Ann's story of Funny Ass Shit

My cousin Ann told the story of seeing the night time cleaning guy in the company break room. He was muttering about "the filthy 'son a bitches' leaving their crap all over the place" and "mother fucker" this and "asshole" that. Cuz was amused at the short uniformed man's rantings and luckily her turn at the vending machine allowed her to see his next action.

He opened the microwave oven door to see the interior splattered with what looked like the exploded contents of a can of ravioli. A fresh string of expletives spewed from his mouth as he grabbed the mop from his rolling mop bucket. Microwave oven still ajar, he jammed the wet and dripping mop head into the microwave and repeatedly slammed it around. Gray murky water splashed, puddled on the counter and ran down the cabinet.

The violent metallic echoes brought a co-worker from his cubicle. He and Ann stood in the doorway with mouths agape while cleaning dude continued his mop rape of the microwave.

(Ann and her office mate made a pact to only tell their bestest office buddies.)

Think about that while you heat your Hot Pocket in the company break room, you "son a bitch".

Busting balls at Tipitina's

Dawn's man Sam was all hepped up to see the Mother Truckers at Tip's the night before Mardi Gras (Lundi Gras). The band was good but the music was much too loud and the room entirely too smoky so Dawn and I left Sam inside and tripped outdoors to hang out on the picnic tables to talk and catch up.

An inebriated frat boy type stumbled onto our area and drunkenly slurred a question. I could tell it was a question by the way his voice went up at the end but in no way could I translate his garbled request. Drunk boy repeated himself.

Oooohhh, you want tickets to the show?
Yes.
The show has already begun so you can get in free now. Just go to that door and walk in, I say.
He is so excited. Free?
Yep.
Which door?
That one.
He walks off in that drunk spaghetti leg fashion that we've all done at some point of our drunken careers.
"You know that's the backstage door, right?" Dawn asked.
"Shit yeah, I know. I just wanted to see if he'd do it", I answer.

Dawn smokes her cigarette and I drink my beer as we watch Drunk Boy open the backstage door only to get pushed back and yelled at by the bouncer. The bouncer points toward the ticket window and entry door and shuts the door.

Drunk Boy apparently doesn't have enough energy to walk toward the ticket window and returns to us.

"They wouldn't let me in. I think I had the wrong door," he slurs.
"Hell no, son! They don't know who you are. Go to that door. Act like you own the joint and walk in. If you act as if you know where you're going, they'll let you through," I instruct him.
"Sssssshure, I can't wait to sssshhhee THE MOTHER TRUCKERS!!! I LOVE THEM, MAN!"
"I don't know . . . ." heard from Dawn.
He's off.

This time, he rips the door open so hard, it bounces off the outside wall, hits him in the back and sends him flying smack dab into the already aggravated bouncer. Dawn and I are laughing so hard we're crying but we feel the need to muffle ourselves so we're not thought to be in cohoots with the rabblerouser.
The bouncer is pissed. The door opens and a blast of sound comes with it. We can't hear the bouncer's words but we see his index finger hitting Drunk Boy's chest many times as instructions are repeated to go to the ticket window.
Drunk Boy actually gets to the ticket window and pulls out his pockets to find not enough funds. He is dejected and of course, comes back to our picnic table.
"I lost some money. I had lots of cash earlier but I don't have it now. Damn! I really want to see the show."

In a moment of tenderness, Dawn asks where he is from.
Ohio/Iowa/Utah.
(I forget, one of those four letter states beginning with a vowel.)
Where are your friends?
I don't know.
Where are you staying?
At some guy's house.
Do you know where?
No.
You don't know the address?
No.
How will you get back there tonight?
I'll find it. I was real messed up last night and found it so tonight's no problem.

He walks off toward the entry door and is gone awhile. They must have let him in, how about that, I think only to see him coming back with a beer in his hand.

Drunk Boy tells us he ordered a beer at the bar but when they noticed his lack of a wristband, he's thrown out.

"I'm gonna go see that band", he avows as he stands up and looks toward the backstage door.
"I wouldn't . . ." Dawn attempts to warn.
He gives her the shut-up-arm wave and ambles toward the door and opens it.
The light and sound streaks out on the sidewalk and the bouncer is on him. The bouncer grips Drunk Boy's shirt but Drunk Boy is headed inside like a cow returning to the barn. With a couple heaves, the bouncer gets Drunk Boy outside and shouts toward the entry door for assistance. No one hears him over the din of the Mother Trucker's 18 minute guitar ride and Drunk Boy detaches himself from the bouncer hug. I'm laughing so hard, beer comes out my nose.

Guess where he heads?
You got it.
Towards us.
The bouncer now has the attention of the uniformed but off-patrol NOPD officer sitting at the front door.
"Get the hell out of here NOW!" we both tell Drunk Boy, "They're gonna take you in."
"They can't arressss' me. I didn't get to see the Mother Truckerssssss!"
The bouncer sees Drunk Boy and points the cop toward us. Here comes the fuzz.
"Go!" we hiss with clenched teeth.
All the sudden, Drunk Boy catches a snap and bolts down Napoleon Avenue like a sprint runner. A cab passes him, brakes and we hear a car door open and slam. Drunk Boy escaped!
New Orleans Finest approaches and asks, "He's gone?"
We shrug. Seems so.

Drunk Boy, wherever you are, we hope you made it back to whatever vowel letter state you're from. We hope you had a good time in New Orleans and a fun Mardi Gras. We wondered if you were the tourist that woke up in an ice-filled bathtub, without a kidney. We want you to know your antics still make us laugh when Dawn and I get together. That was some Funny Ass Shit.

Funny Ass Shit: Pervert on the phone

Y'know, every once in a while, my smart mouth serves me well, like the time an unidentified male caller asked for "Laqueesha" to which I informed "there is no one here by that name". He then asked my name and said I "sounded cute".

"You want to know my name?"

Yes.

So, I said, in a low tone at a volume just above a whisper, "I'm your worst nightmare."

A long pause followed by a "sorry, wrong number" was the response, along with a dial tone.


Freakin' out the phone perv? One of my proudest moments.

Funny Ass Shit: The family tree

Had dinner with some ladies recently when Cheree' regaled us with a recent online genealogy find. She and her husband's researching found a scanned census document from the 1930's. The document indicated name, age and occupation of the town's citizens.

Examples:

John Brown, 49, farmer

Richard White, 56, shop owner

HER relative?

Russell Black, 28, idiot

Cheree' said she and her husband laughed for hours and said it spoke volumes about the family history. I urged her to delve further into Russell Black's history because my bet is he sired lots and lots of children.

Funny Ass Shit: My brother's friend Matt

Today's entry continues the series of Funny Ass Shit, a gathering of memories that makes me smile when recalled. Please to enjoy.

My brother Rollo and a few of his high school buds planned an overnight camp out at the beach. Rollo's friend Matt rolled up with his sleeping bag and a few supplies he glommed from his part-time grocery store job, including one giant institutional sized can of ravioli from the dented can discount pile.


Rollo, Matt and the guys sat around the fire, opened some beer and hard liquor and got their drunk on. Later, the group decided they were hungry. Matt grabbed his giant can of ravioli and threw it on the fire. Matt laughed when the can's paper label burned away. One of the smarter guys asked if Matt poked a hole in the top of the can before putting it on the fire.

"No, why would I do that?"

"Matt, you gotta vent the can, you dumb ass! Otherwise, the heat increases the internal pressure and the can will explode."

"Oh, okay, I don't have a can opener, do you?"

"Yeah, I got one. Here, you reach over the fire and poke a hole in it since you threw it on."

The guys drank more and more and later

the can exploded and a shower of searing hot ravioli rained on the now very intoxicated guys.

Some guys were pissed and yelling at Matt and some barely noticed the ravioli in their hair and stuck on their shirts. Matt finally admitted that he hadn't poked the hole in the can because "the can was too hot".

Guys being guys, they got over it and drank more.

The next morning, Rollo woke up to see the grisly aftermath of bloody carnage. Matt was no where in sight. "They killed him," Rollo thought but Matt walked up the camp site a minute later.

"I thought all of that was you," explained Rollo as he pointed to the sandy beach surrounding the camp site. It was littered with coagulated tomato sauce and shredded ravioli fragments, giving the impression of a very violent death and dismemberment.

Good times, good times.

Funny ass shit: My friend Tammy

Today's series begins a gathering of memories that will make me smile and maybe even giggle when recalled. Please to enjoy, the first installment of Funny Ass Shit.

Okay, junior high, last class of the day, school gym, last day of the school year, last day of junior high.

The basketball court is halved by a hanging curtain, girls on one side, guys on the other.


10 minutes until the bell rings and we're sitting on the bench with our book bags and gym bags from our just emptied lockers. Darlene realized a strong scent was emanating from her gym bag, opened it and realized the cap fell off her solid stick deodorant. It had smeared all over the items in the bag and had seeped through the outer fabric. Darlene pulls out the sticky and gooey deodorant base and wondered what to do with it. No trash can nearby. Tammy, ever the wisenheimer, takes one look at it and exclaims, "That looks like a dildo!"


I had never heard that word before but the phallic goo gave me a good idea what it meant. Seven or so teenage girl voices provide a collective, "Ewwwwwwww!"
Darlene was blushing but laughing. Tammy holds out her hand and says, "Give it here."
She stands up and for a second or two, we guess she has volunteered to discard the deodorant schlong but with her lightning fast all star champion softball pitcher athletic skill, she heaves it up and over the curtain divider and manages to clear the ceiling supports - towards the guy's half of the gym.
We're in shock. The girls that weren't paying attention to us before saw Tammy launch something over the curtain. Then we hear it land on the wood floor. It sounded just like you would imagine a high velocity smushy dildo would.
Sixty male voices say in unison, "Whhoooooaaaaa!"
"WHAT the HELL?!"
That's the distinctive but angry voice of Coach James.
Oh shiiiiiiiiiit. We sit down on the bench and try to ignore the oncoming loud steps while faking casual conversation. Tammy wipes the goo from her hands onto her jeans just as Coach James strides through the curtain and yells, "Which one of you threw that thing thing in my gym?"
RRRRRRrrriiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnggggggggg!
We scrambled outta there, electrified. Not until we burst through the front door of the school, did we allow ourselves to breathe and finally laugh.
I'm still laughing.
Tammy was a rock star that day.
And when I saw her last December, thirty years later, she still had my huge respect for her no fear, no plan Hail Mary bravado pass of a opaque slimy faux sex toy and the ability to complete it.