Dangerous Fun In The House Of The Scorpion

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Part I: The Girl With The Cards

A few days ago, I parked my Escalade downtown. I had a desperate meeting to attend, a matter of grim urgency. I left my SUV, thinking nothing more about it. Several hours and two pitchers of beer later, I stumbled toward the gigantic black beast. Not to drive -- not yet -- but to refill the meter. Affixed to my windshield was a small, vicious-looking white card.

I stared stupidly at it for the space of a few seconds. It was obviously not a ticket. What, then? A religious tract? Too small for that, too. I plucked it from the windshield, and this is what it said:

PIGGY! PIGGY! PIGGY!

Who do you think you are? Gas prices keep going up
while gas reserves go down! Children are dying all over the world
because there isn't enough to go around! Why don't you stop overcompensating for your tiny penis and go get a normal car!

If you want to know what I really think of you and your big ugly smelly jock-mobile, call (602) xxx-6297![/b]

"Ho, ho!" I chuckled. This was just the break I had been looking for. I could feel the glee rising like bile, sour and ugly, and now this handy target had willingly thrown itself into my sights.

Fifteen minutes later, I stood at the Qwest phone behind the Centerpoint Bento Bar, listening to the prissy double-chirp of a Euro-style telephone.

"Hello!" came a bright, cheerful voice. "Hello!"
I said nothing. I had zoned out on the sound of the waterfull a few yards away. A third hello, edged with consternation, brought me around.
"Hi there." I said pleasantly. "I'm looking for the venomous little psychopath who left his or her card on my fr... on my truck this morning."
"Well, that was me!" she replied. Her cheerful demeanor was starting to crack my concentration. Resisting the desire to vent verbal offal upon her was going to be tough, but I had a goal to accomplish here.
"That was you?" I said.
"Yes," she replied, "do you have a problem with that? Because if you do, I suggest you go take a--"
"Listen here, you loathsome little piece of empty-headed GAP trash!" I snarled. "I happen to think that you're absolutely right!"
She tried to get a word in, I think, but I managed to kick it in the shins and slam the door on its toes. I continued, "Furthermore, I will do exactly as you suggest!"
She fell briefly silent. I thought I heard something thump wetly onto a carpet. Then, "You... you will?"
"Absolutely!" I responded instantly. "On one condition." I lit a cigarette.
"Uh..." she was wary, now, like an animal that's just pissed the rug and knows the kicks are coming. "What's that?"
I took a long drag from the cigarette. "I will drive whatever car you say," I said, speaking slowly and clearly, "provided you pay for it."

I can't clearly relay what she said after that, as I'm almost certain most of it was in a language that's been dead for several centuries. I am pretty sure she said some rude things about my mother, with which I would have readily agreed had I been able to clearly make them out.

So did I do the Right Thing?

[Kelly Antilles]

*ROTFL* Oh, my sides hurt from laughing!

I think its great what you did. She got a taste of her own medicine, just what she deserved.

[CorSec]

What about the children, man! The CHILDREN!

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

What about the children, man! The CHILDREN!

If she wants to hit up the kids for spare change toward that down payment, who am I to protest?

[Mr Bean]

Damn I've found somone after my own heart Excellent you do the forces of logic and Irony well Raoul, keep this up and you will go far

[Alyeska]

IMO owning those rather large and expensive SUVs is nothing more then over compensation. You want a status symbol, get a freaking Hummer and not some sissy off road wanabee.

[neoolong]

If you really want to piss her off, call her every day. At like 2 in the morning. Hey, she left her number. It's her own damn fault for touching your car.

[Mr Bean]

IMO owning those rather large and expensive SUVs is nothing more then over compensation. You want a status symbol, get a freaking Hummer and not some sissy off road wanabee.

I had the chance last year to pick up a Surplus Army Hummer with attached(But not working) Machinegun but saddly twas not to be as I happen not to have enough money for a downpayment on hand)

[EmperorMing]

Stupid peeps who put messages like that on windshield deserver what they get.

I would have put that phone # all over the place with the message "For a good time call..."

Teach her to do that again.

Stupid cunt.

[Kuja]

That's some good thinking, man.

[haas mark]

IMO owning those rather large and expensive SUVs is nothing more then over compensation. You want a status symbol, get a freaking Hummer and not some sissy off road wanabee.

Unless, of course, you actually plan on using it off-road...I mean, that's what they're intended for, right?

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

PART ii: Dance of the Pig Queen

Well, it finally happened yesterday... Trouble In The Neighborhood. You see, I live in a part of Phoenix where I, as a caucasian male, am a member of a minority. Ordinarily I devote less time to this train of thought than I do to the inspection of lint in my navel, but sometimes things turn ugly...

I was walking from my 2-bedroom apartment to the (in)convenience store. It was just past 3 a.m., and I had only managed to bull my way to the middle of an article for the Republic before the cigarettes petered out. The walk takes about 20 minutes sober, or slightly longer drunk. Tonight was going to lean heavily in favor of "slightly longer".

As I rounded the corner on the last leg of my staggering marathon, I passed a small but intense cluster of children, who (from my somewhat damp perspective) fidgeted and nattered at each other in auctioneer-speed Spanish. I paid them no heed, and continued on.

Having concluded with my transaction and exchanged slurred pleasantries with the equally slurred girl behind the counter, I packed up cigarettes, coffee and coffee filters and headed for home.

But alas, it was not to be that simple; as I passed the pint-sized fiends homeward, several of them clustered around begging for change -- I ignored them. Such was the polite thing to do. One of them, apparently not satisfied with my answer, yelled, "Fuck you, penday ho!" (sp?)

I stopped, and turned my head to see if the little stain had the stones to yell anything else, when a squad car oozed to a halt. Ah HA! I thought. Yes! Send these horrible little vermin home to bed!

But instead of the curfew-breakers, the officer -- a tall, might-have-been-attractive-once hispanic woman -- stalked directly over to me and demanded to "speak to me for a minute." Sure! Why not?
"Is there something wrong?" I asked.
"Well, I wanted to see what's happening. You look like you don't belong here, and you've been watching those girls for awhile now."
Needless to say, I didn't have to consult my Bullshit Detector to know that Something Was Up.
"Really." I nodded, chewing on my lip in a way I hoped would irritate the woman into doing something legally actionable. "What makes you say I don't look like I belong here?"
"That's not important," she said dismissively. "Are you a Registered Offender?"
"Well, I've been known to offend people," I said casually, "But I didn't know there was a club you could join for that. What's your name, Officer?"
"What's your name?" she evaded. I told her my name, along with all the rest of my vital information. "Do you have a driver's license?" she asked.
"Yes, I do." I began clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, and watched her eyes go a little crazy.
A long second went by. "Can I see it, please?"
"Fraid not." I shot back. "It's in my truck."
"Where's your truck?"
"In my garage. What's your badge number?"
"That's not important. What were you doing out here?"
"Hunting jackalopes. Who's your watch commander?"
"I'm not interested in these games, Mr. Duke." Then her radio crackled to life, issuing forth a string of numerical gobbledygook. She sneered at me. I wiggled an eyebrow at her. Finally, she told me, "Well, you have no warrants. You're free to go... if you like."
I pondered that last bit for a moment. Bowel-clenching images of this woman standing over my prone form with a shovel, somewhere out in the lonely high desert, appeared to me. Fuck this action, I thought. I'll get what I need from a halfway sane person.

Thoughts?

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Carlos & The Goat-People...

FRIDAY -- 4:27 P.M.

I try to avoid fast food joints whenever I can... typically hangouts for drunks, junkies, flunkies and the desperately trendy, they are typified by a sense of simmering panic I can do without. But a few days ago, when the Hunger overtook me and my wallet would not oblige a venture to Appleby's, I had no choice...

I slid past two men at the door, who hesitated briefly when they saw the mirrored sunglasses and black jacket, then went back to their hushed transaction. I approached the dingy formica counter, and managed to catch the eye of a young African-American woman, signalling that she should terminate her telephone conversation, if only long enough to take my order, a Big Cheesaburger, curly fries and a root beer. I would've preferred something stronger -- the place was getting to me that fast.

I took a seat, receipt in hand, just as an elderly couple swung through the main doors in an awkward cross between a stagger and a foxtrot, offering profuse, gutteral apologies to the drug fiends as they passed.

Their appearance was puzzling; short and stocky, both suffering from what appeared to be advanced and bizarre deformities of the spinal column, they still managed to effect a bearing that was oddly regal. The young girl had disappeared from view, replaced by a Hispanic manager -- Carlos.

The conversation (for conversation it was) follows:

Old Woman: "Yes, I would like..."
Carlos: (Impatient) Yes?
Nothing.
Carlos: "What would you like?"
Old Woman: "I would like a..." suddenly stares, transfixed, at her finger. "A taco!"
Carlos: "Will that be it?"
Old Woman: "Two tacos! With lettuce!"
Carlos: "Anything to drink?"
Old Man: "Lettuce!"
Carlos: (confused) "I'm -- I'm afraid you can't drink lettuce, sir. Uh..."
Old Woman: "No! Nonononononono! We want --"
Old Man: "We can't drink the lettuce?"
Carlos: (frustrated) "No... you can't drink the lettuce, sir. Would you like root beer?"
Old Man: "I don't have my I.D."
Old Woman (hits old man) "You dingbat! We want Sprite!"
Carlos: "Okay, two tacos and two Sprites. What size?"
Old Man: "I don't want Sprite, you bitch!"
Carlos: "Please don't talk to your wife that way, sir..."
Old Man: "I was talking to you! We want--"
Carlos: "Sir? I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to--"
Old Woman: "He didn't mean it! (to Old Man) What do you want?"
Old Man: "What's your name, son?"
Carlos: *sighs* "My name is Carlos, sir."
Old Man: "I want a Lemonade! Do you have Lemonade, Carlos?"
Carlos: "Yes, sir. What size?"
Old Man: "I like you, Carlos. You remind me of my son, only he's white. And he's shorter than you."
Carlos: "Is a medium okay?"
Old Woman: "You've got prettier eyes than our boy, though."
Carlos: "Medium it is..."

About this time my order was ready, and I left with all due speed. They eventually would have had to throw me out, otherwise...

[XaLEv]

I think I might have to get out the Canonization Stick...

[HemlockGrey]

-howls with laughter-

MY SIDES! I CAN'T BREATHE!

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

I think I might have to get out the Canonization Stick...

Wait a minute... what's the "Canonization Stick?"

[XaLEv]

I think I might have to get out the Canonization Stick...

Wait a minute... what's the "Canonization Stick?"

My Official Discordian Sainthood Producing Impact Vehicle(tm).

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

I think I might have to get out the Canonization Stick...

Wait a minute... what's the "Canonization Stick?"

My Official Discordian Sainthood Producing Impact Vehicle(tm).

Y'all like these stories that much, huh?

[Mr Bean]

MY SIDES! I CAN'T BREATHE!

And then Cyril Sufficated himself to death, He died by laughing until he died

Well at least he went out in style, though the tombstone will be a bit odd

The end

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Night of the Dancing Geeks...

There are few things that raise eyebrows in Central Phoenix. We have our share of hippies, Yippies, Yuppies, Groupies... a veritable menagerie of human oddity and ugliness parades at all hours, day and night, through these twisted lanes and dark alleys, and there's little that will surprise or shock the average Phoenician. Disgust is another matter...

But there was shock and dismay in the air last night, mixed with the usual vibe of sour amusement. I encountered it as I passed along the north entrance of my local Borders (the Lair of the Corporate Book-Whore) and was drawn, like one of the rats of Hamlin, by the sound of sweetly discordant "music"...

What I saw there was strange and unsettling... it was, I was told later, an exhibition of Capoeira, a martial art form native to Brazil... but at first glance, it appeared to be a sort of orchestrated orgy of petit mal seizures set to music.

A group of perhaps a dozen white-clad individuals had arranged themselves in a crude semi-circle. Most held what could loosely be called musical instruments of one variety or another -- flutes, hand-drums, a sort of stringed instrument which, in the doubtful lighting, could have been a stuffed housecat... all were strumming, smacking, banging and generally abusing these items with vigor, while still others sang in blissful ignorance of melody or harmony.

But this was only the background for the truly amazing spectacle of wild humanity enclosed within the semi-circle. There were at any time four to five individuals cavorting, half-clad and mainly on all fours, about the center of the imaginary circle. I noted with an upraised eyebrow that not a few of the shirtless and brainless mammals I was watching were of the feminine pursuasion... this, I knew, would be Frowned Upon.

Now I have always been one to Carpe the Diem, in whatever guise opportunity may present itself, I do my utmost to grab hold of it with both hands and make it beg for mercy...

So, taking the situation firmly in hand, and knowing that this rare occasion would last for a Limited Time Only, I did what any sensible person would do. When in Rome...

I later found myself explaining to a friendly but confused police officer just what had been going on, and my (it turned out) entirely unwelcome involvement in it. He explained that the officers who had responded to the indecency and noise complaints had assumed I was drunk, or some other form of harmless lunatic, thus the reason I had not been Maced along with the others...

[EmperorMing]

Any more of these experiences to report? Sounds like you're enjoying yourself.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Any more of these experiences to report? Sounds like you're enjoying yourself.

Counting that last one, there are four up so far.

EDIT: Who says I collect them into a book or something and try to get them published?

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Country-Fried Bull-Shit, and Other Delights

I have come to the conclusion that I was much more intelligent, as a child, than I customarily give myself credit for. On observing my own children, I am convinced that if I was anything like them when I was their age, I was an utter mental invalid, a hopeless hulk of respirating, drooling flesh fit only for scientific study. Please don't take offense; I love my son and daughter, but they're kids, and kids, in the main, are stupid.

However, I have been recently exposed to a chilling reminder of my brief and torrid affair with childhood, by way of a minor (though strictly controlled) family reunion. Having no other means at my disposal with which to keep my parents at bay, I brought Connor and Kira with me. They were at peak performance, to wit:

Connor: "Are we there yet?"
Me: "We haven't even left the driveway."
Kira: "Well, are we?"
Me: "Get in the car."

As we drove, Kira was singing Britney Spears lyrics (she's three years old, for fuck's sake, and her mother is already turning her into a cheerleader. Wonderful.) Connor, for his part, was providing percussion accompaniment, using one of my Tool albums as equipment. I, for my part, chain-smoked and told myself over and over that they're my children, I shall not maim them, they're my children, I shall not introduce them to Sailorspeak...

Upon arriving at my parents' home, all Hell (and most of my nerves) broke loose. There was running, screeching, jumping, hugging. My father and I have a more civilized form of greeting:

"Hi, Pop."
"Son. Still smoking."
"Fuck yes. Still drinking?"
"Yep."
"Okay, then."

My father and I have a deal; I give up smoking when he gives up drinking; he seems to have the concept backward. At any rate, he'll die before I will, so eat that, old man! Ahem, beg pardon.

We stayed for dinner. Staying for dinner at my parents' home is not so much a conscious decision as a twist of fate. One minute you're standing on the patio smoking a butt and wondering how you ended up at this particular house, the next you're sitting at a table with a plate heaped with hot brown something descends past your confused and frightened eyes, and wondering where the nearest exit is... and just how good the old man's reach is with that fork. I found myself thus. My children, the lovable mutants that they are, were blissfully ignorant of the danger.

"Whassat?" Kira asked. Several dozen times. In the space of 30 seconds.
"Yeah, whassat?" Connor took up the chant. It was like the Sesame Street "Yep/Nope" puppets on crack.
My father gave me a stern look. I gave my son and daughter a stern look. The children bugged out their eyes and pretended to fall off their chairs.

"Would you like a shot of Thorazine?" my father asked me. I picked them up -- gently, now, gently, they break sooooo eeeeaaasily... and put them back in their chairs.

Just when everything had settled down, my father finally answered Kira's question. His answer came floating from his lips in a blaze of inspired dementia which I had forgotten parents capable of: "Country-fried bull-shit."

My, how my son and daughter's vocabularies have grown!

Their mother hasn't spoken to me since I took them back after that visit. I'm thinking of sending my dad a thank-you card.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Thoughts? Complaints? Donations?

[weemadando]

Round 1

Walking along at uni, am approached by a Greenpeacer with a clipboard. Before he has the chance to say a word I say: "No." And keep walking.

Round 2

Walking along at uni, same Greenpeacer approaches me again. "I've told you once." Keep walking.

Round 3

Walking around uni, another Greenpeacer attempts to interdict me by placing his clipboard across infront of me like a toll-gate. Before I realise what I am doing my hand has gone back to wind up for one fucker of a king-hit. Greenpeacer spots it, removes clipboard from my path and backs away.

Round 4

Walking downtown, yet another Greenpeacer approaches me, asks: "Are you interested in -", I reply pre-emptively: "Fuck off."

Round 5

Again downtown, absolutely sick of Greenpeacers, (are they just attempting to clog our streets or something) am accosted by another one who has carefully positioned themselves in a position that would put most military tacticians to shame. I decide to have some fun.
"Are you interested in helping Greenpeace?"
"Why?"
"Well, the worlds environment is constantly being put at risk."
"Why?"
[I think you can see where this is going, after about seven more questions they let me go]

Round 6

Walking through Sandy Bay see a friend talking to a fairly attractive Greenpeacer and is looking like he might do something silly like give them money. "Dunny! No! Don't do it! Don't believe the lies! Jesus is the only way to heaven! Away from him whore of Babylon!" And then I just walked away leaving avery amused friend and a very confused crowd as well as one hell of an insulted Greenpeacer.