Yargh! Ole Quint shall be absent for an undisclosed amount of time as he returns to explore his roots on the Isle of Erin. Yes folks, for those of you who did not get the reference, I am travelling to Ireland, a land of romance and mystery, known for its magnificent landscapes and delightful spirits. The trip is scheduled for ten days, but any number of following factors could contribute to my inability to hold to that itinerary:
1) Guinness Brewery
2) Powers Irish Whiskey
3) Harp
4) Murphy's
5) Bushmill's
6) Irish lasses
7) Hard Cider
8) Leperchauns
9) Jameson Distillery
10) Cirrhosis of the liver
Now friends tell me that my quality of life suffers because I spend the majority of my days lounging/wandering around in an alcoholic haze. Well let me just say that ole Quint has the self esteem of a raging bull. That is to say that on most days I graze about calmly and am forced to eat grass for sustenance, but I perk up like a priest's libido during a confirmation ceremony when rednecks jab me in the testicles with hot pokers.
My point is that I am open to any criticism one might be bold enough to offer. It does not bother me that my friends do not appreciate waking up to find me comatose and naked on their kitchen floor. It does not bother me that they throw boiling pots of water at me to wake me up and scream for me to "Get out of my house you horrible man!"
My hide is thick. I can handle attacks on my person! But what really crawls around in my short hairs like a heaping platter of ravenous crotch lice is that these same people have the nerve to spend their weekends running around from winery to winery all because of that horrific movie "Sideways"! Well I am inspired by your silliness and I applaud your impudence, you dirty mother-loving whores!
Argh, now I'm worked up like a Japanese businessman during a karaoke competition. Curse the whole lot o' ya! I'm signing off to run down to the dock and check on the possibility of stowing away on an earlier ship. I assure you that you'll be hearing from me when I return.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Friday, March 18, 2005
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
The Actual Birthday
Well, well, well, I believe an apology is in order for my error in recognizing the date of my own birthday, but I think you'll agree with me in saying that I got the worse end of that deal. Either way, I did just celebrate my actual birthday, and these are the events that I can recall:
I woke up bright and early to the sound of knuckles rapping on the cold metal door of the abandoned railcar that has become a home to me. Never one who believed in the "early bird gets the worm" theory, I chucked an empty bottle of Night Train as hard as I could in the direction of the noise.
The projectile landed so forcefully that when the glass shattered, many of the shards flew back and landed in my hair. Sadly, I did not notice this until much later whilst I was receiving a scalp massage from a young Oriental woman I met during my weekly visit to the Salvation Army. The glass cut me up a bit, but it really did a number on the little Asian concubine's fingers. She actually had the nerve to ask me for permission to stop!
Ah well, where was I? After I made it clear that I was not interested in receiving visitors, I rolled back over on my makeshift bed of old gym mats, scratched my bare barrel of a chest, and attempted to seek refuge in my dreams once again. There were a few seconds of silence before the rapping began again.
My body went into overdrive and I was on my feet in the "Drunken Dog" fighting stance in a tenth of a second. "What do you want, ya brigand?!" I shrieked, running full steam ahead at the door. My hands gripped instinctively for the handle and hurled the heavy metal aside.
With murder in my bloodshot eyes and blood streaking down my forearms from the vicelike grip I had on the broken glass in my hand, I lunged outside and tackled my asailant! My eyes were blind with rage and the world outside my living quarters was bathed in a blood-red tint. As it turns out, it was not a usurper at my door at all. In fact, it was my good buddy, Dingy Joe.
If it were anybody else, they most likely would have shit themselves upon being tackled by a bloody beast of a man such as myself. But Dingy Joe is not your average human being, and as I'm sure you've guessed already, it takes an above-average person to hang with Ole Quint.
I helped Dingy off the ground and we exchanged a firm handshake. It made no nevermind to him that I used the blood-covered hand; to be completely honest, I don't think he even noticed. To my great delight, my friend pulled a flagon of bourbon from his trenchcoat and smiled.
He must have remembered my birthday, because normally Joe is the type of guy who would slit your throat if you so much as glanced at his liqour - not that I can say much in opposition to that. I took a swig from the bottle and passed it back to him; he did the same. This process repeated for several hours before we finished the bottle and decided to head downtown to prowl for skanky broads.
I think we were halfway down Delaware Avenue when the liqour overtook me and I jumped on top of a moving vehicle. The driver didn't seem to appreciate my tap dance routine on his Subaru, but who was he to challenge ole Quint? Certainly not a worthy opponent!
The antics grew worse and more frequent throughout the night before I ultimately lost consciousness in an alley behind a cheesesteak joint. I also pissed myself. That's right, I'm not ashamed to admit such things to you. You'll get nothing but honesty from ole Quint.
What, you may ask, did I learn from this experience? Well, I'll tell you. Birthdays, come and go, but friends and booze will be there forever.
I woke up bright and early to the sound of knuckles rapping on the cold metal door of the abandoned railcar that has become a home to me. Never one who believed in the "early bird gets the worm" theory, I chucked an empty bottle of Night Train as hard as I could in the direction of the noise.
The projectile landed so forcefully that when the glass shattered, many of the shards flew back and landed in my hair. Sadly, I did not notice this until much later whilst I was receiving a scalp massage from a young Oriental woman I met during my weekly visit to the Salvation Army. The glass cut me up a bit, but it really did a number on the little Asian concubine's fingers. She actually had the nerve to ask me for permission to stop!
Ah well, where was I? After I made it clear that I was not interested in receiving visitors, I rolled back over on my makeshift bed of old gym mats, scratched my bare barrel of a chest, and attempted to seek refuge in my dreams once again. There were a few seconds of silence before the rapping began again.
My body went into overdrive and I was on my feet in the "Drunken Dog" fighting stance in a tenth of a second. "What do you want, ya brigand?!" I shrieked, running full steam ahead at the door. My hands gripped instinctively for the handle and hurled the heavy metal aside.
With murder in my bloodshot eyes and blood streaking down my forearms from the vicelike grip I had on the broken glass in my hand, I lunged outside and tackled my asailant! My eyes were blind with rage and the world outside my living quarters was bathed in a blood-red tint. As it turns out, it was not a usurper at my door at all. In fact, it was my good buddy, Dingy Joe.
If it were anybody else, they most likely would have shit themselves upon being tackled by a bloody beast of a man such as myself. But Dingy Joe is not your average human being, and as I'm sure you've guessed already, it takes an above-average person to hang with Ole Quint.
I helped Dingy off the ground and we exchanged a firm handshake. It made no nevermind to him that I used the blood-covered hand; to be completely honest, I don't think he even noticed. To my great delight, my friend pulled a flagon of bourbon from his trenchcoat and smiled.
He must have remembered my birthday, because normally Joe is the type of guy who would slit your throat if you so much as glanced at his liqour - not that I can say much in opposition to that. I took a swig from the bottle and passed it back to him; he did the same. This process repeated for several hours before we finished the bottle and decided to head downtown to prowl for skanky broads.
I think we were halfway down Delaware Avenue when the liqour overtook me and I jumped on top of a moving vehicle. The driver didn't seem to appreciate my tap dance routine on his Subaru, but who was he to challenge ole Quint? Certainly not a worthy opponent!
The antics grew worse and more frequent throughout the night before I ultimately lost consciousness in an alley behind a cheesesteak joint. I also pissed myself. That's right, I'm not ashamed to admit such things to you. You'll get nothing but honesty from ole Quint.
What, you may ask, did I learn from this experience? Well, I'll tell you. Birthdays, come and go, but friends and booze will be there forever.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Ole Quint's Birthday
Yargh! Ahoy there, landlubbers. The fates have been kind to ole Quint yet again, and have seen fit to allow yours truly relatively safe passage to yet another birthday! I decided to celebrate the day by resting my weathered bones in a most accomodating hammock, reading comic books, and writing poetry about my love for the sea. Orange dust accumulated on my fingers with frequent plunges into the bag of cheese doodles at my side and my belly grew full and hot from the many swigs of Wild Turkey bourbon I had been enjoying since dawn.
It makes no nevermind that I was fastened to a billboard several stories above I-95 and the windchill stood at 14 degrees. Quint has survived fiercer weather, I assure you. But my attempts to convince the ever-increasing crowd below likewise proved to be in vain.
At first I mistook the gathering public for worried fans, and so I decided to allay their fears by allowing them a glimpse of one of the many whiskey bottles, or as I like to refer to them, space heaters, that I bundled into my backback before climbing the treacherous ladder. However, my hands were wet from an overeager guzzle, and the bottle slipped from my grasp, falling several hundred feet before crashing into the cold cement at the bottom of my perch. The crowd dodged the projectile and no one was badly hurt by the shrapnel, but even at my great distance I could recognize the all-too-familiar signs of a crowd thirsty for my blood.
One of the larger ants attempted to play the hero by scaling the metal rungs. He couldn't have been more than three quarters of the way up before his figure began shrinking and in a few minutes there were no longer any specks on the ladder. Pity. I could have used a drinking partner.
A few hours went by. Just when I started to notice signs of fatigue developing amidst their ranks, I accidentally lost my grip on a second bottle, only this time it was dark outside, and not a one of them noticed it coming. A loud shriek pierced the atmosphere like a dog's fangs biting my calf muscles in an attempt to drag me out of its master's house. I cringed.
If ole Quint were capable of fear, I might have panicked at that moment. As luck would have it, I am not. It wasn't long before the blue and red lights were flashing and a deep voice boomed inaudibly through a megaphone, most likely demanding my hasty descent. I decided that prison wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing; hell, I'd get a free place to stay and a couple good meals each day. But on the other hand, I like my options. Also, I don't think it needs mentioning that there's no such thing as a good hooker in jail, unless you're into weiners and that sort of thing, which I most certainly am NOT!
The police kept the mass of hatred at bay with yellow tape and shined a spotlight on me from below, but surprisingly enough there were no attempts to ascend the structure. I soon realized why. An hour after the first red and blue bulbs flashed with impatience and the sirens wailed incessantly, my ears detected a new sound - that of a police helicopter. The spotlights don't seem like a big deal when they're illuminating your figure as you run down back alleys, but it's a whole other story when they're thirty feet away!
My limbs flailed awkwardly as I made my way out of the hammock and gained my footing on the narrow metal ledge at the base of the billboard. Anger built up in my chest like acid reflux inside Ashlee Simpson's esophagus as I pumped my fist into the air in a sign of defiance for "the man". Fist pumping had a huge effect in the 1980s, as evidenced by Motley Crue concert footage; however, it did not seem to have the same effect on the police helicopter, for it showed no sign of retreating.
I threw what remained of my bag of cheese doodles at the propeller, but the powerful wind from the blades blew it right back in my face. Cheese dust particles flew in my eyes and I only aggravated the situation by attempting to rub them clear with my cheese-caked fingers. The pain was delicious! I cursed the world and swore to avenge my lost birthday.
As I cleared the dusty residue from my eyes with my hairy forearm, a sudden realization came to light. My birthday isn't until next week! I enjoyed a hearty laugh for being so dim and slapped my thighs. I could barely hear one of the officers in the helicopter as he shouted through a megaphone that "everything would be okay" and that "I have so much to live for".
The laughter had me shaking like an epileptic at a Japanese dance club. Amused by my own scatterbrained idiocy, I momentarily lost my footing. Time ceased to exist as I struggled to regain my balance. My chiseled arms swam through the air at my sides, frantically grasping for anything to hold onto as I toppled off of the ledge.
My mind reeled at the thought that this could finally be the end of a true legend such as myself, but to be honest, I felt more concern for my faithful readers rather than my own well-being. I would have shed a tear if I were physically capable of producing that much eye lubrication.
Now here comes the real kicker. Ole Quint's flesh vehicle did not collide with the cement. Rather than smack the ground harder than a pimp's hand exercising its authority on a whore's face, my body sunk with relative comfort into a giant inflatable device. There's is truly something to be said for the luck of the Irish!
Thankfully, the police were able to overlook my bottle-throwing antics. They actually thanked me for the great press they received for thwarting an attempted suicide! I decided that rather than argue, I would just roll with that story. To be honest, the idea of bare-knuckle boxing prison queens on my actual birthday didn't strike my fancy. What with all the drama from my faux birthday celebrations, I think I'll keep it low key this week. I'm thinkin' I'll just hang back at the ole abandoned boxcar, do some drugs, and throw rocks at hobos. Yeah, that sounds nice...
It makes no nevermind that I was fastened to a billboard several stories above I-95 and the windchill stood at 14 degrees. Quint has survived fiercer weather, I assure you. But my attempts to convince the ever-increasing crowd below likewise proved to be in vain.
At first I mistook the gathering public for worried fans, and so I decided to allay their fears by allowing them a glimpse of one of the many whiskey bottles, or as I like to refer to them, space heaters, that I bundled into my backback before climbing the treacherous ladder. However, my hands were wet from an overeager guzzle, and the bottle slipped from my grasp, falling several hundred feet before crashing into the cold cement at the bottom of my perch. The crowd dodged the projectile and no one was badly hurt by the shrapnel, but even at my great distance I could recognize the all-too-familiar signs of a crowd thirsty for my blood.
One of the larger ants attempted to play the hero by scaling the metal rungs. He couldn't have been more than three quarters of the way up before his figure began shrinking and in a few minutes there were no longer any specks on the ladder. Pity. I could have used a drinking partner.
A few hours went by. Just when I started to notice signs of fatigue developing amidst their ranks, I accidentally lost my grip on a second bottle, only this time it was dark outside, and not a one of them noticed it coming. A loud shriek pierced the atmosphere like a dog's fangs biting my calf muscles in an attempt to drag me out of its master's house. I cringed.
If ole Quint were capable of fear, I might have panicked at that moment. As luck would have it, I am not. It wasn't long before the blue and red lights were flashing and a deep voice boomed inaudibly through a megaphone, most likely demanding my hasty descent. I decided that prison wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing; hell, I'd get a free place to stay and a couple good meals each day. But on the other hand, I like my options. Also, I don't think it needs mentioning that there's no such thing as a good hooker in jail, unless you're into weiners and that sort of thing, which I most certainly am NOT!
The police kept the mass of hatred at bay with yellow tape and shined a spotlight on me from below, but surprisingly enough there were no attempts to ascend the structure. I soon realized why. An hour after the first red and blue bulbs flashed with impatience and the sirens wailed incessantly, my ears detected a new sound - that of a police helicopter. The spotlights don't seem like a big deal when they're illuminating your figure as you run down back alleys, but it's a whole other story when they're thirty feet away!
My limbs flailed awkwardly as I made my way out of the hammock and gained my footing on the narrow metal ledge at the base of the billboard. Anger built up in my chest like acid reflux inside Ashlee Simpson's esophagus as I pumped my fist into the air in a sign of defiance for "the man". Fist pumping had a huge effect in the 1980s, as evidenced by Motley Crue concert footage; however, it did not seem to have the same effect on the police helicopter, for it showed no sign of retreating.
I threw what remained of my bag of cheese doodles at the propeller, but the powerful wind from the blades blew it right back in my face. Cheese dust particles flew in my eyes and I only aggravated the situation by attempting to rub them clear with my cheese-caked fingers. The pain was delicious! I cursed the world and swore to avenge my lost birthday.
As I cleared the dusty residue from my eyes with my hairy forearm, a sudden realization came to light. My birthday isn't until next week! I enjoyed a hearty laugh for being so dim and slapped my thighs. I could barely hear one of the officers in the helicopter as he shouted through a megaphone that "everything would be okay" and that "I have so much to live for".
The laughter had me shaking like an epileptic at a Japanese dance club. Amused by my own scatterbrained idiocy, I momentarily lost my footing. Time ceased to exist as I struggled to regain my balance. My chiseled arms swam through the air at my sides, frantically grasping for anything to hold onto as I toppled off of the ledge.
My mind reeled at the thought that this could finally be the end of a true legend such as myself, but to be honest, I felt more concern for my faithful readers rather than my own well-being. I would have shed a tear if I were physically capable of producing that much eye lubrication.
Now here comes the real kicker. Ole Quint's flesh vehicle did not collide with the cement. Rather than smack the ground harder than a pimp's hand exercising its authority on a whore's face, my body sunk with relative comfort into a giant inflatable device. There's is truly something to be said for the luck of the Irish!
Thankfully, the police were able to overlook my bottle-throwing antics. They actually thanked me for the great press they received for thwarting an attempted suicide! I decided that rather than argue, I would just roll with that story. To be honest, the idea of bare-knuckle boxing prison queens on my actual birthday didn't strike my fancy. What with all the drama from my faux birthday celebrations, I think I'll keep it low key this week. I'm thinkin' I'll just hang back at the ole abandoned boxcar, do some drugs, and throw rocks at hobos. Yeah, that sounds nice...
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