Saturday, April 16, 2005
Dirty Dealing Most Fowl!
Could Greg The Hoser be part of this diabolical plot?
Golf being over, it was time to turn my attention to some of my other favorite activities - hanging out, bullshitting, and drinking beer. As luck would have it, I can do all three at once. With Coconut Bob Karwin and Mark Mulliganpoolside, and the weather perfect, it just didn't get better. Wait. That's not true. It could have been better. Some low life shit-heel snuck in the night before and must have dumped a thousand pounds of ice in the damned pool. It was a fucking glacier pond. I'm still looking for my.....well, let's just say there was some serious shrinkage going on there.
Jerry Gontang and Stars On The Water hit the stage that night, and as usual, had 'em dancing on the tables. No one has quite the stage presence and charisma that Jerry does. With the possible and momentary exception of The Crime Dog, who suddenly had beer coming in from every direction. It was a target-rich environment. I never even reached in my pocket all night, and never had less than three Coronas sitting in front of me. Arizona Cheesehead would have you believe that I can't hang. And Eric The Cheap Bastard, who came home with a carload of money, even went so far as to say I violated my own "sprint vs. marathon" rule. You can't believe these people. The Crime Dog cannot tell a lie, just a semi-true story. Here's what really happened:
There I was. It was 11:30PM or so. I had only been drinking for about 14 hours, so I was in complete command of myself. The marathon was proceeding as planned, and I had a winner's pace. Then it happened. Sabotage. The foot that tripped me belonged to none other than Sandi The Flamingo Queen. I always thought of flamingos as docile, unobtrusive little creatures. Not so. They are capable of the most fowl behavior. Queen Sandi hands me a water bottle, and says "Here, try this!" It looked like water. It was even in one of them little bottles with a mountain on it. So, being the
I remember once as a kid taking a sip of rubbing alcohol on a dare. That was a cakewalk. You know how bad it burns when you've just finished a really difficult shave with a dull-assed razor, then you splash on some cheap after shave? OK, now picture that you have just finished using a dull, serrated hatchet to shave your lips, mouth, tongue, esophagus, and stomach, and then you chug a pint of Mennen Skin Bracer. Multiply that times, shit I dunno, like a thousand, and you have a smidgen of an idea as to what Queen Sandi so innocently handed to me. I thought I screamed "WHAT IN THE FUCK ALL NAME OF EVERYTHING HOLY WAS THAT???" But of course, by now, my brain cells were all running for their lives, seeking cover from the oncoming rush of mega-nuclear fire headed their way. What came out was more like "nnnggggg gaaaaa lrrrrrrred." Sandi the Queen says, "It's moonshine, honey. From North Carolina." By the time I got back to my table, it suddenly dawned on me that I was about to stumble over the finish line about an hour too early. My brain was an Iraqi insurgent, Queen Sandi was an Apache pilot, and that clear shit in her little bottle was a fucking rocket.
Sabotage, I say! Sabotage! Underhandedness most foul!
I can do this, I thought. I'm equal to the task. I'm the Crime Dog, for God's sake!
Treachery! Subversion!
What the...? When did they put up that second Corona banner on the stage? Hmmmmm.
Treason, I tell you! Human vandalism!
Whoa! There's now two Fetching Mrs. Crime Dogs. Ahhhhh, yes. Was this a sex-fantasy fulfillment liqueur Queen Sandi had given me? Damned glacier pond!
Perfidiousness! Corruption!
So, both of The Fetching Mrs. Crime Dogs escorted my obliterated ass back up to our room when the band took its break. She's a huge fan of Jerry and Stars On the Water, so now I owe her big.
Ain't the first time. I'm in arrears through 2044.
Deception! Connivance!
