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I don't remember them being here upon my return
I'm absolutely certain of it. This isn't like the last time, I swear. While you've been over at your sister's place, "crying," I've been putting my nose to the grindstone over here, trying to figure out what exactly happened last night, and furthermore: who is to blame? On one of the hastily penned Post-It notes I found deposited in my anus upon waking this morning, you wrote that "this [by which I assume you mean the two sweaty Malaysian nymphets hiding under the sink] is simply grotesque and unbelievable." Agreed! They certainly weren't here when I left for the pub crawl, and I don't remember them being here when I returned. But why the hostility? Admittedly, I don't remember much of anything upon my return (is that yours or my fecal art all over the divan?), which leads me to believe that last night I was drugged. Perhaps numerous times. Yes, that's right-- drugged--like in a James Bond movie or those other movies of mine you keep throwing away because, as you blindly assert, "snuff films are illegal." Well, I'll have you know, one person's "illegal" is another person's "irreplaceable video library." You could be a little more sensitive and refrain from dismissing out of hand all art not hanging in some stuffy museum as "shit." It's unbecoming, even for an art major.
Are you familiar with "Flunitrazepam?" I believe it's also referred to as a "roofie." Well, after consulting the experts at Wikipedia, and chatting online with a gentleman who calls himself I.M. Therapist, its become pretty clear that the curious bio-degradability of my memories from last night can be directly attributed to my being drugged. I'm sure you're going to start groaning and carrying on about "moderation" and "taking responsibility for my actions," but I'll have you know that what we're dealing with here is an unbelievably potent benzodiazepine derivative, not just some late-night roistering. Somebody is out to get me.
Do you remember a when the Russians poisoned that old KGB guy with toxic, nuclear ooze? Well, this is almost the same thing, except his wife supported him when he came home bald, foaming at the mouth and reeking of the dumpster behind Kwan's adult bookstore. What do I get? Incessant nagging. I'll bet you didn't scream at that Yale guy you dated when he used to fall asleep in the cat litter. Oh, never mind. You'll probably come back with some inane thing like "We never had a cat."
Look, I don't mean to be harsh; I can see how you might think that I am somehow to blame in this case, but I assure you, I fell victim to some kind of evil ruse (were it not for the most recent onslaught of insufficient funds notices, I would venture to say that somebody may have been attempting to rob me). To clarify, I'd like to direct you to some of the symptoms of an acute Flunitrazepam reaction, compared with what you so glibly refer to as "just getting bombed and pissing in the vase holding Nana's ashes." As I mentioned before, I believe my drugging may have been a prolonged, insidious affair; a plot hatched by various agents planted strategically along the pub-crawl trajectory. Let me now acquaint you with the aforementioned symptoms:
Drowsiness
I can say with some certainty that at one point during the evening, I did indeed succumb to a kind of overwhelming drowsiness. Usually the paragon of sharp-eyed vigilance, I knew something must be wrong somewhere after I was kicked out of Kenneally's for trying to perform cunnilingus on the jukebox (see "confusion," below), but before I tried to trade my gall bladder to that Greek guy on the corner for a souvlaki platter. I felt languid and listless, as though I were walking through a kind of syrupy-reinforced gauze. I recognize that I should have been paying more attention, but by the time my fourth scotch rolled around, I was too busy whooping it up with the boys to recognize any rogue agents slipping Mickey Finns in my cocktail(s). By then it was too late. The drowsiness enveloped me and I succumbed to the Sandman, waking up here with a bunch of Post-Its in my ass and a feeling that I may have date-raped a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's at the corner market.
Loss of motor control
Again, this is something that at first glance, you might think would be the result of something less sinister. But let me assure you, evil lurks. I seem to recall a man looking at either me or a bowl of peanuts at The Gingerman (or was it Muldoon's?). I would venture to guess that if you find this man, you find a key piece of the puzzle. Shortly after I noticed the man looking at me/peanuts, I felt dizzy and thought, at least at first, that I was exhibiting signs of tennis elbow or rickets. Alas, I've never swallowed my own tongue while attempting to rack a pool table, so I began to think "I'm exhibiting a loss of motor control," right before I took a dump on the bouncer while ordering a round of shots for Ralph Macchio 's black doppelganger (again, see "confusion").
After a long day at Kwan's adult bookstore
Slurred speech
After this, I'm going to draft a letter to the Blarney Stone explaining that I meant to say, "12 drinks is sooo not too many," instead of "You look like my dog's balls" to the bartender. Obviously, the effects of the roofie garbled my words, twisting reality and perhaps explaining why my front teeth are in my pocket. This all raises another issue: Perhaps I was drugged last week, too, as I seem to recall asking you for a ride home from Old Flannigan's and you responded that you didn't think you looked like our dog's balls, and moreover, that I should "find my own fucking ride home." This scenario worries me--what if I am ruffied in to some Syd Barrett-like fugue state? I'd be interested in your thoughts on this, whenever you and your sister decide to start showing me some sympathy and stop judging. Damn.
Gastrointestinal disturbances, lasting 12 or more hours.
This may explain the fecal art flung hither and thither on the divan. I'm not prepared to take sole responsibility for this, as I know you are an art major, and will occasionally try to "experiment with styles and modes." That reminds me, your "Still Life with Chile con Queso" painting ripped up and strewn all over the floor may not be the result of a feeding frenzy by renegade jaguars, as I had previously thought. I seem to recall microwaving a particularly unwieldy bowl of chile con queso last night that tasted like acrylic. Perhaps I ate your painting. I know this kind of thing makes you mad, but would it make any difference if I told you that this one tasted better than some of your earlier, less mature work, like "Autumn in Zurich," and "Orphan in Repose?" Jesus, I can already see you making that face, especially the part of your face that says, "I fucking can't stand you." Well you know what? I didn't ask to be dosed like a character in a Sherlock Holmes novel (although I do recall a brief exchange at the Baker St. Pub in which I, during a brief stint as bathroom attendant in the ladies' room, requested being "dosed" with a "face-full of labia"). I know, the whole thing confuses me, too. Luckily, I think we may only have to deal with about three more hours of this.
Amnesia
Don't even start. What you're (going to be) talking about is a black-out caused by excessive alcohol intake. Well, I've just read in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences that what I'm experiencing must be caused by some kind of damage to the hippocampus caused by the Flunitrazepam dosing. The writer went on to explain that Julie decided to become a lesbian after a tryst behind the barn with her cousin Laura. Shit, this roofie has me all confused (again, see "confusion"). Does the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences usually come with this much nudity, or has Juggs hired on a considerably more urbane and medically-inclined staff? I'm so scared. I don't know which way is up. Do you think this could be the Russians? I thought we sorted out that issue with the massage and it being your credit card and all along with that little mix-up where I thought that suitcase of cocaine was a party favor at Dmitri's Modeling Studio and Tanning Salon. Are you familiar with Lacunar amnesia? I think that's the one I have. The article didn't mention that a side effect of the roofie (then, of course, the amnesia) would be passing gas every time I blinked, but the article also failed to mention that another side effect of Lacunar amnesia is carrying an entire Chinese buffet on one's back until I reached the interstate and set up a road block using General Tso's chicken, which Dave just called and told me about.
We're going to have to ask you to pull over
Confusion
(See above.) Also, do you think you could see your way through to dropping me off at Dave's later on tonight? We're both terribly concerned about what may be an epidemic of dosing among unsuspecting victims along the pub crawl. We just want to retrace our steps to find out what organization is behind all this the treachery. I really do feel violated here and want to get to the bottom of any wrong-doing.
Ooh...Almost forgot...Is it safe to run the dishwasher with those Malaysian nymphets under the sink? Their shrill screams seem to indicate otherwise, but in my unstable state, I just don't know who to believe anymore.
Posts: 1375 Rank: 10 Joined:
12/7/2006
Location:
savannah, GA
Posted: 5/9/2007 10:26:49 AM
and it was about licking the bruised starfish so i can't really judge you for rambling from one shocker to the next. but i can say that this just wasn't really funny. i did like your other piece though, so keep at it.
north vietnamese operative in the first pic, on the left, has rapid weightloss saggy tits.
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