I looooooooove you man.
tears
grin
kerplunk
The summer of '76 brought two things to me. Love and Mr. Cynical. Well, three things; Love, Mr. Cynical and Herpes. The bicentennial celebrations had brought Mr. C and his team of Conkers players to the syringe-ridden shores of southern New Jersey. In all the time I worked my way through college, waiting on tables at a taco stand at the beach, I never saw such a specimen as that of Mr. C. He sat down at my usual table and proceeded to comb his mustache. He wore star spangled pants and wore a shirt that said “I [heart]-CO” on the front. An obvious spoof of the “I [heart]-NY” shirt and a homage to his native Colorado. His team sat in the background, deep into a game of Duck Duck Goose as we talked. He made sly references to burritos and tacos and even a reference to sandals that went over my head. Several times we were interrupted by fans wanting his autograph and my manager wanting my ass to get up and work. Somehow we ended up in each others arms, as he whispered dirty thoughts about knocking some nuts around. I didn’t take long before we got up and headed back to his room at the YMCA. It was 7 at night by then, his team had long since left, our shoulders were covered in seagull crap and my pink-slip had been handed to me. As we got up I noticed that as his shirt unfolded, that it said “I [heart]-CO-CK” as opposed to what I thought it had said earlier on. I knew then, I would be with him forever.
We made our way, in his Le Car, to New York for the bicentennial celebrations and the National Conkers Championships on Ellis Island. He busted his nut in the semifinals and I spent the rest of the evening cheering him up and trying to coax his attention away from the shiny fireworks in the sky. A man in stilts and uneven breasts, dressed as the statue of liberty chased us around the island after we discovered that we had spent the entire evening sitting on his prized collection of grasses of the world. We jumped on the nearest speed boat and made our way for shore. Though his stilts allowed him to run after us and still stay above water, we jettisoned a cooler full of Elton John vinyls… onto his head. We ran out of gas a couple hundred yards from shore. Mr. C took the opportunity, proclaimed himself the captain of the ship and married himself to me. What followed next was a ferocious sea of arms, legs, red, white, blue and tightly braided chest hair.
Scott Baio almost broke us up on several occasions. He would show up and stand behind the velvet rope and watch every single round of Conkers that Mr. C played in. He felt all high and mighty, luring my Cyni with chocolates and T-shirts with his own face on them. When he gave him the Scott Baio satin sheets is where I drew the line. One he showed up wearing nothing but a rose if where I blew my top. I took Cyn’s hardest nut and beat the living crap out of him. I was so shocked to find out later on that it was not Scott Baio but, Tony Danza that I had beaten up. How was I to know? I think my jealously drew Cyn away from me but, after much counseling we worked through our problems and I decided to leave Scott alone. The fact that he got a restraining order on me was just a coincidence. I came back from getting my 72 oz. tub of Nair one night only to find the Le Car rocking back and forth. Inside was Cyn, engulfed in hot Italian love. He saw me and ran after me. Baio-boy saw me and ran in the opposite direction, screaming like a little girl. I took him back after he apologized and after much much more counseling. We left Chachi behind in the past, along with Cyn’s old team. They had whored themselves out to him and I would not allow the Baio stink to follow us around.
Our relationship wavered over the years. We traveled to competitions all over the U.S. while living off the prize money, which seemed to become less and less at the days went by. Eventually, we had to join a Fine Young Cannibals cover band to make ends meet. It was hard enough to live on the rode but, to strap all of our equipment to Cyn’s Le Car and to fit all of us in was hard to manage. For the reason alone, we had to let go of Lou the Tuba player. All over the U.S. pop underground “Not so great Old Vegetarians” as we were called, gained more and more popularity thanks to the shrill voice of the one known as “Dirty as Cyn”. In the end, C slowly stopped swinging his nuts around and let them grow old, crack and be covered with dust. Where once he was a studly man who would play with his nuts all day long, thereby keeping his great physique; he turned into a beer-gutted primma donna. Soon, he wanted to take more and more control of the band. 7 years after Fine Young Cannibals broke up, so did we.
To survive, we opened a chili stand near Flagstaff, Arizona. Lured by the smell of dead rat, we adopted a stray dog and named him “French Fry”. Push came to shove and the chili was all gone. When we ate Frenchy we realized he was a wild rat, himself. He held us over until we found a ride out of Arizona and into a new life. Somehow we had found our way to Hollywood. We had a short stint as a ventriloquist and dummy, using Cyn’s belly for the dummy. The power, as I learned, was in Cyn’s belly. Being Hollywood and being the ludicrous 90’s, we set out to make a killing. While doing our act, Mr. C fell forward and broke my arm. When he rolled over, the perfect bloody donut was left over Frank Sinatra’s star. As I bled to death, people came by and ogled the imprint. Flowers were being laid down by complete strangers and pictures were being snapped of Mr. C’s face next to the work of art. After losing my left arm to gangrene, me and Cyn made various belly impressions on white canvas and sold them to galleries. I was, literally, his right hand man. I slapped on the globs of paint onto his belly and he rolled it onto the canvas.
I live out of a box, now. Late into Cyn’s abstract era, he fell in with the wrong crowd. I suddenly wasn’t the most important man in his life. He moved to San Diego with some strange man named Alan and left his art behind for photography. He’s on billboards and commercials now, leading a life more appealing to the pedestrian life than the higher class one we used to share. I also heard rumors about a Baio/Danza/Cynical menage a trois. In the end though, I still love him. I love you Mr. Cynical.
Merc… what can I say, you’re brilliant. And way too old to be so young.
Cyni: sorry about the bed thing 
Mercutio, you fucking rock. 
Hamadryad, I still don’t know how to pronounce that. Regardless, you’re a good friend to me. You’re ALWAYS willing to lend an ear, and even though you know that I have a hard time talking about my own difficulties, you always offer. That’s so mongo cool that I can’t even begin to describe it.
Sapphy, You’re one of my oldest friends here. Boy, can we ever disagree though! 
How many times have you had to call me an asshole to get me to lay off a sore subject? How many times has it worked? You’re damn stubborn, damn cute, and a damn good friend.
Kyla, T’warn’t nothin 
I made you a promise, and I intended to keep it. It wasn’t your fault that the plane was late, was it? Just do me a favor, next time I lay down on top of you, don’t squeal that I’m crushing you, it’s bad for a fat guy’s ego
And also: KYLA, YOU CAN’T DRINK ANYMORE. YOU CAN’T HANDLE IT.
John487, I love you too man, as long as you’re not posting from the outhouse.
Mercutio, I’m sorry we were late coming to pick you up. I’m just a simple country boy from Colorado. Your freeways and interchanges frighten and confuse me. Maybe next time we can go out and get those Chuckie T’s.
I don’t normally post to threads like this, but I’ll make an exception for MrC. He’s cute and sweet and I like him lots, even if he never does IM me anymore.
Cyndar, A man can’t be on top of it all the time Just last night, I realized that I had the wrong screen name up on AIM, the one I use to play Majestic. I did immediately change it over. You’re a sweet lady, and a damn good looking one too. If I ever come to Florida, I’ll be hoping to see you
Promises, promises…::sigh::
Well, I don’t flirt with women worth a damn ( ),so I ain’t even gonna try with Brian.
Suffice to say I enjoyed seeing you again - actually I wish I’d spent some more of my truly conscious time with you (did we have fun during my not truly conscious time?), thanks for keeping my keys safe (from me) and I look forward to the next time.
…because after having actually met the man, I can post to this thread more accurately and sincerely and credibly.
I didn’t quite know what to expect. I knew Brian would be wickedly funny and smart, and that he’d make me laugh a lot. But I didn’t expect him to be so nice. I thought it’d be a bunch of splooge jokes and possibly awkward pauses as his mind kept wandering in frustrasted boredom towards other female Dopers he’d rather be harrassing in chat instead of listening to me drone on over my beer. That’s why I was a little puzzled (albeit encouraged) by the incredibly warm messages from people who had met him in Los Angeles.
And I found out I was wrong! He’s nice! He’s attractive! He’s fun! He’s a great conversationalist! He can make a woman orgasm (well, nearly) describing food! As someone else said, he’s like meeting an old friend you didn’t know you had.
Meeting Brian was such a treat. And being an old washed-up respectable married suburbanite, I hadn’t had that much to drink in months. That was fun, too.
First of all, in response to the demands from this thread, I petitioned TubaDiva to change my name back, as you all liked it better.
Ringo, it was great seeing you again, my man. I hope you’ll remember who snatched you up as you began to fall from excessive drunkeness Next time, you’ll have to carry ME out And, of course, thank you for being the first one there to meet me in Houston a year ago. I would have felt like an ass had I arrived to an empty bar.
CrankyAsAnOldMan, fooled you, didn’t I? All that time, I was secretly plotting a nefarious scheme to sneak away with you to J.D.'s Bait Shoppe for the hot wings. I was also pleased to see you sipping at Fat Tire, and enjoying it. Then again, with the creeper effect of the wings, anything cold would have tasted good. I had a great time too, and thank you
I was able to look ultra cool on Saturday when my hosts served that beer and I was already aware of it.
You didn’t warn me about the Wolf-Ass from the wings…
Oh yeah! Those wings? They burn you twice.