Louchin' Around in A-Town (Canto lV) Final

Sepulchritude Forum: The Absinthe Forum Archive Thru March 2002: Archive thru March 2002:Louchin' Around in A-Town (Canto lV) Final
By Louched_Liver on Wednesday, March 27, 2002 - 05:41 pm: Edit

Hey, w/the little fella in charge, them squeezin's be safe's a motherfucker. He is not to be trifled with. Just look at the menace he radiates. So what if he can't whip a chiclet?

By Head_Prosthesis on Tuesday, March 26, 2002 - 07:28 pm: Edit


By Louched_Liver on Saturday, March 23, 2002 - 09:11 pm: Edit

So after the Headbanger's Ball I awaken to the screech of the alarm clock. Peeling open an eye, and muttering several "what the fuck, fuckin', motherfuck, shit"s, I slapped the squawkcube into submission, and returned to the warmth of my head divot in the pillows. An image of Rabid, looking shockingly like his profile photo, and licking his lips while staring at the rodents, sprung to mind like a memory. Uh, oh.
I pull myself up on one elbow, and peer over my beloved into the Attica of vermin cages for a headcount. Lemme see-Ohtah, check; BindiBoy, check; Sable, check. Whew!
So, w/a bruised brainpan, I arise and feed the little darlings, and shuffle on out to the main quarters. Muttering softly, so as not to pop any blood vessels in my ears:
"Who the fuck schedules a motherfuckin' flight for 9 gotdamn in the a. motherfuckin' m. after a wkend of full on partyin' and..."

"Hey Head!, yer up buddy!"

So, dressed I get, and off we go. Back to ABE to deposit the guest of honor.
Thanks-Yer Welcome,
Had a great time-Me to, gots ta do it again,
And homeward I go. To the comfort of the couch. Where I recline w/remnants of the Sunday paper scattered about. A smile crosses my lips as I replay the events of the last few days, and then-blissful sleep, black and deep, heedless of the world about me. Until.
"Wudda fug?" The cellphone!
Head's hung up. This jockey is on standby.
Shit gets sorted at the airport to the point where I don't have to drive the motherfucker home myself, and he has 270 minutes to kill. To the rescue, the Brew Works!!
Back to the airport, for more times in 4 days, than in the previous 10 years I've lived here. And there is the forlorn non-traveler. We both could use a smoothie. So to the Brew Works we go. And our little goofball bartender, who at 1st was a bit entertaining, but became like Ajax on a coldsore w/time, informs us we are the 1st customers. And what do we win? The right to lay down our ends for brewpub nectar, that's what.
It was at this session that Head's thimble sized bladder became apparent. No need to wear a watch w/this fella. Like clockwork. Speedy clockwork. Very speedy clockwork.
Checking out the beers listed on the blackboards above the bar, we decided to march like Sherman through all six in the time allotted, and even managed to get in one overlapper. The Devil's Hearth was especially tasty, and zingy to boot, @ 8.2 ABV.
The shrimp turned out to be drizzled w/a thin strawberry milkshake. Not bad really, unless you are a manly man from the Mitten, and not used to such Shwish Alps concoctions as these. Head's fascination w/growlers bubbled to the surface once more, and as I launched into a detailed etymological breakdown of the term's history, I realised I was talking to the empty stool where Head was once plopped. Yep, his tiny firehose was back at the porcelain fire.
The time finally came to get rid of this motherfucker, er, tearfully bid farewell, so we settled up, and saddled up, and once again made for the fenced in fly-field of ABE.
Thanks again-Hey thanks for coming,
Had a great time-Hey, shit man, me too,
You don't mind that I drank all your Wolvie's?-Nah, of course not!
And how is it I got stitches in my dick?-Ha, Ha! That damned Libery Bell!
And once more, away he goes.

1st thing I did was shut the motherfuckin' cellphone off.

By Nancywhiskey on Saturday, March 23, 2002 - 06:02 pm: Edit

My Dear Head,
I am pleased to see you are closing the chapter on the Canto experience. Louche is no spring chicken and rightly created distance when the berryshrimp arrived. Damn good thing no crackers were involved. He may have eaten one to gain composure. Always hate to loose a good one. Now you need to go back to Canto 3 or 4 and give me your professional insight on the Copper Penny Test. This needs to be brought into light. It was a pleasure being inside your manly head,head.
Love , Nancy

By Head_Prosthesis on Saturday, March 23, 2002 - 06:14 am: Edit

As I told you earlier, Northwest sucks. Maybe this is old news.

It’s 9:00am and they’ve cancelled our flight due to a light that won’t turn off. We’re informed that we must get back into line to be rescheduled. In order to maintain my cool, I kept my attention on the beautiful young Native American girl in front of me, whose skin was cinnamon silk covered in fine black velvet. She was young but nubile, were it a longer time ago. I pictured myself crossing the Appalachian on horseback. I stop at a river for water to find her on the other side, looking across at me. We see each other, there are no words. The river is deep and unable to be crossed by simple means. She smiles, I smile. We part.

If I wasn’t so afraid I’d lose a sooner flight by getting out of line, I’d go churn one out in the bathroom stall.

Conversation with Grandpa Tomahawk:

“What’s that say on your shirt,” he pokes my chest
with an extended index finger.

“It says Alcohol Fueled WhoopAss Machine.”

He scrunches up his nose and frowns.

I say “It’s from a wrestler.”

He says “I haven’t paid much attention to wrestling
since that wrestler killed one of his teachers here
a few years back, I guess he didn’t like his grade”

“Oh, no. Not that kind of wrestling.
The other kind. Big Time Wrestling,
The WWF. You know the FAKE kind”
I grin.

He looks at me, then looks at his
granddaughter Standing Virgin,
and rolls his eyes.

In line, body and soul fully erect for nearly 2 hours only to find out that “Oh, yes here’s your boarding pass, we’ve gone ahead and rescheduled you for the 4:10” I look at the clock, it’s 11:20am.

I call Loucheron Livery to come pick my loser ass up. He takes me to the Bethlehem Brew works. It’s St. Patrick’s Day and it’s absolutely dead. Which is beautiful. We drink the finest they have on tap. Constantly, consistently and continuously for about three hours.

Belly full but me hungry, I order some shrimp appetizer. The bartender surprised asks “what shrimp?”. I point at the menu. I’m ignoring the entire time that it says “Strawberry Horseradish” shrimp. I also order a basket of fries.

“AH, But they weren’t cellar kept Kempton Fries, were they man?”

No Dogboy. Not at all. They were uniform, fried in vegetable oil, coated in chicken batter, tasteless, soggy, bar fries.

The shrimp (all five of ‘em) came out on square black serving plate with gold trim, nestled around a delicate mound of wild lettuce. A pink “Strawberry Horseradish” sauce was laced across the perimeter of the display. Stylish, tastey, but not sticking to my ribs at all. I felt very gay eating it. Louche scooted his chair away from me when the plate “came out”.

On one of my several trips to the bathroom, I noticed on the wall over the urinal a corkboard with the local sports page tacked to it. In one of the articles there is a picture of some basketball girls lunging and reaching for the ball. One of the girls has a look of indescribable anxiety with her mouth open wide. Some clever craftsman took a piece of pink gum and shaped it into a small penis pointing directly at her open maw.

When Louched Liver dropped me off at the airport, I thanked him for everything. We said “till next time” and I got on the plane and fell fast asleep.

Still no fucking Kosher meal!


A big thank you to Louched Liver and Mrs. Liver for inviting me in, putting me up and turning me out.

And as Uncle used to sing to me:

“I'm so glad
we had this time together,
Just to have a laugh, and sing a song.
Seems we just got started and before we knew it
Came the time we had to say, “So long.”

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