16 May 2004
55
R. Linda:
Well . . . where to begin. Do industrial prison-strength blow-up dolls mean anything to you? I never heard of the term before I attended Mr. Weasil's graduation party. I didn't know they had names, either. Like Big John, The Priest, Stephanie Swift, Big Bazooka Babe, and Pumped Up Playmate. There is a lot you can do with these five different variations for example: Put different coloured wigs on them, get yourself a few magic markers to make them look more like your friends, and dress them up in your friend's clothing. You can even purchase accessories and accessorise them. Uh-huh! You can get them with big, wide holes in their mouth, ears, and various unmentionable places. Sigh.
Welcome to Mr. Weasil's graduation party!
Since I had been at the college from 8:30 a.m. until 2 p.m., I was not privy to 'party preps' as the Weasil crowd referred to preparations. While some of his crew witnessed the great event called Weasil graduates for the third time, the rest of the 'keggers' were accumulating party gear and dressing Weasil's abode up. He had joked about this blow-up doll party, and I truly thought it was just that, a joke.
Imagine, if you will, me driving back to me Comfy Inn room to get out of me overdressed kit, and into more casual wear. There I was, pushing me wallet and card key into me back pocket, a last glance in the mirror to make sure the hair was looking good, and off I went to Mr. Weasil's place across the road. Within walking distance it be. There were cars and people everywhere, so I knew this would be a -- some neighbour ringing the police on the rowdy revellers -- kind of party.
I got across the road, and there was Mathilda out in the parking lot, drink in hand, already three sheets to the fecking wind. She was falling all over herself, and I tried to help guide her into the house, much to the laughing cheers of her friends, who were just as wasted as she was. Now, I had been back for no more than fifteen minutes, and I know they arrived AFTER me. That they were all on their way to Margaritaville within that time frame astounded yours truly.
We tripped up the three stairs and into the jammed living room/dining room and instantly someone had put a Margarita in me hand and I was placed in front of a platter of Mexican goodies, like nachos, salsa, chilli rellenos, mini chimichangas, guacamole en molcajete with tomatillos, chilli cheese bites, mini fried quesadillas, and gorditas. All authentic Mexican food (finally) made by Weasil's friend -- are you ready? CHOP. David CHOP Lopez from (this is a long one), San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. He's called Chop because he worked in a Chinese restaurant and had a flair for using chopsticks. Go figure.
Anyway, Chop can cook. I should add that on the table, there was a sign that Chop had placed with much forethought. It said: GRINGOS BEWARE HOT FOOD. Next to the food was the largest bottle of Tums I had ever seen. People were popping the chalky tablets and telling me that Chop's "shite is good mannn."
It was, and it was hotter than hades on a blasting hot summer day, but it was fecking delicious stuff. I know, what? No Tamales?
The rest of the fare included a spread that one would find in better hotel receptions. Every appetiser one can think of was spread over tables put end to end the length of the condo. The only room off-limits was one of the bedrooms. It had a big sign that read: DO NOT ENTER PRIVATE PROPERTY.
The liquor was contained in large punch bowls, kegs inside and outside, wine bottles, hard stuff, even the dainty liqueurs that the ladies so love (lemon drops, purple hooters, slippery nipples, and Mathilda's all-time fav, 1-900-Fuk-Me-Up). There were three bartenders, each specialising in a different drink; one was a Suffering Bastard, the second specialised in a Dying Bastard, and the third, naturally, a Dead Bastard. Me head throbs to even think about it.
The music was blaring, and thank God there was no John Denver. We were elbow to elbow, and there was no one my age. I felt like the old man until five delicious-looking but inebriated young ladies decided to hit on me. At first, I was enjoying it, but it got a little out of hand when I found meself being pulled onto a couch where people already populated the cushions. I was jammed in with one lovely on me lap, another behind me with her fingers in me hair, two at me feet and one standing there sulking. The people on either side of me were adjusting to move so we could all breathe, but to no avail.
All night, Weasil would float on by being asked, "Is it time yet?" and the answer was, "Not yet. Soon." He'd wink, and I'd hear that mysterious question asked over and over. Amid all these sweaty, drinking bodies, there was dancing, if you can call it that, in close quarters, much laughter, jokes, making out, and general mayhem. I kept wondering when the police would arrive, but they never did. Around 9 p.m., every brain in the place and outside was saturated with booze, which meant IT WAS TIME!
There was a herding together of humanity to face the one-bedroom door that had been off-limits. A hush fell over the room, and Mr. W got up on a hassock and made a mini-speech about how honoured he was to have all his good friends celebrating his third graduation and how happy he was that we were all still standing up. Then, without further adieu, he moved the hassock back, and with a flourish (two fools simulating trumpets with their hands), he opened the door to the forbidden room and outburst blow-up dolls like I have never seen. They were flooding into the room from being jam-packed in the bedroom. They were adorned with all sorts of accoutrements. People traded back and forth to get the doll that looked like their significant other or just the opposite sex. I stood there dumbfounded.
I was handed a doll by Mathilda. It had big hair and an electric pink bikini. It also had electric pink socks to match, and her name tag read, Hello, I'm Pats. Weasil whispered in me ear, "Don't worry I won't tell Jordie," and off he went. This doll was a mock-up of a woman online that Weasil loved to tease, who was known to me AND Jordie (who, God bless him, missed the joke because he smartly "couldn't make" the party). I was left standing there with this bikini and sock-clad blow-up with huge blond hair and the hair was so full of hairspray that someone had the demented idea to stick make-believe flies in it. I covered me face to blot out the sight, but she was still there when I looked through me fingers. What to do?
People were doing all sorts of not-nice things, but I can't say anyone was lewd. Jokes went all around; some of the blow-up male dolls had cigars in their mouths, and one had a beer can inserted well into its mouth. There was no getting around it. I put down me drink, put me arm around old Pats and off to the dance floor (if you can call it that). I danced around with her as others joined in. I was drunk, and if I had been in me right mind, I'd have stuck Pats in the closet and taken off. The only problem was that Weasil had people snapping pictures all night. I didn't realise it until I saw several flashes go off. Was I the subject of one of those pictures? I be sure of it. I know one will surface when I least suspect it.
I don't recall much more of the party. I know I sat down and passed out in the kitchen with three others. I found meself sleeping under the kitchen table the next day. It had to be around one in the afternoon when I awoke, with me head a throbbing mass, me mouth felt like the Serbian Army had walked over it, and me whole body ached from head to toe. I got up too fast, not realising where I was and hit me head on the tabletop above me. That hurt, and I grabbed me head as I rolled back down and found meself being set upon suddenly. Someone had their hands over me eyes and another hand across me chest and me legs were tangled in theirs. I struggled fiercely and stopped dead still when I heard Weasil's laughter. It dawned on me I had fallen back into Pats and mistook the doll's limbs for someone real. How embarrassing is that, I ask you?
I crawled from under the table to find Mr. W sitting on the settee across the room. He was the only one sober and awake. There were bodies everywhere, along with blow-up dolls. The place was a trashed mess. I got to me knees and could go no further up. The rascal was drinking a beer and looked as fresh as a daisy. I growled at him, and he smiled. He got up and got me an ice pack, a glass of water and a tablet. I took each and lay back down on the floor, me head on Pat's tummy and the room spun.
I was there for a long time as others woke up in the same condition. I don't remember much more of the aftermath. I do know that before I left for home, Weas and Mathilda came over to say goodbye and thanks for attending the graduation and the party. Matty, as Weas refers to her, took me over to the picture window to point out an odd-shaped precipice on the mountain across the way. While me back was turned, Weasil was busy. Only I didn't know that.
I found out later at the airport what he did while me back was turned. I was going through security, and me carry-on rang the alarm. They asked me to open it so they could see what was inside. Unknown to me was that Weasil had placed the deflated Pats, all neatly folded, on top of everything in me carry-on. You don't know how embarrassing that was to have to haul out the rubber blow-up with the wig and various pieces of costume jewellery. I shook me head and knew anything I offered up in explanation would not be believed. It turned out that the keys to me apartment and some of the costume jewellery had set off the alarm system. I had to re-pack Pats and wig, zip up the carry-on, and red-faced hope no one who witnessed this would be sitting next to me on the flight home. Begorrah me that damn Weasil!
Gabe
Copyright © 2004 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
Well . . . where to begin. Do industrial prison-strength blow-up dolls mean anything to you? I never heard of the term before I attended Mr. Weasil's graduation party. I didn't know they had names, either. Like Big John, The Priest, Stephanie Swift, Big Bazooka Babe, and Pumped Up Playmate. There is a lot you can do with these five different variations for example: Put different coloured wigs on them, get yourself a few magic markers to make them look more like your friends, and dress them up in your friend's clothing. You can even purchase accessories and accessorise them. Uh-huh! You can get them with big, wide holes in their mouth, ears, and various unmentionable places. Sigh.
Welcome to Mr. Weasil's graduation party!
Since I had been at the college from 8:30 a.m. until 2 p.m., I was not privy to 'party preps' as the Weasil crowd referred to preparations. While some of his crew witnessed the great event called Weasil graduates for the third time, the rest of the 'keggers' were accumulating party gear and dressing Weasil's abode up. He had joked about this blow-up doll party, and I truly thought it was just that, a joke.
Imagine, if you will, me driving back to me Comfy Inn room to get out of me overdressed kit, and into more casual wear. There I was, pushing me wallet and card key into me back pocket, a last glance in the mirror to make sure the hair was looking good, and off I went to Mr. Weasil's place across the road. Within walking distance it be. There were cars and people everywhere, so I knew this would be a -- some neighbour ringing the police on the rowdy revellers -- kind of party.
I got across the road, and there was Mathilda out in the parking lot, drink in hand, already three sheets to the fecking wind. She was falling all over herself, and I tried to help guide her into the house, much to the laughing cheers of her friends, who were just as wasted as she was. Now, I had been back for no more than fifteen minutes, and I know they arrived AFTER me. That they were all on their way to Margaritaville within that time frame astounded yours truly.
We tripped up the three stairs and into the jammed living room/dining room and instantly someone had put a Margarita in me hand and I was placed in front of a platter of Mexican goodies, like nachos, salsa, chilli rellenos, mini chimichangas, guacamole en molcajete with tomatillos, chilli cheese bites, mini fried quesadillas, and gorditas. All authentic Mexican food (finally) made by Weasil's friend -- are you ready? CHOP. David CHOP Lopez from (this is a long one), San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. He's called Chop because he worked in a Chinese restaurant and had a flair for using chopsticks. Go figure.
Anyway, Chop can cook. I should add that on the table, there was a sign that Chop had placed with much forethought. It said: GRINGOS BEWARE HOT FOOD. Next to the food was the largest bottle of Tums I had ever seen. People were popping the chalky tablets and telling me that Chop's "shite is good mannn."
It was, and it was hotter than hades on a blasting hot summer day, but it was fecking delicious stuff. I know, what? No Tamales?
The rest of the fare included a spread that one would find in better hotel receptions. Every appetiser one can think of was spread over tables put end to end the length of the condo. The only room off-limits was one of the bedrooms. It had a big sign that read: DO NOT ENTER PRIVATE PROPERTY.
The liquor was contained in large punch bowls, kegs inside and outside, wine bottles, hard stuff, even the dainty liqueurs that the ladies so love (lemon drops, purple hooters, slippery nipples, and Mathilda's all-time fav, 1-900-Fuk-Me-Up). There were three bartenders, each specialising in a different drink; one was a Suffering Bastard, the second specialised in a Dying Bastard, and the third, naturally, a Dead Bastard. Me head throbs to even think about it.
The music was blaring, and thank God there was no John Denver. We were elbow to elbow, and there was no one my age. I felt like the old man until five delicious-looking but inebriated young ladies decided to hit on me. At first, I was enjoying it, but it got a little out of hand when I found meself being pulled onto a couch where people already populated the cushions. I was jammed in with one lovely on me lap, another behind me with her fingers in me hair, two at me feet and one standing there sulking. The people on either side of me were adjusting to move so we could all breathe, but to no avail.
All night, Weasil would float on by being asked, "Is it time yet?" and the answer was, "Not yet. Soon." He'd wink, and I'd hear that mysterious question asked over and over. Amid all these sweaty, drinking bodies, there was dancing, if you can call it that, in close quarters, much laughter, jokes, making out, and general mayhem. I kept wondering when the police would arrive, but they never did. Around 9 p.m., every brain in the place and outside was saturated with booze, which meant IT WAS TIME!
There was a herding together of humanity to face the one-bedroom door that had been off-limits. A hush fell over the room, and Mr. W got up on a hassock and made a mini-speech about how honoured he was to have all his good friends celebrating his third graduation and how happy he was that we were all still standing up. Then, without further adieu, he moved the hassock back, and with a flourish (two fools simulating trumpets with their hands), he opened the door to the forbidden room and outburst blow-up dolls like I have never seen. They were flooding into the room from being jam-packed in the bedroom. They were adorned with all sorts of accoutrements. People traded back and forth to get the doll that looked like their significant other or just the opposite sex. I stood there dumbfounded.
I was handed a doll by Mathilda. It had big hair and an electric pink bikini. It also had electric pink socks to match, and her name tag read, Hello, I'm Pats. Weasil whispered in me ear, "Don't worry I won't tell Jordie," and off he went. This doll was a mock-up of a woman online that Weasil loved to tease, who was known to me AND Jordie (who, God bless him, missed the joke because he smartly "couldn't make" the party). I was left standing there with this bikini and sock-clad blow-up with huge blond hair and the hair was so full of hairspray that someone had the demented idea to stick make-believe flies in it. I covered me face to blot out the sight, but she was still there when I looked through me fingers. What to do?
People were doing all sorts of not-nice things, but I can't say anyone was lewd. Jokes went all around; some of the blow-up male dolls had cigars in their mouths, and one had a beer can inserted well into its mouth. There was no getting around it. I put down me drink, put me arm around old Pats and off to the dance floor (if you can call it that). I danced around with her as others joined in. I was drunk, and if I had been in me right mind, I'd have stuck Pats in the closet and taken off. The only problem was that Weasil had people snapping pictures all night. I didn't realise it until I saw several flashes go off. Was I the subject of one of those pictures? I be sure of it. I know one will surface when I least suspect it.
I don't recall much more of the party. I know I sat down and passed out in the kitchen with three others. I found meself sleeping under the kitchen table the next day. It had to be around one in the afternoon when I awoke, with me head a throbbing mass, me mouth felt like the Serbian Army had walked over it, and me whole body ached from head to toe. I got up too fast, not realising where I was and hit me head on the tabletop above me. That hurt, and I grabbed me head as I rolled back down and found meself being set upon suddenly. Someone had their hands over me eyes and another hand across me chest and me legs were tangled in theirs. I struggled fiercely and stopped dead still when I heard Weasil's laughter. It dawned on me I had fallen back into Pats and mistook the doll's limbs for someone real. How embarrassing is that, I ask you?
I crawled from under the table to find Mr. W sitting on the settee across the room. He was the only one sober and awake. There were bodies everywhere, along with blow-up dolls. The place was a trashed mess. I got to me knees and could go no further up. The rascal was drinking a beer and looked as fresh as a daisy. I growled at him, and he smiled. He got up and got me an ice pack, a glass of water and a tablet. I took each and lay back down on the floor, me head on Pat's tummy and the room spun.
I was there for a long time as others woke up in the same condition. I don't remember much more of the aftermath. I do know that before I left for home, Weas and Mathilda came over to say goodbye and thanks for attending the graduation and the party. Matty, as Weas refers to her, took me over to the picture window to point out an odd-shaped precipice on the mountain across the way. While me back was turned, Weasil was busy. Only I didn't know that.
I found out later at the airport what he did while me back was turned. I was going through security, and me carry-on rang the alarm. They asked me to open it so they could see what was inside. Unknown to me was that Weasil had placed the deflated Pats, all neatly folded, on top of everything in me carry-on. You don't know how embarrassing that was to have to haul out the rubber blow-up with the wig and various pieces of costume jewellery. I shook me head and knew anything I offered up in explanation would not be believed. It turned out that the keys to me apartment and some of the costume jewellery had set off the alarm system. I had to re-pack Pats and wig, zip up the carry-on, and red-faced hope no one who witnessed this would be sitting next to me on the flight home. Begorrah me that damn Weasil!
Gabe
Copyright © 2004 All rights reserved
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