June 16, 2006
The Time: late spring, 1970.
The Place: Hilton Head, South Carolina.
Suspects Involved: Acidman, Cop 3 and Junior Walker.
The Reason: Friday night. No female dates.
Contributing Factors: 2 cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer (in bottles), four boxes of exotic fireworks, plus 3 young male adults with subhuman brains.
The Instigation: Hunger. DESPERATE HUNGER, because those two cases of beer weren't ALL we brought with us for the purpose of mind-enhancement.
The Situation: Shot up a bunch of fireworks on the beach. Drank a lot of beer. Took medicinal herb by smoke inhalation to calm us down after all that excitement. Became VERY hungry.
Solution: Go get something to eat.
Options: One VERY EXPENSIVE restaurant at the entrance to Sea Pines Plantation --- or a local 7-11 store.
Choice: 7-11 store. We figured that we would not be arrested just for showing up in there smelling like burnt gunpowder, with sand in our hair, and eyes that glowed red in the dark.
Purchases: Six Twinkies. Eight Slim Jim sausages. Two bags of M&Ms. One
Last-Minute Good Ideas: Three ice cream sandwiches, six grape popcicles and a quart of no-name coconut-vanilla ice cream.
SUPER Last-Minute Ideas: Three pickled eggs and a bag full of pickled pig's feet. Plus a jar of regular whole pickles.
(****RED ALERT!!!***--- I am NOT making this shit up!)
We returned to our primitive cottage on the beach and ate EVERY BIT of that shit, including drinking the brine out of the pickle jar, which went well with semi-warm PBR beer we were drinking at the time. We sat back on the a moldy old couch (that smelled exactly like sweaty feet) while we belched and farted in appreciation of such a fine feast.
Cop 3 was the first to start turning green around the gills. He clapped a hand over his mouth and muttered, "MMMGATTABURFROOM!" and off he went. His intended destination may have been the bathroom, but he didn't make it.
He didn't clear the corner of the couch before barely-digested Twinkies, Slim Jims, pickles and ice cream, all bubbling in PBR foam, came shooting outta his neck in a steaming, stinking blast. Not only was the sight totally disgusting, but the smell would have knocked a buzzard right on its ass.
I was okay until I saw and smelled THAT display. I didn't get much farther than Cop 3 did before I was hurling my guts, too, doing even better than HE did, because I hacked up a pickled pig's foot that was still kicking when it came out as if it were trying to run away, all by itself.
Desperate cries for "RALPH!" and "HUEY!" and "URK!" rang throughout the room.
Meanwhile, Junior Walker sat on the moldy, stinking sofa and laughed at us, while eating handfuls of M&Ms. "Damn, boys!" he said, "Want summa THESE to settle your stomachs?" That bastid even took a Twinkie, stuffed it FULL of M&Ms and ate it like a hot dog while he laughed. "Buncha pussies!" he announced.
But he grew silent after a moment. A SWEAR that I saw his complexion change from healthy pink to sickly green in a matter of seconds. He muttered, "Oh, Shit!" and started to go somewhere, but his words came true before he could reach his destination. He took about two steps and stopped cold, because running served no purpose anymore.
He was wearing a semi-wet bathing suit, and suddenly his legs turned from slightly sunburned to mustard yellow. Then to a darker brown with what appeared to be tiny, strange, lumpy insects skiing down his thighs and falling off his knees to splash wetly on the floor.
The stench was BEYOND horrible. Junior got his full payback for being a smartass then--- he started to puke just like me and Cop 3, but every time HE upchucked, he shit himself some more, so that HE was making "URRG! POOOOT! SKURSH! FLLLLLPPPT! URRG!" noises, while forming a puddle of liquid shit between his legs as he puked on the floor in front of himself.
I finally gained enough control over myself to stagger out of there, all the way down to the beach, where I threw myself in the water and hoped that a hungry shark might bite my head off and put me out of my misery. But after smelling some salt air, accidentally drinking some salt water, and bobbing in the surf for a while, I started to feel okay again.
I went back to the beach house.
But I never made it back inside. The unmitigated STENCH comin' outta that place was more than I could stand. I ended up sleeping in a lawn chair on the porch that night--- a SCREEN porch with enough fist-sized holes in it that I lost a pint of blood to mosquitoes that night, all of which probably flew off and died of alcohol poisoning after biting ME. But that was still better than being inside. Greyhound bus station bathrooms smell better than that place did.
I think Cop 3 slept on the back porch that night. I'm pretty sure that Junior Walker passed out on the floor and wallowed in his own vomit and alien-like shit all night long. I'm not certain about that, but I DO know that we didn't clean that mess up until the next day, and even then we didn't have the nerve to deal with it in hand-to-hand combat.
After sunrise, as hung-over and disgusted with ourselves as we could be, we washed the place out with a water hose, then went and napped on the beach until the floors dried off. It was a horrible experience.
But when we got back to the house and discovered that we could stand the smell again, Junior Walker went to the refrigerator, opened a beer, and got himself a pickled pig's foot, which he commenced to eat with lip-smacking gusto. "I'm from TEXAS, boys," he announced proudly. "And where I come from, you gotta climb back on the hoss that threw ya."
To this day he doesn't know how close I came to killing him. Right THEN. With my bare hands. But I was too weak to fight at the time.
Now... was THAT story gross enough?
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