TIKI
Ina baby. Rick said you oughta be
interested in my latest descent into hell so I will now hyperbolize. A
couple of days ago fickle fortune landed me at lunch with a group of "rail
fans". In case you ain't had the pleasure of havin' a meal with rail fans,
the conversation sorta goes like this: "Blah, blah, blah, steam. Blah,
blah, blah, street car." It's sorta like swimmin' in a swimmin' pool
filled with green water. So after a while I break in and I says, "A few
years back I was walkin' next to Washington Square when a trolley bus passes by
and the six by three inch ten pound piece of steel where the trolley pole rides
the over head wire comes off and lands an inch in front of my foot. My point of
course was that by the grace of God, I was an inch away from havin’ my head
squashed like a pickle in a fat girl’s jaws, but what is the response from the
goggle eyed zombies? A busy discussion of how this death bomb is attached to
the pole, how many screws attach it and how deep they are drilled. My
interjection of an example of heavenly intervention is met with a buncha robots
wonderin' why none of them can take a shit. Anyways, after lunch the zipper
heads decide to look at street cars in the City and since there ain't no way I
was gonna spend another minute of what time I got left on God's green earth
talkin' about street cars, the one rail fan who can't go offers to drive me
home. So I gets in his car and as God is my witness, it's filled from dashboard
to rear window with bobble heads. The last time I was so unnerved, not
includin' four years in Nam was when I was a boy dragged by a Mormon aunt to Disney
Land and down a bad acid nightmare pit called the Tiki Room. All's I remember was hundreds and
hundreds of itty bitty toy birds and monkeys and rats and spiders all jigglin'
and jitterin' and screechin' "Tiki! Tiki! Tiki!", and havin’ my sorry
ass dragged outa there pukin' my guts out. So now I'm in the Tiki Room on
wheels tryin' with all my strength to keep down my bacon cheddar cheese burger
when I notice that all of the quiverin' shit piles are Jesus Christ. Well, I
don't know if you ever drove the streets of San Francisco but let's just say
there are so many pot holes and so much torn up shit that I was soon feelin'
like Mata Hari on the set of Hatari on a do or die mission to find out if John
Wayne's dick really was only three inches long, racing along the African Velt
chasin' after a zebra or a giraffe or what ever the fuck Red Buttons wants to
fuck that day surrounded by bobble headed Jesuses dancin' like trophy wives on
speed. When the guy turns to me with a Squeaky Fromme expression on his face
and asks me if I'd ever considered Jesus, I thought I'd better dodge into a
quick distraction so I pulls out my cell phone and checks the weather in
Tupelo. Course I don't get no weather, just thirty nine pictures of Elvis, but
I digress. When the rail fan Jesus freak doesn't get an answer outa me, he
repeats himself, this time louder and five or six octaves lower. I tells him I
am aware of Jesus and have always wondered why the instrument on which he was
tortured to death is worshiped more than he is, but never the less I think
that, as a prophet he ain't bad, that is of course if he really existed what
with his apostles not botherin' to write anything about him till fifty or so
years after his supposed death and speakin' of apostles, what was with the
routine of him never gettin' married and wanderin' around in the desert with
twelve other guys? Well, hell, I sure as shit don't have to tell you what
happened next. Before you could
say blow me, Squeaky Fromme had turned into Charlie Manson and there was
another bobble head in the car, this one homicidal and doin’ the Boogie Woogie behind
the steerin' wheel. Thank God he ran head long into an anti abortion rally. I
was lucky enough to slip away as the bodies were being loaded into the meat
wagon and he was being maced and tased and beat and otherwise acquiesced. I will now commence with the conclusion
of this epistle so's I can get serious with a double scotch on the rocks.
Muchos besos.
Buck
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