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Loading ...This is another one of those stories that begins with the line “Richard and I were on acid one night”. As I’ve stated before, many of our stories begin that way. That doesn’t mean we in any way advocate or condone the use of illegal recreational pharmaceuticals. It doesn’t mean we don’t, but it doesn’t mean we do either.
So, this night, we were on acid with three friends. Ozzy, Mark and Ho-Kim. Ho-Kim wasn’t chinese, but she was a virgin, so we delighted in calling her a Ho. Ozzy’s real name wasn’t Ozzie; I remember a conversation between Ozzy and R the P.
Ozzy: Why do you call me Ozzy? my name’s not Ozzy.
R the P: Its short for Ozymandias.
Ozzy: But my name’s not Ozymandias.
Mark on the other hand, was not interesting enough to warrant a nickname. We just called him Mark.
I remember spending a lot of time that night lying on Mark’s bed staring at a HUGE silkscreen of a skull that hung on his bedroom wall. That was one really cool skull.
Sometime around the butt-crack o’ dawn, I fell asleep in Mark’s bed, with Mark, but we only slept. At one point my ass ended up in his hands but other than that, nothing happened. Upon awakening, I went into Ozzy’s room, where R the P, Ozzy, and Ho-Kim had slept. I plopped down on the bed and it was one of those horrible moments of revelation that no one save my worst enemies should ever be subjected to. I swear the bed was so awash with body-fluids that when I hit the mattress, moisture was flung into the air. I also flung myself into the air and off the bed.
I never have gotten an adequate explanation as to why the bed that housed a gay man, a straight virgin woman and a man of nebulous sexuality (R the P will say Ozzy’s gay, but he says that about everyone) ended up so… moist.
R the P?
Buy me a beer!
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This entry was posted on Wednesday, December 6th, 2006 at 3:27 pm and is filed under criminal. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
I have no explanation for that.
I also have never taken any recreational illegal drug in my life, or so my attorneys have asked me to say.
It was a nasty next morning, though. The bed also stank to high heaven! I know that when I went to sleep, the bed wasn’t wet and stinky, but when I woke up, it was.
I blame Ozzy. He was in the middle, after all.
In fact, when things were getting interesting, Ozzy called a stop to it. He paused dramatically, and rushed into some lighting on the corner of the bed to make sure that he was being dramatically lit, and he said, “I can’t go any further. I may have AIDS.”
So Kim and I looked at each other and said, “Why may you have AIDS?” We may have called him Ozzy at that moment, but I can’t remember.
And he said, “I was unprotected when I slept with that woman who had children.”
I have no idea why her motherhood was important in this AIDS story, but Ozzy was known for his drama.
So Kim and I both sighed and at the same time said, “Goodnight.”
Next morning, stinky wet bed. Too frightening to think what happened in the intervening few hours.
Ah, well that explains NOTHING about how the bed got so wet and stinky. But it was utterly putrid, and no one WARNED me before I flopped down on it. And it was one of those moment that, as I flew through the air toward the surface of the mattress, I suddenly smelled the offensiveness as I approached, and sort of hung suspended there like Wyle E Coyote with my limbs flailing as I sought to escape the funky miasma that awaited me below.
Of course, the drama sounds an awful lot like Ozzy. its no wonder you thought he was gay. but like me, his sexuality tended to shift according to who or what wanted to have sex with him. We even had sex with each other once - that was before all the AIDs drama with the woman with children. I had drunk 2 pints of tequila. Not sure what his excuse was.
Before Ozzy was Ozzy, he was “Tequila Mistake Number 2.”
Ozzy was catchier.
And you are completely correct about his sexuality. Remember, he and Mark had sex “Just to see what it was like.”
I’m sure they both knew.
Poor Mark. He was just a peripheral to Ozzy. I have Ozzy stories, but the only Mark story that I have sans Ozzy is boring. It was his impassioned defense of his wearing black, not becuase it was trendy, but because he liked it.
I can remember Ozzy’s face perfectly, but I just remember Mark was taller, had dark hair, and a cutish body.
If you remember, that night that you had sex with Ozzy, he wanted both of us to go back to his apartment with him, but he had made me angrier earlier in the evening (Richard angry? No, it isn’t possible), and I said for him to get out of my house. Our exact exchange
Me: Get out of my house!
Ozzy: You have the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.
Me: Get out of my house! And thank you.
Oh, people were always pissing us off in one way or another - usually by not doing what we told them.
But no, I remember nothing about that night. Not even the sex. As I stated before - TWO PINTS of tequila. and not even drank in shots, or in margaritas, but I just poured them into a large water-glass and drank it like… uh… like water.
I vaguely remember holding an intense conversation with Ozzy about sensory deprivation. And then you got pissed off (you? imagine that) and wanted the party to end. Then Ozzy said to me, “lets finish this conversation at my place”.
Conversation? It was me, really drunk, making stuff up. But I wasn’t in the mood to end the party, even if you were, so I went to Ozzy’s house, where he put his hand up my skirt. I figured oh what the hell. But you know, I don’t remember a goddam thing about the sex. I just remember the sun coming up and me saying, “I need to go - I have to teach sunday school”
I taught sunday school in those days, you know. So I went to church, still drunk, and talked about the lord jesus to a bunch of 10-12 year olds.
Well, it wasn’t about the lord jesus, since it was a Unitarian church. It was about secular humanist values, but it would be a better story if I had talked about the Lord Jesus.
All I know was when I saw you next, you told me that you had done the deed, and there was mention of whips.
And when I saw him next, he was all scratched up. He said that night was scary.
I also said, “But he’s gay!” to you, and to him I said, “But you’re gay!”
Now we have two stories in a few days on this websites about people wanting to have it on with both of us at the same time, and out of all the things we did, that never happened.
Even though plenty of people wanted it to.
Well we can’t blame them for wanting us. We were so perfect (read: self-centered and a bit rude).
We’re so much nicer these days. Did we mellow with age?
It’s called Hubris.
When you are older and fatter, you have to know that not everyone wants you any more.
And it’s also called wisdom.
You realize not everyone is worth wanting.
This may sound weird, but everyone wanting us back in the day was a lot like Weasel’s soul at the Party in the Swamp. No one there knew who Weasel was. No one there knew why the Soul was a desirable commodity, but we acted as if it were, and suddenly, people were wanting to know how they could get a soul from Weasel.
Same with us. Debatably, we were not the hottest people around (may have been, but may not have) but we acted like people should want us around, we acted like people should desire us, and suddenly, we were all desirable.
We were in the business of self-promotion and marketing!
And we were hot.
My amazing revelation is met with total silence!
Well, you mighta been all full of hubris and hotness then, but nowadays you gotta be pretty lame if you’re sitting around on the internet lamely waiting for a reply to a comment on my lame website. And of course I’m the height of lameness for airing our dirty laundry on my lame website. However, my total silence was not due to any lameness on your part, but to lameness on my part, because my life has gone from wild parties, hubris and hotness, to helping my niece with her homework. By the way, the English report I wrote for her last week got an A. Of course it did, because unlike my ex-husband, I can sho’ conjugate a verb.
But you’re right, we behaved as though everyone should want us, and so they did. At least until they got to know us. I mean lets face it, we got plenty of sex in those days, but our relationships sucked. Our criteria for partners included the words “and a little something wrong with’em”, and thats just what we got most, if not all, of the time. I mean, when my best relationship is with a satanist named weasel who sold me his soul for the price of a beer, and your best relationship is with a guy who tried to commit suidice by sitting on top of a smoldering car, well, you know our priorities have gone wrong somewhere.
I hope you’re right and that we’re much wiser these days. I’ll take wisdom over hotness any day. Hotness is exhausting.
I’ll also take wisdom over hotness any day. Good thing too these days. All I do is work, so waiting for a lame reply is the height of my day sometimes.
I know, at least I have work. And am thankful for it. And you will have something steady too.
And our relationships did suck! I had totally forgotten about the death by smoldering car. Sigh. I bet he thought he looked like John Taylor in the Wild Boys video.
Yeah, we may be pretty lame these days, but we had old days that were great. That’s more than most people have. And I’m lucky enough to have Mojo now.
We just gotta get your Mojo back and get you out of this place you’re at now.
Some day.
Oh I’ve got my mojo back. Its not the same as your mojo, but that would just be weird. But I’m glad we have wisdom, and you have mojo, and I have a different kind of mojo.
My goodness! We’re just as perfect now!
As a relative outsider to this dramatic history, the only reasonable reply I can muster is “WOW”.
Sorry to tell you R the P, but you’re still stuck in a relationship with someone who has “a little something wrong with him”. And I’m not talking about the eating disorder.
Still, I try to be entertaining. Let’s face it, that’s about all that matters to us. We all find each other quite entertaining which is why 75% of SP is filled with our oh so witty repartee. And it is witty. The wittiest!
Again, it’s about marketing and promotion. In this case, it’s niche marketing to the middle-aged. Hey, at least we’re honest about it.
Oh look at mojo, playing the honesty card. Yeah, okay, we all find each other exceptionally entertaining. If the world is a stage, we’re the jesters. But if all the world is a stage - who the hell is the audience? Scary thought ay?
The baby Jesus is the audience. It isn’t just lies that make him cry. It is also loose and lazy plotting, bad lighting, lack of dramatic payoff, and bad casting.
I see you’re on a baby Jesus kick this morning. I’d like to kick baby Jesus too, for turning our festive solstice into a time of commercialism and really bad music.
Good lord, TBJ is demanding! He should write a book: _Big Baby Jesus’ Guide to Making Quality Cinema_. It’ll be a hit. I mean, it’s a sophomore effort, but the suspense after 2,000 years must be worth something. JK Rowling makes us wait 2 years for Harry Potter and she sells millions.
The lastest book from TBJ should be worth at least a few billion bucks. But who will be the publisher? A few angry, ignorant disciples scratching away with a quill in some dark, locked attic won’t cut it anymore.
These days you need Random House or one of those big publishers, you know.
I am on a baby Jesus kick today because it is amazing to me that the trinity turns into a quarternary at Christmas time. Suddenly, the baby Jesus becomes a new living deity at this time of the year. People refer to him as if he weren’t the younger version of the adult Jesus. And the rest of the year, he doesn’t exist. He is a local powerful time limited deity!
And all of this at such a tender age.
It is as if he were Doctor Who and could meet his younger selves! Now that is power.
But time is not a burrito. A delicious, cheesy, peppery, meaty burrito. No, it a boring, if tasty churro.
As to temporary deities, see Terry Pratchett’s book _Small Gods_. Good stuff…
Now back to those churros…
Baby Jesus is the King of all Churros.
And, of course, that makes him cry.
It should make him happy for once. Churros are delicious!
But, in case you haven’t noticed, the Baby Jesus is a cry baby!
The Greeks had two concepts of time, Chronos and Churros….. or maybe that was Kairos. No no…. I’m sure it was Churros
Mmmm… time is a churro, but definitely NOT a burrito. Still, something else could be a burrito, say, space?
“Space is a burrito, but time is a churro.” Make sure you raise the eyebrows and stare at your companion expectantly after saying this phrase.
Not sure if it’s catchy enough to capture the public’s imagination, but my interest is piqued.
I don’t know - space is more like a chicken enchiladas. Gravity is more like a burrito. A bean burrito with extra hot sauce. They say gravity kills, but maybe it just gives you really bad gas.
It’s hard to say, but the experts tell us that stars are a mass of incadescent gas, indeed, a giant nuclear furnace. Given that stars may eventually become supergravitational black holes and stars are made of gas, you may really be onto something. The universal tortilla theory.
Anyone for some recipes? Supermassive Black Hole Burritos, or Churros of Time, or Chicken Enchiladas with Dark Matter Molé? Nachos with Polonium-210 Guacamole? Careful with the polonium; just 50 nanograms is fatal. But what delicious fatality it is!
The Shattered Prayer Recipe and Drinks Book will be on book shelves all over the world!
As long as time isn’t a burrito from a New Jersey Taco Bell, because then, time would be a killer.
BTW, Mojo. That was a great description of the original coiner of. “time is not a burrito”. Expectant raised eyebrows indeed, Pabst Tequila.
Even Che met old Pabst Tequila. Here is an actual conversation between them
PT: I’m looking forward to doing acid with you.
Che: Good old LSD.
PT: Acid is LSD?! What are you trying to do to me?