BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

It’s still painful to talk about. I know it has been a whole week now, but it seems like it was only yesterday. The horror of it all is still fresh in my mind, and I find myself waking up in a cold sweat as the nightmares plague my slumber. I guess that’s what I get for surviving…

It was cold. Especially for Florida. Of course, it was also early November and George Bush had stopped denying global climate change, so those were just the dice Momma au Naturale dealt us. The Sunshine State caught in the grip of a cold snap of epic proportions. Unbelievable as it may seem, when the sun dipped below the horizon the mercury would plummet into the danger zone. Yes… the 50’s. I actually had to wear my hoodie.

EK, John, and Murv - Prior to the ill-fated Trick or Drunking Expedition

Earlier in the day, provisions had been running low. That’s how it is with Corona and lime when you are at a festival in Florida. One minute there’s enough, the next, not so much. We scraped together a twenty from my wallet and handed it off to the provisions maven. We never saw her again. Who knew a Jackson could take you that far…

Well… Not far enough, because that’s about the time the trolley broke down. Any seasoned Festival-goer knows that when the Trolley breaks down you’re as good as dead – but we weren’t ready to give up. Steeling our resolve, we grabbed our plastic cups and set out down the pass to go “Trick or Drunking.” We’d heard a rumor that Pirates had set up camp below, and if we could make it there, perhaps they would share their rum with us. Or not. One never knows about Pirates, but we had to try.

The trip was arduous. We lost three on the way, not sure if they succumbed to the cold, were eaten by the rogue bear, or simply turned back. Eventually, however, we made it to our destination. After much parlay, the assignation of Piratey names, and selling off E K to the “Feral Cathouse” run by the Buccaneers, we were accepted into the fold and beaten severely about the head and shoulders – and livers – with rum that had been shown a picture of fruit punch. But it wasn’t allowed to look for very long, as it was only supposed to pick up a hint of the fruity punchiness…

Sometime during the darkness, a roving band of strange women, each dressed in black and adorned with bright red lipstick, descended upon the Pirate camp. Even the Pirates cowered, powerless against their overwhelming osculation. And yes, they scurried about like little pixies, kissing all of the male types and leaving gihugic Angelina Jolie lip prints on our faces.

We were sore afraid, and a bit titillated as well, but that’s a different story.

Eventually, seeing as we had brought the strange women upon them, the Pirates made us walk the plank. Being on land already it wasn’t much of a plank, however, there was the mountain, for we eventually had to return to our base camp at the summit.

John – as in John Gramling… Yes. THE John Gramling – downed what was left of his punch drunk rum and pointed at the distant lights in the sky. He burped, hiccuped, and then said, “I ain’t climbin’ that mountain.”

E K, who had been kicked out of the “Feral Cathouse” for torturing the clientele looked ahead and replied, “Psshaw! It’s just a gentle incline.”

“It’s a damn mountain,” John repeated.

And so we braved the cold, the wind, and the bear, stalking off into the early morning darkness (it was after midnight) and climbed the Altoona Mountains there in Florida. Just her worship THE E K, and me…

We never saw John again. Rumor has it RD ate him when the Pirates finally ran out of rum, but then, RD is like that. (You’d understand if you’d ever met RD…)

And there you have the true story of The Gramling Party. I’m sure that mountainside is haunted now… By John and a case of Corona. Maybe I’ll go back and look for him some day. I’m pretty sure he forgot to take the lime with him…

More to come…

Murv

They say a picture is worth 1000 words. I’ve never really been absolutely certain who “they” are, but they get quoted quite a bit. I guess it’s just one of those things. Personally, I’ve always sort of agreed with the concept, but then I’ve also been known to say why use 1000 words if 500 will do. I’m sort of divided like that. I know it doesn’t seem like I would only use 500 words instead of 1000 when you read my blogs, but that’s just because I have so many excess words left over from not using them elsewhere. Have to get rid of them somehow, and here seems to be the dumping ground…

But anyway… Back to that whole picture thing. The other night we were visiting friends for a gala “TikkiToberfest” party. You know the drill – sort of a blend between German and Polynesian culture. Hawaiian shirts, Lederhosen, Poi, Brats, Beer, and Fruity Drinks served in hollowed out pineapples with little paper umbrellas. A typical Saturday night party. Well, as it would happen, our host, Dave, had a mess of Habanero peppers on hand to go with the meal. Being a fan of peppers I had a couple. They were good. Excellent, in fact. However, as generally happens with large amounts of capsicum sticking to your tongue, a cupcake and mass quantities of beer were required to douse the fire.

THIS is where I learned an important lesson: Habanero Peppers + Red Velvet Cupcakes + Beer = A Very Powerful Hallucinogen.

How do I know this?

Well, to begin with, I consumed all three – duh. However, what really clinched it was when I went into the bathroom and saw the Zombie Cat.

Yes. A Zombie Cat. Kitten really. There it was, rolling around on its back as kittens will do, playing with some brains. Not really all that surprising, given that most cats like to play with their food, so why wouldn’t a Zombie Cat as well?

When I went back outside to the fire pit I announced this to everyone. I don’t think they believed me… that was, until my good friend, Celeste “The Blonde Bombshell” Webster went to investigate. With her trusty phone she snapped a picture for all to see… And there it is above, a 1000 word photo to go with the 389 regular words I just typed.

More to come…

Murv