Sunday, October 29, 2006

"Call Of The Chtulhu's Big Rubber Dink" or "Quoth the Dildo, 'Nevermore.'"

Halloween is my favorite holiday. The only one holiday I like, actually. It’s a riot seeing little kids in their costumes and even better seeing their yummy mommies dressed up as Playboy bunnies or French maids. And I love candy corn.

“Tell us a scary story, Uncle Wheel Gun!” I can hear you pleading. OK, I will. Only it won’t be very scary. And it won’t be all that entertaining either, but if you wanted serious entertainment you wouldn’t be here in the first place.

This story takes place about 16 or 17 years ago on a cold dark night in Maine. Yes, the very same Maine that Stephen King writes about all the time. Sends shivers down your spine, don’t it? In the wilds of Kittery. At a bar called Norton’s. My band at the time was playing its yearly Halloween gig there.

The year before this, we had all dressed up as our favorite dead rock stars. I went as Momma Cass (had to loose weight for the part as I recall). But this particular year, we went as inbred Maine’ahs, calling ourselves the Downeast Inbred Corn-holers (DIC). The only person who didn’t have to put a costume on was our bass player who was already from Maine and inbred.

I wore an orange hunter’s hat with “If you kant keep it in yur pants, keep it in yur family” written on it. I had on an orange hunter’s vest and a pair of tight white boxer shorts that had red lipstick kiss marks all over them. On my feet I wore a pair of beat up old duck boots. But the best part was the huge rubber dick I had hanging out of my boxers. I had bought the thing earlier in the day from the local dildo store (put it on my tab). It was hilarious. Or at least I thought so. Made me laugh.

Just before we were to go on stage, a couple friends of mine decided they had to have a fist fight. Everyone was good and pie-eyed at this point. These two guys, who have since become pals, wanted to beat the living fuck out of each other so they went out side to brandish their dukes. I reluctantly followed.

Just before they were about to start wailing on each other, I grabbed both of them by the collars as I would a couple misbehaving school boys and launched into a red faced tirade about how fucking moronic they were acting. I tell you I was pissed. Had spittle flying out of my mouth and everything. Then, in mid-tantrum, I stopped.

It had suddenly dawned on me how I must have looked out there in the parking lot of Norton’s holding two these two potential pugilists apart. There was silence. I looked down at my still madly swinging massive rubber member and started laughing. And laughing. I said "Look at me for Christsakes! Just look at me! Go ahead and beat the crap out of each other for all I care but I'm going inside to get a drink."

Wow. I really didn’t mean to scare you that much. Sorry.


At 4:09 PM, Blogger LittleDougyPorkSword said...

This year I went as a "show me where the bad man touched you" doll. I'm still sore.

At 4:21 PM, Blogger B-Face said...

This is alot like the time I passed out under a kitchen table at a party in Dover, NH. As I was sleeping people drew all over my face and wrote "DRUNK" with a sharpie on my forehead. I woke up and stumbled over to a group of snickering people including my "friend" (who had written it). I noticed his '50's-style pompadour was tipping a bit to the side, making him look like Gumby. I had no idea I had been drawn on. I looked at his hair and said, "You look fucking stupid."
The entire room, about fifteen people burst out laughing and I thought it was at my comment, which made them laugh harder, until I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.


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