Saturday, March 26, 2011
I live in a constant state of fear, sad but true. It's true because my fears are based on real things and sad because I am such a pussy that they would frighten me to begin with.
Let's take movies for example. I am not one of those people who get terrified by those bloody slasher flicks where maniacs are running rampant hacking people to death. I live in Texas and have been to the border, this simply doesn't phase me.
What does scare me in a movie is the unknown. Something horrific you could never imagine happening turning out to be true. After viewing the "Blair Witch Project" I was too scared to venture outside the theater, let alone in or around the woods. I can no longer be around corn fields thanks to the movie "Signs". I freak out at the blinking of a light compliments of "Paranormal Activity" and I too see dead people since watching "The Sixth Sense". On a side note I am also terrified of Zooey Deschanel's acting since being exposed to the movie "The Happening".
In a revelation of fear I am somewhat embarrassed about, I have to admit I get very nervous and in fact sometimes fearful about being around those with Downs Syndrome. I know, I know, I do feel ashamed admitting this and it is not because I feel these individuals are beneath me or anything like that. I think what I am scared of is again the unknown. I don't know what they are going to do and how am I supposed to respond when they do it.
Is it rude to continue asking them to repeat something if you are not understanding what they are saying? To break the ice I would wonder if my mentioning how much I like the character Corky from "Life Goes On" would be appropriate. What if they spontaneously want to hug me? And not that I am considering this but what if I fall in love with someone who has Downs Syndrome? Is it wrong? These are just questions that run through my mind. The truth of the matter is no one is knocking down my door to wine and dine me at the moment, let alone an individual with Downs Syndrome.
I also have a total fear of sports. I don't enjoy playing them, watching them or even talking about them. Bring up the newest line of candles from Bath and Body Works and you can't shut me up. Sports on the other hand, they scare the hell out of me.
The few occasions I have played sports have always ended badly. When I played junior baseball I never knew what to do. In a huddle when we were asked if anyone had any questions or suggestions the other boys rambled on about positions and tactics and I would ask when our new uniforms would be coming in or question the likability of our mascot. I am not making this up! I had no earthly idea what I was doing on that field and I certainly had no right being there. The coach had placed me in the outfield where I am guessing the bad players are sent. There was not much action in that position, thank God. I would spend my time in the outfield ignoring the game and picking bouquets of wild flowers for my mom.
I fear for my health, even when there is no reason to. My Friend Nicole is constantly reprimanding me for overreacting to my ever widening array of imagined skin disorders. Once, on our way to lunch, I noticed a small red mark on my upper leg. Visions of skin cancer and flesh eating viruses soon began dancing in my head and I couldn't concentrate on anything else. I instantly made Nicole aware of the situation at hand and was quickly scolded and told there was nothing to be scared of. "Nothing to be scared of"? Was she not looking at what I was looking at? I was turning into the elephant man before her very eyes and she blows it off like it is nothing. Like some distraught toddler I began to pout and point to my leg to further the legitimacy of my claim until we were forced to pull over to purchase a tube of antibiotic cream for what turned out to be a small scratch that went away in about two hours.
What is my number one fear in life? I would have to say animals. I am just about terrified of every single one of God's creatures big and small. I absolutely have what is called alektorophobia, which is the fear of chickens. This fear is to an extent that I can't even watch them on television. It begins when I think of the little cones on their heads, then their pointy beaks and moves on to the disgusting alien like objects they have as claws. I am restricted from venturing to petting zoos or county fairs. I prefer my chicken battered and fried in an original recipe of secret herbs and spices compliments of the colonel.
Reptiles also don't do me any favors. I am terrified of snakes. I look back now and I figure my fear is a result of being punished terrorizing my mother with rubber snakes as a child. My mom is also a big snake scaredy and would react to even the word being mentioned as though she had just witnessed a mass slaying.
My brother and I would take it upon ourselves to sneak into the bathroom when she was showering and throw a rubber snake over the shower curtain and run. The result would be my mom locking herself into the bathroom and scream/cry for about 30 minutes afterwards. We would sometimes end up getting spanked if she hadn't cooled off by the time my dad got home from work.
The animal that sends the most shivers up my spine? Pit Bulls. You can say all you want about how they are bred to be killers by horrible people and that it's not really in their true nature. Whistle that all day long, I'm not buying it. These animals just scare the bejeezus out of me. A birthday party for a friend was being held at one of his relatives house. The man owned a pit bull that would freely make his way back and forth across the living area. I sat on the couch frozen in fear talking myself down from an imaginary ledge the entire length of the party. "Don't let it know you're scared Kyle, They smell fear" I silently told myself. "Oh Holy baby Jesus it saw you looking at it and that can be confrontational YOU IDIOT".
My friend Pam houses two very large dogs, one of which is a Pit Bull. These dogs are CONSTANTLY up to no good, destroying items in Pam's house, nearly killing other relatives cherished pets and generally causing havoc and chaos.
Pam recently reported waking to a strange smell inside her home. These dogs had managed to actually turn the knobs on the stove to the on position releasing gas inside of the house as Pam peacefully slept. I am all for having pets but when they attempt homicide it is time to take action. I now warn Pam to watch her back with those dogs. My fear is that one day she will be roused out of her sleep with duct tape over her mouth, one dog binding her hands and the the other holding a knife to her throat.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
They say it's the thought that counts when giving or receiving a gift. If this is true and that the amount of thought reflects upon the giver,then people fall into two categories. 1. Caring to a fault and 2. Doesn't give a rat's ass.
Although she meant well, My grandma Weaver was notorious for her bad gift selections. My grandmother would spend her Saturdays trolling yard sales and flea markets for gifts for her grandchildren only to show up on Saturday night a sack full of used clothing which often included underwear for my brother and myself. Proud of her latest garage sale chic treasures, she would hold up a worn out pair of boys Hanes and proclaim them "good as new once you bleach them". My mother would take the clothes with an appreciation for her thought but also a repulsion to it. We know what kind of person buys the underwear, my grandma. Who is actually selling this stuff? Did they run out of old coffee mugs and velvet paintings at their garage sale. At some point did the conversation go something like this: "We are almost out of stuff to sale for the yard sale, although little Johnny has just about outgrown his Fruit of the Looms, whadaya say we throw those in there just take make an extra 15 cents?"
At one childhood Christmas get-together I was given the game "Cooties" by my grandmother. Cooties is similar to Mr. Potato Head, if Mr Potato Head had an outbreak of lice. Upon receiving the gift I was appalled at the uselessness in such a game and my nine year old little ass proceeded to throw one outstanding little hissy fit. This type of behavior was not acceptable in my family and God knows I knew exactly what would be happening to be later, but apparently the gift was so abominable I felt it was worth it to kick up my heels and have a tantrum. I was quickly spanked, preached to and demanded to return to the living room to apologize to my grandmother who had "taken the time to get me such a nice gift" I apologized but I didn't mean one word of it. Even at 9 years old I knew a shitty gift when I saw one.
I personally don't give extravagant gifts but they most certainly come with a lot of thought. During a vacation with a boyfriend we camped in a tent in an old RV park outside of Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Neither of us had a lot of money and were doing good just to get to go away for a couple of days, even if it was the middle of a tourist area known for their celebration of the American Hillbilly.
I wanted to surprise Jason with a bouquet of flowers when he awoke. I snuck out early and noticed that there was a cemetery next to the RV park. I casually crossed over the fence and proceeded to pick a fresh collection of Iris and Tulips to bring to my boyfriend. They were just growing along the fence begging to be picked! It's not like a opened a casket and pried them out of their cold hands. I don't know where Jason thought the flowers had come from, but thank God he never asked.
My time spent with another boyfriend brought two very special gifts: our first date and our last one.
I had told John that I loved salsa so much I could drink it straight out of a glass through a straw. On our first date he had invited me to his house for a special meal complete with homemade salsa sitting in a glass at my place setting with a straw in it and a note that read "for you". Before we get too teary eyed here lets jump ahead 3 months later to our last date. John had invited me to Joe's Crab Shack for dinner. A strange choice seeing as he knew how much I hate seafood. At the meal John announced that he was breaking up with me because he wasn't ready to be in a relationship, which is just a nice way of saying "I am just not feeling it dawg". Let me tell you I was happy to be wearing a plastic lobster bib, it helped repel both butter sauce and the tears that soon followed.
My friend Rob is a notorious re-gifter. I have an annual holday party and if you are lucky enough to swing an invite to this glamorous social occasion you are urged to bring a gift that will be exchanged with a fellow guest. When my gift was presented to me I noticed it was the package that Rob had brought with him. I excitedly opened the bag that was overflowing with a selection of scented candles and bath and body products, all of which I then realized I had given him at some point over the year. WHAT THE HELL MAN? Even if someone else had gotten the gift did he think I wouldn't have noticed? Now when I buy him a gift I just pick out something I want, cause Lord knows I will be getting that shit back on my birthday.
An ex-roommate I had who is still a good friend is a very distinct gift giver. Each year I came to expect something well thought out and very personal, even the cards!
Upon his return from a two week vacation he eagerly announced he had a gift for me. "I wonder what it could be" I thought. Local art from Cape Cod? A handcrafted gourmet item? A piece of clothing that detailed New England? I anxiously unwrapped his gift taking my time undoing the bow and placing each ribbon to the side. Carefully tearing down the walls of colorful wrapping paper until the item was finally revealed. There on the table sat a rather large bottle of personal lubricant. A gag gift? I smiled and looked at Tom who also smiled but with a look that said: "this is not a gag gift" OH MY GOD! Was this really happening? Is this what people thought of me, that a well lubricated sex act was now on the top of my gift expectation list.
Two years later Tom be quested me a pair of those underwear with the fake butt sewn into them. I don't think I really know what Tom thinks of me but I am pretty sure he thinks I don't have an ass, but I want to tap as many as I can get my hands on.
When I worked at Olive Garden we had an annual secret Santa Christmas gift drawing. The limit is always twenty dollars and the gift I brought one year was a pair of microfiber memory foam house slippers. I thought it might be a nice gift especially for a server who was on their feet all day. Granted it wasn't one of Oprah's Favorite Things, but it was nothing to sneeze at and it did fulfill the twenty dollar minimum. Since the gifts were all wrapped no one knew what they were getting or of course who they were from. The gift I ended up getting was Sandra Bullock's "Murder by Numbers" This was 2009 and that movie had come out in 2002. How exactly did someone spend twenty dollars on it? It had clearance bin written all over it, but me being the Christian boy I am took it with love and admiration in my heart.
Our bartender Luke had picked up my gift and seemed genuinely content with it. I approached Luke later to try to get a clue as to what he really thought of the gift he hat gotten from his unknown secret Santa. "So what did you end up getting as your secret Santa gift Luke?" I sheepishly asked. Luke immediately turned red-faced and loudly proclaimed: "I got some crappy house shoes, just what the fuck am I supposed to do with them?
I had an idea what Luke could in fact do with the house shoes, but it being the Baby Jesus' birthday I kept it to myself.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Road trips have never really been my thing. I believe a major road block (pun intended) in my fear of road trips started during childhood.
Immediately as soon as anyone breathed the words road trip, my father turned into Jeff Gordon on a mission to deliver human kidneys to a children's hospital. The number one priority my dad had from then on out was to reach our destination in record time.
Unfortunately my dad's timeliness meant misery was in store for me. We stopped for NOTHING. Bigfoot could have wandered out of the woods wearing a bedazzled bikini and singing "Party in the USA" by Miley Cyrus and it still would not merit as much as a slow down.
We would pass snake farms, the world's biggest ball of twine, historical markers and caves and caverns, each promising the thrill of a lifetime only to be told "we were making good time".
Even bodily functions took a backseat,literally, to our driving time. When my brother or I had to go to the bathroom we were simply given an empty Peter Pan peanut butter jar and expected to discreetly do our business behind the passenger seat as if it were some secluded woods in the middle of nowhere. More than once I contemplated taking a number two in that jar just to spite my father.
Seeing new signs and advertisements does interest me, but not to a point where I become mesmerized or confused over what I am witnessing.
While driving with a friends mother I was intrigued at how she had to read every single road sign or advertisement that came our way. It was her job to warn or inform me of any new sign I may have missed while keeping my eyes glued to the road. She would read aloud: "NEXT EXIT TWO MILES", "ROAD WORK AHEAD", "McDonald's EXIT 251B". Why do I need to be alerted to this I would think, as Linda recited the distance to the next 3 towns on a marker we had just passed.
While driving to a spring break destination with my ex roommate, Tom had been sleeping and awakened to a sight be began to concentrate on out of the windshield. Tom was transfixed on the view in front of him and I had not really been paying attention to what he was staring at. "Is that a cow"? he remarked "It looks like a cow but maybe it's not" he continued.
"I think it's a cow he decided" I looked over to the side of the road discover the object of Tom's attention. There stood a big white church building with Jesus painted in black paint on the side. There was even a cross and stained glass windows on the side of the building. Now I was confused and a little frightened. Did Tom really not know what a picture of Jesus was supposed to look like? What scared me even more is than he had mistaken the Lord and savior to over a billion people on this earth, as a DAIRY COW?
"I think that's Jesus Tom, waiting at any moment four the Subaru we were traveling in to be struck by lightening. "OH Is that who that is" exclaimed Tom. The mystery being solved he turned his head and went back to sleep.
I went on a birthday road trip to Dallas with my friend Jenifer, which reminded me that while half the fun is indeed getting there, it's the things you do when you get there that shape the memories you form about those destinations and your image of travelling as a whole.
Jenifer and I first arrived in Fort Worth to visit the infamous Fort Worth Stock Yards. Having heard that the tourist site was where they held a parade and cattle drive every afternoon, we were really excited about this new adventure. Fliers, Pamphlets and television commercials each portrayed the parade on a level that promised to rival even that of any Macy's Thanksgiving day event.
The parade was to start at noon and we arrived a bit early and selected a cool spot under the shade of a sprawling live oak in anticipation of the clowns, balloons and floats that would soon transform the path in front of us in a party zone.
At precisely 12 noon a cowboy on horseback slowly meandered out of a corral as six tired looking head of Texas Longhorns lazily sauntered in our direction. "GET COW" the cowboy yelled and fifty five seconds later it was over.
"How'd y'all like the parade"? store clerks and locals would ask us later. "If you are speaking of the half dozen cows that were paraded in front of us for less than a minute, we liked it just fine thank you!" we would respond.
During this same trip, Jenifer had made it her goal to visit the Hard Rock Cafe. It did not take us long to double fist a set of long island iced teas apiece and soon were were each pretty buzzed.
I persuaded Jenifer to venture to another bar just around the block in the cities famed West End area of bars and restaurants that sit under a jungle of overpasses high above the city. Little beknownst to me the West End area had become more of a hangout for the homeless than it was a tourist trap anymore.
Now Jenifer is the type of person that may need a little reassuring to even get in a taxi, let alone journey across a hobo camp to follow me on a bar crawl. Jenifer's buzz had now become sobering fear, whereas mine had slipped into brazen foolishness. We were soon stopped by a homeless man wearing a shirt advertising the early 80's movie "A Christmas Story" and asked for spare change. Jenifer's job had now become to NOT look the man in the eye and act as something far away was beckoning us immediately. My job had become to question the man about his fashion decisions. In my defense it was just hilarious to see this 6 ft five man wearing a shirt that detailed a little boy sticking his tongue to a frozen light pole that read "I double dog dare you". I took the words on the man's shirt just a little too seriously and asked the gentleman if it would not be too much trouble that if we did give him some money that we might be able to take a picture with him. The man obliged and I struck quick pose as Jenifer got out her camera.
Looking back it was probably a tad unsafe to be fraternizing with the locals the slept under a bridge with a knife in his pocket, I mean he was already pissed that he had to wear Christmas hand me downs from 1983 and now had drunk tourists taunting him. Jenifer snapped the picture and a glassy confused sheen quickly came over the homeless man. Jenifer whispered "I'm uncomfortable" and we ran for our lives back to the comfort of the Hard Rock for another round of Long Island iced teas.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
For the first twelve years of my life I was not allowed to eat corn dogs. My mother had told us that most likely the delectable treats, I would stare at in culinary wonder, were the product of questionable carnival workers with a penchant for using cat meat to make their goods. Thus began a life filled with worry about things that were most likely untrue.
I was a heavy child so the corn dog myth really got to me. It was almost too much to deal with when I would go to the fair and take in the scent of fried meal and byproducts being churned to a crisp golden brown. I once almost went against my mothers wishes and purchased the treat, until the thought of the local stray calicoes and tabbies being slaughtered, ground up and deep fried began to turn my stomach.
My mother is a very loving person, who only wanted to protect us from the evils of the world, but am one hundred percent positive that she truly believed every urban myth she handed down to us. Looking back some of the conspiracy theories she handed down to us during our childhood, don't seem to make any sense now.
Mom also warned us against purchasing treats from our local ice cream man because she believed it to be a ruse involving an undercover narcotics operation being run from from inside a frozen van. I often imagined the children buying blow pops and crunch bars would be later found in back alleys with their throats slashed in a pool of melted cream mixing with their own blood. To this day I still can't hear the tune "Turkey in the straw" without cringing. Nor can I simply pick up a pack of fudge bars without wondering about the illegal facade being used to bring it into my possession.
As I got older my mothers warnings turned to hazards of the roadway. She warned me to "never run over a box in the street, it may have a baby inside of it." A BABY? FOR REAL? This boggled my teenage mind and I found myself wondering how exactly this feat would happen in the first place. Why would someone put a baby in a box in the street and not just throw it in the garbage? Could they not get the baby to stop crying? Was it like accidentally throwing away an item like your keys, but with a baby instead? Had the baby been bad? I still have the urge to dial Child Protective Services when seeing a bag of trash or packing box that has made it's way into to the street. Part of me actually wants to get out and look for the baby inside, but the logical part of me is too scared to think of actually responding to someone who sees me doing this. "Oh no I am not homeless, just checking for abandoned babies". "YES I"M SERIOUS" "NO I DON'T WANT YOUR DOLLAR, I AM TRYING TO SAVE A NEWBORN LIFE HERE!".
During this time I also witnessed the protective myths and warnings issued by the parents of my peers. In Junior High School a mentally challenged girl by the name of Liz had been told by her mother that if she kissed a boy she would become pregnant. Liz actually had a boyfriend in Junior High, a feat I was actually jealous of. Even today when a relationship ends for me I find myself thinking "Geez I bet Liz doesn't have this problem". Nevertheless, Liz's boyfriend did in fact kiss her. Remembering her mothers warning Liz began to dress in larger blouses and sweat pants to hide what she thought was her impending baby bump. To make matters worse somehow Liz had managed to accidentally superglue her left eyelid shut, forcing her to come to school wearing an eye patch. For a full month that poor girl endured every "retarded baby pirate joke" that could be flung at her until her mother found out about the kiss and set the record straight.
My father had myths of his own he tried to instill in my mind. I look back now and realize his superstitions actually grew out of homophobia. My dad insisted I only watch shows that he thought would not promote any type of gay behavior. MASH and GUNSMOKE reruns were on 24 hours a day. I desperately yearned to watch GOLDEN GIRLS and DESIGNING WOMEN but had been warned previously against viewing them.
I now wonder how a situation comedy centered around four senior citizen women would invoke one to become sexually attracted to a member of the same sex. DAMN BETTY WHITE AND HER GAY AGENDA!
In keeping with my fathers wishes there would be many things in my childhood I would do without including; teal colored clothing, bubbles, facial care products (except LAVA soap), candles and once when I was eleven a really cool R2D2 necklace from the STAR WARS collection.
On the approved list were; flannel shirts, fishing poles, BRUT cologne, RED WING work boots and on special occasions an orange sherbert push up bar from the ice cream man to the chagrin of my mother.
All in all I didn't turn out so bad. I do however eat corn dogs like there is crack cocaine inside of them. Have a frequent buyer card at Yankee Candle. And still find myself sneaking off to watch the Golden Girls. LONG LIVE BETTY WHITE!
Saturday, March 5, 2011
I am a true believer in romance. I like cards, flowers and gifts as much as anyone, but what really makes an impact with me is how well the first date goes. Unfortunately my first dates go about as well as a Charlie Sheen custody trial.
On a recent date I let the guy I had met pick the restaurant we would be dining. Keep in mind I am a gay man about to go on a date with another gay man. I was instructed to be at Hooters precisely at 6pm. Was this a joke of some sort I wondered. Could I possibly be getting punked? Unfortunately it was not a joke. I spent about fifteen minutes of our first date hearing about his sexual rendezvous, bouts with depression and legal mishaps. Next came a course of warm beer, greasy chicken wings and more than a fair share of breasts. I couldn't take anymore and excused myself and walked out.
On another occasion I was asked out by a doctor to go to a Mexican restaurant. You would think a doctor might be able to afford a date, especially if he is doing the asking. This was not the case however. We had met online and the picture I had access to showed a fairly good looking gentleman in his late 30's, dark hair with a friendly smile. When the man showed at my door step I almost shooed him away with a broom. Was it just me or was this man the spitting image of the character Gollum from the Lord of the Rings sage?
Gollum asked that I drive to the restaurant that he had chosen. We arrived at a very nice Latin restaurant and were soon given chips and salsa at our table. Immediately Gollum reached out both arms wrapping them around the chips and salsa and pulling them to him in something like a protective bear hug. I reached into the bowl for a chip and am not sure but I think he had started to growl at me.
When it came time to pay I would have been fine paying for my own, but Gollum had asked me to come here, to an expensive restaurant with him. We both stared at the bill like it was some sort of circus side show highway accident, until I could take no more and paid the Bill myself. Gollum asked me to watch a movie at his house with him , but fearing I might have to pay part of the cable bill I politely declined. Gollum slinkered back to his condo, his belly full of chips and salsa.
My first date with a co-worker was with a man I had worked with at my second job at Restoration Hardware. I was very excited to go out with Ryan. He was very attractive, seemed a little shy but friendly and sweet. Our first date involved ordinary take out and watching a movie at my place. Everything was going fine until Ryan announced he thought he had another movie in his car we might enjoy. Honestly I think it was clear we both were not enjoying the acting skills of Madonna in the feature presentation "The Next Best Thing", so I said fine. Ryan returned with a large selection of pornographic movies and announced we could watch any that I wanted to "my choice". For real man? Why does that freak factor have to come out every stinking time? Why can't, just once, the movie my date brings with him be "Breakfast at Tiffany's" and not "Breakfast for Tiffany".
I think my worst date would have to be with a younger guy. Mark was always at the clubs when I was still going out in my late 20's. Eventually he asked me out and aside from being a little immature he seemed like an OK guy. Mark took me to Red Lobster and to impress me ordered a bottle of wine. Really it doesn't take that much to impress me on a first date anymore. Show up with shoes and most all your teeth and we can usually strike a deal. Mark insisted on the wine and our server asked for his identification. Mark immediately looked nervous and handed the waiter his drivers license. The waiter apologized and announced he could not offer Mark wine because he was underage. OK, so he is not 21 like he told me and is 20, no biggie i thought to myself. I am sure he is embarrassed and doesn't want to bring it up. As our conversation progressed I asked if he had class in the morning. Mark had told me that he was in his first year of college. "Tomorrow is a teacher work day. In College? I pondered. Oh sweet baby Jesus this was not happening to me. A million thoughts immediately ran through my mind and half of them involved NBC's Chris Hanson and a decoy. I immediately carded Mark. EIGHTEEN he was in high school. HIGH SCHOOL! but thank God he was 18. Had it really come to this? Me, escorting high school seniors to the local Red Lobster?
All in all I am still a believer in first dates. I just now try to not let them involve high school students, boobie bars or porn.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
A few years after college my good friend Teresa and her husband invited me an annual party their friend Bluto held at his lake house. Yes, Bluto looks exactly like you are imagining him. Six foot five, with a shock of curly black hair exploding away from his face sitting defiantly atop a three hundred pound frame.
My friend David and I accepted the invitaion and made our way toward the lake house. We arrived to find 30-40 people partying in what appeared to be a hippy commune complete with a tie dye station and copious amounts of herbal medication and beer stacked in every fridge and ice cooler on the grounds. The lake house itself was very nice and not what we expected. This was a three level structure with an outside deck on each level overlooking the lake.
As we entered the residence David immediately became nervous and I advised him to just have a beer and try to relax. David was not used to a rougher party crowd and some of these people could definitely party.
As the night progressd we became more and more intoxicated but still well within functioning status. The crowd became louder and louder. Before long I noticed through the main doorway a man entered dressed in what appeared to be a Hells Angel's style Biker getup, complete with a big mustache and dingy denim and leather from head to toe. David had immediately zeroed in on the biker. For one reason or another bikers in particular scared the bejeezus out of David. The look in Davids eyes said; please don't rape me and leave me for dead. This did not look promising.
Ignoring the biker, Teresa and I somehow had begun amusing ourselves by singing redneck mountain music in duet form for the room to enjoy. As we began our tribute to the tv show Beverly Hillbillies, complete with song and dance, the biker mistook our backwoods showmanship for a personal invitation to drunkenly stumble around the room offering his square dancing prowess to anyone who might be interested.
David, now drenched in sweat was averting his eyes to the wandering biker and mouthing what appeared to be the Lords Prayer. Now David was by no means a small guy, shorter than Bluto but weighing the same. David had glued himself to a small wooden chair in the corner atop the munchy food consisting of about 20 bags of Lays potato chips. And then it began to happen. The biker approached David, doing a little jig from side to side, slapping his leg and yelling "YEE HAW" into my friends face. "How bout a little trip around the dance floor buddy"? the biker slurred. A tear formed in the corner of David's eye and he quietly said no thank you to the offer to be paraded around the room by the bastard love child of Grizzly Adams and Dog the Bounty Hunter.
The biker decided he had been rejected enough during the evening and fell on top of david and the rickety chair. David was now receiving what I think was supposed to be a head noogie. David had tried to play it cool and was now in full freak out mode. The last words we heard before it happened was a cry/scream of "NO, GET OFF OF ME PLEASE". And then with a single but defining crack the partygoers eyes all focused on the catastrophe in progress. It seemed to be happening in slow motion. A crack, a splinter, a muffled cry followed by a drunken gaffaw and the next thing you know the chair is in hundreds of pieces and David and the biker locked in an unintentional position that I don't think was cool with Jesus.
To this day that moment still sets the record for the funniest moment of my life. I couldn't help but scream with hilarity as those around me lifted the man off of David and tried to make sure they were both ok.
The biker was eventually escorted from the party and David was now practically inconsolable and embarassed beyond belief. One by one peope came up and patted him on the back and expressed their genuine embarrasment for the situation.
David had offered to pay Bluto for the chair with Bluto telling him not to worry about it. We decided to take David upstairs away from the crowd and potato chip dust that was reminding him of what had just gone down.
On the upper deck David, myself, Teresa and Bluto each relaxed in the cool night air. The deck had been furnished with an expensive patio set that included a giant oak and crystal lantern sitting on the railing that belonged to Bluto's parents. After about a half hour David was now feeling in control again and we decided to try to make our way back down to the party. David had been leaning against the railing behind Bluto and Teresa and pushed himself off the barrier to go inside. As David pushed he also had managed to knock down the lantern wich was now tumbling toward the lake rocks. I looked at David, he looked at me and then came the crash. Bluto having already made his way inside turned around to ask "what was that sound?" "NOTHING" we both said and quickly made our way out of the party.