Parrothead Ramblings

It's Halloween. You've had a few brews. Your eyelids get heavy. Then the power goes out. That's when she strikes. Beware the curse of Countess Pabula.

Having had my first gay bar experience, I feared that everything else from that point might seem anticlimactic. Man, was I wrong.

Monday still remains somewhat of a blur, primarily due to Jimmy's bad potato salad. We hooked up with Cheap Bastard and Annette that morning, and saw immediately what we were missing: They were on scooters. Being a biker seemed kind of edgy and dangerous, so off we went to rent a couple of our own. We soon dubbed ourselves "Hell's Tourists" and headed out to terrorize Duval Street. Being an outlaw biker is cool, especially the boob flashing part, but then Annette and TFMCD caught up with us and made us stop. I loved that scooter, which was was perfect for Key West. You could try riding one around Phoenix, but you might as well pre-print a little white cross with your name on it and carry it with you on the scooter. That way, when you get smashed into yogurt by a Tahoe, they can just stick it right in the ground and save your family the trouble. TFMCD and I decided we would finally do something touristy that did not involve copious amounts of ETOH, so we boarded the "World Famous Conch Train" for a guided tour around Key West. One very important decision was reached on that ride: We have to paint the ceiling of our patio roof blue. It seems every outdoor ceiling in Key West is one shade of light blue or another. It has something to do with keeping wasps from building nests. I'm guessing maybe they think it's the sky and crash into it, sort of like we humans do do with clean glass doors. Since I had gotten into a turf war with some of those striped-ass bastards just before leaving home (in which I carried the day with a full frontal broom handle assault), it sounded like the thing to do.

After the exhilirating train ride, we headed back over to pay our end of the condo fee and move in with Cheap Bastard and Annette. It was there that we met the condo broker, who was so light in the loafers I feared he might float away at any moment. Dude must have had no sense of humor, because I was really, really funny and he never cracked a smile. I mean, I know I was funny. No question about it.

We got everything moved over from Cheesehead's condo, which was like maybe 200' away, and that was when I noticed Cheap Bastard looking a little red-faced and haggard. Turned out he was riding the same "Jimmy Buffett potato salad hangover" I was experiencing. It was about then that CB and I got into a vociferous discussion of a Buffet song line about "going to Fausto's to get some chocolate milk." CB was convinced the line was from Pencil Thin Mustache, but I knew he was wrong. He'll tell you now that I said there was no such lyric in any Jimmy song, which is a hallucination of his potato salad-addled brain. I didn't remember what song it was, but I knew it wasn't Pencil Thin Mustache. Thank goodness Annette had her laptop. CB dialed up the Internet and found that it was actually My Head Hurts, My Feet Stink, and I Don't love Jesus. Problem solved, and Fausto's immediately went on my "must see, must do" list.

Then it was back to the bars. Being Halloween, there were some quite interesting folks about. We ended up at The Hog's Breath, where I had the misfortune to end up sitting behind a guy dressed in a tux with no pants. He sat on a barstool right in front of me with his ass crack shining out between the tails of his tux jacket. He was accompanied by a woman dressed as Marilyn Monroe, though a bit bigger than ol' Norma Jean. OK, a lot bigger than Norma Jean, but I admired her panache. Anyway, I immediately dubbed the man in the tux as "the ass crack guy," and found that I could not escape him the rest of the week. Everytime I looked around, he was there. At bag stuffing, at The Reach, on the street, at the Conch Republic, everywhere. I wouldn't be surprised to see him walk by my office window right now. We were also graced by the presence of a guy accompanied by three women, one of whom was wearing a white lab coat with a name tag saying "Dr. Love, Orgasm Donor." That guy must have had a great week. The power thankfully went out after a little while, putting the ass crack in the dark. What a relief. It was like driving by a horrific accident. You don't wanna look, but you can't help it. It turns out The Hog's Breath beer stays cold a long time without power, and their cash register has a battery backup, so the party never even slowed down. It was there that I finally met Drifty, quite by accident. I kept looking over at him, because I though he might be Drifty, but thought "naaah, if that was Drifty, Cheesehead would have already introduced us." Wrong. She had on beer blinders and didn't know he was standing right down the bar from her for like an hour.

That night, a legend was born. We carried the party back to the condo, where once again the power went out. I had to go upstairs to take care of some potato salad business, and TFMCD needed my flashlight at the bottom of the stairs. I rolled it gently down the stairs, but a gravity storm hit about that time and the damned thing started bouncing around like a loose football. TFMCD tried valiantly to field the zig-zagging flashlight, slipped on some hot tub water, and nearly went right through the window at the bottom of the stairs. A few minor cuts on the forearm - no problem. Broken toe - bigger problem. And get this:

She was the only sober person at the whole party.

I guess it's true that God watches over drunks and little kids.
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