can you believe it? Everything in the glove compartment; my auto registration and insurance papers, a coupla ten dollar stogies, them snapshots of that 17 year-old runaway what I helped out. Everything but the inner parta that freakin? flask, in fact, was drenched! Absolutely marinated in Crown Royal.
I?m dancin? madly backwards, my friends. And I can?t seem to stop the music.
Perfect! I swear, this is the same stupid corner that I drove around just ten minutes ago! Where in the hell is everybody? I ain?t seen a human being for miles. Hell! The only sign I?ve seen of any intelligence at all in the last half-hour is a freakin? weathervane! A WEATHERVANE! Christ! I ain?t in Accident, Maryland, am I? I better watch out for the damn deer.
Shoot the freakin? dice, man! Look at the time! I?ll hafta fill yuz in at some mutually suitable occasion in our future. Please forgive me. I mean, not because I?m leavin? ya hangin?, but, you know, in case my luck actually worsens, sending me on some kinda Woody Harrelson/Natural Born Killers bender of sensationalized ultra-violence and I don?t never get a chance ta see ya again, ya follow? And say for example that perhaps, you know, in case you were hoping to hear the end of my cheesy little anecdotal adventure and I was unable to accommodate you because of circumstances beyond my control. Well, I mean, in case ?that? happens, I?d like to apologize in advance. Please forgive me.
Wow, was that lame, or what? Sounds sorta like my picks of late, don?t ya think? Speakina which . . . no. Maybe next time.
This is Unholycow and I?ve been circling the drain . . . so you don?t have to.
