Quint's stint as Santa Claus

Ole Quint enjoyed his Christmas very much. That's right, people. This season I decided to get in the holiday spirit, and figured it might be a good idea to lay off the particular brand of "spirits" that so often seem to land this wily seafarer in a hotbed of trouble. So, rather than hard boozin', I opted for a serious opium session instead. Lordy lord was that a bad idea, and now I'll tell you all the reasons why...

Me friend Legless Larry recently aided me in acquiring a job at the local shopping plaza. The booty would be 6 dollars an hour under the table to spend a few hours in the guise of Santa Claus himself, a job I all too hastily accepted. However, it just so happened that the opium session immediately preceeded the inaugural planting of my ass on the seat of all seats, and during my very first shift I learned much to my dismay that opiates are frowned upon by both supervisors and parents alike.

After falling asleep with a child in my lap and slumping to the floor soon after with a dark urine stain on the mall's scarlet Santa pants, my boss, a pretty man named Howard Dobbins, decided to intervene. Such was the end to the possibility of my advancing towards a lucrative and rewarding career as ole St. Nick. Ah well, I guess I have enough personalities already, me friends. Harharharharharharhar!!!

So I spent the rest of the holiday on a bender...then in jail...then on a bender again. Oh, and then I spent some time in the library, but I was simply using the historical reference section as a latrine because the Pizza Hut next door wouldn't permit me to make use of their facilities. So what if the dishwasher has a restraining order out on me! I happen to be a human being with a urinary tract infection, God damn it! It's not like I would have been capable of "stalking" or "harassing" or "aggravatingly assaulting" the guy, or whatever else it said on the papers...not when I had to pee that fuckin' bad!

Anyway, that whole deal led me back to jail, where I also happened to enjoy a bender, happily abusing the "tits" a fellow inmate provided me with as a kind gesture of welcoming a "first-time user". Typically, that's not a term one could apply to ole Quint, but in this case it did happen to be the first time I enjoyed rat poison, so I guess there's not much I can say in disagreement.

Election Day

Well, ladies and gents, ole Quint has slacked off something awful these past couple of weeks, and he fears that it will cost him the presidential election. The fact that I spent more time imagining myself campaigning during my last acid trip than I actually did in reality, I'm going to venture a guess and say that I probably stand very little chance of winning.

So, what to do now? Perhaps sail the seven seas once more. Maybe start a rock and roll band and tour the world, no doubt spending an inordinate amount of time in Amsterdam guzzling absinthe and smoking reefer. Oh, and not to mention soliciting prostitutes in the red light district! I could even start my own outlaw motorcycle club and ride around clubbing pedestrians to within an inch of their lives...

Ahhh, all of these adventures sound lovely indeed, but they are merely a few choices in a nearly limitless sea of possibility. As for now, I'm preparing to head over to the local Taco Bell to rustle up some supper. You wouldn't believe how many chalupas they toss into that dumpster! A man could eat like a king forever. Wait a second, I probably shouldn't have told ye that. Stay away from me Taco Bell, ya brigands!

Rum, whiskey, and pot

I woke up in an alley the very next morning with no recollection of the previous eve's activities. After a few hazy minutes of contemplation, I managed to remember that my first day of campaigning went very well, and so I decided to celebrate with a lil of the ole bubbly. Being that I was well on my way to blossoming into the distinguished gentleman that I was born to become, I decided not to settle for the usual bottle of Beefeater Gin that warms my gullet during cold winter slumbers.

Instead, I opted to purchase the most expensive bottle of rum that I could find...and then several bags of marijuana, which I assure you are for medicinal purposes only. Somehow this led to several verbal disputes with men who did not appreciate my newfound political genius, and soon after to multiple physical altercations in the back alley of an establishment named The Brass Barrel.

If my memory serves me correctly, I bested every last one of my challengers, though I must be honest, my memory rarely serves me correctly. More oft than naught, it downright lies to ole Quint. Fine, I'll admit it, I'm prone to delusions of grandeur and severe hallucinations! I lost the damned fights, ya bastards! What more do you want from me?

Anyway, somehow I managed to spend all of the money I collected that first day in the Bergin Bros. parking lot, which I'm not entirely displeased with myself for doing. After all, it will help boost the moral of the crew. And anything that does such a thing can't be all bad, now can it? I don't believe that it can!

But the bad thing is that I continued along that path for several days. And by days, I mean weeks. Damn it, I spent everything that I ever collected! Fear not though, my friends and comrades, because ole Quint has finally regained composure. I realized what needed to be done. I grasped the fact that I needed to campaign and collect donations, all the while eliminating the purchase of marijuana afterwards.

Obviously, the rum would have to remain acceptable to stave off the booze shakes, and surely a fifth of Jack Daniels would be nothing but an asset to my socialiable nature, but aside from that...no wait, maybe just an eighth of canabis to calm me nerves would suffice. Yes, why a mere eighth could do no harm could it? An eighth it is!

Rum, whiskey, and pot! Quint likes them a lot!

Beer and Toking on the Campaign Trail

Considering the sun began to rise not more than an hour after my little run-in with the cardboard king and his home-deprived Lolita, there was still a great deal of work to be done. After retreating to my boxcar as if I were being chased by the conductor himself, I set about designing the most beautiful pamphlets a pre-school dropout could imagine with only a blue crayon and a mess of littered paper scraps at his disposal.

Twenty minutes later, I emerged victorious with nearly two-hundred pamphlets (scribbled writing on sugar packets and dirty napkins) bearing the slogan: "Quint McGuinley for President or he'll bash yer heads!" The scrapper began saying that perhaps I shouldn't be so aggressive at such an early stage, but I think he noticed my hand raise in the air as if to slap him again, and he immediately caught his tongue.

So, with no time to waste, I equipped the scrapper and his skank with several packets and sent them to the west side of the town, whilst I traveled east towards the coast. After a quick detour so that I could swing by the local "open 24-hours-a-day" porn shop and peruse the latest in quality entertainment, I headed directly for the first of many supermarkets that I would be visiting that day.

The first place was a fairly large establishment owned buy the Bergin Bros, or so the named suggested. There was an area directly to the left of the entrance where people would have to grab a shopping cart if they so desired, and I figured that would be as good a place as any to set up shop. I leaned against the wall in a welcoming manner, dug my hand into my jacket pocket and grabbed a pamphlet...err sugar packet if yer the picky type.

As I think back, it probably wasn't a good idea to show up at 7 in the morning. Not many people seemed willing to shop at a closed grocery store and I guess I can't blame them. Before long, though, my luck changed for the better, and a few employees showed up to open the store. I hid myself behind the shopping carts in case they would mistake me for a hobo and call the police - believe it or not, that happens a lot.

By the time everything was set up, the parking began to fill with automobiles of every sort. One of the first vehicles to park in front of Bergin Bros was a tan '87 Buick, which spewed forth a lanky old man and what I can only assume to have been his wife, for it was obvious that she was no less experience in aging than her husband. Normally, I might have advanced on her and tried to acquire myself accompaniment for that evening, but seeing as how I was there on professional business, I figured I would contain myself for the time being.

As the couple approached the carts, I rose from my hiding place and ejected my arm, practically tattooing the sugar packet of information into the old man's face. Startled, he jumped back and nearly sent his wife to the pavement, but her reflexes were apparently sharper than her wrinkled skin, for she latched onto his arm and shot me a look of both terror and what I can only assume to be longing for ole Quint.

Without even so much as a glance at the packet, the old man asked me, "What do you want? How much?" I began to think that maybe this campaign thing wouldn't be as difficult as I thought. "How much?" I asked. "Well, how much do you have?"

The old man grabbed his wife's purse and handed it over to me. I reached inside and found a petite sequined change purse that beheld a treasure of more than $200 American dollars. The way I figured it, if everyone else I talked to that day continued to donate even half that amount, I'd have a pretty substantial means for getting around the country in no time at all. I took the cash out of the purse and handed it back to the old man. "This should do nicely," I said. "You're doing your country a great service."

I did not find the look I received very obliging, but I shrugged it off thinking that perhaps I was reading into it too deeply. Either way, as the old man led his wife inside the store, I overheard him whisper something to her about "calling the cops", and whilst I saw no crimes being committed in the vicinity of Bergin Bros, I decided to depart for my next supermarket anyway. My previous run-ins with the law would fill a book, and if the cops couldn't locate any other suspects, they'd surely be willing to settle for ole Quint.

A Late Summer Night's Pipe Dream

Yaargh, I realize it's been quite some time since me last post, and for that I offer my greatest and most heartfelt apologies. But as much as I would have liked to maintain a consistent dialogue with ye via the World Wide Web, ole Quint's immune system had other plans for him. In all actuality, it comes as no surprise that I was laid up for so long. The real surprise is that I bounced back so quickly!

Let me tell you, landlubbers, tetanus is a nasty son of a bitch! I'm sure that the constant barrage of booze and drugs that I have routinely introduced to my innards ever since the tender age of 6 hasn't contributed towards my well-being, either, but I'd rather have a short, mess of a life than a long, sober, bore of one. Ah well, but that's just me.

I last left ye with the promise that I'd be running for President of the good ole US of A. Well, fear not, gentle lads and lasses, for ole Quint has been making good on that promise, despite being hard pressed to survive his many ailments. Why, just this past week I recruited a few friendly neighbors of mine to help in the pamphlet distribution.

On a particularly rough night, when sleep eluded me for longer than I would have liked, I decided to have myself a stroll down the railroad tracks. Lo and behold, there was a rather large cardboard box erected about a hundred feet to the left of the boxcar that houses me. Sitting on the makeshift patio, warming their hands on the hot flames of an impressively constructed trashcan fire, was an old scrapper and his lovely asian mistress.

Forced to duck and shield my face from the onslaught of rocks that they felt the need to pummel me with for no particular reason, I charged them like a bull on hallucinagens at a Mao Tse-tung garage sale. After throttling them good and right for attacking me in the first place, I sat them down on a tree stump, wiped the specks of blood from their lips, and introduced myself as the next President of the United States. They were quite noticeably humbled.

After the initial shock and awe subsided and their faces adopted expressions of doubt, I decided that it would be wise of me to introduce to them the logistics of my plan for acquiring the master bedroom at the White House. As I had only set about scribbling my ideas onto paper the previous evening, immediately after polishing off a particularly ticklish bottle of Nightrain with a mute prostitute named Eggla, and considering that it had only taken me five minutes to arrange my thoughts via crayon onto an empty sugar packet, I was open to any suggestions my new friends might have.

First, I figured it would be best to get my name out there. Whoever heard of someone voting for a candidate they never heard of? Certainly not me! So, I figured the best way to do this would be a tour throughout every major suburb of the United States.

My new friend, the scrapper, asked me in a rather sarcastic tone how I planned on getting around the country, being that I owned no means of transporation. I promptly backslapped him across the cheek for being so bold, and then told him that my plan is to start locally, seek representation, and then branch out elsewhere...obviously! He apologized for his rude inquisition, and then, as reparation for his brashness, offered me the opportunity to bed his mistress, which I duly accepted.

After cementing a bond with the two of them - one of physical abuse with the scrapper, and another of sexual abuse with his mistress - I decided that I would begin my ascent towards the presidency the very next morning...

Yaaaarrghh Politics!

The other day I was rummaging through the garbage of a particularly fine looking establishment, when all of a sudden I came across a newspaper article documenting the recent campaign for the Presidency of the United States of America. After wiping a particularly runny egg from the front page, and promptly licking it off my hand, I took notice of the contents and a chortle escaped from my lips (as did some runny egg). There on the front page, the current President, Georgie Porgie Bush, was plastered (referring to the image and not his blood/alcohol level for once) in black and white; wearing a smug expression on his mug as if to suggest that he could cure all ails with his beady eyes and signature condescending smirk. I personally don't buy it. In fact, he tried to help us once, and he fucked up good and right. It was and continues to be the mess known as Iraq.

My thoughts on Bush are that he is merely a pretty boy lacking one important quality required to be a pretty boy, and that, my friends, is the privilege of being pretty. Prettiness is a gift from the gods that I just so happened to receive upon conception, so I speak from experience. Yet, I must be honest - the blessing of eternal prettiness can occasionally turn around and bite the beholder in the balls. I once met a doctor in the Lesser Antilles who referred to this as gonorrhea, but I'll thank you very much not to ask why I was inquiring about it in the first place.

So, back to the matter at hand, let me pose to you a question. Without a pretty face to fall back on, what does that leave our President Bush with? Intelligence? Obviously not. Charisma? Hell no. I'll tell you what it leaves him with. Absolutely jack squat! So what good is a President who has zero skills and nothing but piss poor qualities? None whatsoever. He's gotta go!

Never an offender of the equal time rule, the newspaper made sure that directly next to Georgie's photo was a picture of the slightly more grotesque Senator John F. Kerry. Along my travels I have read many cleverly executed articles making light of Kerry's striking resemblance to the fictional Mary Shelley character, the Frankenstein monster. While I normally extract no pleasure from the mockery of another's appearance, I must admit that Kerry's picture chilled this weary ole seafarer to the very core, and I'd say that the only thing he's lacking are two well-placed bolts and platform shoes. I'm sure he could borrow the stammer from Bush.

But while Kerry is not a pretty man, he does possess certain qualities that I find admirable in a leader, even though he has yet to attain that title. The most important of these qualities is that he has taken a human life. Hell, I'm sure ole Johnny's robbed several Vietcong souls during his tours of Vietnam, and I'd wager my left eyeball that he's offed more than a few transients upon his return to the states. If you gave me a ten minute search of his house I'd present you with a necklace made of ears!

But before you denounce me as a heartless lunatic with no credibility to judge character, please allow me to explain why I find murder a good quality in a leader. For one, it shows that he is a man who takes initiative. Instead of sitting on his ass, listening to Jimi Hendrix, smoking reefer, and waiting to catch a bullet with his forehead - or getting his daddy to keep him safe for that matter - Kerry wandered the countryside adding notches to the butt of his gun like any proud American would. It proves that he can make decisions and stand by them. If that does not a leader make, then I shall fashion a shiv and jab myself in the gullet right this very second!

I cannot begin to elaborate on Kerry's other promising qualities, because personally I feel that his passion for slaughter is reason enough to appoint him as the head of our great country. Though, despite the fact that I have been applauding his achievements these past few paragraphs, I want to add that Kerry is simply the lesser of two evils. In a perfect world, neither of these two dolts would have been permitted to run for the presidency in the first place. However, being that this is not a perfect world, as evidenced by the fact that I was severely abused as a child and presently have no place to call home, I submit that Kerry would do less harm than Bush already has.

As I stood in front of the trash can daydreaming about the state of our country, a thought crept into my mind like a mouse looking for cheese in a bear trap. What we need is a president who will run this country the way it deserves to be run; not some cartoonish puppet! We need a man like Quint McGuinley! I've been a traveler most of my life. I can wander the countryside and campaign for the good of this greatest of islands! If I can impress upon a few people in each town the importance of writing my name on the ballot, and they can convince others to do the same, then all hope is not yet lost!

I clutched that newspaper to my chest and crumpled it in my hand so that what was left of the chicken embryo dripped down my forearm and stuck to my arm hair (promising a good nighttime snack). Then I looked to the heavens and thanked the gods for providing me with yet another glorious epiphany. I thought I heard a response, but soon realized it was merely a noise coming from behind the house. As I tilted my noggin for a better listen, it seemed as though the noise was getting louder. Wouldn't it figure that what I heard was the guttural howl of six Rottweilers who were not yet privy to the fact that I was going to be the next president of the United States? I made an attempt to run from the yard, but the unmerciful beasts were on me in seconds! I fought tooth and nail with the little scrappers, but as I had not yet consumed any Pabst Blue Ribbon that day, my legs were still a tad shaky. Sure enough, the buggers had me on the ground quicker than you could say "Antarctica" and it took all my might to keep them from tapping into my jugular like a bunch of fratboys on a keg of Keystone Light.

The wretched little bastards gnawed at my extremities for a good couple of hours until I finally managed to crawl outside the perimeter of the electric fence and their collars rendered them incapable of any further attacks on my person. Despite massive blood loss and severely tattered clothes that left nothing to the imagination, I believe I fought the good fight that day. And as I crawled back to the abandoned railway car that I had fashioned into a temporary home, I was filled with a new sense of purpose. A euphoria coursed through my veins that I had not felt in years, and while it could just as easily have been the onset of tetanus, I took it as a sign to begin planning my next move to become the next president of the United States of America...

Captain's Log: Nurse Sharks in the Atlantic

A comrade of mine once equipped me with the knowledge that nurse sharks are apparently one of the most docile species of shark in the great blue sea. Well, the pure thought of an easygoing shark was absurd to me, and being a man of first hand facts, I made it a point to seek out said nurse shark and find out the truth for myself. So, I chartered a boat and set out on the waves of the seductive Atlantic to seek my answers, ultimately sailing for fourteen days before I finally found what I was looking for. Turns out I spent most of that time wandering the deck deeply entrenched in the chartreuse haze of an absinthe binge.

Well, upon regaining my faculties I noticed that my sandpaper-skinned treasure was hovering in wait directly below my ship, which I had only just realized bore the name “Sara’s Nipple” on the bow. What an odd name for a ship, I thought to myself, chuckling like Santa Claus. Only my belly was very much unlike a bowl of jelly. If I had to liken it to anything, I’d say it’s more like anything that holds various internal organs, some Jim Beam, and occasionally about a pint of lacquer thinner, and happens to be encased in multiple layers of fatty cells. But that’s beside the point.

So there they were. Swimming around like giant toothy worms were four deadeyes, as I like to refer to them, grinning up at me. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard one of them say, “Oh look, it’s Quint. Hi Quint, you sonuvabitch!” After wrestling me back, me mates tried to tell me that p’raps I was daydreaming again, or that maybe I had a bit too much sun, but I was under the impression that these damn fish were taunting me and I wouldn’t stand for it! So I donned my two-sizes too small (for intimidation purposes) wetsuit, fastened my goggles to my ocular cavities and steadied my mind to concentrate on the task ahead.

My first mate, Richard Dreyfuss, recommended that I also wear a scuba tank, but I promised him that it should take no longer than a single breath would allow for me to prove the superiority of man to these unwitting sharks. So, with nothing more than a flashy wetsuit, goggles, an erection, and not to mention my rapist intensity, I cannonballed into the chill waters of the mother Atlantic that day and cordially invited all three of the “easygoing” phallic symbols to engage in a bout of fisticuffs.

Being that they were slightly better swimmers than I, it took quite some time before I managed to close the gap between us, but once I did, let me assure you, there were no more thoughts of taunting ole Quint McGuinley running through their tiny little shark brains. I could read their minds via the vacant expressions on their streamlined little faces and I’ll tell you what they were thinking. All three of them were thinking: “Holy areolas, what the hell did we go and get ourselves into? This specimen before us is indeed superior in every possible way. At first it was difficult to detect the awesome mass of greatness that is this man, yet alas, here it is, for all to see.”

The oversized fish silently pleaded with me to take pity on them. Their beady shark eyes stared at me like black holes and I could almost swear on my seven dead wives’ graves that I saw a tear. But they refused to attack. They were smart, I’ll give them that; the stubborn bastards almost had me believing the hoopla about them being docile animals. But I was wise to their game. I knew that no sooner than my retreating foot would touch the wooden deck of “Sara’s Nipple” that those beasts would unleash their stifled chortles for all to be heard. “Quint McGuinley,” they’d say, “why if ole Quint McGuinley is as big a pussy on land as he is at sea, then we wouldn’t be surprised if he were runnin’ home to drink a bottle of vinegar and water to ‘freshen up’.”

So rather than face such horror, I remained exactly where I was, albeit not taking into account the sporadic bobbing up and down caused by waves. I stroked my beard for a second, smirked, cocked an eyebrow, eyeballed my cock, and eventually puffed out my glorious barrel of a chest and swam the butterfly stroke toward my adversaries. As it turns out, I was correct. The animals were vicious and unrelenting beasts. However, it did take some coaxing on my part, and by coaxing I mean that I had to grip the sharks by the gills and bludgeon them about the head and face area with my muscular forearm for several minutes before they finally retaliated. But ultimately I proved my point. And that's how, sans my left leg, I hopped back onto the boat that sunny day and smiled to Richard Dreyfuss.

"Peanut brittle ass," I said to him, "the transaction that has transpired today will forever change the course of world history. This fete will be lauded as the most invaluable of all human accomplishments and you can be certain that the good Lord is looking down upon me with disdain that could only be considered a thorn on the stem of jealousy." Apparently, I passed out shortly after making that proclamation though you wouldn't have known it by the fact that I continued to wear my trademark grin and my one-legged form remained standing upright on deck. Sure, I lost a leg that day. Some say I lost a little respect, too. But not a single second goes by where I think to myself, “If I could do all that over again, and skip out on the part where I jump into the ocean and pick a fight with three sharks to avoid future problems like phantom limb pain and massive diarrhea…would I? Would I indeed!” Not that I think about that kinda stuff, because I don’t! But if I did, my answer would be “NO, I wouldn’t skip out on that part!” Quint McGuinley is a man among men! It has oft been rumored that one time, on an expedition through the Rocky Mountains, he savagely beat a grizzly bear to death for sassing him about eating the entire food supply in one sitting. Some folk say that the rations consisted of a single can of beans, and still others like to pass word that it was six full-grown elephants that he consumed that day. Of course it is also rumored that I, Quint Quintly McGuinley, spun that little tale while engaging in a Moonshine chugging competition somewhere along the coast of the Amazon River.

Whichever it was, you can rest assured that ole Quint is as grizzled as they come and there’s no way in hell he’ll ever quit referring to himself in the third person, no matter how hackneyed it becomes. And another thing, when I commit myself to a cause, you can be damned sure that I won’t give up until the day that I am struck dead. In fact, you probably can’t even be certain then. The Lord knows I’ve pillaged entire villages during REM sleep, so why the hell should death halt my endeavors?

Well, lately I’ve been hearing tell of more peaceful (and I suspect Cannabis imbibing) sharks and I’m plum sick of it! They’re all vicious carnivores as far as I’m concerned and I’m fully committed to proving it. In fact, I'm planning a trip in a few months to the Pacific to display to the world that Whale Sharks aren't the pushovers that people say they are. I’m so convinced of their innate savageness that I’ll make the claim right now that I will sever my right leg with a toothpick if the Whale Sharks don’t do it themselves; I promise you that! Some people have said to me, “Quint, are you nuts? Making a claim like that just means you’re going to lose a leg either way. What do you stand do gain by such an idiotic stunt?” And I look them dead in the eye, wonder for a minute whether they are siding with the sharks, and then I stammer: “A leg is a paltry price to pay for an accurate catalog of the temperament of oceanic species.” At which point they’ll reply: “But Quint, wake up! You’re offering up a second leg! Two legs are surely way too much to lose for such an absurd experiment you drunken asshole!” To which I’ll retort: “What’s that, landlubber? Speak into me good ear!” And when they fall prey to my ruse and lean over to assist what is actually a perfectly healthy ear, I chomp off each of their own ears and spit them on the table. And then I lean over and say: “Now would you say those ears were worth your opinion, landlubber? "Hardeeharhar!" And thus concludes another entry in the journal of Quint Quintly McGuinley!

Captain's Log: Marooned

This, my friends, be the first of many postings from an old man whose fingers have yet to succumb to the harrowing effects of age. Me old brain be in need of a nap, so if you'll excuse me for a quick second or two, I'll be momentarily suspending this conversation. But fear not, I shall return refreshed and prepared to deliver my thoughts to you on a silver platter.