Morons Heart the Puerco.

Okay, so let me preface this blog by proclaiming my drunkeness...it's been over a month since I last pollinated this blog of ours, and Jeff's been a tad annoying with his guilt trips (he's been known for those since way back in Junior High). So yes, it's the Fourth of July, the great day of Independence, and we just got home from a grand adventure out on the town filled with harrassment, fireworks, and the obligatory boozer of the 40 oz. variety. Olde English to be exact. The night started off with my brother Dan and I cruising down to the local 7-11 (a tragic day, according to Ali G...if you don't know, go rent season one of the same name) to meet up with Lucky Green. Along the way, we were struck with the feeling that we were in a warzone...I'm talking explosions echoing off of the skyscrapers, lights punctuating the skyline, fires raging rampantly and randomly. The locals were out of control with their personal illegal arsenals of fireworks, giving a whole new meaning to the nickname "Little Beirut", a term first christened upon Portland by George Bush the Senior, the Daddy Asshole in, I'm sure, a long line of puckered brown cavernous shit pits. Well, Jeff was running a bit late, and upon his arrival we purchased our chilled malted liquors and set out at a brisk pace for our predetermined meeting grounds to watch the city's fireworks display and catch a cool buzzard. Like I was saying, we were running late, and about half way to our destination we realized the show had started early, and we were missing it. Before we had taken another step, though, we found ourselves in the midst of a Spagetti Western-worthy showdown between three young men wielding Roman Candles in each hand, striving to burn great big gaping holes in one another's eye sockets. Dodging about, we began to initiate our own personal firestorm, shooting off large bottle rockets that I had sequestered in my old van all the way from Georgia a few years ago, throwing firecrackers into senior housing complex courtyards, and causing general mayhem in the form of a hissing wick and a loud bang or twelve. Hustling on to the Steel Bridge, the Northwest's version of the Pipe Bridge in Petaluma, we caught the tail end of the city-sanctioned pyro's wet dream...Go Freedom, we patriots love our fireworks...Jihad. Bomb. Bush. Hmmm...just thought I'd publish that to justify that particular administration's wiretapping and logging of my personal phone calls and emails.

Jeff wants me to mention that on a previous night, almost a year ago, we had been walking to the Steel Bridge, and decided to take a short cut through the overgrown brush of a nearby abandoned building's back lot. We were about half way through the grassy patch, when we suddenly saw movement all around us...upon closer examination, we realized that there were dozens of homeless folks surrounding the broken glass-strewn pathway...having crazy sleeping bag sex. Seriously going at it, hardcore sweaty style, all in unison like some sinister musical piece in Fantasia, positions galore...it was a treat. I wanted to hang out and masterbate, but Jeff kinda freaked out and goaded us along.

Segways aside, tonight we had passed through the bum sex path unscathed, I launched a rocket at some dudes train hopping (and they loved it), and we found ourselves guzzling our O-E on the pedestrian foot path underneath the Steely Bridger. One of our favorite parts about this particular bridge is that if you stick around for at least an hour, you're guarenteed to have at least one train come by, screeching on the tracks not but eight feet from the walkway spanning the polluted waters of the Willamette. This particular train was especially long, and before we knew it, our eardrums were bleeding brain butter from the prolonged sharp squeel of the steel wheels on the steel rails at the sharp turn in the tracks to enter the bridge close by to where we happened to be standing. To drown out this ungodly, but strangley addicting and comforting, sound, we plugged our ears and began to sing-hum loudly, all at the same tone and pitch. The sound that we emitted matched perfectly with the screech of the freight liner, and even prompted Danny Boy to break out into an imprompto dance jig. I know it's completly uninteresting reading this particular event's details, but we'll remember it as one of the sublime moments of our lives, where man and machine met each other mouth to ear piece and became one piercingly obnoxious organism. I'm sure those critter humans crawling across the bridge had similar thoughts, for a few let out a high-pitched breath of their own, and many cheered, justifing our public intoxication with their very public approval. We kicked it for a bit more, and blew up the spot after sucking down the remainders of our bottlers (minus a small portion of the bitter brew for a bitter death...RIP Joe, you were a good guy, and you'll be in my thoughts) by lighting off the remainder of our bottle rockets out over the water. Somehow, along the way, I managed to piss all over my slacks while attempting to urinate through the grate bordering the bridge...these are the things you lose control over as one travels further upon the path of the ancients. What can I say, I'm old, and could probably use a set of Depends once in awhile to prevent accidents such as these.


The Hunger set in, so we wandered aimlessly around searching for substanance, road kill, dead babies, whatever could be ground up in our gullet and passed out our holepit. Burgerville...closed, and the Greshamite (i.e. sludge bucket, i.e. grease sack, i.e. fatty) wouldn't let us in to nibble some fries. Denny's...naw, too many pesos. Oh, what's that? Is that a traffic cone? Am I drunk? A great combination. Oh, is that the drive through at Burger King? Sidling on up into line (you know I was drunk, 'cause "the King" meat tastes like a man's ahnoos, and Borat and I don't eat that shit) we decided to try the whole walk-through the drive-through thing...hey, it used to work in the P-town of our youth. We squeezed into line between a truck full of goddamn "You don't know?" lawnmower haircut girl's pants saucer sized sunglasses emo tears hipsters, and some cool mutherfucker in a little honda hatchback. The hipsters were futilely attempting to order food, but we were going fucking nuts...Green and Dan were barking, hopping up and down on the pressure plate and trying to get in a fight with the hipsters who were giving us frigid too cool for school looks...I'm sure me screaming into the traffic cone "I'd like two brown trouts, some man-flesh gorditos, and a pair of fish tacos with cream sauce!" had something to do with their irriation, 'specially 'cause the guy taking their order thought they were the source of the harrassment initially and kept asking them to stop messing around or he wouldn't take their order. The driver of the gang of tinsel-toed pansies pokes his head out the window and tries to initiate a verbal confrontation with me..."He's getting angry with me so why don't you just go away." Figga please..."I want biggie fries with my Virjeen enchiladas, you trouter browner," I'm sure I said to him, caught up in the ridiculousness of the moment, and unable to interact on any reasonable level. "Get fucked you Merganzer Pup." At this point, the King employee caught on that there were forces of evil at work in his little world, and began screaming into his microphone, emitting "You better shut up if you want to order anything here." Response: "We want some Brown Trout Slurpee's and extra biggie sauce drink tray goblin ketchup packets with McFlurry Western Bacon Cheeseburger Macciato Double Pump with Whip Grande Venti......please." Machine squawk: "All right that's it, you guys can't order here." So what do we do? We walk behind the rad guy in the Hatchback who was initially behind us, choking with laughter, him and us both. This new guy pulls up to the order box, and starts to tell the King's servant what he wants, but the peasant thinks the guy is us, and tells him "I told you to get the hell out of here!" The Honda guy is good-hearted, turns to us, and says "I don't even care about eating now, you guys get props," and waits patiently in line behind the hipster truck to try and find food elsewhere. Feeling kinda bad that we robbed this guy of a feces-infected ground anal burger, we decided to put on a bit more of a comedy routine for him by harrassing the fuck out of the initial truck of failed rockstars who were now waiting at the window for their food. Upon the night worker seeing our gaggle group, me with cone in hand, walking towards the truck, he begins to flail his arms out the store window "Get out of here or I'm calling the cops!!!" Now I'm not a big fan of cops, but this guy was a bit too uptight, even for a man's ahnoos, so I walked between the truck and the window and started taunting the guy, doing little jigs, yelling obscure combos of food orders at both the 'ipsters and the night manager, finishing off with a chant of BROWN TROUT, BROWN TROUT, BROWN TROUT..."That's it, Chuck call 911, get the cops over here to arrest these guys...nice one buddy, you just messed with the wrong people!" Immediately, and I'm sure completely coincidentally, we hear a little piggy snort over a bullhorn loudspeaker "HEY MORONS, YOU WANNA COME WITH ME FOR THE NIGHT!?! WHY DON'T YOU PUT DOWN THAT TRAFFIC CONE AND STOP ACTING LIKE A BUNCH OF IDIOTS." "Thanks officer, we're done now, just feeling a bit patriotic with the whole Independence Day thing. Go Freedom." The cop goes on his way, and I order up one more fish taco with cream sauce before we release the traffic cone and head on over to Safeway for a midnight snack. One can only hope that in the confusion and chaos, some awesome employee at Burger King took advantage of the lack of supervision and slipped the contents of a sailor's scumbag onto a hipster's burger. Even better, I hope the hipster realized the error of flavor too late, and began to cry, causing the whole truckload to burst into a song of deep and utter sadness at their being sooooo so misunderstood.


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