Transformers, Gary Lewis and a County Fair

Guess what? No, not chicken butt, but, rather, more Chickenhead!


His writing keeps getting found in the rubble that was his 8x10 cabin.

Ravaged By Ravage

Date unknown

It was a cold winter evening. My parents put my sister and I to bed after
watching Joe Don Baker in “Mitchell.” It was a quiet night, almost too
quiet. We weren’t in bed long before hearing a loud banging that literally
shook the entire house. Then the wall of my bedroom crumbled and this
enormous thing came through it. At first I thought it was the big Kool-Aid
guy, yelling “Oh, yeah!” in the middle of the night. We weren’t this lucky.
It was a giant robot firing a huge gun at all my stuff. He was accompanied
by a much smaller robot, who used his arms as pile drivers to create an
earthquake effect in my room.
“Ravage, eject!” the big one said in a bizarre, robotic voice. His chest
opened up and something came out. “Ravage, Rumble, attack!” the big guy said
again. I was scared, unbelieving, and yet familiar with these three
monsters. I was a ten-year-old human boy being attacked by the evil
Transformers the Decepticons. The big one was Soundwave, who transforms into
a cassette recorder. His friends were the tapes that fit into his chest,
Rumble and Ravage. Rumble was a quick-tempered street punk, Ravage a vicious
jaguar.
Ravage came at me, tearing at my sheets and clothes. My parents tried to
save me, but couldn’t due to Rumble pile driving.
“Laserbeak, attack!” Soundwave said, and the condor flew in out of
nowhere to help Ravage by pecking at me mercilessly. I couldn’t believe that
the characters in the cartoon I loved so much were now trying to kill my
family and me. But why? I was nothing but a loyal viewer who enjoyed the
program every afternoon after school with Thundercats and G.I. Joe, followed
by wrestling on ESPN. Why me? And where were the Autobots, those bastards?
Why weren’t they saving me? Where was Optimus Prime? Smokescreen? The
Dinobots? If this were Cobra and Destro, I knew G.I. Joe would be here. Why
wouldn’t anyone help me? He-man? Josie and the Pussycats? Barbapapa?
I was nearing the end of my rope. This damn bird and cat were almost
finished with me. Then I saw ten figures flying toward the house. They
landed and began fighting off the Decepticons. I barely had it together
enough to recognize them as legendary fifties tribute group Sha Na Na. All
of them: Bowzer, Chico, Zeppo, Fleagle, Bingo, Ringo, Pixie, Dixie, Diaper
Man, Cuckoo Man, Boober and Curly. All right, so I counted twelve, and I
don’t know most of their names. They were saving me. That was all that
mattered.
Within minutes, Sha Na Na disposed of Soundwave and his cassette-tape
friends. My parents and sister showed the band their gratitude, thanking
them for saving their son and brother. The boys said your welcome by singing
a medley of fifties hits, and the four of us chased after the Decepticons,
begging them to finish us off.

Untitled

May 1, 2001

It was a rather disturbing sight. Jerry was on stage singing karaoke to
“This Diamond Ring,” by Gary Lewis and the Playboys while dressed as Little
Bo Peep and sucking on a giant candy cane. It paled in comparison to his
rendition of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside;” nonetheless, this was a bit much.
The problem with Jerry was that he fancied himself a performer. Once he was
in the spotlight, you needed a hook the size of a skyscraper to get him off
the stage. When he finally did leave the stage, it was only for a costume
change so he could come back as Norma Desmond from “Sunset Boulevard” and
inexplicably perform “Springtime For Hitler” from Mel Brooks’ “The
Producers.” This led, even more inexplicably, to Jerry doing a scene from
the fictional soap opera “The Sun Also Sets” from the movie “Soapdish,” then
reading sections from Hemingway’s “The Sun Also Rises.” The crowd,
recognizing this as a blatant stealing from Andy Kaufman, began throwing
veal marsala at Jerry until he was forced out of the building and we all had
to follow.
The ride home was no less interesting than Jerry’s karaoke performance.
Jerry threw in a mixed CD he had made of music from the eighties, which
began with “Down Under” and “Be Good, Johnny” from Men at Work’s “Business
As Usual.” When I suggested that “Cargo” was a better album than “Business
As Usual,” you would have thought I had said Dick Sargent was better than
Dick York on “Bewitched,” because it started quite an argument. The car
became a world at war as we segued into “Bewitched”/Samantha vs. Jeannie. To
me, this was a no contest as Jeannie was no more than a “Bewitched” rip-off
and I always had a thing for Elizabeth Montgomery. I vowed to wrestle anyone
choosing Jeannie, just as I did with those who chose Kirstie Alley/Rebecca
Howe over Shelley Long/Diane Chambers from “Cheers.”
It was amazing to me that the songs on the CD would suddenly bring
everyone together, and we all knew the lyrics to the songs, despite all of
us being only infants when they were released. “Come On, Eileen,” “The
Safety Dance,” and “Our House” each received rousing choruses unlike any I’d
ever heard. Even Irene Cara’s “Breakdance” threw us into wild refrains, just
as it would have in 1984 when the movie “Breakin’” somehow necessitated the
immediate release of “Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo.” We decided that, just
like every part three should be in 3D, every part two should be called
“Electric Boogaloo.” This summer we would have “Scary Movie 2: Electric
Boogaloo.”
The eighties seems to be the weird nostalgia for college-age kids these
days. Nick at Nite even has their eighties line-up containing “Diff’rent
Strokes,” “The Facts of Life,” and “Silver Spoons,” when just five years
ago, when we were in high school, they had good shows like “The Dick Van
Dyke Show” and “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.” The other interesting thing,
especially with those in this car, is that every college-age kid’s idea of a
classic movie is “The Breakfast Club” or “Sixteen Candles.” Just days
before, I was sitting in the dorm watching the silent short film “The
Butcher Boy,” starring Buster Keaton and Fatty Arbuckle. When my roommate
Pete entered and sat down, out of curiosity I asked him what year he thought
the film was made.
“I don’t know,” he said. “The sixties?”
I had to laugh because, by 1960, talkies had been around for over thirty
years. So, to Pete, this film, which was made in 1917, came out at the same
time “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” and “Dr. Strangelove” were made. I guess, in
actuality, I was the strange one. Adults were always amazed that, at my age,
I had such an extensive knowledge of the Beatles, the films of Cary Grant
and the Marx Brothers, and even Sid Caesar’s “Your Show of Shows.”
This was why films like “Father of the Bride” and “Bedazzled” can just be
remade, I argued to a carload of college kids who seemed to be falling
asleep, because no one knows from the Spencer Tracy and Dudley Moore
versions. The worst example, of course, was Gus Van Zant’s “Psycho” remake,
which I told them should replace Ed Wood’s “Plan 9 From Outer Space” as the
worst film of all time. How does a director who made such great films as
“Drugstore Cowboy,” “To Die For,” and “Good Will Hunting,” head such a
pointless project as a scene-by-scene retelling of one of the best films
ever made? Why not just remake “Citizen Kane” or Casablanca?” Or, to put it
in my contemporaries’ terms, “E.T.” or “Star Wars?” My friend John and I
watched one of my favorite “Simpsons” episodes, the “Rear Window” parody, in
which Bart breaks his leg and can’t enjoy the swimming pool all summer. Of
course, John, never having seen another one of the best films ever made,
didn’t get the reference.
Anyway, we ended up colliding with a busload of senior citizens. We all
died, which probably served us right, because now we’d have to spend an
eternity hearing about Clark Gable, Bing Crosby and “Fibber McGee and
Molly.”

THE COUNTY FAIR (Chickenhead's uppercasing)

July 3, 2001

Boogers and Bombs stood at the broccoli stand at the entrance of the
county fair. It was the first day of summer vacation, an occasion which
called for celebration, as the boys were now high school seniors. Boogers
obtained his nickname from all the money he’d won eating his own nasal
mucus; Bombs had a flatulence problem.
“Hello, my good man,” Boogers said to the stand owner. “Do you sell any
manner of sweet snack, as in ice cream, cotton candy, or perhaps a big-ass
cookie?”
“No sweets,” the man said. “Just broccoli.”
“Hmm, I see,” Boogers replied.
“Interesting,” Bombs said. “Would you have anything such as cheese or
some type of dip for this broccoli?”
“No cheese. No dip,” the man said. “Broccoli.”
“Yes,” Boogers said. “What about cold beverages? Do you have Coke or
Pepsi? Perhaps Fanta?”
“No drinks. Broccoli,” the man said again.
“Well,” Bombs said. “You run a fine establishment here, Sir. Two
broccolis, please.”
“One-stop shopping for all our broccoli needs,” Boogers added as the boys
paid and went on their merry way.
Being students of the arts, our heroes stopped by the art exhibit, where
a man sat, also eating broccoli, and petting a mink scarf.
“Well,” Boogers began. “I’m in the mood to see some art.”
“Me too,” Bombs said. “Do you have any Gacys?”
“Gacys?” the exhibiter replied. “I’m not familiar with that artist.”
“No, huh?” Boogers said. “That’s probably a good thing. What about Red
Skelton?”
“Yeah, or Buddy Ebsen,” Bombs added.
“This is a Carl Lundgren exhibit,” the exhibiter said, clearly annoyed.
“Carl Lundgren?” Bombs replied. “The Swedish actor from ‘Agent Red’ and
‘Universal Soldier?’”
“No,” Boogers said. “I think that’s Dolph Lundgren.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Bombs admitted. “You know who’s funny is the
Swedish chef from the Muppets. I like him.”
“Yeah, me too,” Boogers said. “I think this guy is the guitar player who
became a producer…”
“That’s Todd Rundgren, you fools!” the exhibitor was quite upset. “This
is Carl Lundgren, a brilliant artist.”
“Nope, sorry,” Boogers said. “Don’t know him.”
“You don’t know him?” the beet-red exhibitor said, looking around for a
passer-by. “Excuse me, Sir.”
“Yes?” the man said.
“You know who Carl Lundgren is, right?”
“Oh, yes,” the man replied.
“See?”
“Pitcher, Chicago Cubs, early 1900’s,” he said. “I’m a big Cubs fan.”
“Get out!” the exhibitor shouted. “Away from my booth! This man is a
genius!”
“Yes,” Bombs said. “There’s certainly a lot of angels and things with
wings, aren’t there? Do you have any of those painting of dogs playing
poker?”
“Get out! Go!” the exhibitor demanded.
The two young men then went to the next exhibit, the Art of Dreaming,
perplexed by its consisting of only a burly Italian man holding a baseball
bat.
“Pardon me, Sir,” Bombs said. “This ‘Art of Dreaming,’ where is it?”
“You wanna see it?” the Italian said.
“Yes, that would be nice.”
“Look,” the Italian shouted, “up in the sky.” Bombs looked up and the
Italian man whacked him on the head with the bat. “Sweet friggin’ dreams.”
“What the hell was that?” Boogers demanded, crying. “He was only a
teenager.”
“You wanna see another piece?”
“Not particularly, no,” Boogers replied.
“We call this one ‘Givers of the Dough,” the big man said. “Hey, Carmine,
you’re on.”
Carmine, a much smaller, but no less Italian, organ grinder and a monkey
with a cup full of coins came towards Boogers and proceeded to tie him up
and stuff pizza dough into his mouth until he lay bloated and unconscious in
the dirt.
When the two awoke, they were each tied up over an alligator pit. The
burly Italian walked in, and, before speaking, paced back and forth in front
of them in intimidation.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “My name is Johnny French Fries. I’ll be your
executioner this evening unless you can answer one question. First you,” he
said to Boogers. “Who wrote the poem ‘Noon Walk on the Asylum Lawn?’”
“Oh, come on,” Boogers said. “You’re a mob guy and you ask a poetry
question?”
“Is poetry too fufu for ya, tough guy?” Johnny asked. “Answer, please.”
“I don’t know,” Boogers said. “The roller skating cat from the Heathcliff
cartoons?”
“Nope,” Johnny said, “Sorry, sweet cheeks. You ARE a sausage link.
Goodbye.”
Johnny cut Boogers’ rope, sending him into the alligator pit.
“Holy crap!” Bombs yelled. “Uh, Maya Angelou! Uh, I don’t know any other
poets! Mother Goose! Nipsey Russell!
“Sorry, professor. You lose. You are a plate of veal marsala. Adios.”
And so ended the lives of two great men, men of honor, men of courage,
warriors who have fought against the forces of darkness. This was their
tragic final tale.

Four More Entries From Chickenhead

And now, more delightful entries from the notebooks of Chickenhead Antonucci, found in a pile of rubble in the burned up basement of a whore house.

Bitter Herbs

March 23, 2001

“Look at them,” Herb I said. “Celebrating Juliana’s promotion. I should
have gotten that promotion. I deserve it.”
“At least you were in the running,” Herb II said. “They didn’t even
consider me, and I’ve been here longer.”
“They think they’re so much better than us. All of them.”
“Especially that Adam. God, I hate him. Arrogant bastard.”
“Hey, I went to high school with the jerk. He used to pluck my leg hairs
in gym class.”
“Sounds blatantly homosexual to me.”
“And he dated the only girl I ever loved. I used to go to bed at night
crying and praying that he’d get cancer.”
“Well, he’s a smoker. So there’s hope. God bless the tobacco companies.”
“Excuse me, Herb,” the boss, Mr. Helmsley interrupted. “I need you to
stay late tonight to finish up those reports.”
“Which Herb, Sir?” Herb asked.
“It hardly matters. Like dogs, you can fight over it,” he said as he
walked away.
“That fat bastard,” Herb II said, as Adam and co-worker Matt sat beside
them, not noticing that the Herbs sitting there.
“Hey, did you hear Crazy Cabbie come out on Howard this morning?” Adam
said.
“Yeah, that was great. Can’t wait ‘til next week,” Matt replied. “Hey,
where were you last night, dude? I tried calling you, but the line was
busy.”
“We turned the ringer off. We watched a Shirley Temple movie with Nina.
She loves Shirley Temple.”
“What movie?”
“Stowaway.”
“What the hell is that?”
“You know what? I don’t know. Marcus Welby is in it. She plays a girl
named Ching-Ching, or something.”
“I Dream of Jeannie’s dog?”
“No, that was Gin-Gin.”
“I’ve never seen a Shirley Temple movie.”
“You know which one is great? The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer, with Cary
Grant, Myrna Loy, and a nineteen-year-old Shirley. She was hot.”
“Dude, you’re calling Shirley Temple hot?”
“Nineteen! Whoops, too loud.”
“I heard that the STP for Stone Temple Pilots originally stood for
Shirley Temple’s P-…”
“Woah, I heard that too. Don’t say that word out loud at work, dude.”
“Oh, hey, Herb. What’s up?” Adam said, finally noticing. “Who are you
again?” he then said, turning to the other Herb.
“I’m also Herb,” Herb II said.
“Huh,” Adam answered. “I guess I always thought you two were the same
guy. Hey Pete! Did you know we have two Herbs in the office?”
“You’re shittin’ me,” Pete hollered back.
“No, seriously.”
“Do you remember,” Matt said, “the Night Court episode in which Dan
drinks what he thinks is herbal tea, but is really the ashes of some guy
named Herb?”
“That’s messed up,” Adam said, getting up. “Anyway, back to work. See ya,
Herbs.”
“As they walked away, Herb I stared at them. “Those vulgar
sons-of-bitches. We don’t even look alike, and they confuse us. Jerks."
“Let’s kill them,” Herb II said.
“In due time, Herb II. In due time.”

March 30

Empowerment

I made the mistake of telling the class to come up with three symbols of
empowerment. Actually, in a time when schools around the country have
installed metal detectors, the mistake was telling them to bring in a symbol
of empowerment. I was annoyed when Sean brought in a pair of symbols and
marched around the classroom banging them together like a five-year old.
When Rudolph, our foreign exchange student, showed up in his grandfather’s
Nazi regalia, I wanted to take a permanent sabbatical. Still, Rudolph’s
contribution was marvelous compared to when I asked Brian what his symbol of
empowerment was and he punched me in the face. My happiness that the rest of
the class didn’t bring in firearms was only surpassed by my dismay over what
some of them did bring: a bottle of viagra, a fake I.D., a dead squirrel, a
blanket with teddy bears on it, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Finally, I asked Jeff what his symbol was.
“Oh, you’ll find out,” he said. Suddenly, the principal and two police
officers entered to inform me that I was fired and to place me under arrest
for possession of cocaine. I told them that I was innocent as Jeff looked on
and laughed maniacally. The bastard planted drugs on me. As they
strip-searched me at the station, I thought again about how teaching may not
be for me.

April 4

Bell Bottoms, Beetles and Smiley faces

I rested nervously on the couch in Dr. Zbysko’s office. He was already
scribbling like a madman in that notepad of his, and I hadn’t yet said
anything. This was only my third visit, and I was convinced he though I was
insane. I thought this even though he said there was nothing wrong with me
except for the General Anxiety Disorder and the strange dreams I had been
having.
“Okay," the doctor said. “Why don’t you tell me about the last dream you
had?”
“Well,” I started. “I’m driving around Liverpool, England in Herbie the
Love Bug with John Lennon and Paul McCartney. They’re each eating from a bag
of crisps and wearing only bellbottoms. John hands me a bag, and I open it.
Instead of crisps, it’s filled with beetles.”
“Wait a minute,” Dr. Zbysko said. “You were driving in a beetle with the
Beatles while eating beetles?”
“Apparently,” I replied. “Anyway, suddenly it starts raining, pouring
really hard. I notice that it’s not water, but something much bigger. I pull
over and we all get out of the car. Then I see that it’s raining Smiley
faces.”
“You mean like the ones on T-shirts?”
“No, I mean it was raining severed heads of Guy Smiley, the game show
host Muppet from Sesame Street.”
“I see.”
“What does it mean?”
“You know what?” he said. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Did you do yesterday’s prompt? The Great Remodel one?”
“Yes, but it got delayed, damnit,” I answered. “What do you mean you
don’t know?”
“I was kind of fading in and out. Do you want to go see ‘Josie and the
Pussycats’ this weekend?”
“With you? Not really.”
“Come on. You told me you were having sexual fantasies about Oliver Reed.
Was it Oliver Reed?”
“It’s Tara Reid,” I said. “I can’t believe you’re not listening to me.”
“I’m listening. How can you say that? What about ‘Blow?’ You want to go
see that?”
“No.”
“You want to do some blow?”
“Jesus."
“Please be my friend.”
“This is supposed to be a doctor-patient relationship,” I said as I got
up and turned to face him. He was sitting in his chair completely naked. I
didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think to ask why or yell at him. I just
wanted out.
“You know what?” I said. “I’m cured. No more weird dreams. No more
anxiety. I think my car is on fire.”
I ran right through the closed door like a cartoon character. Over time,
and through shock therapy and the Ludovico Technique used in Anthony
Burgess’s “A Clockwork Orange,” I overcame my anxiety disorder, and stopped
having the bizarre dreams. I would also become violently ill whenever I
heard a Beatles song or watched a movie with Tara Reid in it. One day I
entered my apartment, where one of my roommates, Nick, was watching the film
“American Pie,” while my other roommate, Pete, was listening to “Rubber
Soul.”
“Oh, shit” I said. And I exploded right there in the doorway, spontaneous
human combustion. As I floated up to Heaven to be with my grandfather, my
cat Snuffles, and actress Jean Harlow, I laughed, thinking that Nick and
Pete were each way too lazy to ever clean my guts out of the doorway.

4-5-01 Baseball, Junk Food and Grandpa

It was a breezy summer evening. Grandpa and I sat on the porch watching
the Red Sox game while my parents were out for the night. I always valued
the time I had alone with my grandfather. He sat quietly, walking cane in
hand, cheering the Sox on.
“Come on, Yaz!” he yelled. “Knock one out of the park!”
“Grandpa,” I said. “Yaz isn’t playing.”
“Of course he’s playing. He’s two for two tonight.”
“Grandpa, Carl Yastrzemski retired eighteen years ago.”
“What?” he said irately. “You mean to tell me that’s not Yaz up there?”
“Yaz was a lefty. That’s John Valentin, who’s a righty.”
“You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, with your CDs, and your MTV,
and your lemon-scented air freshener? Now where’s the hot dog guy?”
“Grandpa, we’re not at Fenway Park.”
“Don’t tell me where we are. Don’t you think I know the difference
between Fenway and one of those new-fangled, fancy-shmancy ballparks of the
future?”
“Of course, but…”
“I can’t sit here eating cracker jacks and cotton candy all night.”
“Grandpa, those are potato chips.”
“Oh, now you think I don’t know cracker jacks and cotton candy when I’m
eating them. When do the trapeze artists come on?”
“Grandpa…”
“You think I’m some doddering old man. Crotchety, old Grandpa crapping
himself and flushing the toilet, going ‘There’s nothing on tonight.’ Well,
I’ll have you know that when I was your age, I was always out partying with
the likes of Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant.”
“What?” I said. “Look, I don’t think Katharine Hepburn was partying with
sixteen-year-olds.”
“I was in World War II. I was the last person to shake Carole Lombard’s
hand before she crashed to her death. And why does this cotton candy taste
so funny?”
“Grandpa, Grandpa,” I said, trying to shut him up. “It just occurred to
me that this story isn’t really going anywhere.”
“What do you mean? Baseball! Let’s do ‘Field of Dreams.’ You be that
Costner guy; I’ll be Shoeless Joe.”
“No, Grandpa.”
“All right, ‘The Natural.’ I’ll be Roy Hobbs; you be Glen Close.”
“Grandpa.”
“Okay, then, ‘Bull Durham.’ You’re Kevin Costner again, and I’m Susan
Sarandon.”
“Ew, Grandpa. That’s disgusting.”
“Well, what do you want to do? You wanna do a musical number? Get this.”
Grandpa proceeded to perform “Lydia, The Tattooed Lady.” It was quite
impressive, but it didn’t help our situation. And when he turned “Lydia”
into “Clamydia,” I had to stop him.
“Grandpa,” I said. “We have a serious problem here.”
“You can smell that, huh?”
“No, I mean this story.”
“This looks like a job for Root Beer Float Man!”
“Oh, no,” I said. “No. No, Grandpa, not Root Beer Float Man.”
Suddenly, here he came, crashing through the window of the porch, and
landing flat on his rear end.
“You called?” our hero said.
“Oh, Mr. Float Man,” Grandpa said. “We need your help.”
“Well, let’s get drunk and sing!”
An hour later, we were all hammered and singing “Everyone Says I Love
You.” That’s when the police came. They kicked the door down and handcuffed
all three of us. We were taken to the courthouse and charged with public
drunkenness, a charge that made absolutely no sense, and practicing idiocy
in a short story. We asked for an appeal, but were immediately sentenced to
be burned at the stake. This is why baseball, cotton candy, and music from
Marx Brothers films should never be mixed.
“See, boy,” Grandpa said. “This was a good story. It even has a moral.”
“Could you burn him first?” I pleaded.
“Why do you use the passive voice so much?”
“Shut up.”

The Opera Adaptation

When Chickenhead went completely nuts he thought up ideas for Italian operas. Not much else can be said but, here is one of those stories.

July 5, 2001

Vanilla Ice is River Phoenix in “The Glen Campbell Story”

A work of fiction adapted from the Italian opera
"La Idiota da Nuovo Inghilterra," by Tinkerbell Mastriani


My friend Shane has a weird, irrational hatred for former NBA player
Charles Barkley. He would get that way about some celebrities, from Barkley
to Donnie Wahlberg to the guy that played Arvid on "Head of the Class."
Sometimes things got out of hand. When I hung out with him in the late 80’s
and early 90’s, Shane was arrested for stalking and/or threatening notorious
former Red Sox first baseman Bill Buckner, comedian Andrew “Dice” Clay, and
singer/guitarist Gunner Nelson.
One of the last times I got to hang out with Shane was on a cold winter
night in Boston in 1993. The Phoenix Suns were in town to play the Celtics,
and, with Barkley having just been traded to the Suns from Philadelphia,
Shane got us tickets right behind the away team’s bench. The night got off
to a bad start when we entered the hotel where Shane was sure the Suns were
staying. Shane grabbed a guy he thought was Suns guard and former Celtic
Danny Ainge and said, “You tell Barkley I’ll be at the game tonight.” I was
embarrassed and frightened. Luckily this guy was about six inches short than
Ainge and had jet-black hair, “a disguise,” Shane insisted.
We were able to get to the Garden without another incident, but as soon
as we got to our seats, Shane began chanting “Barrrk-leeey!” like the fans
at Fenway chanted “Darryl” at Darryl Strawberry in the 1986 World Series.
Fans around us became instantly annoyed, as did many of the players on both
teams. When he began shouting “Little pigs, little pigs, let me in!” and
expected me to reply “Not by the hairs of our chinny-chin-chins!” I tried to
leave, but he wouldn’t let me.
Once the game started, the fans really got upset at Shane. I myself was
pelted with both alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages. Shane, however, was
undaunted, still letting Barkley have it.
“Hey, Sir Charles,” he shouted. “You know who’s a braver knight than you?
Sir Pantsalot of Dropseat Manor. Why don’t you go fight Bugs Bunny and let
KJ lead the team?”
There was no telling Shane to shut up and sit down.
“Hey, Sir Charles,” he continued. “Who knighted you, Queen Sara Saturday
or King Friday XIII? Are you and Lady Elaine Fairchilde dating, or are you
seeing Miss Henrietta Pussycat on the side?”
Few knew what he was talking about, and even fewer cared. Everyone,
including me, just wanted Shane to stop. When security finally came to
escort us out of the building, Shane wasn’t going out without a fight.
“You can’t throw us out,” he protested. “My uncle plays golf with Robert
Parish.”
“Come on, buddy,” one of the officers said. “Don’t make us shoot you.”
“I’m the godfather of Reggie Lewis’ kid,” he lied.
“Oh, yeah?” the other officer said sarcastically. “Well, Kevin McHale’s
my brother-in-law.”
“Are you mocking me?” Shane said as they cuffed him. “Hey, Charles! You
got your goons to get rid of me? This ain’t over, Sir Charles! My anaconda
don’t want none unless you’ve got buns, hon! That’s a knight! He’d kick your
ass!”
And, before the end of the first quarter, we were heading home. I wish I
could say that this experience smartened Shane up, but five months later,
when Reggie Lewis died, Shane became a bit more insane and told anyone who
would listen that Charles Barkley killed him. I stopped hanging out with him
after he told me Sir Charles was also responsible for the deaths of
basketball player Hank Gathers, the two Cleveland Indian pitchers who died
in the boating accident, Sam Kinison, Stevie Ray Vaughn, pro-wrestler Kerry
Von Erich, Brandon Lee, and "Poltergeist" girl Heather O’Rourke. When he
mailed me a second list that included Sharon Tate, Rudolph Valentino, and
Edgar Allan Poe, I called the authorities and had him put away.
Years later, I visited Shane at the Wither Port sanitarium. Nothing had
changed.
“Hey, man,” he said. “Have you noticed how many people have died since
I’ve been in here because of that damn Barkley?”
“No, Shane,” I replied. “I didn’t. Like who?”
“Don’t you know who killed Nicole Brown Simpson? Jon Benet Ramsey? Owen
Hart?”
“Owen Hart?” I said in disbelief.
“Yes!” he shouted. “Robert Blake’s ex-wife, Lady Di, JFK Jr. The list is
almost endless now, man.”
“Well,” I said, turning to leave. “Take care, Shane-O.”
“Phil and Brynn Hartman!” he continued shouting. “Emily Dickinson and
Hitler!”
I knew he’d be in here for a long time.

The Nom de Plumes

Chickenhead Antonucci briefly toyed with pen names during his career, thinking that anti-Italian sentiment was ruining his livelihood. Here are two stories Chickenhead wrote under different names. The name he used in the second story, Sean Waltman, is, in fact, the real name of professional wrestler X-Pac. Chickenhead loved his wrestling.

05/11/2001

BECAUSE I SAID SO

by Calypso Mike

“Mommy, can we go to Friendly’s?” Morgan, my nine-year-old daughter
begged.
“No, sweetie,” I replied after driving past the restaurant.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
I always hated telling them “Because I said so.” Their father would say
“Because their food will kill you” or “Because it would make Jesus cry.” I
used to tell them it’s because of the Fourth Commandment, but they’re old
and smart enough now to reply with “But you and Daddy always say ‘Jesus
Christ’ and ‘God damn it,’ and we never go to church on Sundays, and Daddy
always talks about our neighbor Mrs. Dronzek’s ‘hot little body.’” Then I’d
have to tell them that adults can break the Commandments, except for killing
and stealing, which will put you in prison with Uncle Roy and “Night
Stalker” Richard Ramirez.
When I ask them why they did something and they say “Because,” I tell
them because is not a reason. So Morgan and her sister Stephanie try that on
me by saying “’Because I said so’ is not a reason.” This was exactly what
Stephanie’s reply was to my answer. These kids are too sneaky for their own
good.
“’Because I said so’ is not a reason,” she said.
“It is when I say it, honey.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the mommy.”
I try to remember the answers their father gives them, like “All that ice
cream will rot your teeth and give your brain damage” or “One of the
waitresses there was a Branch Dividian.”
“When I’m a mommy,” Morgan said. “I’m not gonna say ‘Because I’m the
mommy.’”
“What will you say, Morgan,” I asked.
“I’ll say ‘Yes!’”
“What about what Daddy told you about the mutant sheep and the evil
dwarves? Friendly’s is full of those.”
“Daddy got those from movies, Mommy,” Stephanie said. “Uncle Paul told us
so.”
That Uncle Paul again. He gets to be the fun adult. This was probably for
the best. Morgan was having nightmares. Their father’s B-movie stories were
getting to me as well.
“When we get home,” I said. “You can have a light snack. But dinner is at
six.”
“What are we having?”
“Lasagna, Steph.”
“Why?”
“Are we gonna start this again?” I said. “How about because you’re father
loves Italian food, and I thought you girls did too.”
When we got home, they each had a banana, all the while complaining,
“Boy, it sure would be great to have some ice cream with this banana.”
This was the day I decided to take “Because I said so” out of my
repertoire.

May 28 (as Sean Waltman)

SILLY GOOSE

I sat at my desk, playing computer solitaire as I
always do the hour before lunch, when Peter came in
all excited.
“Jack, Jack,” he said.
“Yes, Peter,” I replied. “What is it?”
“There’s a goose in the parking lot.”
“Yeah? So?”
“He’s stolen your car.”
“What?” I said in disbelief.
“I’m serious,” he said, actually seeming it. “Mary
and Simon saw him too.”
“Well, Simon’s an idiot,” I said. "I’m not trusting
him.”
“Hey, Mary,” I said, seeing her pass by my office.
“This may sound ridiculous, but did a goose just steal
my car?”
“A goose?” she said. “I didn’t see any goose.”
“You were standing right next to me,” Peter piped.
“Well,” I said. “It sounds like Mary is being quite
contrary.” I looked outside, and, sure enough, saw a
goose driving my car around the parking lot. We ran
downstairs and my car passed us as we reached the lot.
The goose was joyriding with Humpty Dumpty, Ole King
Cole, and that fiddle-playing cat in the passenger
seats. We all entered Peter’s car and went on a wild
goose chase.
“Where do you think they’re going?” Peter said.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “A giant shoe?”
“Hey,” Mary said. “Has anyone thought about how
surreal this is?”
“No, hadn’t thought of that,” I said. “But if we
pass three rodents with sunglasses and walking canes
or a spider harassing a chick eating curds and whey,
I’m driving straight into the nearest building.”
They pulled into the old Hubbard place, and the
thief and her pals goose-stepped out of my car and
into the house. We got out and went after them, only
to find that Mother Hubbard’s dog had beaten us to it.
He tore into Ms. Goose, and then went after Mr.
Dumpty. There were feathers and yoke everywhere. The
cat calmed the canine down with some music, but it was
too late. The king pronounced both of them dead, and
Mrs. Hubbard gave her dog a bone.
We never received any explanation for the auto
theft. We all just went back to work and went on with
our lives, that is, except for me. I quit my job after
finding my car filled with golden eggs.

The Story That May Have Killed Chickenhead

Rumor has it that in 1996-97, Chickenhead Antonucci wrote a screenplay called The Old College Try. He fell into a deep depression when, in 1998, a film called Dead Man On Campus premiered with essentially the same plotline. Here are the remnants of this story written by the man himself.

The Old College Try (My Idea First, And I Can Prove It)

Adapted March 28, 2011

I decided I was finally going to kill Tom, one of my college roommates.
Due to his drunken shenanigans, my grades had really been slipping. There
was always this thing going around that if your roommate kills his or
herself, the school gives you a 4.0 GPA for the semester. All I had to do
was kill Tom and make it look like a suicide. My first problem was that my
other roommate, Scott, found the rat poison and arsenic that I bought. He
wasn’t exactly gung-ho about the idea. I told him not to get in my way. I
prepared a lovely spaghetti dinner and rang the big triangle we keep by the
stove.
“Kiddies! Dinner!” I yelled. Tom, Scott, and our other roommate Jeep-Jeep
stampeded into the dining room. I had put the plates down before they
arrived, and Tom, being one for goofy pranks, switched his plate with
Jeep’s.
“What was that?” I said. “Did you just switch plates. Switch them back.”
“Why?” Tom asked.
“Because I, uh…,” I stalled. “Because Jeep’s plate has coconut in it, and
I know how much you hate coconut.”
“Coconut spaghetti?” Jeep protested.
“Yes, so eat from your own frigging plate.” At that moment I noticed
something rather odd. Although, I specifically placed the plates in a
certain way, we were now all sitting on the same half of the table. I had to
speak up about this. “Hey, why doesn’t anyone ever sit on that side of the
table?”
“The cameras?” Tom said.
“What it this, the Real World? What cameras?”
“You know how on television characters always sit facing the camera.
Except on the Brady Bunch. There were probably too many of them to pull that
off.”
“This isn’t a television show, Thomas,” I said. “This is a short story.
You can sit on the toilet for all these people care.” I had noticed that
Troy was slow getting started with his dinner, and I was also worried that I
didn’t put enough arsenic in.
“Troy, darling,” I said. “Would you be a dear and get the cheese?”
“Darling?” Troy said, getting up. “Are you coming on to me?”
Once he got up, I sprayed some of the rat poison on his food. Scott, the
attentive bastard, saw this.
“What the hell was that?” he asked me knowingly.
“It’s spray cheese.”
“Spray cheese?”
“Can I have some?” Jeep asked.
“No,” I said. ‘There’s a bottle of castor oil in the cabinet. You can
have that.”
Troy returned with the cheese, a bit too soon for my taste.
“Uh, do we have any pepper?”
“Why not just tie me to a tree and cut my feet off?” Troy said.
I dropped a happy little pill in Tom’s drink, as Jeep, for some reason,
took a bite of Tom’s food. I tried to stop him, but it was too late.
“Jeep!”
“I want some.”
“Would you like some cheese with your whine, Jeep?” I said. “Tom’s not
having anything you’re not having.”
“Now what the hell was that?” Scott said.
“What?” I tried to defend myself. “It was an ice cube. Jeep, eat from
your own plate.”
“You poisoned his food, didn’t you?” Scott whispered.
“Shut up, Scott,” I told him. “Oh, Tom, would you get some salt too,
please?”
“Jesus,” Tom answered. “You know, I don’t even remember the boat ride. I
must slept the whole way.”
“Your not going to get away with this,” Scott threatened me.
“All right,” Tom said, returning to the table with his hands full. “Salt,
five packages of duck sauce, a can of chicken soup, twenty packages of hot
mustard, and twelve non-dairy creamers. Anything else?”
“No, that’s great,” I said. Tom started to take a drink, finally, but
Scott slapped it out of his hands.
“Don’t drink that,” he said.
“Damnit, Scott,” Tom said. “Why the hell not?”
“Because my, uh, teeth are in there.”
“I’m not cleaning that up,” Jeep said.
“Your teeth?” Tom said. “You’re a damn weirdo. You know, this is so much
fun. We’re like a little family. Why don’t I cook dinner tomorrow night?”
“I mean it,’ Jeep said. “I’m not cleaning that up.”
Scott then spilled his beverage all over Tom’s spaghetti.
“Scott, Jesus. You clumsy bastard. Are you going to clean this?”
“Club soda will get that right out,” Scott said.
“We don’t have club soda,” Tom said.
“What do we have?”
“We have beer.”
“But it was beer that you spilled in the first place.”
“All right, everybody shut up,” I yelled, getting impatient. Amid all the
arguing, Jeep-Jeep passed out onto the floor. Tom didn’t notice, but Scott
and I certainly did. I tried to hide what happened from Tom by propping Jeep
back up.
“Hey, John,” Tom said as I lifted the 200-pound student up. “Why don’t
you come to the party with us tomorrow night?”
“Uh, sure,” I said. “Why not? What’s the occasion? Kegfest? The Indoor
Binge Drinking Championships?”
“Hey, what the hell happened to Jeep?” Troy asked.
“Uh, he’s just a little…”
“So, really? You’ll go?”
“Tom,” Scott said, “Jeep just passed out.”
“Yeah, so? When hasn’t he passed out?”
“If you’ll excuse us, Tom.” I said, “Scott and I have to take Jeep to the
hospital.”
“Okay, whatever, have fun.”
We exited the townhouse urgently. Jeep ended up being all right and Tom
had foiled yet another of my plans, but as Dr. Claw always told Inspector
Gadget, I’ll get him next time.

New Chickenhead Stories Uncovered

After a holiday break that saw a catastrophic fire and several murdered hookers, we realized that there are indeed more stories to be unearthed by the one and only Chickenhead Antonucci. In this next tale, Chickenhead plays with the Marx Brothers and James Joyce.

PROFESSOR WAGSTAFF'S ENGLISH LESSON

Written: April 28, 2001

What I didn’t need after three hours in the library was the commotion I
came home to. Troy was complaining about a book he had to read for his
Irish-American Literature class, Jeep-Jeep was reading aloud to me the dirty
parts in James Joyce’s “Ulysses” that I highlighted for him, and the
neo-Nazis Troy hired to fix our refrigerator were here.

 

“Ah, Professor Wagstaff,” Troy said.
“Pinky, Baravelli, how are you gentlemen this evening?” I replied. It was
a stupid game Troy and I played to confuse Jeep, pretending we were
characters in Marx Brothers films, in this case “Horse Feathers.”
“Professor,” Troy said. “You will never believe the crap I have to read
for this stupid class. Tell me, what are the two main classifications of
books?”
“Fiction and non-fiction,” I said.
“Okay,” Troy said. “Would you believe this piece of garbage is both? She
dances between fiction and non-fiction. I just want to grab her and say
‘Pick a section of the book store and stick with it!’”
“Is Jeep reading Joyce?” I said, distracted. “How cute! Where’s the gay
erotica we gave him?”
“Uh, nowhere,” Troy said. “I certainly didn’t take it. But listen…”
“Hey Professor,” Jeep said. “This ‘Ulysses,’ by Joyce Brothers…”
“No, Jeep,” I said. “I told you it’s James Joyce. Remember, he wrote ‘The
Cat in the Hat’ and ‘The Joy of Sex?’”
“Ich dien weir!” one of the Nazis said. Don’t expect any translations
from me.
“Whatever,” Jeep continued. “It’s hilarious. Like there’s these whores,
and they say to this guy…”
“Jeep,” I stopped him. “It’s a twentieth century classic, yes. But,
please.”
“But,” Jeep said. “Okay, then there’s a picture that this woman, Mrs.
Bellingham, has with a ‘partially nude senorita,’ right? ‘Practicing illicit
intercourse with a muscular torero,’ whatever that is. She says some guy
implored her to ‘soil his letter in an unspeakable manner,’ and to ride him
and ‘give him a most vicious horsewhipping.’”
“Shocking,” I said. “That’s just the kind of filth the potato famine
caused.”
“Okay, hello!” Troy shouted. “What about me? This nut calls this an
autobiography, then all of the sudden admits after each chapter: Sorry, this
is just a literary orgy of bullshit. Me and my husband caught malaria. Oh,
wait a minute. I mean killer bees attacked my parents. She says it was
nearly impossible to sort out the guesses and the partially remembered from
the unquestionably real. Isn’t there some sort of medical diagnosis for
that? They ought to get the net and straight jacket and sentence her to
writing fairy tales?”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Jeep stepped in.
“Jeep, shut up!” Troy yelled.
“Honestly,” I said. “The two of you are like children.”
“Listen to this,” Jeep said. “’Did he not lie in bed,’ blah blah blah,
‘gloating over a nauseous fragment…’”
“Jeep, not now, please,” I said.
“What?” Jeep said. “But the nasty harlot!”
“Professor,” Troy said. “Professor, uhhhh…What was it?”
“Wagstaff!” I said.
 

“Professor Wagstaff,” he continued. “She says ‘We awoke weeks later in
the living room.’ She then corrects herself with, ‘It could not have been
that long.’ Well, then why the hell did she say it in the first place? Just
say ‘We were sick for about two weeks,’ or ‘We didn’t wake up. We died?’”
“Troy,” I said. “Baravelli, that version of the book is like a second
edition. She probably felt guilty about all the stuff she said about her
family in the first one.”
“Oh,” Troy said. “Well, it still sucks.”
“Admittedly,” I replied.
“This guy Boylan, right?” Jeep said.
“Eureka! Die Zauberflote!” Again, the Nazis were being really loud.
“He holds out his finger and tells Lenehan…”
“Jeep,” I said. “Let’s not make this NC-17 in front of the Nazis, okay?”
“Gluckliche Reise!” one of our repairmen said.
“Then,” Jeep continued. “Boylan tells Bloom he can put his eye in the
keyhole and…”
“Jeep!” I said.
“But, he’s with this chick,” he said.
“It’s his wife, Jeep,” I replied. “Boylan is with Leopold Bloom’s wife,
Molly.”
“Yeah?” he said. “What a stupid name, Leopold. Anyway, then Leopold
thanks him and asks if he can bring some other guys and take pictures.”
“Hapax Legomenon!” I wondered exactly what training these Nazis had. “Uh,
excuse us,” One of the Nazis, a guy named Kool, said. “We’re gonna have to
blow this up completely.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. Then he just left before I could say anything else.
“Hoi Polloi!” The other Nazi, Simon, said.
“Are they speaking Greek now?” Troy wondered aloud.
“Hey,” Jeep began again. “Do nude statues have, like, you know, like…Why
can’t I say dirty words?”
“Because we have guests,” I told him.
“Hey,” Kool came over and said. “Could you guys keep it down, please,
seriously?”
“Can I read the part about the tremendous big red brute?” Jeep asked.
“No,” I said.
“What about when she compares men’s and women’s…”
“Can I field this one?” Troy said. “We have guests, Jeepathan.”
“Jeepathan?” Jeep didn’t like this name for some reason. “Come on, the
hat rack?”
“No,” I said.
“The wretch behind the tree?”
“I’m confiscating that book,” I said.
“No, don’t, please?”
“You should give him ‘American Psycho,’” Troy said.
“If he behaves, maybe,” I said.
“Okay,” Kool said. Apparently the Nazis were done for now. “We need to
confer to our boss as to whether…”
“Whether,” I said. ‘Whether’ is sufficient.”
“Confer to my boss ‘whether’ any papers need to be signed. Some guys only
need a verbal agreement.”
“You mean an ‘oral’ agreement,” I correct him again.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s disgusting.”
“A written contract is a verbal agreement,” I said. “Verbal simply means
with words. And I’m sure you meant confer ‘with’ your boss, not ‘to’ him.”
“All right,” he said. “Do you want my help, or not? Now, he once told me
about a place on the other side of town.”
“All this for a fridge?” Troy asked.
“Am I talking to you?” Kool seemed upset. “All I can tell you is that it
has some of the most unique people…”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Unique means without like or equal. ‘Most unique’
is incorrect. See, there are no degrees of uniqueness.”
“Listen, schmuck,” he said. “You’re gonna be walking in a unique way if
you don’t shut up. Now, if we can utilize this facility…”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupted again. “But I have a problem with the word
‘utilize.’ I have an English professor who always says ‘Don’t utilize
utilize; use use.’ And I grew up on the word ‘facility’ meaning restroom.
So, utilizing the facilities, to me, simply means taking a leak.”
“Look, Professor Bucket Head,” Kool went ballistic. “Do you have any
other corrections? Do you want to edit my film class essay on Hattie
McDaniel? Question my use of semi-colons? My spellings of it’s, there, and
your? My non-use or misuse of hyphens? Not enclosing a comma within
quotation marks when it’s followed by an attributive phrase? Among or
between? Farther or further? Will you please diligently check my work for
me? My God! I’ve split an infinitive! Slap me. Please, I deserve it. Hit
me. Go ahead.”
“Jeez,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Juss schtop mit ze kaos!” Now Simon was going nuts. “Me und my brudder
hav und schtatemet! Gar schone schpiele schpiel, und tanzen und singen der
luft balloons! Schtick to der blitzen und vant to hobnobben!”
“Good Lord,” Troy said. “What language is that?”
“Est der job uf me und mein brudder! Dos clammen udderweise art mistokken
und wir haben die dumkofs schtifled! Die muss be kilt!
“Chief?” I said, playing another game with Troy to break the monotony.
“McCloud!” Troy replied.
“I schplitz on dem und der mutters! Meine mutter est der betwedden en der
mornen!”
It was then that the refrigerator exploded, which was nothing that we
hadn’t come to expect. The Nazis sent us a bill and threatened to break our
legs and rape our pets if we didn’t pay it. The three of us moved to a
school out of state under different names, hoping there weren’t any neo-Nazi
organizations there. I couldn’t believe that I was only in college and I was
already on my second identity.

Chickenhead Gets Drunk

April 26, 2001

THE PERILS OF GIRL SCOUT COOKIES

 

Rick, Ed and I started setting up the equipment. Our band, Rock Paper
Scissors, was playing at the Happy Hand Grenade pub. Jeremy, a friend of
Ed’s who worked security at pro-wrestling shows, helped us out. We were told
that the other band, The Sockdolagers, had cancelled; so, we had to play two
sets. It’s not as if we didn’t have enough songs, but, hey, we weren’t The
Who, and two sets of any unknown band is a little much. But we were
troopers, so we agreed.
After setting up, we all sat at or around the bar until it was time to go
on. I don’t usually drink, but I figured that if we were the only band
playing, I needed to be feeling a little something. Now, I’m not a fan of
beer, or wine, or scotch, or anything like that, which is why I don’t go
into bars ordering drinks willy-nilly. I remembered a drink I had at my
sister’s boyfriend’s bar called a Girl Scout cookie, a very effeminate drink
to be asking for with vodka, peppermint schnapps, and something with cocoa
in it. It was like a thin mint. I didn’t get too many weird looks as I sat
next to Jeremy, talking about his security endeavors. The drunker I got, the
more loud and bizarre my end of the conversation became.
“Do you know any bar jokes?” I asked Jeremy.
“Bar jokes?” he said. “Uh, a ham sandwich walks into a bar, and the
bartender says, ‘Hey, we don’t serve food here.’”
I laughed obnoxiously like Max Cady in a movie theater, and then begged
him for another one.
“All right,” he said. “A termite walks into a bar and says, ‘Is the bar
tender here?’”
There was more ridiculous laughter on my part, but I quickly became
serious.
“Jerry,” I said. “What does your bar look like?”
“What?” he replied.
“When you hear a bar joke, what does the bar look like in your head? My
bar is Moe’s bar on ‘The Simpsons,’ and the bartender looks like the guy who
owned ‘The Regal Beagle’ on ‘Three’s Company.’”
“I think of ‘Cheers,’” Jeremy said.
“Oh yeah?” I replied. “Hey, listen to this.” He seemed interested, but
even if he wasn’t, I was going to continue anyway. “I can prove to you,
through logic, that a peanut butter sandwich is better than eternal
happiness.”
“Really?” he said.
“Yep,” I replied. “Check it out. Nothing is better than eternal
happiness. Okay? And a peanut butter sandwich is better than nothing.
Therefore, a peanut butter sandwich is better than eternal happiness.”
“I see,” Jeremy said.
“Hey, is Todd coming tonight,” my band mate Ed asked me as he sat down.
It was this thing heterosexual men sometimes do in putting on an effeminate,
even gay, voice. It had escalated between us band members that I even had a
companion named Todd. That we were in a straight bar full of seedy
characters, and I had already ordered three of the same uber-gay drink,
which I was drunk from, didn’t occur to me.
“No, we had a big fight,” I said in my best flamboyantly gay voice. “He
got all huffy, so I told him to stay home. I said, ‘This queen’s gotta
perform tonight, honey. Maybe I’ll pick up a real man.’ Oogah!”
I could already see that Jeremy was troubled by this display. Within
three minutes, he quietly left and didn’t look at or speak to me the rest of
the night. Set one went fine, and during the brief intermission, Jeremy
stayed far away from me. I was drunker and a real raging queen during the
break.
“I can’t believe I’m a homophobia victim and I’m not even gay,” I said,
using the voice that could have gotten me beat up. “I mean, who does he
think he is? He should be so lucky. Look at me; I’m a vicious cross between
Gregory Peck and Harvey Fierstein. Oogah!”
By the end of the first song of the first set, we had completely worn out
our welcome. I was so drunk that I could hardly play, and the crowd was
yelling for us to stop. We didn’t, sadly, and it became more and more
embarrassing, but also funny, the way we sucked so badly. After we finished,
I was almost falling-down drunk, and decided it was a good idea to confront
Jeremy the homophobe with my slurred insults.
“Let me tell you something, buddy,” I said to him. “Mr. Bigot Homophobe,
I’m not gay. I love womens, all kinds of them. That hidden dragon chick in
the Groucho Tigger movie, Bruce, uh, Willis’s wife in ‘The Sixth Sense.’ I’d
even do Miss Henrietta Pussycat from ‘Mr. Rogers’s Neighborhood. I love
women and really fufu drinks. I’d have Carista Pop Tarts, Anna Kourncabana,
Mae West, it doesn’t matter. I’m a crazy, insane hetero, and you’re a
stupid, nasty racist. Wait…I mean, what’s like racism, but for gays? That’s
you, and that’s me. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. And if I were
gay, I could do a whole lot better than you, Grizzly Adams. Do you watch
‘Will & Grace?’ I’ll take Paul Lynde for the block.”
Then I passed out. I don’t know what happened right after that. What I do
know is that I woke up the next morning in my underwear somewhere along the
Massachusetts Turnpike like I had just been John Malkovich.
Beware, children. For these are the perils of Girl Scout cookies.