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...