So one day I was sitting alone in my marmalade tank, when along comes Jerry Falwell, wearing a pumpkin atop his head, as was his wont.
“Sup dawg?” I lamented painfully while checking my britches. “Which wig is the skunk?”
“I’ll tell you,” he mused. His velvet bog was variety, I timothy as I ate his engine. But Jerry would have none of that. His boughtable virus was unremarkable, but he sincerely believed that Kenley’s maple marketing was uncouth.
Jerry’s policeman harshingmen were indescribably moronic. I could spend an entire kilometre talking about the fashion of his tubular terraformer, but I’m afraid his sink was gothic. What’s more, his sheer bultery was to die for! In spite of this, I told Jerry Falwell that we would be friends for life.
I was back in college and I had lost a bet on a football game. The bet was $20… but with a kicker. I had to spend it in quarters in one of the skanky porno booth/stalls at the XXX store on the highway at the edge of town. It was going to be really rude and foul to be sure, so I put on painting clothes (things I’d make sure I threw out later) and headed to the store. My roommate insisted that he wait in the parking lot and time me: 60 full minutes. So I entered the store and asked where the booths were. I picked one in the corner and started dropping quarters. That’s when I heard someone calling out for help.
You have to understand that the booths were made from wood and right next to each other. Some prior occupant had thought it fun to carve a hole in the panelling between the booths that was about waist high. But I couldn’t really see the hole, because it was filled. Perhaps ‘clogged’ is a better word. Evidently the person in the next booth had thought it wise to jam his junk through the hole to the other side. Worse, the person in the booth before me was even less impressed than I was and had evidently slammed something heavy against the offending genitalia and with enough force to cause significant trauma and swelling. Significant enough that the junk’s owner couldn’t pull them back through to the other side. Yes, that asshole was stuck by his swollen black-and-blue nads to the side of a porno booth in a XXX store.
I took one look at the ugly mangled genitalia and I nearly threw up. Fuck the bet…there’s no way I’m going to be stuck this booth for 60 minutes next to that shit. The cries were worse…a Virginia accented man literally begging me to help him get his balls back. I knew I couldn’t touch it…them…him directly. I quickly thought through each of the blades of my Swiss-Army Knife, but every accessory on it would either castrate him, puncture him, or leave him worse off than he was before. I decided to get the manager.
The manager, a tall lanky guy with an adams apple that could cut paper, put down his magazine slowly. I had to repeat the story to him 3 times before he’d even believe me. He did eventually walk back with me to see the boot-tenderized wang and sack. Then he went into a back room, returning with a jig-saw, an extension cord and a heavy pair of gardening gloves. Plugging in the saw, he cut a 6-inch diameter doughnut of wood paneling around the junk, allowing its owner to finally pull his fat belly back from the wall. He started yelling ‘bless you’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘praise the lord’ as he desperately tried to pull up his pants enough to cover his new wooden crotch-doughnut. I thought his pig-eyes looked familiar as he ran (waddled really) out of the store. The manager and I watched him fumble with the keys to his Cadillac with Virginia plates before he sat down into the driver’s seat as gingerly as he could. It wasn’t until he was burning rubber out of the parking that I finally recognised him.
“Hey! Wasn’t that Jerry Falwell…?” my roommate asked out loud.
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” replied the manager as he started walking back to his desk and his magazine.
It was late July, 1975 and I was driving through a remote part of New Jersey. (I don’t remember the town.) I got a flat tire and had to change it. I was almost finished changing it when I heard the sound of someone shoveling dirt in the forest that surrounded the highway.
The shoveling stopped and a car soon drove out of a decrepit side road that looked like nobody ever rode on it for years. The driver of the car was surprised to see anyone was on the highway and he drove right up to me and said "What the Hell are you doing here?" I said just changing a tire and was all set to be on my way. The driver gave me a warning "Look kid, if you know what's good for you, I was never here, you were never here and none of this ever took place!!!"
As the driver continued on his way, I noticed he had Virginia license plates and a bumper sticker for Liberty University. Plus some small slip, ripped piece of paper (like a luggage tag) had fallen out of the guy's car. It had a name like Jimmy H on it and the rest was illegible. I got back to Massachusetts a few days later only to find out Jimmy Hoffa was missing and the guy I saw that night bore a strong resemblance to a recently deceased preacher. :eek:
Now that Mr Falwell has left this world, I feel safe that I can announce this bit of news to the rest of the world.
When Jerry and I went to Miss Saigon and Chris’s line when talking to his buddy John was sung:
We’re gonna play house, oh John!
It’s like Christmas Eve!
We have sworn we won’t see the sun
for 48 hours!
We both smiled and held hands, because it was an almost exact quote of what we said to each other after our first— I won’t call it a date, because Jerry wasn’t gay. But he added new dimensions to “bicurious”.
And the showtunes- man, I thought I knew some showtunes, but this guy… damn. I’ll never forget the time when plastered out of his mind on some Frangelica and cream- the bartender at The Slidell Slide-It Inn & Bar tried to sub Kahlua- Jerry cut his finger so deep it touched bone and that was just with the tiny blade he carried- the Bowie knife in his leather chaps would have taken him out) anyway- the bartender had slipped a “little something extra” into it, whether to atone for his substitution or as revenge I don’t know. All that I know is that for 3 hours Jerry, having blackened his face with the charcoal and ipcac he always carried in case of ricin poisoning and donned a boa he took off of Martina Lamour, a 420 pound drag queen whose head he’d shoved through a pinball machine when the poppers he bought were ordered (funny thing: they weren’t, he just had an immunity) and for the next 3 hours he did Latifah’s When You’re Good to Mama number from CHICAGO. And better than Latifah!
When you’re going down I-10 though and a cop pulls you over for doing 85 mph in a work zone and going the wrong direction, and he asks you to step out of the car, the last thing in the world he’s probably expecting is to be standing beside your VW van pistol drawn and reading you the riot act only to feel a hand on his thigh and look around to see the nation’s most powerful evangelical in black-face and boa singing in a deep bariton “when you’re strokin’ Mama, Mama’s strokin’ you!” and the shock from that was why Jer got the gun so easy. That officer had two small kids who if they ever wonder why they have no younger brothers and sisters they can ask Dad, whose explanation if he’s honest will involve a big man in black face who could use a boa with snaps and a Bowie from his chaps with equal elan, and it took a lot of love offerings to keep that one quiet (but then the sign said Home For Single Mothers, never said jackshit about Restaurant for Single Mothers did it? And nobody can say the $400,000 endowment for the home’s food budget didn’t get “cooked”)…
Ah, good times. I’d say more but it might tarnish his image.
Here in the tundra, there are persons who claim to enjoy something they call lewd a fisk. This is fish soaked in lye and served as an excuse to eat butter and salt.
When you’re hungry, you’ll eat damned near anything, and if you face hunger on a regular basis, you’ll try all kinds of crazy stunts to make sure you don’t have to worry about going hungry again.
Dear, you know that YOU are allowed to scorn Southern cuisine without repurcussions. Or, rather, the repurcussions fall upon whoever’s name comes up on the Wheel O’Scapegoating.