The Famed Blue-Moon Chronicles
this is an account of the most banal night and following
weekend in the short but storied lives of our two heroes,
mike barkett and andy hall.
it all started on the afternoon of Thursday, August 1, 1996.
it had been decided that mike would travel to dc, ostensibly
to visit with andy for the evening in northern virginia, and
return to baltimore with his buddy in tow for a weekend of
wedding festivities and other active pleasantries and
diversions. mike arrived at andy's swank crib on the west side at around
6:30pm. the two exchanged greetings as mike unloaded his
belongings into andy's self-locking apartment for
safekeeping. clad in their maple leafs jerseys (mike's home
white, andy's road blue) the dashing young gents made a
beeline for fort scott park in scenic downtown crystal
city...during the drive, the young perfectionists discussed
the fact that they basically ruled and were proficient at
just about everything, and more or less, the best persons to
ever grace the green (rapidly turning to shit-brown and
death-gray) earth.
andy played a couple of uneventful innings in the field,
shouting harmless yet utterly silly bemusements at the
opposing batters. during the interim between these
appearances in the game, he spoke with mike about some of the
people in attendance at the game. the captain of the
opposing team, who also happened to be commissioner of the
PTO softball league, was a particularly unathletic specimen,
and one whose mannerisms served to perturb the discerning
young lads. in fact, his demeanor was so irritating that
mike referred to him openly as a "real cock rocket." perhaps
it was this insult that would bring the wrath of the 'blue
moon gods' on our two young heroes.
as andy stepped in to bat against the aging pitcher, with a
cocky swagger and a fearless glare, his team waited with
baited breath for andy to deliver a towering home run, as had
been his modus operandi in previous plate appearances. as
the first pitch approached, with a loping arc, andy yawned
and continued to stare fervently at the pitcher. admonishing
the hurler to keep his pitches more level, andy waved the bat
in the thick of the strike zone, taunting his opponent. the
next pitch was thrown, and as if controlled momentarily by
some outside force, andy swung way earlier than he should
have, sending the ball harmlessly into the safety of the left
fielder's glove. in retrospect, the two charmers would
conjecture that this errant swing of the bat was the root of
all evil that befell them as the fateful night progressed.
"out!"
the young men departed immediately after the game and drove
back toward andy's apartment. on the way, andy broke out his
tape copy of kraftwerk's 'electric cafe' and popped it in the
stereo. mike, who was experiencing the uplifting, uproarious
melodies of these german wizards of electronic sound
manipulation for the first time ever, was an instant believer
in the power of 'ping.' with the windows rolled down, the
car was easily identifiable at traffic lights as the sounds
of "boing, boom tschack, b-b-b-b-b-b boing, pppppping, chum,
chum, pssst, pssst" could be heard emanating from within the
vehicle, like some kind of perverse android mating call.
as they drove up 'GLEBE' (shouted tersely, and with vigor)
road, the two discussed the history of herbie hancock, citing
the fact that 'cantaloupe island' originally appeared on
'empyrean isles' release, and bore no parallels to the recent
atrocity known as 'cantaloop' by the most detestable deacons
of deception, known as US3, who ran a series of 'abastrophic,
bungtoungular' themes over top of a looped sample of the
song's main theme and called it a top 40 hit. Fucksuckularity
at its pinnacle!
arriving at andy's apartment as the sun was setting slowly to
the west, the two grabbed up their rollerblades and andy's
hockey stick. mike washed his face while andy played sega
hockey briefly and checked his GAY-OL mail. then it was off
to dc, with andy at the helm of the MABmobile. andy went on
a tirade about the recent decision of dc officials to
regulate traffic on the whitehurst freeway, but the tirade
was very short and brief (much like the burn man from jerky
boys's stint as a model.) the two parked in front of foer's
pharmacy on 18th street and got out to survey the scene.
donning their blades, they skated to the white house for some
hot hockey action. andy jumped into the game, which lasted
all of 15 minutes, before the listless fuck-chops called it a
night and went home. mike skated lazy circles around the
fray of the hockey game while andy missed scoring goals on
three different occasions by mere fractions of a millimeter.
In all honesty, it was a matter of atom spaces between the
path of flight of the speeding shpereoid and the back of the
goal net. andy did manage to add an assist, however,
scraping his knees in the process.
after the hockey game ended, the young gents skated to the
car to deposit andy's stick and mike's watch, and to recover
mike's wallet, which now contained his ATM card, which had
been in andy's possession for over a week. they skated
through farragut to dupont circle, and between K and L street
on 18th, the two skated by a man who asserted 'I like the
sabres, myself.' Andy was miffed over this unsolicited
comment, and retorted quite loudly 'they should stick with
their old uniforms...the new ones are fucking garish!' sabre
master d replied 'well. i'll have to agree with you on that
one.' then andy and mike looked at each other, and, as if
reading one another's mind, said in unison: 'what a dork!.'
dropping into CVS to pick up some liquid refreshment. the
two swiftly realized that they had between them approximately
one dollar and some pocket change. knowing that more money
would be necessary to purchase the needed elements for energy
replenishment, the two made a beeline for the nationsbank ATM
and withdrew funds...$10 for mike, $20 for andy.
returning to the store, they purchased three bottles of
greenish-colored powerade. they were annoyed to discover
that the 32oz. size of powerade was on sale for the same
price as the 220z., because they were clean out of the larger
size. mike asserted that the CVS at home had an impeccable
selection of tobacco products, and that he wanted to attempt
to locate and purchase djarum clove cigarettes. when he
discovered that these products were not available, he
snatched up his drink and left the establishment. andy was
quick to follow, and the two skated to the intersection of
dupont circle and 19th street south, where a ramplike
building is located.
andy proceeded to master the subtleties of quarter-pipe-like
(catastrophe) ramp skating, yelling 'catastrophe' during
every precarious ascent of the building face. mike looked on
while doing the potted-plant slalom and chuckled at andy as
he nearly met his doom several times. The two chicken-cluckers stayed at this locale for upwards of 20 minutes,
pulling off haphazards stunts, and shrill yells of
catastrophe' could be heard clear in dupont circle.
growing tired of the catastrophe ramp, the two skaters
infiltrated dupont circle with a common purpose...to meet
some crazies and live to spread some tails...er, tales. the
two skated around the circle a couple times at a leisurely
pace before quickening their revolutions and rapidly racing
around the circle. passing by a group of chess-players, the
pair heard the unmistakable sounds of james brown pumping out
of a radio in the lap of a man seated on the bench which
surrounds dupont circle.
stopping to enjoy the free tunes, they proceeded to listen to
songs by earth, wind, and fire, Branford Marsalis, and
finally Curtis Mayfield... but Mike and Andy were not aware
of the identities of some of these artists without pried
confirmations from a somewhat annoyingly condescending old
boom-box owner. The auto-panegyrical old black man (who
would later be known as "JB" for reasons soon-to-be-discussed) chose to force Mike and Andy to listen to several
relatively obscure Earth, Wind and Fire songs before giving a
revealing enough clue as to who the band actually was. His
earlier ineffective clues led our heroes to guess that they
were listening to such musical groups as "Yes!" or "Slayer."
During the Earth, Wind and Fire concert, a young-looking (but
apparently older), bald, black man showed up.
"Don't you go and fuck up that song! That's a good song!!"
The black man was referring to JB's karaoke-esque, yet still
soulful rendition of the song. They then proceeded to sing
verses of the song back and forth, stopping only to shout
slurred, Afro-esoteric insults at each other. When our lone
whiteys asked JB what the new black character's name was, JB
responded, "they say his name's Silk, but I always call him
Kojak's son-in-law."
As Andy and Mike grew more and more bored of JB and their
Powerades grew less and less full, they decided to leave JB
and Silk. But JB interjected and said they had to wait
because he would play a "hit" for them. After another Earth,
Wind and Fire song, Mike asked Andy, who, in turn, asked JB
"when the hell are we going to hear the 'hit'?" About four
nanoseconds after JB answered "at the end of this CD...in
about 3 or 4 songs" Mike departed with the sound of velcro
fastening on his arms, and burst around the track at
approximately the speed of light. Andy was on his heels in a
heartbeat, catching him as they sped haphazardly around the
east side of the circle, the cheers of drunken hobos
spurring them on.
as they made their second pass around dupont, they were
accosted briefly by a young man known to them only as 'jay.'
jay made a mock threat to check them to the ground as they
tore past him. this raised the ire of andy, so he spun
around and confronted jay. jay assumed a much more jovial
demeanor once andy was in his face. he lauded mike and andy
for being maple leaf fans, and when he spake the name of the
mighty doug gilmour, andy and mike decided to spare his
worthless life. the two heroes looked into jay's vacuous
eyes and listened to him expound on such subjects as the
capitals' acquisition of veteran defenseman and six-time all-star phil housley, and michael johnson's bid for double gold
in the olympic two and four hundred meter races. Jay's
impression of michael johnson was one of the funniest
episodes of body kinesics either hero had seen in quite some
time, and both were struck with laughter. Then jay started
talking some more and got much less interesting.
growing quickly bored, with jay's mundane blather, the two
heroes sped away, leaving jay talking to himself and
staggering about the circle in search of more libations.
returning to the bench where JB and silk were sitting, mike
and andy inquired of JB if it was time for the playing of the
celebrated hit. he finally obliged, stealthily sliding a CD
into the player and pushing the start button. the sounds of
very basic jazz filled the air, and the two studs were unable
at first to determine the artist whose tunes were emanating
from JB's black box. eventually, it was revealed that
branford marsalis was indeed the maker of the music that was
blaring forth.
andy persuaded JB to allow him access to his limited music
library, and selected the 'superfly' album for listening
pleasure. this choice was met by cheers and whoops from the
mid-sized contingent of bums who were cluttered around
the area. shortly thereafter, a black dude of unknown origin
(negro doe, for lack of a better or more accurate name)
appeared to transact some business with JB. he made several
attempts to pawn off his illicit wares on JB who seemed
disinterested in making such a purchase. eventually, poor
JB's urges got the better of him, and no sooner did he affirm
his desire to procure a bit of marijuana, which was sneakily
tucked inside a stick of mitchum deodorant, than three
undercover law enforcement officers materialized to arrest
and detain JB and negro doe for their weed violation.
the officers were most abrasive with JB and negro doe,
grabbing doe's 40 of schlitz and dumping it out, while
shouting at JB to "turn that goddamn radio down...because I
said to....I don't wanna hea' that shit." the two drug-monkeys were thrown against the benches and cuffed as the
third officer warned andy and mike to split. the officer
asked them if what they were doing hanging out with JB and
negro doe, and they informed the lawman that they were drawn
to the currently detained suspects by virtue of the euphonic jams
that were JB's offertory to the atmosphere of the circle. he
simply said "goodnight gentlemen," which was more than enough
of a hint to the two stars to get the fuck outta dodge.
they departed from dupont, hitting the catastrophe ramp one
more time for good measure, and started skating down 19th
street in the direction of farragut. the men hung a left on
jefferson street, so as to swing by the ozone club, the ex-roxy. on jefferson street, the two were beckoned by a
threesome of giggling gals in a gaudy gol truck. the
laughing ladies doled out a handful of free passes to the two
studs which offered free admittance to the ozone club on
Thursday nights before 11:30pm. deciding to glean the scene
and case the place that had been the (literal) stomping
grounds for andy, kevin, and both of the older barkett
brothers, the young gods turned onto 18th street and skated
in the direction of mike's car to drop off their skates in
favor of flat shoes, which were required for entry into the
club.
as they slalomed down 18th toward their car, they overheard a
troupe of tittering tit-bearers tottering down the lane and
trashing their terrific trickery. andy found this quite
rude, and decided that a little retaliatory toolage was the
order of the day. he began by ridiculing them for idly
prattling subjects they'd never broach were they not under
the influence of liquid bravery juice. then, one dressed in
a floral-pattern one-piece dress which was mottled with brown
patches of geraniums or some such tripe became the ringleader
for this band of brash beauties. she made a barely audible
smartass remark about the likelihood of andy's being
unemployed. andy questioned her on how much money she made,
and her only response was "a lot." andy ignored this
assertion and offered his own conjecture, stating "judging by
your attire, you probably make a nice middle-class salary,
performing a nice middle-american job." the poor gal was
reduced to one, lone reply..."fuck......yoooou"...which was
spoken with a slow and deliberate drawl, to underline the
obvious dismay and hatred she felt for her superior in the
rank-out. in fact, she spoke the words in such a pronounced
manner, that her petite mouth distended into a severe
overbite, which was not present when she was speaking
normally. she and her friends were so floored by the
audacious nature of andy's remark that they continued to
shout insult upon insult at the skaters as they continued
toward the car. mike and andy each hurled one more insult
back at the babbling bitches. mike yelled "lay off bitches,
I didn't say shit" and andy screamed "up in yer brown."
one block later, they were at mike's car. they swapped their
skates for their shoes....andy, a dilapidated pair of
docksiders and mike, some sportin' tenners....and cruised
back up 18th street, heading north in the direction of dupont
circle from whence they had just come in the mikemobile, or
dova, as it is sometimes referred to. rounding the bend left
from 18th onto jefferson street, andy quickly spotted a bum
valet (a homeless dude standing in a spot, so that the driver
will appreciate his kindness for reserving a fucking FREE
spot and feel obligated to pay his dumb 'ol ass some
gratuitous booze money....yeah, right!) so this
asswipenugget directs us into a space, which andy has no
intention of doling out dough for, because the hobo does not
resemble a parking meter in any way, shape, or form. as andy
wheeled in, he struck the curb with the utmost delicacy, and
suddenly, without warning, the left front tire blew out and
deflated faster than randy west fucking aja up in her brown
with havoline motor oil for lubricant.
fifteen seconds and all of the fuck words in existence later,
mike and andy are parked in the bottom of a rather steep
driveway, partially obscuring the garage of a building which
apparently is chock full o' mexicans. angrily retrieving the
jack, queen, and king from mike's trunk (or whatever those
other components to the carjack kit are named...lug wrench or
some such horsepuckeys) and set about jacking mike's car up.
upon raising the car almost far enough off the ground to
begin administering the needed surgery for donut-tire
installment, andy realized that he had misplaced the jack,
and so he lowered the car, raising his blood pressure, and
started over again. mike spent this time striding up and
down 18th street, trying to get some help from the local
police, who told him they were too busy.
round about the time andy had replaced the jack and began to
hoist the auto for a second time, mike returned from his
unsuccessful quest to get some assistance. then, this
mexican jumping bean, who had just driven his car out of the
garage, stopped over to offer his 'service.' this consisted
of successfully removing the stubborn hubcap, cracking it in
two places. his next brilliant maneuver was to insist that
the lug nuts were removed by turning them clockwise (what a
fucking idiot!) so andy quickly resumed the lead role in the
great donut caper, and repositioned the lug wrench to turn
the nuts counterclockwise. he had to jump on the fucking
wrench to budge the goddamn things, due to the inept
fumblings of the mex-chanic.
after loosening the nuts, the spent tire was removed and
replaced with the ridiculously small donut. the nuts were
replaced, and the two young masters of the communist-bantu
regime washed their hands in the garage bathroom, which mex-chanic was kind enough to allow them to access. then they
left the garage, got into the dova, and pulled out of the
driveway.
deciding that checking out the club would still be a
palatable option, the two parked on 18th, then walked back up
to the ex-roxy, which is now known as 'ozone...le club
industriel.' after explaining their dilemma to the doorman,
and pleading their case for not making the free-pre-11:30pm
cutoff on their passes, the studbiscuits settled on $5 cover
charge for entry to the nightclub. shortly after entering,
the two dorsch-lovers realized that, rather than industial
music, the order of the day was annoying, spanish-sounding
techno. mike remarked that 'it was like a high school
dance,' as young things whizzed about the club, no doubt to
discuss the latest cute guy or gal that had supposedly eyed
them up from across the club. the two were getting
unbearably bored, when they decided to hit the floor for some
gravely stupid kinetic dancing.
the two tore shit up, as they watched the sluts who had
invited them in systematically hit on every tom, dork, and
harry who entered the establishment. it was really quite
humorous. the two ordered a drink each in the bar. water.
and it was free.
nothing was like it once had been. the whole upper stage had
been removed, and the dj booth had been moved to the sidewall
upstairs. the concert soundboard, which had been located at
the top of the stairs, and used for reggae shows which used
to go on every Tuesday and Thursday at the club, had been
removed, so that the space could be used for nubile sluts to
wiggle their butts, and slimy slits to show off their tits.
the hardwood dancefloor had been covered with some sort of
protective tarpaulin. the men's bathroom had been moved
further back in the hallway on the second floor, and it was
fucking clean!!! sparkling fucking clean!!! anyone who ever
pissed in that john when the place was the roxy knows that
this is fucking absolute, unadulterated sacrilege!!! the
hanging glassracks over the front bar had been removed, and
the bar extended, so that even less space than before was
available to pass between the front and back bars, although
it was easier than it used to be, because there were not
really many people there, and the roxy used to be packed on a
regular basis. the two duncan yo-yo experts hated the club,
but did manage to retrieve several free passes for future
Thursday visits and a couple of Saturday night visits, which
ostensibly include retro and fuck music....this is yet to be
determined. they left shortly after 1am.
driving down M street, they contemplated making the scene at
a club in georgetown, but decided against it, in favor of
getting back to the apartment and getting some refreshing
sleep, as mike's plan was to return to b-more in the morning
to work from 8:30-12:30. once across the key bridge and
heading up wilson boulevard toward andy's pad, the two adept
puppeteers came to the disturbing realization that bonehead
andy had locked his fucking keys in his apartment!
the two arachnid-thorax collectors drove to the ballston
laundromat to call the emergency lockout service. dialing
the number (522-0991), andy spoke with a lady who informed
him of a $20 charge for the service, and he gave her the nod
to send out the maintenance dude. the two drive back to the
parking lot in front of andy's apartment and waited for the
guy to show...it was 1:45am. during the wait, a man
staggered by in a concert-t, and we assumed that he would
become a statistic at the hands of some weary bus driver, as
he inadvertently stepped into the path of the Y8.
after forty-five minutes, of waiting and singing and abbing,
the two returned to the laundromat phone booth, having
decided they had waited long enough for the dickhead (who
lives onsite) to get his ass up and let them in the place.
andy's second phone call managed to get another promise out
of the lady on the other end that she would page the
supervisor this time, as the maintenance man had not answered
her pages.
driving back to the apartment, the two were really ready to
just go inside and crash. it was going on 2:45am, and they
waited another 20 minutes before deciding that instead of
taking this character to task for being tardy, they would
beat him with andy's hockey stick, and any other pain-inflicting objects that were lying around. They surmised
that he needed to die, and that when he showed up, they would
refuse to pay, and threaten to pull his facial features off
if he made any noise about it. at this point, delirium was
beginning to set in, as they were singing perverse songs and
'kinda like a's' and stuff.
andy's third phone call was a good bit more animated than the
first two had been, and he grilled the woman on the other end
of the line about the inexcusable nature of the situation,
and told her that the whole event was simply atrocious and
beyond belief. she assured him that she had been steadily
paging the supervisor and maintenance man, both onsite
personnel, and that she had, in fact spoken to the
supervisor, and he claimed to be on his way to my apartment.
after sitting in andy's lot for another half hour, taking
turns slapping rocks into the street with andy's hockey stick
and listening to oldies, the two began plotting the murder of
this fuckhead supervisor if he had the fucking gall to show
up. they decided one more call was in order. andy
absolutely hammered the woman through the phone, insisting
that she come out herself and unlock the fucking apartment,
at which time she finally revealed that she was only an
answering service, running out of fairfax, and she had no way
to affect any change in our situation, other than to continue
paging the supervisor. she said he gave her no reason for
not responding after he said he was going to the first time.
at this point, all of andy and mike's collective anger was
turned toward the fucking bastard maintenance man and
supervisor, and they actually considered going door to door
to find these persons and harm them irreparably.
they had basically decided they were not getting into the
apartment, and so andy decided to become resourceful while
mike was in a state of semi-consciousness in his dova. andy
surveyed his apartment from all angles, noticing that it
would be nearly impossible to get in from any angle. the
most strategically placed windows were all shut and locked!
andy spotted a ladder, and was considering an easy climb to
the front window, and entry, but decided against it, for fear
of being shot by the owner of the ladder. besides, it was
bound so tightly to a truck, it would've taken hours to tie
it back the way we found it.
going around to the back, andy realized that he could climb
the electrical wire-utility poles and scale his rear wall to
attempt an entry through his bedroom window. his first
ascent went off without a hitch and andy managed to remove
the screen from the window, but the john d. locke(d) window
would not budge as andy tried to force it up and disengage
the locking mechanism. returning to mike to report on the
status of the window, andy decided he really wanted in and
would give it a second try, with mike as a witness.
unfortunately, this attempt proved futile as the first had.
mike suggested that andy employ the prying tool from his car
jack set. with this, andy dashed to mike's car, and rifled
through the trunk until he found said tool. returning to
mike, who was waiting under the window, andy quickly
clambered back to his roost and set about prying the window
open. the molding began to bend, and the window was
threatening to crack, as the lock held fast, and andy was
trying to figure out his next course of action, when it
happened.....the coup de gras for the entire night of misery
and trouble.....the two still do not know what triggered this
horrifying sequence of events....perhaps andy's fiddling with
the window produced some audible PINGs....maybe it was the
hushed dialogue shared by the studmuffins....maybe it was
some loudass renegade cricket that rubbed its tiny legs
together too hard....maybe a traditional awakening, at the
body's demand to urinate in the middle of the night....but
suffice it to say, the following occurrence truly defies
accurate description.
as andy was beginning to make some headway with the window,
he discerned a faint rustling...an almost surreal stirring
directly to his right....and then
"RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"
the sound and memory will forever be indelibly etched
in the minds of andy and mike, our two heroes. the woman in
the adjacent apartment had been jolted from her sleep by the
sounds of an intruder...or so she thought...and her natural
impulse was to unleash an incredible, fantastic, primal
scream that was heartstopping, blood-curdling (though not
high pitched or particularly long in duration) and without a
doubt, the most alarming, most quintessential example of
pure, utter fear and terror that mike and andy had ever seen
displayed, and furthermore, with great likelihood, the
biggest scare the two heroes will ever give or receive in
their lives.
it was the absolute serendipity of this malicious howl, that
scared our two heroes the most...the sheer instinctual
horror, personnified in her most powerful, unrehearsed vocal
solo...it was as though some great mountain lion or vicious
bobcat had infiltrated her very being, mind, body, and soul,
for that lone instance, and given her the power and strength
to lash out at her attackers with the one weapon which might
scare them the most...her voice. and it did...the scream,
aside from scaring the living hyaena-piss out of our heroes
with it's inimitable element of surprise and unspeakable
aplomb, served to vilify them for doing what they had every
right to be doing...humilty and dejection. defeat, and
retreat. the heroes felt like a couple of dung beetles.
needless to say, andy's descent from the side of his building
as this "shout heard 'round the world" took place would put
any chimpanzee to shame in terms of speed. as he more or
less sprung outward from the side of the building and dropped
to the earth, andy admonished the woman, shouting "wait,
wait, wait...it's okay...this is my apartment...i'm locked
out of my apartment...i've been calling maintenance for hours
and they won't let me in...please...it's okay...everything is
okay...i live here...400 north goerge mason, apartment number
two" mike's reaction to the piercing scream was an
approximately fifteen-foot recoil, as though he'd been
physically knocked backward by the force of her mighty yell.
andy asked her if she was okay, and she said "yes," even
though her normally dark complexion was ashen and more or
less whiter than a sheet.
the two young b & e artists returned to the front of the
building as the 5am hour was fast approaching, and decided
that any further calls or attempts to get in the apartment
would be futile. it was at this time that they opted to
drive to 7-11 on wilson boulevard for an EXTREMELY late
dinner. andy's hunger was quelled with some nachos with
chili, cheese, onions, and jalapenos and a double gulp (1/2
gallon) of dr. pepper. mike settled on the nachos with
cheese and jalapenos, and a double gulp of mountain dew. as
if they had not already suffered an unconscienable amount of
undue inconveniences, the fucking chili and cheese dispensers
were both on the fritz, so the condiments had to be applied
with spoons. after painstakingly fixing their nachos to suit
their palates, the two great gastronomes purchased their
comestibles and set out for andy's parking lot.
shortly after their return, both having faces full of pseudo-mexican goo, the two knights in shining cotton saw something
neither of them believed at first...it was the staggerer from
almost four hours earlier, and he had returned from wherever
it was that he came, still staggering along, oblivious to the
texture of the ground, which changed with his every step, as
he alternated his ambling between swaggering on the sidewalk
and stumbling through the street. another bizzarro to be
spotted by our heroes was a fat lady who walked off after the
drunk had gone by and returned ten minutes later, carrying
three huge pillows over her head. the two young warriors
were ready to believe anything at this point.
as the 6am hour approached, mike and andy decided it was time
to make their obligatory phone calls to their employers.
andy called the lady at the answering service and apologized
for his earlier hostility toward her, and informed her that
he would be filing official complaints against the
supervisor, and she told andy that she had already written a
long, nasty note to buckingham about how inefficient their
system is and how this unfathomable event should never had
occurred. then andy called his boss, and explained that he
had been and still was locked out of his apartment, and would
be until about 9am, so his presence at work was not to be
expected. mike left a message that he would be in late, and
the two headed back to andy's lot once more, at 6:20am. they
fell asleep almost instantly, and napped restlessly, until
8:30am, when mike awoke, as if by some outside force, and the
two drove to the office to finally gain access to the
apartment.
andy barged into the rental office in an exhausted funk,
demanding immediate access to his apartment be granted him.
The groggy rental person knew what was coming, as the lady
from the answering service had warned her that a young man
might very well barge into the rental office bearing a
howitzer and blast them all into oblivion, if for no other
reason than they all had likely slept in warm beds. The lady
was immediately apologetic, offering her sincere condolences
for the misfortune. Andy was in no mood for babbling drivel,
and stated that he was too furious to even begin an
explanation of how colossal a fuck-up the ol folks at
buckingham had managed to pull off. Fearing for the
publicity fallout that an enraged episode with the andyman
might evoke (and most probably her own life, had she not
acted so fast), the lady quickly dispatched a maintenance man
to let the two intrepid nighthawks into andy's abode. She
had the good taste, or rather the good sense, to send someone
other than Kevin, who most certainly would've been torn apart
by mike and andy more quickly than a victim of the bacchae.
The two young rugby fullback prodigies retrieved the
necessary accouterments from andy's hovel and hit the road
almost immediately, in search of a replacement tire for the
donut, which they had to protect from cops, who were
constantly attacking the radial, fangs bared, in a frantic
attempt to taste the lovely radial jelly inside.
As an aside, my WP6.1 is being a marsupial turd and
capitalizing every word that begins a sentence, fucking up my
e.e. cummings-esque style, which graces most of the body of
this story with its dearth of capitalizations. I guess that
makes me a socialist penner. Tenor. Beginner. Dinner. Ab.
Anyway, the two former bash-brother (canseco/mcgwire)
fanatics made ballston exxon their first stop. They were not
tended to immediately, which led them to mutter cuss words
rather voluminously until they had gotten the attention of an
attendant. He was a cheery, chubby fellow, who informed them
that they would save money and/or get a better tire for the
money at price club in pentagon city. This further convinced
andy that those guys at ballston exxon are a totally fucking
swell lot of fellows. All of his future repairs will
probably be performed at this location, should he ever even
acquire a fucking automobile.
So the young, Pythagorean theorem-versed gents sped south on
GLEBE road toward pentagon city for the purchase and
installment of a new tire. Once in crystal city, andy hit
the nationsbank machine and withdrew fifty bucks, bringing
his bank account to dangerously low levels, considering his
outstanding debts surpassed his available fundage and he
didn't have another check coming until Monday.
the next dilemma was finding a parking spot, which didn't
take too long. Had the numbnuts twins actually been please
trying to pay the fuck attention, they would've realized that
they were golden for 3 hours of free parking at pentagon
city, but they were rather stressed at this point, and madly
strapped for cash. They parked on 15th street and footed it,
busted tire in tow, for the gleaming facade of the price club
in the distance. The two ass men were directed toward the
new member' registration area, where andy became a 60-day
trial member of the price club. After being processed and
getting a nifty card with an electronic likeness
of himself emblazoned on it, andy grabbed mike and they
strode off in search of a replacement tire.
The tire section was cordoned off with pseudo-police-line
style tape, and we looked for an employee to assist us in
making our selection. A courteous black gentleman helped us
pick an exact match...a michelin...which only cost fifty-six
bucks. Andy purchased the tire, with a little help from
mike. The two left the store and mike retrieved his auto
from 15th street and pulled into the lot and into the garage
area at the price club tire department. Andy went inside to
do the paperwork, and was informed that the tire would take
about 45 minutes to change. The cost was only seven bucks.
Mike and andy took to pentagon city outlet center. More
specifically, they browsed best buy for the better part of
their 45 minute repair hiatus. Finding much temptation, the
two strolled back roughly five minutes before mike's car came
rolling off the mechanic's hydraulic lift, good as new.
happily, they drove away, in the direction of rte. 66 for the
long drive to baltimore. Andy had gone to great lengths to
ensure a decent musical selection for the journey, which did
not include journey. The two stopped at mcdonald's for
cheeseburgers and fries, and listened to the 2 live crew,
crooning about the fuck shop' and other such pleasantries.
After the mealworm-burgers and tofu fries had been devoured,
the young codfishers struck out for baltimore, blaring tunes
as they pulled onto a crowded 495 north. The two stigmata
martyrs plodded north in stop n' go traffic on the
washington beltway for about an hour, as andy bobbed his head
and grooved to the funky-fresh fopp filtering forth from the
fuzz-box in the MABdorsche. Other motorists found this
behavior odd and somewhat annoying, but several chuckles and
smirks were interspersed among the haughty, self-righteous
glances of the visual naysayers. Once they hit the I-270
split, they started flying like a bitch in heat in the left
lane, passing the exits for wisconsin, connecticut, and
approaching georgia (yes...avenues, dumbassheadface!!!) like
mad, rampant novalightning.
They sped up rte.97 toward andy's parents' house to retreive
andy's suit for the wedding he would be attending on
Saturday. Unfortunately, there were no convenient
comestibles for andy to abscond with and no kind of appealing
ades, ales or sody-pops to wash down the inexistent repast
with, either. This, of course, attributable to the laudable
but frustrating hobby of andy's parents...gourmet
cookery...which basically guarantees that any food item found
under the roof is required to be mixed, baked, sauteed,
broiled, braised, or otherwise tended to before it can be
consumed. This hobby most likely stems from a combination of
the following: a couple of well-trained palates, which
require tasty, titillating, tantalizing treats to tackle
troublesome tedium in their diet, and b) they are aware of
the ever-growing number of telepathic criminals whose tastes
tend to lean toward junk food, and wish to deter any
aggression on the part of said high-calorie heisters.
Returning to the mike rover without so much as a large pie,
pepperoni, wings-buffalo style-, two cans of pop, and an
order of crazy bread, supersized, a distraught andy collapsed
back into the saddle for the rest of the long haul. The
young word-jumblers/expletive mumblers/acrobatic
tumblers/feta cheese crumblers pulled out of andy's driveway
and got back on rte.97 north, cruising through olney, andy's
high school stomping grounds at unconscionable speeds.
Driving through sunshine, roxbury, and lower ellicot, the
striving drivers made a right on 70 east and headed for 695.
Once on 695, they continued to break the speed limit, flying
in the left land at @ 75mph. Round about 1:45pm, the uplift
mofo party planners hit loch raven boulevard, crossed joppa,
putty hill, and eventually made their way to the apartment of
mr. bradchael and mikeley barkett.
The non-golden state warrior supporting duo sat down to some
games of NHL 94 and dorshed each other up and down the
pixellated ice. Two highlights of the hallucinatory
hockeyfest were mike's dopplegoalie, whereby his goalie came
out of net, changed into a regular skater just long enough to
hand one of andy's players his ass on a platter, and then
back into a goalie, but only for a split second (although it
was a discernable change) and then back into a regular player
to level one of his own men, before finally returning to
normal goalie countenance!!! inexplicable!!! (CONSULT MIKE
FOR OTHER FUCKCHOPULATED OCCURRENCE). These bizzare
happenings aside, the two enjoyed at least two hours of games
before deciding to grab some taco bell for dinner. Mike
dined on a soft taco (which he luckily received with the
supreme trimmings, without his having asked or being charged
for them), and a double-decker taco. Andy engulfed three
double-decker tacos with unflagging speed and both drank
large dr. peppers.
shortly after chomping down the faux-mex, the two were
distracted from their game by a phone call from brad, who was
at simon's and wanted to know if mike and andy wanted to come
over for some mild pre-marital tomfoolery that was
transpiring in the drew/carroll domain. The two dead solid
tired fuck chop faces denied the gracious gesture, citing
their brobdingnagian-sized 'fatigue due to outlandish ordeal
syndrome' (FOOS-e.g. the blue moon curse) as their excuse for
begging off. Shortly after the phone call, the two drowsy
dudes drifted off, lost in lassitude.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!!!!!! onomatopoetry in
motion. The all-harm clock stirred the andster who pounded
out three or four snooze alarm reprises before rising and
stumbling into the shower. Mike remained in his cocoon of
comfort, sleeping soundly, while cascades of soapy water
cleansed the dirt, grime, and superficial scrapes on andy's
body, but did nothing to excise the still-active blue moon
curse, which clung to his soul as a titanic victim to a
lifeboat. Andy took great care in wiping his nuts and
buttcrack with a towel he filched from mike/brad/gabe. With
sparkling anus and buffed doodads, he made like a rabbit,
hopping into his Sunday second-best in preparation for the
wedding.
Taking mike's car under the I don't feel like getting my
lazy ass up and driving you, so take it and don't even think
of wrecking it or i'll hire a bigass guy named rocko to break
all your fucking bones for ya' clause, Andy set out for
lovely catonsville to witness the marriage of his longtime
college pal and co-train jumper, simon drew, to his beautiful
new bride, the fair jenny carroll. The drive was uneventful.
Arriving early, andy ate two 7-11 hot dogs, a tastykake
koffee kake (blatant misspellings used to accentuate the
tendency of snack food industry magnates to revert to
redneck-appeasing tactics, namely the alliteration of words
beginning with "k" in the name of selling malnutritious pap)
and a can of dr. pepper. Then he tallied forth into nearby
pier one imports to purchase four large cafe au lait mugs for
simon and jenny. Next, andy picked up a bitchin', supercute
bag to put the fragile items in.
having done this, the andmeister sped off toward the church
at the private school to witness the marriage of his pal and
his pal's betrothed. It was a nice ceremony, attended by
several effete members of society, including the following:
dr. wavie gibson-jivemaster and english professor
extrordinaire, bestower of the great and rampant urge to
create works of uncompromising literary quality upon the
author of this estimable epoch, and personification of one of
the coolest, most bumpinbatical names ever bequeathed a human
by his ancestors...dr. ray ziegler-tickler of ivories (and
ebonies), and listener to/player of/writer of/creator of
ideas, musical and otherwise, with which he could profoundly
shake the world if he chose to do so. He played the organ
during the rites, churning out pleasant hymns with all the
accuracy of a red-raspberry colored rolex.
the bird seed pelting that ensued after the wedding was worth
waiting through the seemingly endless cadences of those near
and dear to the two lovebirds, preening and posing for the
most annoying photographer ever to erect a tripod. Simon's
asinine poses of grandeur were the highlight of the photo
shoot.
the whole crowd proceeded to the reception, which was held in
a nice country inn near reisterstown. Andy was relegated to
a table in the back of the restaurant to chat and dine with
four individuals he had not met before. Due to his
(un)natural tendency toward extroversion, this did not prove
to be a problem. They spoke about school and cars and other
"x'ers wanting desperately to have the financial prowess and
social stature of boomers" type subjects, while andy held his
tongue. When the conversation turned to music, andy spoke
freely, astounding his audience with his vast knowledge of
music. After the initial ice-breaking conversation had worn
away, they bared their souls and talked about sex with
animals and smoking jimson weed and slayings they had
committed. This part didn't really happen, but it's good to
get embellishment out of the way, as this is a work of
facts...something the bible can only aspire to be.
Lunch took awhile, and when it was finally time to sample
succulent saucy shells and munch marvelous meat medallions,
andy was up to the challenge. He filled his plate twice and
ate like a man possessed. He ate like he wanted to eat as
bad as the man on senate insurance commercials wants to be
insured. He ate like he was truly fungry. After yummy
lunch, coffee, and an outsize slab of wedding cake, he was
sated. Then the newlyweds departed with precious rubies in
their hold! Andy sped back to the bradpad, home of mike,
brad and gabe, in the mabmobile after saying his goodbyes and
boodguys.
once he returned, he woke mike's lazy ass from an extended
12" slumber for some sega hockey and brainstorming on what to
do with the rapidly approaching evening. They decided to go
out for some subbage at subway with brad and serena which was
tasty and uneventful, save some slight bickering between andy
and serena over sub club points. The original plan was to
get the subs, then trot across the street to wendy's for some
frosty action. The blue moon curse precluded this, though,
as the wendy's closed at 5pm, roughly 15 minutes before their
arrival.
So then brad, mike, and andy returned to aberdeen drive and
serena to her apartment. The triumvirate of troublemakers
engaged in lots of ensoniq experimentation, sega hockey
playing, and general abbing for the next few hours.
Eventually, they decided it was a good time to adjourn to
loyola computer lab for some network quake. They called
serena and waited for her to arrive before cruising to giant
for a cube of mountain dew and a whole lot of sunflower
seeds! I mean lots of em!
Mike and andy sparred relentlessly with one another through a
few heated games of sega hockey, with many middle fingers and
loud exclamations of "DORSCH" exchanged between the two as
goals were scored and pixillated characters crushed into
pathetic heaps of electro-hospitalizable flesh on the screen.
Serena arrived some time around 12:30, and the foursome
trotted out the doorsome and headed for the local 24 hr.
Supermarket to procure the aforementioned goodies.
they then sped off in the direction of loyola for some after
hours computer abuse. Mike configured quake for network
play, and the four digitized destroyers undertook a nearly
four hour fleshflaying fragfest that saw casualties in the
hundreds mount up at a breakneck pace. Mike, being the
resident quakemaster, took little time to decimate his
opponents and amass kills in the triple digits. Serena got
tired and made a judgment call, citing work as the reason, to
turn in around 4am.
The others continued to utilize the loyola network for the
most appropriate purposes, sifting through the steamy world
of cybersex. Many chuckles and snickers issued forth from
the three men as they perused the wild and wacky world of
greyhawks...quite possibly the nastiest website on the net.
Several of these treasures were printed out for posterity and
sheer amusement value by the young triumvirate of turkey-carcass trimmers, and other websites explored.
Round about 6:30am, they got the fuck outta dodge depositing
brad at serena's and returning to the roost. Mike and andy
slept most of the rest of the morning, until andy woke up at
around 1pm. He immediately raised mike for some sega hockey.
The two played for awhile, with the usual mist of post-goal
cusswords hanging heavy in the air.
Around 2pm, they got a call from brad, requesting they pick
him up, and head to simon's apartment to return the tuxedo
brad had worn during the wedding. Mike and andy pieced it
together, put it in the mabmachine and tore out of aberdeen
road like a man from a human cannonball cannon that fucks up,
super-cliche style, and fires him so far he breaks through
the big top and sends the tent billowing toward the ground
while spectators scream and the man's body hurtles through
space. Well, not really.
They came to a stop at the redlight one before the one at the
giant/bach hotel intersection, when a kind young woman
pointed out that a very nicely shined pair of patent leather
shoes were resting on the roof of the mabmobile. Mike
retrieved them, remarking that the blue moon curse still had
hold of them...close call. They picked up brad and cruised
around 695 in the direction of simon's residence. Upon
arrival and inspection of the tux, it was determined that the
bowtie had been left at brad's apartment...yet another attack
of blue moon fever. Some time was spent at simon's, banging
on bongos and talking about trivialities.
andy had to return to Arlington to clean his apartment, do
laundry, and prepare for the upcoming week. Mike and brad
drove him home and left him at his apartment, where he
reached in his pocket and was immensely relieved to find his
keys. The young warriors parted ways with well wishes for
the immediate future and tentative plans to get together soon
and NOT do it all again.
The End.