You read right, people! Ole Quint McGuinley shat himself at a BBQ this Sunday, and he's not particularly proud of himself for having done so. Sure my adventures are well-known and as varied as they come, but it's not often that one so grizzled as myself receives an invitation to break bread at the home of a celebrity!
Okay, so perhaps the invite wasn't necessarily directed at me or even anywhere near me, but when I became privy to the information that legendary screen actor John Glover - perhaps most notable for his stunning portrayal of media mogul and dare-I-say rebel Daniel Clamp in "Gremlins 2: The New Batch" - was planning on grilling it up in his backyard along with several of his closest friends, well I just couldn't pass up the opportunity.
Actually, to be completely honest, I was just walking by his home and happened to have the good fortune of being in the right place at the right time. I saw Mr. Movie Star hamming it up with his friends and decided that I would do whatever it took to join such an extravagant event; even if that meant I'd have to play rhythm guitar for Styx for an entire summer's worth of shows at redneck amusement parks! (Which it wouldnt, but I'd do it if it did.)
Also, as an aside, I like to consider myself largely responsible for the success of the Gremlins franchise due to the extensive marketing campaign I undertook just prior to the release of the second film that involved me, a Samoan prostitute named Gertie, and fourteen Eagle Scouts parading around the streets of Rio de Janeiro screaming "Boycott the Gremlins! Cruelty to Gremlins!" Sure it wasn't a positive promotion of the film, but you know what those crazy cokehead P.R. people say, any headlines are good headlines!
Back on track...
I arrived at the backyard gala at 10pm, exactly 7 hours after it began, in hopes that everyone would be far too drunk to notice an additional guest. Thankfully I was correct in my assumption...as I usually am. Glover, a master grillman, sought to showcase his talents with the spatula, and immediately set about preparing an abundance of food for yours truly. He threw an arm around my shoulders and spit on my face when he talked. I shuddered with rage. It took every ounce of me strength to restrain from murdering him straight out.
Ever the overzealous one, Glover cooked enough food to feed a village, and as everyone had already eaten way beyond the normal capacity for non-competitive eaters, they remained where they sat, sipping margaritas and basking in their wealth of their friend. Never one to waste food, I set about the task of eating everything myself.
So, that is how, after consuming 3 entire packages of hot dogs smothered in grape jelly, insanity hot sauce, and a liberal coat of pages from Mitch Albom's "The Five People You Meet in Heaven", this ole sailor felt a mighty rumble stirring 'neath the poop deck. The thought struck me that p'raps I should run and find a suitable latrine for the mass exodus that would soon befall my bowels, but as I was in the middle of a waltz with Glover's wife at the time, I decided it would have been rude for me to have done left abruptly. In hindsight, this was a bad decision.
In mid-turn, I lost control of everything below the waste. My legs turned to rubber as my spastic colon ejected the contents of my intestines all over the patio and Mrs. Glover's dancing shoes. In an instant, all eyes (and nostrils) were on me. I could feel the other guests burrowing holes into my face like bees around a hive. I did the only thing I could think to do at the time. I administered a heavy-handed open-palm slap to Mrs. Glover's right cheek and watched her go down. "Look what you did!" I shouted.
The guests were so terrified and confused that they didn't know how to react. I jumped in the pool to wash up and used a tablecloth to dry myself off; then I demanded that Glover fetch me something nice to change into...you know, for the mockery his wife made of my present attire.
As I changed into my new clothes in front of all the attendees, I happened to overhear a conversation between one of the younger guests and our most accommodating host. "Mr. Thompson," the teen asked, "who is that man anyway?"
Momentarily forgetting the fact that I could be incarcerated for trespassing, my attention was presently arrested by the fact that the young man addressed Glover as "Mr. Thompson".
"Mr. Thompson?" I asked. "Don't you mean Mr. Glover?"
The two of them looked at me as though I were completely out of my mind. Now the reason for that could have been due to the fact that I had just defecated in the middle of their Labor Day BBQ. Or, I guess it could also have been because I tried to direct the attention away from myself by blaming everything on the hostess while simultaneously serving as her judge, jury, and executioner and open-palm slapping her across the face. But it seemed to me at the time that they had never heard of anyone named Glover before in their lives. (On a positive note, this could also have meant that they are not familiar with Danny Glover's body of work either, which is good for them.)
"Who's Mr. Glover? My name's Dan Thompson. Are you at the right party?"
"You mean to tell me you're not John Glover, the man who played Daniel Clamp in 'Gremlins 2: The New Batch'?"
"I don't have a clue what you're talking about, mister! Joey, call the cops!"
"Well now, let's not be hasty. This is all just a clever misunderstanding, of course."
"Get the hell out of my yard!"
I did as was requested, holding my belly and chuckling with glee all the while as I marched off "Dan Thompson's" property. Those celebrities can be so humble sometimes, trying to hide their identities even after you've already figured them out! Either way, I'm guessing that little incident occurred at what must be Glover's summer house because I've found out via the World Wide Web that his real home is in Maryland! Maybe I should write him a letter and thank him for being so accommodating during such a messy time.
While I've spent the past month stumbling about the country in a haze of denial thicker than Peter Gallagher's eyebrows, apparently some crazy Japanese scientists stopped singing karaoke long enough to sneak risque photographs of some giant squid humping a tightrope underwater. 
