Ask these guys! They've known my wrath!
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Herpes-riddled derelict
Let it be known that Quint McGuinley is not above commissioning a herpes-riddled derelict to rape those who foolishly supplant his position in the soup line when he is left with no choice but to address the onset of explosive diarrhea by temporarily extracting himself from the line in question!
Ask these guys! They've known my wrath!
Ask these guys! They've known my wrath!
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Tyra Banks' Stylish Armpit Vag
It should be known far and wide that Tyra Banks, the cantaloupe-bosomed supermodel who hosts America's Next Top Model with more over-the-top theatrics than a Crispin Glover movie marathon(see below), sports a vagina in her armpit. Where normal people excrete sweat...Miss Tyra offers so much more!
This news comes to you straight from the street, where yours truly is currently bathing in a sea of newspapers that have been strewn about me weary body for warmth and protection. (Sidenote: They booted ole Quint out of his apartment after a week...something or other about the intolerable stench and unimaginable deterioration of my living quarters.)
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Not So Filthy in Philthadelphia
Ole Quint realizes that he has been lax on providing you uproarious tales of his most recent endeavors of late. And why is that, you ask? Well, simply because he's been too busy experiencing them!
I feel it is also noteworthy to add that I've since moved back to the Philadelphia area, my dear friends.
It made all the sense in the world that I should leave the toasty South and return to the sharp bite of the frigid winters that befall the northeastern seaboard. In all actuality, had I stopped to ponder the ramifications of my relocation, I most definitely would have stayed where I was; however, it's near impossible to consider things such as consequences when you're a booze addict with no means of self control.
As luck would have it, I only spent one limb-crippling evening huddled around a steam vent as a means to fight off hypothermia before managing to acquire myself a lavish apartment just outside of the city. Yes, lads and lasses, ole Quint is a homeowner once again!
The sun had barely breached the PSFS building on the morning after my near-death experience at the hands of Mother Nature when I felt intrusive hands on my person, shaking me so terribly that I fully expected, in my delirious mental state, my chilled bones to crack like the engine of a South American commercial airliner.
I made a feeble attempt to throttle the owner of those hands, but in my weakened and malnourished state, my aggression could be compared to that of an elderly women with arthritic joints and a monumental fondness for lithium.
Turns out, those meddlesome hands belonged to a middle-aged man by the name of Jorge Manuel, who has been working steadily to provide shelter for displaced hurricane victims ever since Katrina ravaged New Orleans back in August. My only conjecture is that kindly ole Jorge, with the comb-bristled mustachio and toothy grin, simply mistook me for one of those unfortunate evacuees. I presume he believed me when I mumbled "Katrina took everything" into his ear as he struggled to lift me off the pavement.
And it is owed to that generous oversight on Jorge's part, me mates, that ole Quint happened upon his new abode. Apart from that first dreadful night, the city has proven yet again to be a comfortable fit for this ole sea dog. The daytime is lazy and the nightlife is decadent, just the way I likes it! Also, it's one of the few states in which a weary old sailor like meself can still enjoy a fine cigar at the bar whilst sharing tales of the sea with the seemingly interested prostitutes I've drugged into accompanying me.
Along with recently administering my services in a ménage a quatro with two gorgeous Latino women and a Nubian princess, yer ole pal Quint has managed to tack quite a few splendiferous accomplishments onto his resume these past few months. These fetes include, but are not limited to:
1) Struggling through a 2 hour presentation at the Church of Scientology just for the free coffee and donuts.
2) Challenging Mayor John Street to a jello wrestling competition (only instead of jello, ole Quint prefers utilizing dumpster juice - for its obvious cost effectiveness and pore-cleansing benefits).
3) Losing the dumpster juice wrestling competition to Mayor John Street, who not only caught me off guard by actually showing up, but also turned out to be a fierce adversary worthy of respect...though I shall point out that he is not exempt from my revenge, which is legendary. You can catch a glimpse of my new arch-nemesis on the left, where it appears as though he is grinding up babies to serve to the homeless. I could be wrong, though my intuition is impeccable.
That should bring us up to speed. I'm gonna go try and grab me some ground-up baby at the shelter before Jimmy Two-Teefers grabs it all for himself!
I feel it is also noteworthy to add that I've since moved back to the Philadelphia area, my dear friends.
It made all the sense in the world that I should leave the toasty South and return to the sharp bite of the frigid winters that befall the northeastern seaboard. In all actuality, had I stopped to ponder the ramifications of my relocation, I most definitely would have stayed where I was; however, it's near impossible to consider things such as consequences when you're a booze addict with no means of self control.
As luck would have it, I only spent one limb-crippling evening huddled around a steam vent as a means to fight off hypothermia before managing to acquire myself a lavish apartment just outside of the city. Yes, lads and lasses, ole Quint is a homeowner once again!
The sun had barely breached the PSFS building on the morning after my near-death experience at the hands of Mother Nature when I felt intrusive hands on my person, shaking me so terribly that I fully expected, in my delirious mental state, my chilled bones to crack like the engine of a South American commercial airliner.
I made a feeble attempt to throttle the owner of those hands, but in my weakened and malnourished state, my aggression could be compared to that of an elderly women with arthritic joints and a monumental fondness for lithium.
Turns out, those meddlesome hands belonged to a middle-aged man by the name of Jorge Manuel, who has been working steadily to provide shelter for displaced hurricane victims ever since Katrina ravaged New Orleans back in August. My only conjecture is that kindly ole Jorge, with the comb-bristled mustachio and toothy grin, simply mistook me for one of those unfortunate evacuees. I presume he believed me when I mumbled "Katrina took everything" into his ear as he struggled to lift me off the pavement.
And it is owed to that generous oversight on Jorge's part, me mates, that ole Quint happened upon his new abode. Apart from that first dreadful night, the city has proven yet again to be a comfortable fit for this ole sea dog. The daytime is lazy and the nightlife is decadent, just the way I likes it! Also, it's one of the few states in which a weary old sailor like meself can still enjoy a fine cigar at the bar whilst sharing tales of the sea with the seemingly interested prostitutes I've drugged into accompanying me.
Along with recently administering my services in a ménage a quatro with two gorgeous Latino women and a Nubian princess, yer ole pal Quint has managed to tack quite a few splendiferous accomplishments onto his resume these past few months. These fetes include, but are not limited to:
1) Struggling through a 2 hour presentation at the Church of Scientology just for the free coffee and donuts.
2) Challenging Mayor John Street to a jello wrestling competition (only instead of jello, ole Quint prefers utilizing dumpster juice - for its obvious cost effectiveness and pore-cleansing benefits).
3) Losing the dumpster juice wrestling competition to Mayor John Street, who not only caught me off guard by actually showing up, but also turned out to be a fierce adversary worthy of respect...though I shall point out that he is not exempt from my revenge, which is legendary. You can catch a glimpse of my new arch-nemesis on the left, where it appears as though he is grinding up babies to serve to the homeless. I could be wrong, though my intuition is impeccable.
That should bring us up to speed. I'm gonna go try and grab me some ground-up baby at the shelter before Jimmy Two-Teefers grabs it all for himself!
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Who is Quint McGuinley?
Quint McGuinley has no tolerance for laziness. He has even less patience for people who label themselves workaholics. While it is widely known that he harbors great disdain for religious zealots, ole Quint abhors the spiritually inept.
At times a tireless opponent of corporal punishment, Quint will be the first to cut a man down for disrespecting him or his possessions - it should be noted that he lumps women into the category of "possessions". Even so, Quint is a champion for the people and believes that women deserve equal treatment.
Quint Quintly McGuinley subscribes to the theory that drugs, when taken in moderation, can expand your consciousness; however, he imbibes, inhales, snorts, and shoots to excess just to prove that he maintains an open mind.
Having sailed the seven seas for the bulk of his tenure on this planet, Quint respects Mother Nature and all of her offerings. He currently resides somewhere on the east coast of the United States, where he spends the majority of his time torturing cats by the railroad tracks.
At times a tireless opponent of corporal punishment, Quint will be the first to cut a man down for disrespecting him or his possessions - it should be noted that he lumps women into the category of "possessions". Even so, Quint is a champion for the people and believes that women deserve equal treatment.
Quint Quintly McGuinley subscribes to the theory that drugs, when taken in moderation, can expand your consciousness; however, he imbibes, inhales, snorts, and shoots to excess just to prove that he maintains an open mind.
Having sailed the seven seas for the bulk of his tenure on this planet, Quint respects Mother Nature and all of her offerings. He currently resides somewhere on the east coast of the United States, where he spends the majority of his time torturing cats by the railroad tracks.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Bum Cuts off Other Bum's Dangle
Bearing an expression not unlike that of a newly enlightened teenager whose mother has just walked in on him hovering over the Victoria's Secret catalog in the midst of his daily ritual of self-love, this man is being detained by Russian authorities for killing a tramp and keeping his penis as a trophy.
Rumor - or thorough investigative reporting - has it that his motive was jealousy triggered by a lust triangle involving the victim and a female hobo. Apparently all three were boozing it up good and right, as most transients tend to do in their free time, when in the waning hours of the evening the other two left to trade V.D.s like they were Pokemon cards, leaving our hapless loner feeling neglected.
Apparently, those pangs of rejection evolved into a thirst for blood. Penis blood! After strangling the transient, known by many in the Moscow streets as "Sniper" due to his alleged role in the Chechnyan army, he proceeded to sever the man's very manhood at the root and keep it for his own. That'll teach Sniper to go stickin' his weiner in girls that other hobos like!
Hmm...this story kinda reminds me of my good friends Dingy Joe and Strychnine Sally...(see my April/May postings)
Friday, October 07, 2005
New Alligator Terror Cell Discovered in Philadelphia!
If my last post didn't serve as all the proof you needed, Philadelphia police captured several alligators when they busted what must surely be a local terrorist training facility. It's all in the pictures, mates...
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Alligators Terrorizing the Everglades
Although you will never hear Quint McGuinley refer to himself as homeless (as he is merely a wandering adventurer who prefers the outdoors), there have been many nights when I've been forced to resort to the transient lifestyle in the name of self-preservation. Last night was one such time...and it led me to discover a shocking new development in worldly affairs!
I have somehow in the past month arrived in Michigan, where the nights are considerably colder than what I could have expected in sunny Florida. Sure I probably should have thought about that before relocating, but my main priority at the time was to get as far away from hurricane season as I possibly could. Truth be told, I was actually aiming for Alaska, but who knew I'd have to travel through that wretched Canada to get there?!
So, as you might have guessed, the night time chills are almost unbearable in Michigan when your bedroom happens to be the great outdoors and a nightly coat of dew serves to provide wetter dreams than you ever imagined possible. I had complicated what otherwise would surely have been a moderately cold evening by consuming several root beer floats on a wind-whipped beach of rocks and gravel off of Lake Superior. The ingredients of said beverage I had borrowed from a local malt shop that had since closed its doors for the season; only instead of root beer, I cleverly substituted several cans of Genny Cream Ale I had also borrowed from a nearby liquor store that had closed for the evening.
In hindsight I realized that this concoction probably wasn't a good idea, as alcohol tends to thin the blood and make one colder than they realize, and well, ice cream certainly isn't a cup of hot chocolate, now is it? Now that I think about it, what a delight that would have been...a cup of hot chocolate...some rum...
A thousand apologies, dear readers. I was off on a tangent once again! So there I was, on the beach, struggling to fall asleep despite the violent shuddering throughout my body, when all of a sudden it hits me! Newspaper! That's all I'd need to get me through!
I run to the nearest newspaper machine and kick through the front of it, surely breaking no less than three toes in the process, as I was barefoot at the time. I reach inside the metal box and grab several issues that would serve as my blankets for the evening, when all of a sudden, illuminated by a nearby street light, I barely make out what appears to be a half alligator/half snake monster!
Upon careful inspection of the article, I discover that a 13 ft. snake had partially consumed a 6 ft. alligator in the Everglades when all of a sudden the alligator blew a hole in the serpent's stomach so large that it adds new meaning to the term "irritable bowel syndrome"!
This can only mean one thing, dear readers: the alligator in question was a terrorist and a suicide bomber and there is no hope left for humankind! This is an animal that has been around since the time of the dinosaurs; its species is renowned for ability to survive! It's widely known that they can outrun a horse on a straightaway for the first 30 ft! Surely we could have beaten the human terrorists, but this is simply too much.
Though, on a better note, it seems as though we have the Burmese Pythons on our side, which is something...
I have somehow in the past month arrived in Michigan, where the nights are considerably colder than what I could have expected in sunny Florida. Sure I probably should have thought about that before relocating, but my main priority at the time was to get as far away from hurricane season as I possibly could. Truth be told, I was actually aiming for Alaska, but who knew I'd have to travel through that wretched Canada to get there?!
So, as you might have guessed, the night time chills are almost unbearable in Michigan when your bedroom happens to be the great outdoors and a nightly coat of dew serves to provide wetter dreams than you ever imagined possible. I had complicated what otherwise would surely have been a moderately cold evening by consuming several root beer floats on a wind-whipped beach of rocks and gravel off of Lake Superior. The ingredients of said beverage I had borrowed from a local malt shop that had since closed its doors for the season; only instead of root beer, I cleverly substituted several cans of Genny Cream Ale I had also borrowed from a nearby liquor store that had closed for the evening.
In hindsight I realized that this concoction probably wasn't a good idea, as alcohol tends to thin the blood and make one colder than they realize, and well, ice cream certainly isn't a cup of hot chocolate, now is it? Now that I think about it, what a delight that would have been...a cup of hot chocolate...some rum...
A thousand apologies, dear readers. I was off on a tangent once again! So there I was, on the beach, struggling to fall asleep despite the violent shuddering throughout my body, when all of a sudden it hits me! Newspaper! That's all I'd need to get me through!
I run to the nearest newspaper machine and kick through the front of it, surely breaking no less than three toes in the process, as I was barefoot at the time. I reach inside the metal box and grab several issues that would serve as my blankets for the evening, when all of a sudden, illuminated by a nearby street light, I barely make out what appears to be a half alligator/half snake monster!
Upon careful inspection of the article, I discover that a 13 ft. snake had partially consumed a 6 ft. alligator in the Everglades when all of a sudden the alligator blew a hole in the serpent's stomach so large that it adds new meaning to the term "irritable bowel syndrome"!This can only mean one thing, dear readers: the alligator in question was a terrorist and a suicide bomber and there is no hope left for humankind! This is an animal that has been around since the time of the dinosaurs; its species is renowned for ability to survive! It's widely known that they can outrun a horse on a straightaway for the first 30 ft! Surely we could have beaten the human terrorists, but this is simply too much.
Though, on a better note, it seems as though we have the Burmese Pythons on our side, which is something...
Friday, September 30, 2005
Perverted Scientists Photograph Giant Squid Masturbating!
Yar I imagine it's about time old Quint posts a new entry in this ole computadora of his, as it's been quite a few weeks since I last communicated with ye. And Lord in Heaven is there ever a lot to discuss with ye, the first of which being a matter near and dear to me beating heart!
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. 
I'll have it known that a famed sea captain such as meself does not appreciate the perverted antics of the Japanese any more so than he does the natives of his own country; even if they did invent the Super Mario Brothers! According to this ole salt, they've stepped straight off the plank this time around!
Now I've voiced me opinion on the matter quite a bit since I first saw the vile pictures, and I hold no shame in admitting that several of me esteemed colleagues - most of whom I have had the pleasure of meeting at bus depots and subway stations throughout me travels throughout the southeastern coast - have chided me for such thoughts.
"Quint," they would say, "How can you pass over a profound nautical discovery such as this with a critical eye when this is exactly the type of breakthrough you have been searching for your entire life? And how exactly can you chastise anyone for being obscene when the stories you have been telling me for hours now are the raunchiest tales I have ever heard?!"
These bold questions were often addressed with relentless beatings.
Let it be known to the masses that ole Quint McGuinley will not soon forget these most recent antics of the Japanese! I can fight fire with fire, or perversion with perversion, if it be necessary! Do I need to whack off a God damn manatee in order to get some recognition as a serious oceanic expert for crying out loud?! Then so be it...
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. 
I'll have it known that a famed sea captain such as meself does not appreciate the perverted antics of the Japanese any more so than he does the natives of his own country; even if they did invent the Super Mario Brothers! According to this ole salt, they've stepped straight off the plank this time around!
Now I've voiced me opinion on the matter quite a bit since I first saw the vile pictures, and I hold no shame in admitting that several of me esteemed colleagues - most of whom I have had the pleasure of meeting at bus depots and subway stations throughout me travels throughout the southeastern coast - have chided me for such thoughts.
"Quint," they would say, "How can you pass over a profound nautical discovery such as this with a critical eye when this is exactly the type of breakthrough you have been searching for your entire life? And how exactly can you chastise anyone for being obscene when the stories you have been telling me for hours now are the raunchiest tales I have ever heard?!"
These bold questions were often addressed with relentless beatings.
Let it be known to the masses that ole Quint McGuinley will not soon forget these most recent antics of the Japanese! I can fight fire with fire, or perversion with perversion, if it be necessary! Do I need to whack off a God damn manatee in order to get some recognition as a serious oceanic expert for crying out loud?! Then so be it...
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Explosive Diarrhea Makes for an Unwelcome Dinner Guest
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.
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.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Charlie Tomato Ruins My Plans with his Selfishness
As I'm sure you might have guessed by the end of my last post, ole Quint fell off the wagon again. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that I tripped while trying to get on and fell flat on me pretty face. However, while it's common knowledge that my relationship with sobriety has always been doomed to result in those dreaded irreconcilable differences, I never expected to give in so quickly. Ah well, it was the thought that counts, as I always say.
I never ended up going back out to sea with ole Charlie Tomato after all. Turns out that little "something" he had to take care of involved the brutal murder of his wife, the torching of his pool house, and then engaging the local law enforcement in a nine hour standoff before he ran outside of his 3 story mansion stark naked with a pistol blazing in each hand, forcing the police to fill him with enough lead to feed Ethiopia for a year. Apparently the Ethiopians will eat just about anything you give them, so why not lead?
For the past month I've been wandering about the Key West area in a daze, ultimately coming to grips with the reality of my present situation and the fact that I've become a hobo. Rather...the fact that I've been a hobo for the past several years. It's quite disconcerting when I take the time to breathe it all in. Ole Quint McGuinley...most probably the greatest sea captain there ever was...resorted to a mere mortal on land...and a poor one at that!
Then again, I've never had trouble finding sustenance or shelter. I've not been hard-pressed while nourishing my promiscuity with the female species either. I will admit that some of the women I've bedded these past few years could easily be remnants of the Mesazoic era, but they've allowed me to get the job done and that's what matters, right gentlemen? Yaargh...that's right!
It's Labor Day weekend. Lots of barbecues to crash and liqour to drink! I think I'll gradually make my way back up north along the eastern coast in hopes that I might find passage on a cruise ship. Argh wouldn't that be the life? Rich debutantes flaunting their arm candy wives as their children run wild on deck, drunk with glee (or liquor that ole uncle Quint would undoubtedly serve them illegally!).
But as with everything in my life, I shall walk the unfolding red carpet that is my future with easy steps and nary a care in the world. Who has time for worry when Jack Daniels is your friend?
I never ended up going back out to sea with ole Charlie Tomato after all. Turns out that little "something" he had to take care of involved the brutal murder of his wife, the torching of his pool house, and then engaging the local law enforcement in a nine hour standoff before he ran outside of his 3 story mansion stark naked with a pistol blazing in each hand, forcing the police to fill him with enough lead to feed Ethiopia for a year. Apparently the Ethiopians will eat just about anything you give them, so why not lead?
For the past month I've been wandering about the Key West area in a daze, ultimately coming to grips with the reality of my present situation and the fact that I've become a hobo. Rather...the fact that I've been a hobo for the past several years. It's quite disconcerting when I take the time to breathe it all in. Ole Quint McGuinley...most probably the greatest sea captain there ever was...resorted to a mere mortal on land...and a poor one at that!
Then again, I've never had trouble finding sustenance or shelter. I've not been hard-pressed while nourishing my promiscuity with the female species either. I will admit that some of the women I've bedded these past few years could easily be remnants of the Mesazoic era, but they've allowed me to get the job done and that's what matters, right gentlemen? Yaargh...that's right!
It's Labor Day weekend. Lots of barbecues to crash and liqour to drink! I think I'll gradually make my way back up north along the eastern coast in hopes that I might find passage on a cruise ship. Argh wouldn't that be the life? Rich debutantes flaunting their arm candy wives as their children run wild on deck, drunk with glee (or liquor that ole uncle Quint would undoubtedly serve them illegally!).
But as with everything in my life, I shall walk the unfolding red carpet that is my future with easy steps and nary a care in the world. Who has time for worry when Jack Daniels is your friend?
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
New Lifestyle Choices
After a few weeks of gentle rumination as I wandered the streets of Key West, graciously accepting handouts, and enjoying the musicians from the sidewalks surrounding the outdoor bars, I finally managed to secure myself a nautical adventure worthy of one so grizzled as myself!
After a particularly harsh night full of excessive inebriation and throwing pebbles at drunken beach-strolling vacationers in hopes that they might run and leave their billfolds behind in their haste, I, Quint Quintly McGuinley, have decided to take control of my life. From this point forward, I shall not engage in wanton behavior that might perpetuate my seemingly downward spiral into a life of addiction and dependency. Instead, I shall grab hold of the wheel and steer with stunning clarity into a new horizon full of accomplishment and satisfaction.
This is my challenge to myself. Apart from combating my inner demons, I shall make personal visits to those I have wronged in the past and show them the man Quint McGuinley has become. I shall also offer them my services free of charge in reparation for any wrongdoin's I might have suffered them. And to prove that my resolve is strong, ole Quint McGuinley shall also return to the homes of his bitter enemies in hopes of building a dialogue that might generate understanding as to how things went wrong in the first place. Surely my good intentions will be met with negative reactions at first; in fact, most of these people will more than likely try to kill me on sight, as I have surely tried to kill them in the past. But it is my belief that only good can come of this, and I have no intentions of backing out.
I recently made the acquaintance of a seaman who is known to go by the name of Charlie Walsh, or ole Charlie Tomato, as I like to call him. I came upon ole Charlie stumbling blind drunk down a crowded street just the other day, and as I immediately recognized that we shared several traits in common, it became my duty to allow him to assist me in handicapping me own sobriety. As Charlie's tongue was very loose at the time, he confessed to me the reason for his extreme inebriation, offering the sensitive tale of his wife of forty years and her recent infidelity with his best friend, who also happened to be the first mate of his ship.
Charlie's slurring speech allowed me sharp mind to form several immediate connections. Not only would he be requiring a new first mate for this supposed ship, he would also be vulnerable and willing to any suggestions of extreme and reckless spontaneity that any potential new best friend might purport to offer during such a time of desperation. Ahhh the weak minds of men so easily brought to their knees by the antics of the female species! If only my friend Charlie Tomato would have known to begin beating her on the day of their nuptials he would never have found himself in such a predicament in the first place!
At some point in our time together, I let slip the fact that I am a very skilled sea captain myself, and that I have also fallen on hard times in recent years. My little friend's ears perked up ever so slightly at this, and his eyes squinted in an attempted to record the transpiring conversation with as clear a mind as he could muster. When I made mention of the fact that I returned to Key West in search of work, his eyes grew wide again, and my eyes nearly burned from the brightness of the lightbulb that formed above ole Charlie's noggin.
"Let's go to sea together!" he said, slapping his hands on my massive shoulders. "I can assemble a crew in a few hours. We'll leave first thing in the morning!" Then, as if he doubted himself, he added, "Well...maybe not first thing. I have something that I want to take care of first! How bout we make it the next morning?"
"Excellent!" I said. "Just call on me whenever you're ready. I shall be where I have been for the past 15 evenings...slumbering under that tarpaulin you see covering the lifeguard vessel on the beach o'er yonder!"
My new best friend smiled as though I had just done him the greatest favor in the world. He looked as though he was preparing to hug me; then looked as if he noticed via my facial expressions that Quint McGuinley is not a man known for enjoying hugs with men; then thought better of things and offered his hand for shaking. I promptly extended my own hand and clamped down on his with the force of a retarded kid who has recently been told that he can't play Xbox after dinner, and Charlie respected me for it despite what the strain on his face might have suggested.
It was this good fortune that prompted thoughts of transformation in me mind, and also why Ole Quint shall forever turn his back on drugs, alcohol, thievery, violence, fast women, Mexican food, and organized religion. It is my belief that a lifestyle devoid of such excess shall purify my newfound enlightenment while fostering a life full of serenity and happiness. Yes friends, I am sorry to inform you that your comrade in arms has changed his ways forever.
Now if you'll excuse me, I am starting to get the beer shakes. It's about time I go score a bag of reefer from the skateboarders in the bank parking lot, sell half of it to the skateboarders in the high school parking lot at a substantially higher price, use the profits from that transaction to buy myself a fifth of whiskey, and then find a secluded spot on the beach where I can toke the smoke and sink the drink all the while basking in my newly discovered serenity; then, during the peak of my inebriation, I'll assert my masculinity by starting a fist fight with a man or woman for almost no reason whatsoever, wash the blood and sweat off my body in the ocean, steal clothes from an outdoor clothing rack, repeat my dealings with the skateboarders, and finally hang around the front door of the seediest bar with intent to pick up the most desperate woman who exits. If all goes well I should be asleep by 3am with plenty of time for sleep so that I can wake up and go to mass before heading over to the park for Taco day!
After a particularly harsh night full of excessive inebriation and throwing pebbles at drunken beach-strolling vacationers in hopes that they might run and leave their billfolds behind in their haste, I, Quint Quintly McGuinley, have decided to take control of my life. From this point forward, I shall not engage in wanton behavior that might perpetuate my seemingly downward spiral into a life of addiction and dependency. Instead, I shall grab hold of the wheel and steer with stunning clarity into a new horizon full of accomplishment and satisfaction.
This is my challenge to myself. Apart from combating my inner demons, I shall make personal visits to those I have wronged in the past and show them the man Quint McGuinley has become. I shall also offer them my services free of charge in reparation for any wrongdoin's I might have suffered them. And to prove that my resolve is strong, ole Quint McGuinley shall also return to the homes of his bitter enemies in hopes of building a dialogue that might generate understanding as to how things went wrong in the first place. Surely my good intentions will be met with negative reactions at first; in fact, most of these people will more than likely try to kill me on sight, as I have surely tried to kill them in the past. But it is my belief that only good can come of this, and I have no intentions of backing out.
I recently made the acquaintance of a seaman who is known to go by the name of Charlie Walsh, or ole Charlie Tomato, as I like to call him. I came upon ole Charlie stumbling blind drunk down a crowded street just the other day, and as I immediately recognized that we shared several traits in common, it became my duty to allow him to assist me in handicapping me own sobriety. As Charlie's tongue was very loose at the time, he confessed to me the reason for his extreme inebriation, offering the sensitive tale of his wife of forty years and her recent infidelity with his best friend, who also happened to be the first mate of his ship.
Charlie's slurring speech allowed me sharp mind to form several immediate connections. Not only would he be requiring a new first mate for this supposed ship, he would also be vulnerable and willing to any suggestions of extreme and reckless spontaneity that any potential new best friend might purport to offer during such a time of desperation. Ahhh the weak minds of men so easily brought to their knees by the antics of the female species! If only my friend Charlie Tomato would have known to begin beating her on the day of their nuptials he would never have found himself in such a predicament in the first place!
At some point in our time together, I let slip the fact that I am a very skilled sea captain myself, and that I have also fallen on hard times in recent years. My little friend's ears perked up ever so slightly at this, and his eyes squinted in an attempted to record the transpiring conversation with as clear a mind as he could muster. When I made mention of the fact that I returned to Key West in search of work, his eyes grew wide again, and my eyes nearly burned from the brightness of the lightbulb that formed above ole Charlie's noggin.
"Let's go to sea together!" he said, slapping his hands on my massive shoulders. "I can assemble a crew in a few hours. We'll leave first thing in the morning!" Then, as if he doubted himself, he added, "Well...maybe not first thing. I have something that I want to take care of first! How bout we make it the next morning?"
"Excellent!" I said. "Just call on me whenever you're ready. I shall be where I have been for the past 15 evenings...slumbering under that tarpaulin you see covering the lifeguard vessel on the beach o'er yonder!"
My new best friend smiled as though I had just done him the greatest favor in the world. He looked as though he was preparing to hug me; then looked as if he noticed via my facial expressions that Quint McGuinley is not a man known for enjoying hugs with men; then thought better of things and offered his hand for shaking. I promptly extended my own hand and clamped down on his with the force of a retarded kid who has recently been told that he can't play Xbox after dinner, and Charlie respected me for it despite what the strain on his face might have suggested.
It was this good fortune that prompted thoughts of transformation in me mind, and also why Ole Quint shall forever turn his back on drugs, alcohol, thievery, violence, fast women, Mexican food, and organized religion. It is my belief that a lifestyle devoid of such excess shall purify my newfound enlightenment while fostering a life full of serenity and happiness. Yes friends, I am sorry to inform you that your comrade in arms has changed his ways forever.
Now if you'll excuse me, I am starting to get the beer shakes. It's about time I go score a bag of reefer from the skateboarders in the bank parking lot, sell half of it to the skateboarders in the high school parking lot at a substantially higher price, use the profits from that transaction to buy myself a fifth of whiskey, and then find a secluded spot on the beach where I can toke the smoke and sink the drink all the while basking in my newly discovered serenity; then, during the peak of my inebriation, I'll assert my masculinity by starting a fist fight with a man or woman for almost no reason whatsoever, wash the blood and sweat off my body in the ocean, steal clothes from an outdoor clothing rack, repeat my dealings with the skateboarders, and finally hang around the front door of the seediest bar with intent to pick up the most desperate woman who exits. If all goes well I should be asleep by 3am with plenty of time for sleep so that I can wake up and go to mass before heading over to the park for Taco day!
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
The Longest Day (redux)...
Sweet merciful Dennis Franz I'm in worse shape than I thought! That little seven mile run I committed to last week turned out to be a bit more difficult than I expected.
As I was just about to clear the first quarter mile of my journey, I felt something seize up in my good leg and crumpled to the ground like a drunk with a wooden leg who foolishly attempts to run across a 7 mile bridge. The embarassment was severe. I quickly regained my composure and hobbled over to the guard rail overlooking the ocean, raised a white-knuckled fist into the air, and cursed the gods for their brashness. I vowed revenge.
A kind old man with a dirty yellow golf shirt and wrap-around glaucoma sunglasses motioned to me from a faded Grand Prix as I lay huddled on the ground kneading the ball of pain that had formed in my quadricep. The old man spoke in a voice that was tinier than Farrah Fawcett's nipples. Okay, I realize that as far as nipples go, Farrah's papilla mammae are titans in a world of men. In all seriousness, they resemble small uncut sausages. But in the grand scheme of things, they're actually quite small. We shall run with that idea for the analogy.
I cupped a hand to my ear and asked him to repeat himself. "Would you like a ride, my friend?" he asked. I simply couldn't imagine what it must have been about my present circumstances that conveyed helplessness and painted me as a specimen in need of hospitality. Surely it could not have been the fact that I lay heaped in a ball on the cement! OF COURSE I WOULD LIKE A RIDE, GOD DAMN IT!
After crawling the distance between the guard rail and the Grand Prix, I propped myself up by holding onto the trunk and then proceeded to hop on my wooden leg until my ass was firmly nestled in the backseat. "Andelay!" I shouted. Beads of perspiration cascaded down my forehead like Mexicans at a slip-and-slide party. The fat little droplets burned my eyes and further ignited my murderous rage. Again I cursed the gods!
Old man McGillicuddy proceeded to drive me over the bridge and into Key West. Though I still cannot comprehend how my travel companion managed to see the road whilst wearing those ocular monstrosities, I did not dare ask him for fear that my inquiry would cause him to second-guess his abilities and careen into the wrong lane.
Father Time dropped me off a few blocks away from Duval Street. I thanked him for his generosity and swore to one day repay the favor. It was a touching moment uncharacteristic of one so grizzled as myself and I was grateful for the bonding experience with a man old enough to be my father. Realizing that my masculinity was at stake, I punched the old man in the face and yelled "How dare you touch me there! I most certainly am not gay!" loud enough for everyone within earshot to hear.
As I sauntered away amidst the din of honking horns and angry catcalls, I started whistling the theme song to "Different Strokes" and ruminated that I'd like to father a few children of my own some day. I sometimes wonder whatever happened to those Drummond children in real life. Obviously, they are no longer working in television. With their intelligence and captivating personalities, they're surely doctors or lawyers by now!
I redirected my course towards a comfortable looking bench distanced approximately half a knot away. Fully aware that Key West has the largest homeless population per capita in the whole country, and afraid that one of the brigands might be occupying the bench by the time I covered the distance, I momentarily forgot about my sore leg and sprinted for the empty refuge.
At about the halfway point, my eyes connected with those of a particularly imposing derelict who was digging through a trash can on the other side of the bench. He recognized what I was on about and snarled. Crumbs from an old peanut butter sandwich powdered his chin and spittle lent a shine to his bottom lip. The bench was his territory, and he wanted me to know it.
Fearing that my reputation would suffer if I yielded to his wishes, I redirected my course once again and charged the hobo like I was Gary Busey...well just about anywhere. His angry brow lifted as his eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open, allowing a large portion of partly chewed peanut butter sandwich to escape what would have been certain doom in his bowels. My enemy formed the ready position, and though I can't be sure, I believe my knuckles shuddered with excitement.
I was upon him seconds later. One quick jab to the forehead proved to be enough to knock him off balance. A quick thrust with me wooden leg came down so hard on his thigh bone that I believe mine ears detected a cracking sound. Old man strength coursed through my veins as I lifted the large metal trash can high above my head with the intent to smite me nemesis from this mortal coil. It was then that the transient surprised me. Like a feral animal backed into a corner, he proved to be quite ferocious when warranted.
The savage grabbed onto my good leg with both hands and fixed a monster bite on my calf muscle. The pain was dull and bearable, as all of his teeth had rotted out years before, but it was enough to catch me off my guard and force my very hands to drop the trash can onto me peg, causing me to fall on top of me adversary. I would see that he'd pay for such a bold move.
A quick elbow to the face served to slow the monster, and I repositioned myself so as to have the upper hand. I had to give it to the bastard...he could certainly take a beating. After several minutes of trading blows back and forth, I looked around with a partially closed eye and happened to notice that our little quarrel was attracting something of a crowd. A boy of no more than 10 stared at us with an expression of awe and bewilderment. He resembled a young Haley Joel Osment, my mortal enemy. There were tears streaming down his face as his mother struggled to tear him away from the scene.
"Give it up, marauder!" my enemy gargled through a mouth of blood. He simply didn't know when to quit! A quick headbutt to the face knocked him to the ground, and I held him there with my left hand while I loosened the peg from my stump with the intention of using it to bludgeon him about the frontal lobe. The hobo noticed what I was doing and flew into a rage. He contorted and bucked his body so violently that I'm surprised and somewhat disappointed that he didn't break his own back.
The brigand's erratic movement served to loosen my grip, and he scuttled towards the bench in a mad dash. Refusing to be thwarted, I kissed my wooden peg and prayed that her aim be true as I heaved her at my foe's skull. And true she was! My peg made a target of the transient's brain stem; seconds later, he slumped to the ground. I grabbed onto the wheelchair of a particularly nosey woman who gathered to witness the battle and forced myself into her lap. "Ride! To the bench, woman! Posthaste!"
The terrified young lady revved the engine of her motorized cart and delivered me to my spoils - or in this case, my spoil - at a very dramatic speed of 5 mph. I looked down at my opponent, who was unconscious as I suspected and in no shape to endure more physical abuse. Had he extended his fingers, they would have been touching the leg of the bench and I might have felt obligated to proclaim him the winner. But as things ended up, the bench was mine!
I leered at the stunned spectators, winked, lowered me cap on me brow, and streched the ole bones in preparation for a few hours of much needed shut-eye. No sooner had I closed me eyes when all of a sudden there came a gentle tapping on me arm. I lashed out violently and gripped the hand of me assailant with a mean's to displace the bones. As I pulled the brigand closer to get a good look at him before extinguishing his life force forever, who do I see but the curious young boy whose mother had tried to drag away a few moments prior? And what does the little scalawag have in his hand but me peg?!
I apologized for nearly causing irreparable damage to the skeletal structure of his hand and gave the boy a large chunk out of a partially eaten donut that I had salvaged from a dumpster not more than a few hours earlier as a way of saying thanks. He smiled and nibbled on my peace offering. I rubbed the little rascal's head and was about to tell him that he would make a fine leader some day, when all of a sudden the imposing homeless man to whom I had just given the thumping of a lifetime took advantage of my newly acquired blindspot by rushing me; effectively flipping the bench in the process!
We thrashed about like schizophrenics during a fire drill. My assailant clasped his hands together and brought them down on my kidney with such force that I urinated in me pantaloons. I retaliated by hooking the bastard's ocular cavity with my index finger.
Pools of thick blood collected on the cement beneath us. Several of the spectators ran away and those who were brave enough to stay paid the price in projectile vomit. Police officers arrived at the scene with absolutely no idea how to handle the situation.
A severely obese teenager dressed in what appeared to be an outfit made of rubberbands and paper clips was vomiting so uncontrollably that he shot one of the officers in the face with a stream so forceful it knocked the man off his feet. Tears plummeted from the kid's tear ducts like the falls of Niagara as his hands gripped the top of his head and he started spinning around like a doomed helicopter crying "Why?" in between chunks of the Whopper he had for lunch and his own bile.
Young Fatty McGee stopped whirling around long enough for a brave officer to run up and mace him in the face. Another policeman ran up behind him and clubbed him across his back hump so savagely that the behemoth of a teenager dropped to the cement with a sound not unlike that of a cold pancake smacking a wet windshield.
The cops started rounding up everyone they could. Several large black vans pulled up to the scene and officers rushed out by the dozen. They were dressed head to toe in riot gear and began beating anyone foolish enough to run to them seeking protection. By this time I had beaten my assailant to within an inch of his life and was convinced that I had quelled any remnant of aggression in his person.
Cops where everywhere. One of the men who arrived in the van climbed on top of the vehicle and fired a tear gas projectile into the crowd. I picked myself up, hurriedly refastened my peg to its rightful place, and taking advantage of the thick cloud of smoke, decided to make a hasty exit to a park accross the street.
Though I was unable to see through the cloud, I heard several officers scurrying about trying to round up any would be troublemakers. Thankfully, I had been tear-gassed so many times in the past that it takes triple the normal dose to knock the fight out of ole Quint. As the police searched around in the mist breathing comfortably with their gasmasks, ole Quint hobbled along with no worries whatsoever.
I crawled under a truck parked across the street from the scene and stared out as the cloud of gas dissipated. Bodies were strewn about. People were coughing and wailing and rubbing their eyes as cops ran around clubbing them over the heads with batons. No one was safe from the wrath of the KWPD. No one but ole Quint McGuinley that is!
Living in close proximity to homeowningly-challenged individuals for so many years has forced me to grow accustomed to the dark side of human nature, but I have never witnessed a scene as startlingly horrific as the one that occured the day I tried to cross the 7 Mile Bridge on foot. The sheer thought of it made me hungry.
After a brief and much needed nap in my shady nook under the truck, I casually arose to face a new day. Much of the carnage from earlier had been cleaned up, though I could still see a few spots of sawdust where there had previously been blood and vomit stains.
I lit a marijuana cigarette and strolled through the park thinking about how fortunate I am to be Quint McGuinley. As me right hand dug around in me pocket for a toothpick, me fingers touched upon a note. A 20 dollar note, mind you! I had forgotten that I had sold some of the homemade pottery that I borrowed from Tress!
Deciding that she wouldn't want ole Quint to go hungry, I looked around and spied a cozy outdoor cafe not more than a knot away. It appeared as though one had the option of sitting at the outside bar if they so wished, which seemed like a good idea to me since my skin and clothing had developed a filmy mixture of blood, vomit, and urine. Fortunately enough for me, there appeared to be a single available seat at this outside bar!
As I neared what would soon become my refuge from starvation, I locked eyes with an attractive blonde with full lips and a heaving busom who happened to be walking directly towards the empty seat. She smiled at me. I tip me cap and smiled back. I watched patiently as she turned her back and made a move for the stool. And then I rushed the wretched whore!
As I was just about to clear the first quarter mile of my journey, I felt something seize up in my good leg and crumpled to the ground like a drunk with a wooden leg who foolishly attempts to run across a 7 mile bridge. The embarassment was severe. I quickly regained my composure and hobbled over to the guard rail overlooking the ocean, raised a white-knuckled fist into the air, and cursed the gods for their brashness. I vowed revenge.
A kind old man with a dirty yellow golf shirt and wrap-around glaucoma sunglasses motioned to me from a faded Grand Prix as I lay huddled on the ground kneading the ball of pain that had formed in my quadricep. The old man spoke in a voice that was tinier than Farrah Fawcett's nipples. Okay, I realize that as far as nipples go, Farrah's papilla mammae are titans in a world of men. In all seriousness, they resemble small uncut sausages. But in the grand scheme of things, they're actually quite small. We shall run with that idea for the analogy.
I cupped a hand to my ear and asked him to repeat himself. "Would you like a ride, my friend?" he asked. I simply couldn't imagine what it must have been about my present circumstances that conveyed helplessness and painted me as a specimen in need of hospitality. Surely it could not have been the fact that I lay heaped in a ball on the cement! OF COURSE I WOULD LIKE A RIDE, GOD DAMN IT!
After crawling the distance between the guard rail and the Grand Prix, I propped myself up by holding onto the trunk and then proceeded to hop on my wooden leg until my ass was firmly nestled in the backseat. "Andelay!" I shouted. Beads of perspiration cascaded down my forehead like Mexicans at a slip-and-slide party. The fat little droplets burned my eyes and further ignited my murderous rage. Again I cursed the gods!
Old man McGillicuddy proceeded to drive me over the bridge and into Key West. Though I still cannot comprehend how my travel companion managed to see the road whilst wearing those ocular monstrosities, I did not dare ask him for fear that my inquiry would cause him to second-guess his abilities and careen into the wrong lane.
Father Time dropped me off a few blocks away from Duval Street. I thanked him for his generosity and swore to one day repay the favor. It was a touching moment uncharacteristic of one so grizzled as myself and I was grateful for the bonding experience with a man old enough to be my father. Realizing that my masculinity was at stake, I punched the old man in the face and yelled "How dare you touch me there! I most certainly am not gay!" loud enough for everyone within earshot to hear.
As I sauntered away amidst the din of honking horns and angry catcalls, I started whistling the theme song to "Different Strokes" and ruminated that I'd like to father a few children of my own some day. I sometimes wonder whatever happened to those Drummond children in real life. Obviously, they are no longer working in television. With their intelligence and captivating personalities, they're surely doctors or lawyers by now!
I redirected my course towards a comfortable looking bench distanced approximately half a knot away. Fully aware that Key West has the largest homeless population per capita in the whole country, and afraid that one of the brigands might be occupying the bench by the time I covered the distance, I momentarily forgot about my sore leg and sprinted for the empty refuge.
At about the halfway point, my eyes connected with those of a particularly imposing derelict who was digging through a trash can on the other side of the bench. He recognized what I was on about and snarled. Crumbs from an old peanut butter sandwich powdered his chin and spittle lent a shine to his bottom lip. The bench was his territory, and he wanted me to know it.
Fearing that my reputation would suffer if I yielded to his wishes, I redirected my course once again and charged the hobo like I was Gary Busey...well just about anywhere. His angry brow lifted as his eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open, allowing a large portion of partly chewed peanut butter sandwich to escape what would have been certain doom in his bowels. My enemy formed the ready position, and though I can't be sure, I believe my knuckles shuddered with excitement.
I was upon him seconds later. One quick jab to the forehead proved to be enough to knock him off balance. A quick thrust with me wooden leg came down so hard on his thigh bone that I believe mine ears detected a cracking sound. Old man strength coursed through my veins as I lifted the large metal trash can high above my head with the intent to smite me nemesis from this mortal coil. It was then that the transient surprised me. Like a feral animal backed into a corner, he proved to be quite ferocious when warranted.
The savage grabbed onto my good leg with both hands and fixed a monster bite on my calf muscle. The pain was dull and bearable, as all of his teeth had rotted out years before, but it was enough to catch me off my guard and force my very hands to drop the trash can onto me peg, causing me to fall on top of me adversary. I would see that he'd pay for such a bold move.
A quick elbow to the face served to slow the monster, and I repositioned myself so as to have the upper hand. I had to give it to the bastard...he could certainly take a beating. After several minutes of trading blows back and forth, I looked around with a partially closed eye and happened to notice that our little quarrel was attracting something of a crowd. A boy of no more than 10 stared at us with an expression of awe and bewilderment. He resembled a young Haley Joel Osment, my mortal enemy. There were tears streaming down his face as his mother struggled to tear him away from the scene.
"Give it up, marauder!" my enemy gargled through a mouth of blood. He simply didn't know when to quit! A quick headbutt to the face knocked him to the ground, and I held him there with my left hand while I loosened the peg from my stump with the intention of using it to bludgeon him about the frontal lobe. The hobo noticed what I was doing and flew into a rage. He contorted and bucked his body so violently that I'm surprised and somewhat disappointed that he didn't break his own back.
The brigand's erratic movement served to loosen my grip, and he scuttled towards the bench in a mad dash. Refusing to be thwarted, I kissed my wooden peg and prayed that her aim be true as I heaved her at my foe's skull. And true she was! My peg made a target of the transient's brain stem; seconds later, he slumped to the ground. I grabbed onto the wheelchair of a particularly nosey woman who gathered to witness the battle and forced myself into her lap. "Ride! To the bench, woman! Posthaste!"
The terrified young lady revved the engine of her motorized cart and delivered me to my spoils - or in this case, my spoil - at a very dramatic speed of 5 mph. I looked down at my opponent, who was unconscious as I suspected and in no shape to endure more physical abuse. Had he extended his fingers, they would have been touching the leg of the bench and I might have felt obligated to proclaim him the winner. But as things ended up, the bench was mine!
I leered at the stunned spectators, winked, lowered me cap on me brow, and streched the ole bones in preparation for a few hours of much needed shut-eye. No sooner had I closed me eyes when all of a sudden there came a gentle tapping on me arm. I lashed out violently and gripped the hand of me assailant with a mean's to displace the bones. As I pulled the brigand closer to get a good look at him before extinguishing his life force forever, who do I see but the curious young boy whose mother had tried to drag away a few moments prior? And what does the little scalawag have in his hand but me peg?!
I apologized for nearly causing irreparable damage to the skeletal structure of his hand and gave the boy a large chunk out of a partially eaten donut that I had salvaged from a dumpster not more than a few hours earlier as a way of saying thanks. He smiled and nibbled on my peace offering. I rubbed the little rascal's head and was about to tell him that he would make a fine leader some day, when all of a sudden the imposing homeless man to whom I had just given the thumping of a lifetime took advantage of my newly acquired blindspot by rushing me; effectively flipping the bench in the process!
We thrashed about like schizophrenics during a fire drill. My assailant clasped his hands together and brought them down on my kidney with such force that I urinated in me pantaloons. I retaliated by hooking the bastard's ocular cavity with my index finger.
Pools of thick blood collected on the cement beneath us. Several of the spectators ran away and those who were brave enough to stay paid the price in projectile vomit. Police officers arrived at the scene with absolutely no idea how to handle the situation.
A severely obese teenager dressed in what appeared to be an outfit made of rubberbands and paper clips was vomiting so uncontrollably that he shot one of the officers in the face with a stream so forceful it knocked the man off his feet. Tears plummeted from the kid's tear ducts like the falls of Niagara as his hands gripped the top of his head and he started spinning around like a doomed helicopter crying "Why?" in between chunks of the Whopper he had for lunch and his own bile.
Young Fatty McGee stopped whirling around long enough for a brave officer to run up and mace him in the face. Another policeman ran up behind him and clubbed him across his back hump so savagely that the behemoth of a teenager dropped to the cement with a sound not unlike that of a cold pancake smacking a wet windshield.
The cops started rounding up everyone they could. Several large black vans pulled up to the scene and officers rushed out by the dozen. They were dressed head to toe in riot gear and began beating anyone foolish enough to run to them seeking protection. By this time I had beaten my assailant to within an inch of his life and was convinced that I had quelled any remnant of aggression in his person.
Cops where everywhere. One of the men who arrived in the van climbed on top of the vehicle and fired a tear gas projectile into the crowd. I picked myself up, hurriedly refastened my peg to its rightful place, and taking advantage of the thick cloud of smoke, decided to make a hasty exit to a park accross the street.
Though I was unable to see through the cloud, I heard several officers scurrying about trying to round up any would be troublemakers. Thankfully, I had been tear-gassed so many times in the past that it takes triple the normal dose to knock the fight out of ole Quint. As the police searched around in the mist breathing comfortably with their gasmasks, ole Quint hobbled along with no worries whatsoever.
I crawled under a truck parked across the street from the scene and stared out as the cloud of gas dissipated. Bodies were strewn about. People were coughing and wailing and rubbing their eyes as cops ran around clubbing them over the heads with batons. No one was safe from the wrath of the KWPD. No one but ole Quint McGuinley that is!
Living in close proximity to homeowningly-challenged individuals for so many years has forced me to grow accustomed to the dark side of human nature, but I have never witnessed a scene as startlingly horrific as the one that occured the day I tried to cross the 7 Mile Bridge on foot. The sheer thought of it made me hungry.
After a brief and much needed nap in my shady nook under the truck, I casually arose to face a new day. Much of the carnage from earlier had been cleaned up, though I could still see a few spots of sawdust where there had previously been blood and vomit stains.
I lit a marijuana cigarette and strolled through the park thinking about how fortunate I am to be Quint McGuinley. As me right hand dug around in me pocket for a toothpick, me fingers touched upon a note. A 20 dollar note, mind you! I had forgotten that I had sold some of the homemade pottery that I borrowed from Tress!
Deciding that she wouldn't want ole Quint to go hungry, I looked around and spied a cozy outdoor cafe not more than a knot away. It appeared as though one had the option of sitting at the outside bar if they so wished, which seemed like a good idea to me since my skin and clothing had developed a filmy mixture of blood, vomit, and urine. Fortunately enough for me, there appeared to be a single available seat at this outside bar!
As I neared what would soon become my refuge from starvation, I locked eyes with an attractive blonde with full lips and a heaving busom who happened to be walking directly towards the empty seat. She smiled at me. I tip me cap and smiled back. I watched patiently as she turned her back and made a move for the stool. And then I rushed the wretched whore!
Friday, July 01, 2005
Seven Mile Bridge
Alas, I have reached the magnificence that is the Seven-mile bridge leading into Key West! It is a wondrous sight to behold as the setting sun paints the lapping waves a myriad of vivid colors before splashing into the sea for its nightly slumber. Honestly, I've seen less color at a diversity parade! Ha! Who am I kidding? You'd have about as much luck getting Ole Quint to a diversity parade as you would trying to limit Rosie O'Donnell's portions at an all you can eat buffet. But you get the point...lots of colors...wonderful to behold...blah blah blah. Moving on...
Since no one has seen fit to offer me safe passage in their vehicle as they make their way across the bridge, I have been forced to travel the entire distance on foot. Being that I am an outstanding physical speciman, I plan on running all seven miles at full speed. I'd be willing to wager that I just might even beat a few cars to the other side, provided that there's a modicum of traffic, of course.
It should be near midnight by the time I reach the city, and there's an "X" marks the spot on my mental map directly over the "clothing optional" bar that's located in the center of town. This is favorable because not only will young ladies be unable to form opinions based on the humility of my wardrobe, but even more importantly they will be afforded the viewing pleasure of my flesh galleon, Moby Weiner. It still strikes me as odd that there is an establishment within the confines of the continental United States that fully embraces the legal shedding of one's clothing, and yet more often than not that is exactly the type of behavior responsible for Ole Quint's frequent prison vacations! I guess I'll never understand the law.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Police Chase en route to Miami
Ole Quint's a tired soul, mateys. This posting is the direct result of 96 hours of rapid-fire neuron activity, none of which even closely resembled sleep - unless you'd consider the brief moment I zoned out after whacking my prefrontal lobe against Tress' station wagon windshield.
How did I end up banging me noggin' on her windshield, you ask? Well, I felt that the least she could do for an old friend such as meself was to overlook my borrowing of her vehicle for at least a few days worth of my journey to the Keys of West. And so, just like that, I tacked a note to the back of her mother's ass before I left informing Tress of the favor she'd be grantin' me.
At least, I had all intentions of leaving a note, but it may have escaped me memory as my concentration was otherwise engaged at the time - let me just say that her mother has a superb derriere! And now that I think of it, my failure to leave written notification of my plan might explain why Ole Quint ended up in a high speed chase on I-95 in a last-ditch effort to evade the several state troopers that were tailing me, and also why he ended up driving off a particularly steep embankment in the first place! Surely Tress believed her wagon was stolen!
I'm actually quite embarassed that it hadn't actually dawned on me until now why the cops were tailing me! I just made a run for it because, well, given me spotty background, I figured it would be in me best interests to avoid any interactions with the authorities.
But either way, now all ye know what happened to me noggin', and the way I see it, a bump on the skull is a fair trade for avoiding what quite possibly could have been a lenghty prison vacation. And avoid it I did! Ya think the cops in Florida are gonna risk death chasing some drifter like meself down an embankment that's steeper than Gwen Stefani's chest(pre-surgery)? Hell no! I'd wager my vas deferens those lazy bastards didn't even want to catch me. That would mean they'd actually have to get out of their air-conditioned cruisers and work up a sweat!
So as he writes these words, yer ole pal Quint is enjoying a particularly strong libation in a drab establishment located somewhere in a lovely town called Miami. Have you ever heard of such a name before? Ridiculous! I'd personally call it "Titville" because titties are all I've been seeing since I got here, but Governor Bush is something of a coward when it comes to embracing such name changes. My letter to his secretary suggesting that they modify "Tallahassee" to the much more approachable and easier to spell "Watchthatgirlpee" has of yet gone unanswered.
How did I end up banging me noggin' on her windshield, you ask? Well, I felt that the least she could do for an old friend such as meself was to overlook my borrowing of her vehicle for at least a few days worth of my journey to the Keys of West. And so, just like that, I tacked a note to the back of her mother's ass before I left informing Tress of the favor she'd be grantin' me.
At least, I had all intentions of leaving a note, but it may have escaped me memory as my concentration was otherwise engaged at the time - let me just say that her mother has a superb derriere! And now that I think of it, my failure to leave written notification of my plan might explain why Ole Quint ended up in a high speed chase on I-95 in a last-ditch effort to evade the several state troopers that were tailing me, and also why he ended up driving off a particularly steep embankment in the first place! Surely Tress believed her wagon was stolen!
I'm actually quite embarassed that it hadn't actually dawned on me until now why the cops were tailing me! I just made a run for it because, well, given me spotty background, I figured it would be in me best interests to avoid any interactions with the authorities.
But either way, now all ye know what happened to me noggin', and the way I see it, a bump on the skull is a fair trade for avoiding what quite possibly could have been a lenghty prison vacation. And avoid it I did! Ya think the cops in Florida are gonna risk death chasing some drifter like meself down an embankment that's steeper than Gwen Stefani's chest(pre-surgery)? Hell no! I'd wager my vas deferens those lazy bastards didn't even want to catch me. That would mean they'd actually have to get out of their air-conditioned cruisers and work up a sweat!
So as he writes these words, yer ole pal Quint is enjoying a particularly strong libation in a drab establishment located somewhere in a lovely town called Miami. Have you ever heard of such a name before? Ridiculous! I'd personally call it "Titville" because titties are all I've been seeing since I got here, but Governor Bush is something of a coward when it comes to embracing such name changes. My letter to his secretary suggesting that they modify "Tallahassee" to the much more approachable and easier to spell "Watchthatgirlpee" has of yet gone unanswered.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Near Death in Tallahassee
I spent last evening lighting firecrackers in the ass of a young lady who called herself Tress. The sparks caused serious damage to the fleshy cheeks of her milky white buttocks, but she begged Ole Quint to continue. The entire ordeal went on for several hours; I believe her to be a masochist.
After the light spectacle, I bedded Tress on the back lawn of her house. It was a bizarre scene even by my standards, and her family did not seem at all pleased to witness these strange events unfold. Her father attempted to castrate me with a steak knife, which I thought was rude.
All in all I enjoyed myself at Tress' annual family barbecue. Ole Quint was most grateful for having been invited in the first place, though I probably wouldn't have been if Tress hadn't nearly killed me with her car several hours before the party. She was running last minute errands in a vain attempt to sculpt an evening of bliss for her parents, and she was half-blinded by stress and cooking sherry. Fearing she would fail a breathalyzer and be convicted of drunk driving or worse, she begged me not to report the incident, and offered sex in exchange for my silence.
Never being one to take advantage of a woman in distress, and noticing a recently purchased bucket of potato salad in the backseat of Tress' station wagon, I suggested a different solution to our dilemma. A look of horror spread across her face as she imagined how events might unfold at a family party with yours truly as the guest of honor, but a police cruiser passed by shortly after my suggestion and Tress hurriedly motioned for me to get in her car.
We returned to her quaint, one-story house with the charming backyard patio and she spoke of her recent divorce while I helped her retrieve decorative lawn furniture from the shed. Tress' manic behavior irritated me, so I suggested she gobble down a few blue pills that I had bartered my shoes for the previous evening in hopes that they would quell her anxiety.
And just like that, ole Quint created a monster. Her parents showed up around five with their criticism unchecked at the door, expecting a few minor flaws that they could exploit like immigrant landscapers, and what they got was a daughter dancing around the house, half-naked and fully drugged, entertaining what appeared to them to be a middle-aged bum who reeked like a sumo wrestler's taint.
It was Tress' decision to put on the fireworks display with her ass. We had already eaten and several of her family members were growing antsy, asking to play games like charades and pictionary. Tress would have none of it, and insisted on something more exciting.
I was merely her assistant in the debacle...holding the stick as I lit the fuse of the rocket that was perched a mere 3 inches above her backside. Her parents, though useless to stop the insanity of the situation (as everyone learned when her father tried to castrate me and I knuckle-punched him in the solar plexus), refused to leave because they were fearful that the escalating severity of their daughter's antics would result in her demise.
Sometime in the twilight hour I sobered up enough to realize that I was growing bored (and not to mention chaffed) with the repeated sessions of rough intercourse, and the realization that Tress' parents had witnessed the entire night's events had finally struck me as odd. I unlocked Tress' legs from around my neck and spread the massive tree trunks that are my legs to pry her arms apart; then I stood up in all of my naked glory and winked at Tress' mother and father.
The mother fainted - probably in awe of the magnificence of my genitalia - and surprisingly enough the father issued a subtle, but mischievious grin. Though Quint has sailed the rough waters for most of his life, often sacrificing female companionship for several months at a time, he has never been one to resort to the affections of a man, and a quick shake of the head made that clear to the old man, who promptly bowed his head in tears.
I gathered the few articles of clothing I had that were strewn about the patio like evidence at a crime scene and slipped around the front of the house to make a swift and necessary departure, pleased to leave behind the mingled aroma of burnt ass, sex, and cold burgers. I have to say that even though Tress is a woman, she paid her dues like a man.
After the light spectacle, I bedded Tress on the back lawn of her house. It was a bizarre scene even by my standards, and her family did not seem at all pleased to witness these strange events unfold. Her father attempted to castrate me with a steak knife, which I thought was rude.
All in all I enjoyed myself at Tress' annual family barbecue. Ole Quint was most grateful for having been invited in the first place, though I probably wouldn't have been if Tress hadn't nearly killed me with her car several hours before the party. She was running last minute errands in a vain attempt to sculpt an evening of bliss for her parents, and she was half-blinded by stress and cooking sherry. Fearing she would fail a breathalyzer and be convicted of drunk driving or worse, she begged me not to report the incident, and offered sex in exchange for my silence.
Never being one to take advantage of a woman in distress, and noticing a recently purchased bucket of potato salad in the backseat of Tress' station wagon, I suggested a different solution to our dilemma. A look of horror spread across her face as she imagined how events might unfold at a family party with yours truly as the guest of honor, but a police cruiser passed by shortly after my suggestion and Tress hurriedly motioned for me to get in her car.
We returned to her quaint, one-story house with the charming backyard patio and she spoke of her recent divorce while I helped her retrieve decorative lawn furniture from the shed. Tress' manic behavior irritated me, so I suggested she gobble down a few blue pills that I had bartered my shoes for the previous evening in hopes that they would quell her anxiety.
And just like that, ole Quint created a monster. Her parents showed up around five with their criticism unchecked at the door, expecting a few minor flaws that they could exploit like immigrant landscapers, and what they got was a daughter dancing around the house, half-naked and fully drugged, entertaining what appeared to them to be a middle-aged bum who reeked like a sumo wrestler's taint.
It was Tress' decision to put on the fireworks display with her ass. We had already eaten and several of her family members were growing antsy, asking to play games like charades and pictionary. Tress would have none of it, and insisted on something more exciting.
I was merely her assistant in the debacle...holding the stick as I lit the fuse of the rocket that was perched a mere 3 inches above her backside. Her parents, though useless to stop the insanity of the situation (as everyone learned when her father tried to castrate me and I knuckle-punched him in the solar plexus), refused to leave because they were fearful that the escalating severity of their daughter's antics would result in her demise.
Sometime in the twilight hour I sobered up enough to realize that I was growing bored (and not to mention chaffed) with the repeated sessions of rough intercourse, and the realization that Tress' parents had witnessed the entire night's events had finally struck me as odd. I unlocked Tress' legs from around my neck and spread the massive tree trunks that are my legs to pry her arms apart; then I stood up in all of my naked glory and winked at Tress' mother and father.
The mother fainted - probably in awe of the magnificence of my genitalia - and surprisingly enough the father issued a subtle, but mischievious grin. Though Quint has sailed the rough waters for most of his life, often sacrificing female companionship for several months at a time, he has never been one to resort to the affections of a man, and a quick shake of the head made that clear to the old man, who promptly bowed his head in tears.
I gathered the few articles of clothing I had that were strewn about the patio like evidence at a crime scene and slipped around the front of the house to make a swift and necessary departure, pleased to leave behind the mingled aroma of burnt ass, sex, and cold burgers. I have to say that even though Tress is a woman, she paid her dues like a man.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Truckin'
Tis me, lovelies! Ole Quint has returned to ye. And despite your worries for the safety of yours truly, I can assure you that they are completely unwarranted. Sure my skin is soft and pleasing to the eye, but I assure you it possesses the fortitude of Achilles' ballbag!
Allow me to bring you up to speed since me last entry...
After spending about a week in the vice-like grip of a particularly strong sheet of LSD, I commandeered a 14-year-old boy's bicycle as he delivered newspapers on the streets of West Virginy. Then I headed South, continuing on my path of enlightenment with my eyes staring in the direction of my ultimate destination...the docks of the lovely Key West. I set off about two weeks ago and presently I stand just shy of the border between Georgia and Florida.
The weather is hot and I reek like the greenish yellow liquid that rises in between the plastic trash bags in the backs of waste collecting vehicles before spilling onto the sun-beaten asphalt during the humid summer days. I'm sure you've smelled it. Surprisingly, it doesn't taste half bad. It's quite deceiving.
Before you judge me, why don't you tell me how one should survive when travelling several hundred miles on his own with no money and very little possessions. I tried eating grass! Sure it looks pretty, but it's not that appetizing! Come to think of it...it's not unlike a Mexican prostitute.
Allow me to bring you up to speed since me last entry...
After spending about a week in the vice-like grip of a particularly strong sheet of LSD, I commandeered a 14-year-old boy's bicycle as he delivered newspapers on the streets of West Virginy. Then I headed South, continuing on my path of enlightenment with my eyes staring in the direction of my ultimate destination...the docks of the lovely Key West. I set off about two weeks ago and presently I stand just shy of the border between Georgia and Florida.
The weather is hot and I reek like the greenish yellow liquid that rises in between the plastic trash bags in the backs of waste collecting vehicles before spilling onto the sun-beaten asphalt during the humid summer days. I'm sure you've smelled it. Surprisingly, it doesn't taste half bad. It's quite deceiving.
Before you judge me, why don't you tell me how one should survive when travelling several hundred miles on his own with no money and very little possessions. I tried eating grass! Sure it looks pretty, but it's not that appetizing! Come to think of it...it's not unlike a Mexican prostitute.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Friday, May 06, 2005
Head Bowed; Tail Between Legs
Argghhh...I guess an apology is in order for me hastiness in ending the last post, but you try posting stories of your life from a barn in south Virginia! Damn snakes and rabbits crawling all over me! I'm used to a more oceanic lifestyle; not this rubbish! But since barns provide an easy, and not to mention free, refuge as I make me way south for a much needed respite of undetermined duration, I guess I'll have to make due.
By the way, I expect that you'll accept my declaration that "an apology is in order" as my actual apology, because you and I both know that it's as close as you'll come to receiving an outright mea culpa from ole Quint, who is more man than Blackbeard and Magellan combined!
After losing my head a bit during that last post, I enjoyed a smoke to calm the ole nerves and decided that it was irresponsible of me to turn on you, oh faithful reader. But those are exactly the type of psychotic reactions an unhealthy dose of lysergic acid diethylamide inspires in a person who hasn't slept in 92 hours.
So allow me to offer the remaining details I originally intended to include in that last post...
Joe grabbed Sally about the waist like a caveman on amphetamines with a stubborn erection, and upon reaching the doorway of his new abode, he heaved her inanimate body so that she was halfway inside the entrance. Then he grabbed her legs and swung them around and grabbed the handle to lift himself inside. At that point he slammed the door shut, forcing my spy to relocate in order to accomodate the lack of visibility.
Apparently, Sally woke shortly after the door was shut, and unlike Joe, she remembered everything that happened with an idiot savant's clarity. Just as he crouched down to mount her, she whirled around and booted him in the crotch hard enough to propel one of his testicles into his stomach. I know what you're thinking, and yes, my spy's hearing is that precise! It should make no nevermind that he's deaf in one ear. The man knows when he hears a testicle flying into a stomach!
Oddly enough, Sally's a sucker for needy men, and just as she reached the door, she turned around to see ole Joe huddled on the cold, steel floor of the railcar, and she felt sorry for him. So she ran over to him and turned him on his back and ran a filthy hand through his even filthier hair, and she medicated Dingy with another dose of heroin to help him through the crippling pain of stomesticulitis. That's when Joe insisted that they consumate their newfound mutual respect for one another by engaging in sexual congress. Sally agreed and what ensued was the most gruesome, animalistic love-making this world has ever known.*
And that's the last I heard of Dingy Joe and Strychnine Sally. I'm glad they found someone with whom they could share crack cocaine with during the horrors of a dreadfully hot summer in a stuffy steel railcar, but if I come back next winter and those tramps still believe they're entitled to my home, well I assure you they have another thing coming! I'll napalm the damn place!
*This statement stands true so long as we're not considering New Jersey, because everyone knows that 90% of those indigenous to Jersey are wretched abominations of human beings.
By the way, I expect that you'll accept my declaration that "an apology is in order" as my actual apology, because you and I both know that it's as close as you'll come to receiving an outright mea culpa from ole Quint, who is more man than Blackbeard and Magellan combined!
After losing my head a bit during that last post, I enjoyed a smoke to calm the ole nerves and decided that it was irresponsible of me to turn on you, oh faithful reader. But those are exactly the type of psychotic reactions an unhealthy dose of lysergic acid diethylamide inspires in a person who hasn't slept in 92 hours.
So allow me to offer the remaining details I originally intended to include in that last post...
Joe grabbed Sally about the waist like a caveman on amphetamines with a stubborn erection, and upon reaching the doorway of his new abode, he heaved her inanimate body so that she was halfway inside the entrance. Then he grabbed her legs and swung them around and grabbed the handle to lift himself inside. At that point he slammed the door shut, forcing my spy to relocate in order to accomodate the lack of visibility.
Apparently, Sally woke shortly after the door was shut, and unlike Joe, she remembered everything that happened with an idiot savant's clarity. Just as he crouched down to mount her, she whirled around and booted him in the crotch hard enough to propel one of his testicles into his stomach. I know what you're thinking, and yes, my spy's hearing is that precise! It should make no nevermind that he's deaf in one ear. The man knows when he hears a testicle flying into a stomach!
Oddly enough, Sally's a sucker for needy men, and just as she reached the door, she turned around to see ole Joe huddled on the cold, steel floor of the railcar, and she felt sorry for him. So she ran over to him and turned him on his back and ran a filthy hand through his even filthier hair, and she medicated Dingy with another dose of heroin to help him through the crippling pain of stomesticulitis. That's when Joe insisted that they consumate their newfound mutual respect for one another by engaging in sexual congress. Sally agreed and what ensued was the most gruesome, animalistic love-making this world has ever known.*
And that's the last I heard of Dingy Joe and Strychnine Sally. I'm glad they found someone with whom they could share crack cocaine with during the horrors of a dreadfully hot summer in a stuffy steel railcar, but if I come back next winter and those tramps still believe they're entitled to my home, well I assure you they have another thing coming! I'll napalm the damn place!
*This statement stands true so long as we're not considering New Jersey, because everyone knows that 90% of those indigenous to Jersey are wretched abominations of human beings.
A Needle in a Haystack...Or Just in Joe's Arm
It's been a few days now since my close call with Dingy Joe and Sally, and aside from a repulsive bruise on my right bicep caused by Joe's pipe-lashing and a handful of fingernail scratches under my eyes, you'd never know that less than a week ago I kicked death in the gonads and lived to tell about it. Yes, my friends, oxygen has been tasting that much sweeter since that afternoon.
Sure, I was merciful and perhaps weak by allowing two of my enemies to live, but as they are nothing more than unintelligent addicts from the bottom of the barrel, I am content with the knowledge that they lack the necessary accouterments to track the musky scent of yours truly. And let's be honest, even if they did, I'd surely pound their faces into mashed potatoes with Washington and Lincoln! Who are they you ask? Why they are my fists, good reader; so named because they closely resemble in size the two flanking heads on Mount Rushmore. And they prefer French, or as I prefer to call them, "Freedom greetings"...two kisses, one on each side of the face.
Because you are my trusted companions and dare I say...friends? No, I don't like the sound of that. We'll stick with the former label. But even so, I feel I should let it be known that I have eyes and ears from Hoboken to Madagascar. Sure, several of these eyes and ears are about as accurate as those formerly employed by Hellen Keller, but more often than not I can depend on the paranoid delusions of the operators of said eyes and ears to steer me clear of any serious predicaments.
The facts as I have gathered them thus far hold that not long after I left, Joe snapped out of his heroin daze and limped back towards the railcar. He seemingly had no recollection of the afternoon's previous events, and just as he reached for the handle on the door to pull himself up, his roaming eye spotted Sally's unconscious form slumped on the ground to his left.
Now it is rare for a heroin addict to retain a sexual appetite whilst in the ravages of the drug, but as I have told you before, Dingy Joe is not your average human being. His libido rivals the intensity of an Indian kid at a spelling bee competition, and I shudder to imagine the thoughts that danced inside his head like a Parkinson's patient with bladder control problems upon first noticing Sally's helpless form lying prostrate on the ground.
At this point, according to my sources, Joe grasped Sally around the waist like a sack of...well let's see...I used retarded midgets last time...hmm...a sack of full grown...no wait, that won't work either. Damn it! A sack of shit! You're all a sack of shit! End of post!
Sure, I was merciful and perhaps weak by allowing two of my enemies to live, but as they are nothing more than unintelligent addicts from the bottom of the barrel, I am content with the knowledge that they lack the necessary accouterments to track the musky scent of yours truly. And let's be honest, even if they did, I'd surely pound their faces into mashed potatoes with Washington and Lincoln! Who are they you ask? Why they are my fists, good reader; so named because they closely resemble in size the two flanking heads on Mount Rushmore. And they prefer French, or as I prefer to call them, "Freedom greetings"...two kisses, one on each side of the face.
Because you are my trusted companions and dare I say...friends? No, I don't like the sound of that. We'll stick with the former label. But even so, I feel I should let it be known that I have eyes and ears from Hoboken to Madagascar. Sure, several of these eyes and ears are about as accurate as those formerly employed by Hellen Keller, but more often than not I can depend on the paranoid delusions of the operators of said eyes and ears to steer me clear of any serious predicaments.
The facts as I have gathered them thus far hold that not long after I left, Joe snapped out of his heroin daze and limped back towards the railcar. He seemingly had no recollection of the afternoon's previous events, and just as he reached for the handle on the door to pull himself up, his roaming eye spotted Sally's unconscious form slumped on the ground to his left.
Now it is rare for a heroin addict to retain a sexual appetite whilst in the ravages of the drug, but as I have told you before, Dingy Joe is not your average human being. His libido rivals the intensity of an Indian kid at a spelling bee competition, and I shudder to imagine the thoughts that danced inside his head like a Parkinson's patient with bladder control problems upon first noticing Sally's helpless form lying prostrate on the ground.
At this point, according to my sources, Joe grasped Sally around the waist like a sack of...well let's see...I used retarded midgets last time...hmm...a sack of full grown...no wait, that won't work either. Damn it! A sack of shit! You're all a sack of shit! End of post!
Friday, April 29, 2005
The Final Showdown
I apologize for the delay in posting, gentle comrades, but it's difficult to find time to type while struggling to survive amidst the chaos of the streets. It surely is a jungle out there!
A lot has happened in the two weeks since we last communicated. As you know, I plotted the demise of two of my friends, Dingy Joe and Strychnine Sally, who at the present time share the misfortune of also being my mortal enemies. That plan did not go as smoothly as I anticipated, but everything has a funny way of working itself out in the end.
As I informed you in my last post, the idea was to have Joe "take over my lease" on the 15th and have Sally show up on the 16th. But ever being the horrid wench that she is, Sally forgot which day we had agreed upon amidst the clutter of LSD flashbacks that regularly swamp her neurotransmitters like fat kids at a Star Trek convention, and she showed up a day early. Just as I began walking away from the railcar fully satisfied that my plan was coming to fruition, my nostrils detected a stench with an all too familiar blend of urine, fecal matter, and dead horseshoe crabs that I recognized immediately as the calling card of Strychnine Sally. Curses!
Knowing full well that I had to face this dilemma before it festered and exploded like a zit on the face of one of those fat kids I was talking about earlier, I picked up an old railroad spike that I saw sticking out of the grass, tucked it securely in the waistline of me pantaloons, and turned to face a very agitated, and seriously drug-addled Sally, who was already pounding her firsts against the sliding metal door of the railcar.
Joe opened the door slowly to steal a peek at whomever it was causing the racket. He didn't bother to remove the needle from the inner crook of his elbow.
"What's goin' on out here?" he begged in a tired drawl that is a common characteristic of a man entangled in a heroin daze.
"Getty on outta my house, you!" Sally screamed. "Quint sold it to meh fair and square!"
Fully aware of the escalating tension, I decided to sneak around the car and allow them to fight it out, but just as I made my move, ole Dingy stumbled out of the car and spotted me.
"Hey Quint, what's she on about? Is this all true?"
"Quiiiiiiint!!!" Sally shrieked like a banshee, all the while hobbling in my general direction.
"Keep away from me ya brigands or I'll brain ye!" I shouted, unsheathing the railroad spike from me pants and slashing wildly in front of me.
There's one thing you should always keep in mind when dealing with deranged hobos, and that is that they wake up to death every morning and they smile. And rightly so! Why fear death when hell boasts a warmer climate than Philadelphia? Such is the logic of a hobo.
Sally was on me like that busty blonde was on Jerry Maquire in the film of the same name when she screams, "Don't ever stop fucking me!" Except Sally was screaming, "How dare you fuck me!" and instead of having intercourse with me, she was clawing at my eyes with her overgrown fingernails.
I began to wonder where exactly my plan had gone so wrong, when all of a sudden Sally landed a knee in my groin and I fell to the ground like a sack of retarded midgets in mid-coitus. My peripheral vision detected Joe standing off to the side, a sly grin on his face, and I recognized immediately what was happening. Joe decided to employ my logic by watching Sally and I kill each other off so that he could escape with nary a scratch on his person. We'll I'd have none of that!
As Sally jumped on my back and attempted to bite through my right shoulder, I regained my grip on the spike that had fallen on the ground at my feet, and swung it around hard and smacked her squarely on the face with the blunt side. She plunged to the ground in much the same fashion as I imagine that same sack of fornicating midgets would, only there would also be snakes and rats inside the sack, and the sack would be on fire...and one of the midgets would have SARS.
She appeared to be unconscious, but I decided to give her a swift and solid boot to the gut just to be sure. While not dead, Sally was definitely down for the count. Either that, or she's one hell of an actress, and if that's the case, the lump I had just administered to her forehead should be halting any auditions she might have in the near future.
Joe pulled a length of pipe out of his trench coat and whirled it about his head like a madman. I pounded my chest and charged at him like a bull with incredibly large testicles. We clashed like titans as we wrestled to the ground.
My attempt to drive the spike into his solar plexis was thwarted when he walloped me on the right arm with the pipe. A normal human being might have cried out in pain, but I bellowed a war cry the likes of which this world has not known since the days of Crazy Horse the wild Injun, and I jabbed fiercely at my assailant.
Joe attempted to ensnare me in a headlock, but as he did so, I jerked his arm behind his back and slammed his face into the dirt. That's when I realized that the needle still dangled from his vein like a turd too long to expell in one push. But a new detail had also grasped my attention. Joe had yet to shoot the hit!
Seizing the opportunity, I injected the drug into Dingy Joe's arm and waited for him to lapse into a heroin induced coma. I did not have to wait long. The reaction was immediate and powerfully effective. He no longer struggled against my grip, so I backed off in an effort to regain my composure.
Sally was still sprawled out in a heap not far away and Joe remained slumped on the ground in a vegetative state with a vacant expression on his face; one that I had seen many times before. In a way I was sad to leave. After all, these people were like family to me. Only they were slightly less abusive that me own.
A lot has happened in the two weeks since we last communicated. As you know, I plotted the demise of two of my friends, Dingy Joe and Strychnine Sally, who at the present time share the misfortune of also being my mortal enemies. That plan did not go as smoothly as I anticipated, but everything has a funny way of working itself out in the end.
As I informed you in my last post, the idea was to have Joe "take over my lease" on the 15th and have Sally show up on the 16th. But ever being the horrid wench that she is, Sally forgot which day we had agreed upon amidst the clutter of LSD flashbacks that regularly swamp her neurotransmitters like fat kids at a Star Trek convention, and she showed up a day early. Just as I began walking away from the railcar fully satisfied that my plan was coming to fruition, my nostrils detected a stench with an all too familiar blend of urine, fecal matter, and dead horseshoe crabs that I recognized immediately as the calling card of Strychnine Sally. Curses!
Knowing full well that I had to face this dilemma before it festered and exploded like a zit on the face of one of those fat kids I was talking about earlier, I picked up an old railroad spike that I saw sticking out of the grass, tucked it securely in the waistline of me pantaloons, and turned to face a very agitated, and seriously drug-addled Sally, who was already pounding her firsts against the sliding metal door of the railcar.
Joe opened the door slowly to steal a peek at whomever it was causing the racket. He didn't bother to remove the needle from the inner crook of his elbow.
"What's goin' on out here?" he begged in a tired drawl that is a common characteristic of a man entangled in a heroin daze.
"Getty on outta my house, you!" Sally screamed. "Quint sold it to meh fair and square!"
Fully aware of the escalating tension, I decided to sneak around the car and allow them to fight it out, but just as I made my move, ole Dingy stumbled out of the car and spotted me.
"Hey Quint, what's she on about? Is this all true?"
"Quiiiiiiint!!!" Sally shrieked like a banshee, all the while hobbling in my general direction.
"Keep away from me ya brigands or I'll brain ye!" I shouted, unsheathing the railroad spike from me pants and slashing wildly in front of me.
There's one thing you should always keep in mind when dealing with deranged hobos, and that is that they wake up to death every morning and they smile. And rightly so! Why fear death when hell boasts a warmer climate than Philadelphia? Such is the logic of a hobo.
Sally was on me like that busty blonde was on Jerry Maquire in the film of the same name when she screams, "Don't ever stop fucking me!" Except Sally was screaming, "How dare you fuck me!" and instead of having intercourse with me, she was clawing at my eyes with her overgrown fingernails.
I began to wonder where exactly my plan had gone so wrong, when all of a sudden Sally landed a knee in my groin and I fell to the ground like a sack of retarded midgets in mid-coitus. My peripheral vision detected Joe standing off to the side, a sly grin on his face, and I recognized immediately what was happening. Joe decided to employ my logic by watching Sally and I kill each other off so that he could escape with nary a scratch on his person. We'll I'd have none of that!
As Sally jumped on my back and attempted to bite through my right shoulder, I regained my grip on the spike that had fallen on the ground at my feet, and swung it around hard and smacked her squarely on the face with the blunt side. She plunged to the ground in much the same fashion as I imagine that same sack of fornicating midgets would, only there would also be snakes and rats inside the sack, and the sack would be on fire...and one of the midgets would have SARS.
She appeared to be unconscious, but I decided to give her a swift and solid boot to the gut just to be sure. While not dead, Sally was definitely down for the count. Either that, or she's one hell of an actress, and if that's the case, the lump I had just administered to her forehead should be halting any auditions she might have in the near future.
Joe pulled a length of pipe out of his trench coat and whirled it about his head like a madman. I pounded my chest and charged at him like a bull with incredibly large testicles. We clashed like titans as we wrestled to the ground.
My attempt to drive the spike into his solar plexis was thwarted when he walloped me on the right arm with the pipe. A normal human being might have cried out in pain, but I bellowed a war cry the likes of which this world has not known since the days of Crazy Horse the wild Injun, and I jabbed fiercely at my assailant.
Joe attempted to ensnare me in a headlock, but as he did so, I jerked his arm behind his back and slammed his face into the dirt. That's when I realized that the needle still dangled from his vein like a turd too long to expell in one push. But a new detail had also grasped my attention. Joe had yet to shoot the hit!
Seizing the opportunity, I injected the drug into Dingy Joe's arm and waited for him to lapse into a heroin induced coma. I did not have to wait long. The reaction was immediate and powerfully effective. He no longer struggled against my grip, so I backed off in an effort to regain my composure.
Sally was still sprawled out in a heap not far away and Joe remained slumped on the ground in a vegetative state with a vacant expression on his face; one that I had seen many times before. In a way I was sad to leave. After all, these people were like family to me. Only they were slightly less abusive that me own.
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