Saturday, January 12, 2013
Shake Hands With Beef!
April 5, 2007
Hi, my name is lakrfool, and I'm an alcoholic. (you're supposed to say "hi lakrfool.")
But enough about that, let's just focus on me. Yes, I have been on hiatus for a while..a sabbatical if you will. Nestled in the mountains of Yemen with a loosely associated tribe of wildly comedic sherpas and a stand-up shaman, I was able to get "the funny" back. And along the way I lost 175 precious pounds in Tucson that I would really like to have back, but such is life. Oh well, enough of this hemming and hawing…let's get down to business.
The other day I was talking to a friend about the state of the stoner/desert rock scene. We were discussing the parallels betweenKyuss recognized as the founding fathers of the genre, and Fu Manchu the current kings of stoner rock. I was then reminded of a story from my days in Santa Monica that my buddy Patrick shared with me about working at an independent guitar shop with Brad, the lead guitarist for Fu Manchu.
Late one summer night we had fired up a "cuppa two tree" (©JK) rounds of Humbolt's finest as we melted into the couch to watch one of my favorite TV shows of all time, "Nightstalker," featuring the lateDarren McGavin. I related to Patrick that I had just picked up the latest Fu CD at the local used record shop, and he began to spin this yarn about the guitar shop he worked at with Brad.
A bunch of musicians were employed at the store for their expertise, and they also happened to be an outstanding collection of smartasses. Over time, it had become a storewide goal of sorts to demean the customers as much as possible for their own entertainment.
For example, a couple of guys with feathered hair came in asking about a particular guitar, and Patrick pulled one off the wall and said "this would be perfect for your gay ass Culture Club cover band." Another time, a mother and her bratty kid came in, and he wanted to be a "guitar player" and have Patrick hook him up. When Patrick asked what kind of music he liked, the kid replied "Duran Duran." Patrick
then hollered across the store "Hey Brad!! Do we have any more of the Nerf guitars for severely retarded children!!" That kind of shit.
As you can expect, many customers became irate at them and theirs being made a spectacle of, and demanded to speak to the manager. The manager was cool as hell, but came off as a hardcore, toe-the-line, corporate guy when he needed to. The customer would then relate their beef to the manager, and he would look them in the eye, nodding affirmatively with them along the way.
When they were finished, the manager would call the offending employee over, confront him with his offense, and after he acknowledged it, he would tell them:
"Get your timecard and report to my office. You're fired!"
Patrick said while the manager was smoothing over everything with the customer, he would go lay down on the couch in the breakroom, and light a cigarette.
About five minutes later, the manager, after impressing the customer with his impressive show of authority in commitment to customer service would make the sale, would come into the breakroom, and start cracking up.
He would then repeat and critique what Patrick said to the customer, laugh about it some more, and tell Patrick to come back out the floor in about 5 minutes. Patrick held the record for getting fired 4 times during a 10 hour shift. Good stuff.
Also, when Patrick finished his story, we realized that Nightstalker had ended, and an infomercial for some sort of electroshock pain-relieving device had taken its place. We soon discovered that Evel Knievel was one of their pitchmen, and he was elaborating on the fantastic painkilling qualities of the product. When Evel delivered the following "big pitch" line, we found it to be quite hilarious: "I highly recommend Product XYZ for those with nagging aches and pains…because believe me if there's one person that knows about pain, it's Evel Knievel." No shit man... (watch the last 2 vids in that hyperlink)
My work environs have changed since my last contribution. I have a new boss, and I now report to work in Plano instead of North Dallas. This is much better for me as my commute has been cut by 2/3rds, and let's just say that the "scenery" in the cube farm here is much more preferable than the old building. Wuff. It's like a Baskin Robbins sexeteria here, all the flavors you could possibly want.
There's a little Asian number that goes by the name of "Von Ngo." Even though I know the pronunciation is different, I am still half inclined to send her an email with my ear as an attachment. Love you long time GI.
You might recall that I am an urban commando of sorts, utilizing the combined efforts of my mountain bike and DART rail to get around The D. However, weather didn't cooperate last week, and I was forced to use a shuttle/rail/bus combo commute to get to/from work.
On the shuttle bus that at the end of the day carries my sorry ass from work to the DART station, there are a very entertaining "band of bruthahs" on the same shuttle. In my mind, I have nicknamed them "Big Bruthah," "Dredloxx," and "Other Brother." Their conversations are lively and colorful, usually centering around sports or getting pussy (not necessarily in that order.)
One day, Big Brutha used words to weave a delicate tapestry of an encounter he had experienced the evening before at an exotic club named "Peeping Tom's." I will now attempt to recreate this conversation using the vernacular in which it was presented.
"Yo n*gga! I rolled up ta Peepin Tum's last night, an dat bitch Cee Cee wuz dancin. (he then distributed a "bidness cahd" of said erotic entertainer…I believe the word "juicy" was used to describe her physical attributes) An yo n*gga, when she come slidin down dat pole, I said 'yo, this n*gga gonna get his ass a lap dance from dat ho. (this was received by his comrades with much gusto.) Yo check it…I
waved her ass ovah ta me an akst her how much fo a lap dance. She said 'fohtee' an I said 'coo' and she stahted ta git awl up on me, straddlin me an slappin me round wit her big ass floppy tiddies. (again, the fellas were highly amused with this revelation) So she did dat fo a while, an den dat bitch slid down an stahted grindin her shit awl up an dahn my dick, an lickin me in my erruh. Man, when she did dat, I said 'yo fuck dis' and I cumm-ded awl up awn myseff."
At this point, the bruthas erupted and were howling with laughter, yours truly included. See, this is the kind of entertainment you don't get on the expressway parked in traffic in your SUV. Fuck Howard Stern and all the self-styled "radio personalities" jamming the airwaves with their douchenuggetry. Give me all the ethnicities, punks, gangstas, freaks, hookers, homeless and retards every day, and twice on Sunday. That's how I "maintain one's authenticity" (AKA 'keep it real.')
The other night me and my buddy Ken (the self proclaimed "Rock And Roll Chef" of Dallas) and I were attending a late night engagement of an exclusive organization of which we are both members. Afterwards, we were chatting up some females on the sidewalk, when I noticed apeculiar advertisement for an adjacent deli. (That's me by the way, staying in character.)
Then across the street, Ken spied this dining establishment. (me again, still in character) There seemed to be a theme at play here, and we deemed it worthy of a "Kodak moment."
As we were driving home, I was still speculating on the comedic potential of the deli. I then came up the idea that we could employ Ken's older brother Chris (my Best Man at my wedding) who is a
burgeoning documentarian, for a prank.
Under the premise of being a food critic for a local access cable channel, I would interview the proprietor of the deli about his specialty. Here would be my line of questioning.
"So I see in your window that this is the 'home of the johnson.' Could you tell me about your johnson??"
"I see, so how big is the johnson??"
"How does the johnson come??"
"Do you have packages of condomm…ents for a big johnson??"
"In the interest of substitutions, could I get some tuna to come on my big johnson??"
And so on…
Here is the first cartoon in a series entitled "MEN" by my Lakerbrother and good friend Splunge. He told me National Lampoon owns the rights to it already, so no reason not to run it in here. Good stuff.
As a parting gift, I offer you this. Last night after a run to the grocery, when I peeled off my cap, I noticed atop my reflection an outstanding head of superhero hair (a la the fleet Avenger, Quicksilver.) I attempted to capture it, but it came out kinda blurry. Or artish fartish, however you want to look at it.
Yes, this has been a long update, but I had to make up for lost time. Don't worry, there's plenty on the plate for next week, including details of my buddy Chris' wedding, and an in-depth analysis of dog loaves.
Shakes The Clown