Exit Stage Left–A Vinyl Village First-Ever Guest Blog

A brief introduction to the first ever guest blogger here at the Vinyl Village. The author below, who we will call S, has been a friend of mine since elementary school, and has therefore had the fortunate (or is it unfortunate) pleasure of witnessing first hand many of the characters and stories you might encounter here. I asked him to do a guest spot here, and he came up with this classic from our teen years–one that still brings peals of laughter when I think about it. Enjoy! And if anyone else out there wants to guest blog, hit the contact me button–there are some days the Vinyl Villager is just too damn lazy to write, and he appreciates your help!

 

Often, I awaken from a dream and wonder, “When’s my ‘Flatliners’ moment coming?” For those of you who are too young, or too sheltered, I am referring to the late 80’s film, “Flatliners”. (Insert link) The plot of the movie is about a group of 20-something medical students who’ve found a way to “die” long enough to see the other side and be brought back. No harm, no foul right? WRONG! Each person that take the trip to the other side, is then haunted by something horrible from their past. It follows them through their waking life, until they find a way to make amends. Sometimes in life, one cannot resist to punish the less fortunate, especially if the person doing the punishing 15 years old. Among the varied and horrific things our Vinyl Villager and I have perpetuated on the innocent, the first one that came to mind was our rouse to shame one of his mother’s many, and I mean MANY, boyfriends.
Gene was a nice enough fellow. He was tall, just south of 400 lbs. with red hair. An addiction to nasal spray notwithstanding, he was a gentle, affable and kind man. Of course, to us he was easy prey. One night, The VV, J and I were sitting in The VV’s living room. Tireless and bored, lacking cable television to suspend our thoughts; we decided to play a little joke on Gene. The VV’s mother was out catting about town with one of  her other boyfriends and instructed us to tell Gene, should he call or come over, that she was out shopping, washing her hair, or out of the country. (His mama always assumed the men in her life had no brains about them; in most cases she was correct) Despite her instructions, (we never heeded them anyway), The VV, J and I decided to exact our particular brand of theatre on the poor man.  It’s difficult to say who thought it up, but we all decided when he called we would tell him Mama was in the shower. “Come on over, Gene. She will be out of the shower by the time you get here.” I heard the villager tell him. Now, for a large man, he sure was quick. Within five minutes of his call, Gene’s dilapidated Oldsmobile ushered into the gravel driveway. By this point, I had dashed into mama’s closet, extricated her finest lace-riddled, fanny flossing lingerie and threw it on. Realizing my kibbles and bits were hanging out of the side, I threw her satin, “Come f*ck me robe” on my shoulders and waited in the tiny master bath.

Surrounded by Dial soap bars, Kenya hair products and stacks of Maybelline and Estee Lauder make-up, I heard Gene enter the house and ask the VV, “Where’s your mother?” Gene was a well-spoken man, with a voice for the stage. His booming voice told me my big debut was moments away, as I tried in vain not to giggle to myself. He plodded through the kitchen, with the weight of a baby elephant underfoot. Down the hallway, into her bedroom he came. His voice took on the tones of Barry White as he turned the corner into the bedroom. “Mama?” he spoke, his voice full of romantic intention. “In here!”, I squeaked, trying to sound like a woman’s voice, devastated by years of Marlboro Lights and Pepsi’s carbonation. “It worked!” I thought to myself as he shuffled sideways between the bed and dresser, trying to get to his lady love. As I looked up into his eyes, I noticed his shock at what he saw before him. “Hey big fella, what’s shakin’?” I spoke in my giggly woman’s voice. He froze.
By this point, I am in hysterics and I can hear the VV and J in the living room, laughing as I’d never heard before. Poor Gene. He turned in disgust and headed for the door and in that moment I remember thinking, “I never knew he could move that fast.” I tried to run after him, to assuage my guilt and his hurt feelings, but through my laughter and tight-fitting ensemble, I ended up bowled over onto mama’s bed in tears, laughing so hard I could barely breathe.
Gene made it to the front door and looking at the VV and J bent over with the pains of laughter he simply said, “I feel as though I ‘ve been made the brunt of a joke. Exit stage left.”

Rip Ass With Respect

A group of us were at a rooftop bar the other night when someone from the group standing behind our table broke wind. Broke may be too delicate a term–they shattered it. I bet someone needed a fresh pair of undies when they got home. “How disgusting!”  I thought. But who hasn’t at some point in their life let loose with a lil toot toot that hung over the room (or in this case, the skyline) like a green, funky fog?

Bot those days are over, kids, thanks to Subtle Butt disposable gas neutralizers–just $9.95 for a pack of 5!

Directions

Peel off adhesive and stick Subtle Butt onto the inside of your underwear or pants, exactly where you think it goes. Go for it, Let’er rip, Have at it, Cut loose, Break wind, Gas it up When you’re done wearing Subtle Butt, remove and discard.  If any adhesive traces remain, use a damp cloth for removal. Tips for Success: You want all the gas to pass through Subtle Butt.  So do what you need to do to ensure none sneaks around the edges. Subtle Butt can be applied to thongs by wrapping and securing it around the back.

Its a real and true product, available for discreet shopping–and has been highly tested (see the video on their webpage if you don’t believe me!) Now if only the Toot Tone were truly available to use in conjunction….

More Strange Drug Induced Dreams

The strange dreams had stopped for a few weeks, but last night they were back in full force.

I  dreamt that I awoke to start my morning routine and found that my stainless steel refrigerator had been stolen. And as if that weren’t bad enough, the thieves had torn up my floor dragging the thing out and replaced it with a cheap chipboard cupboard that looked like it had been found at the local Dollar Store. I followed the torn up floor into the garage, where I found the garage door standing wide open, and worse–my car in pieces!

 

The thieves had taken my poor Honda for a joy ride, demolished it beyond recognition, but kindly returned it to the garage. I panicked that my wallet had been inside the car, but kind scoundrels as they were, it had been left untouched.

I hurried inside to call the police. But I couldn’t find my cell phone! Those damned thieves had stolen my rotary dial cell phone (remember, kids, this was a dream) and replaced it with a Blackberry that kept trying to send emails as I tried to call 911.

I gave up and rushed outside to find help. But my father and the fire department were already in the driveway.

“Dad, let me use your phone to call the police!” I yelled.

“Well, the fire department is here to take the Honda away, they said it was a fire hazard.”

“The fire department isn’t going to be looking for the people who did this! Give me your phone!”

“Oh…” he paused, “I thought YOU wrecked it.” Given my history as a young driver, it was probably a safe assumption for him to have made, but I was annoyed nonetheless. It was then that I noticed that the Volkswagen was gone! It had been there moments earlier when I had went inside for the phone.

“They got the other car too!” I said, “They can’t have gotten far, it was just here a minute ago!”

 The police arrived finally…and seemed as concerned about my stolen cars and appliances as if I had called them to report a stolen newspaper.

“Do you want the license plate number?” I asked, thinking that might help them find the still-missing Volkswagen.

“No that won’t be necessary.” the officer said, with a look that suggested it was the stupidest idea he had ever heard.

I led the officers out through the garage, and when I opened the door–there sat the demolished Volkswagen–kindly returned as the Honda had been by the thieves.

“Ahh…there it is!” the officer said. “Case closed on this one.”

“WHAT??” I screamed, “They can’t have even gotten off the street!! Aren’t you going to find them?”

“Well, we can’t charge ‘em with theft, they brought it back.”

“What about the fridge? Or destruction of property?” I wondered.

“Calm down now. We wouldn’t be able to prove they took the fridge too. And for all we know, this is what these cars looked like before. Now, I’ll get the fire department out here again–that car is dangerous and could send the whole place up in flames.” And they were off…having been no help at all, and I was left without a fridge and with two cars demolished.

I woke up in a sweat–pissed at the police, ready for vigilante justice, and wondering where I would come up with the deductible for two cars and a homeowner’s claim. I realized it had all been a dream, but I headed downstairs to make sure.

 

OMG! I won a contest!

One of my guilty pleasures is checking a few gossip sites (almost) every day. One of them is Dlisted which features a “Caption This” contest. Well, I won Friday’s!

I captioned this picture:

“Could you take off the blue wrapper, please? I’d like to see if its Kosher”

Yay!! I never win anything.

Always the Low Class…Always

I swore off shopping at Wal-Mart about a year ago. Now, where I grew up Wal-Mart is an experience. At any given time of day, you are guaranteed to run into at least two people you know. It’s generally tidy, generally frequented by fairly normal people, and other than finding a parking spot, generally not an unpleasant place to be. In fact, it was one of my favorite late night activities when I lived there–an after midnight Wal Mart run. They always had something I had to buy–a nice picture frame, a CD at a reasonable price, a DVD available to purchase for less than I would have expected to pay to rent it.

So I was more than a little disappointed to find that not all Wal-Marts are equal. Not by a long shot. First, the Wal-Marts here are VERY crowded. You easily get your daily cardio in just walking from the parking lot. Perhaps because of these crowds, these Wal Marts are also very dirty, and generally have a “picked over” look to them. 

My first memorable Wal Mart experience was in the wee hours of one morning. The night before, I had somehow managed to get my big toe stuck in the hem of my sheets, and in the process of disentangling myself, ripped the damned things in half. After a night on the town, I suddenly remembered I had no sheets to sleep on once I got home, and so made an emergency Wal Mart run at 2 AM. There, on the sheet aisle, were two men who looked like this guy:  It was obvious we were all looking for queen sized sheets, which in typical “picked over” Wal Mart fashion, eluded us. These fellas, who somehow made it clear they were a couple, started some conversation about how their dog had chewed their sheets up the night before.

“Well, I just tore mine.” I said, grabbing a set from the rack.

“I betcha did.” one of them said, with a twinkle in his eye. I left them to hunt up a set of 180 thread count percale…scratching my head as I did at the thought of two men of that size, plus pets, in a queen sized bed. A few minutes later I saw in the checkout line.

“Have fun in those” one of them said.

Last year, I foolishly forgot to pre-order my copy of “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” which was released the night before my beach vacation. Not wanting to fight the inevitable mob of Hogwarts-costumed die hards at the local Barnes and Noble, I (correctly) assumed that there would be a much smaller crowd at my local suburban Wal Mart. I arrived a bit before midnight, signed myself into whatever ridiculous system they had for disbursing the books, and wandered around the store until my time was called.

Book in hand, I got into the somewhat lengthy checkout line. I was turned to the woman behind me, engaged in a pleasant conversation about children being excited about reading when a shreik pierced my ear. Just steps away, a rather large woman emerged from the crowd, stumbled backwards and fell onto her ass–her young son in tears at her side. At first, I thought she had just lost her balance and fallen. She screamed in what appeared to be pain. Her fall had been a hard one, and I wouldn’t have been surprised had she broken something. A group gathered around her, someone called out to a cashier, someone else called 911.

Concerned voices said “Don’t try to move ma’am!” A grandmotherly type tried to console the fallen woman’s child–who was hysterical at this point and screamin, “You’ll be ok won’t you mama?”

“Can we call you an ambulance?” someone asked.

“NO!!!!!!!” she shreiked, a desperate look in her eyes, “Call the law enforecement division!” At this point I was wondering, “Did someone push her? Is this some domestic dispute?”

She started to roll onto her knees, as onlookers urged her to stay still.

“SPACE!!!!” she shouted…”I Need SPACE!!!” she stood on her knees and put her arms up in the air…waving them about to clear the area. People stepped back. She stood, someone went to offer her their arm…she pushed them and took off RUNNING toward the rear of the store…screaming the whole way. She tried to pull her son along, but he lagged back, crying “You’re scaring me.” I looked around for whoever was after her, but saw no one. An older woman broke through the crowd, took the little boys hand, and walked off with him.

As she passed me, she muttered, “I swear…that girl…”

The lady I’d previously struck up a conversation with and I were confused as to what was happening. By the time the 10 or 12 other guests in front of  us had been checked out, the police were entering the store.

“What the heck was going on there?” I asked the clerk.

“Oh that woman was huffin floor cleaner and flipped out.”

“You aren’t serious?” I said.

The lady in line behind me said, “We all thought she’d broken her back!”

At that point I didn’t know what to think. First off, I was furious that she had put her son through that. Secondly, I was thinking, “Dammit bitch, don’t do that to a bunch of strangers! Huff your pine sol at home!”

By the time I walked out the door, the police had her in cuffs at the Wal Mart snack bar–one officer was holding a can of cleaner up and shaking his hand at it. Tears rolled down her dazed eyes. I hope she got the help she needed, but I won’t be going back to Wal Mart to find out.

 

Come Fly Derrie-Air!

A “new airline” which purported to charge passengers by the pound ran ads in Philadelphia newspapers this weekend.  Promising to chop fairs and carbon emissions, Derrie-Air says: “The magic comes from our one of a kind “Sliding Scale”—the more you weigh, the more you’ll pay. After all, it takes more fuel—more energy—to get more weight from point A to point B. So we will charge passengers based on how much mass they add to the plane. The heavier you and your luggage are, the more trees we’ll plant to make up for the trouble of flying you from place to place.”

Persons of size and overpackers need not get their knickers in a knot. Nor should beauty queens, manoerexics, and supermodels light up at the idea of low fares. It was all a joke whose goal, according to Philadelphia Media Holdings spokesman Jay Devine, is to ”demonstrate the power of our brands in generating awareness and generating traffic for our advertisers, and put a smile on people’s faces.”

You’ve Been Left Behind!

A website, claiming to be run for Christians and by Christians, is offering to send post-Rapture emails to all the sinners you’ll leave behind (up to 62 of them!) for the bargain price of only $40 per year.  My first thought was that they must keep an atheist lesbian on staff to hit “send”…but apparently it’s all automated if their workers don’t log on for three days straight.

What’s that email sent from the great beyond gonna say? “Dear Son, Having a lovely time here in Heaven. Wish you were here?” or maybe, “Is Mom still with you?” or even, “This place isn’t as nice as the brochures said, live it up!”

I’ve got a few problems with this idea. First, $40 a YEAR for this “service?” (Though they promise renewals will cost less as more suckers subscribers sign up.) Second, the whole idea assumes that post-rapture there will still be enough people around to keep the power grid up and running, the ISPs operational, and that any loved ones left behind will be going about their business as usual, checking email and such.

I started to make this post an “internet idiot” for today…but if people are actually signing up for this crap, its inventors are geniuses. If it catches on, I might start collecting money for “post-rapture” dog walking services, or “post-rapture” lawn care (who wants to leave behind untidy gardens?)

Blue Light Special On Abstinence–Aisle Three!

I’ve always thought sweat pants with writing across the ass were pretty tacky. (Sorry to the folks at Juicy Couture). But K-Mart takes it to a new level with these abstinence promoting sweats that proclaim “True Love Waits”

K-Mart’s website describes the sweats this way:

“Whether she is lounging around the house, going to practice, or doing her chores. These soft athletic style crop pants will keep her comfy. Perfect for wearing with her favorite sweatshirt or tee. These athletic pants boldly proclaim just where she stands by pointing out that “True Love Waits” in a large screen print on the front and back of these pants.“

Now, I don’t have any problem with the message if that’s how you feel–but is the best way to get that message across by having a “bold abstinence screen print”  right up by the cootchie pop and emblazened across the ass? I mean, if those areas are off limits, why bring attention to them??  If you really want to make that point, print it on a big ole mamaw moo moo.

(thanks to Frank)

Gifts for the Pervert in Your Life

Everyone has that hard to buy for person on their shopping list. Well, if that person happens to have a streak of pervert (and who doesn’t?), a sick sense of humor, or just an appreciation for the lowest sort of pop culture, I suggest the following (assuming, of course, that they already have a portable stripper pole)

The Larry “I am not Gay” Craig Bobble Foot Doll

A limited edition piece commemorating the wide stance that made the Idaho senator famous! The St. Paul Saints gave these conversation pieces away to the first 2500 fans that showed up on May 25, 2008. Already making their way to eBay in the $40 to $60 range–this collectable is sure to appreciate in value.

And if you’re really looking for shock value, find a baker who can create:

The Two Girls One Cup Cake

Now, hopefully, you’re scratchin’ your head thinking “Whattina whirl is 2 girls 1 cup?” Do yourself a favor. Don’t try to find out. Ignorance really is bliss sometimes.

Some Servers Should Tip Their Customers

I eat out a lot. Sometimes I have great service, sometimes I have so-so service, sometimes I have bad service. But rarely do I have truly heinous, “I can’t believe you’ve kept this job more than ten minutes”, service.

That is, until this weekend. 

Stop one was a new, upscale sushi place that a friend had tried and enjoyed. Five of us were dining, but two were running a few minutes behind, so the rest of us ordered an appetizer and a round of cocktails. I ordered a simple vodka and tonic, but then noticed that one of my table mates was choosing from a menu of unique martinis.

“Oh, wait a minute…” I said, reaching for the cocktail menu. But it was too late. Off she went, returning a few moments later with two martinis and something pretending to be my vodka tonic. I’d tried a sip of a friend’s Lemon Drop martini, so I first thought my taste buds were just “off”. But, a second taste told me that wasn’t it. It was vodka alright. But not until the other two friends arrived (several minutes, and several failed attempts at flagging down our waitress, later) did a more sophisticated pallet determine that my vodka had been mixed with club soda.

When she brought back the corrected drink we were ready to order. Two of us don’t like roe on our sushi. A few of the rolls mentioned that as an ingredient, and we both asked that it be left off of those rolls. When the food arrived, you guessed it–the other rolls were covered in orange fish eggs. Now, a smart server would realize that if we asked for the ones that mention it as an ingredient to be made sans-eggs, it stands to reason that we wouldn’t want it on the ones that don’t mention it. Or maybe she thought we were fine with eggs as long as it was a surprise.

Both of us sucked it up and just ate the shit. Then it came time for the bills to be split. Two couples and one single indicated who’s order should be placed on which bill. First try, she comes out with a bill for a threesome and two singles.

We sent her back to the adding machine, and she came out with bills for two couples and a single. When I saw my check, I knew something was off, I’d done a rough tally on my bejeweled abacus (with thanks to The Real Estalker) and knew what to expect, and was shocked to see a bill well over $100 dollars. In addition to what was expected, the bill had been topped off with EVERYONE’S cocktails and appetizers. Not willing to wait any longer, we settled the affair among ourselves.

The next day, a more casual dinner was had at a local place that serves up good pizza, sandwiches, and pasta. You order at the counter, give your name, and they call out for you when it’s ready. Again, five of us ordered up some grub. I should note that one in our group (ok, it was me) had made us eat dinner later than anticipated, a faux pas at any time–but even worse when a pregnant lady is in your party. If I’ve learned anything over the past few years of pregnant friends–when a lady with child is hungry or needs to pee, it means NOW. So we get there later than we planned, and are faced with a larger than usual crowd. We started ordering. My friend Laura’s order was taken by a cross eyed guy with a permanent smile.

 (ooo…cheap cross eye shot, I know, I know)

“How you spell that?” he asked when she gave her name.

“Its Laura…” she said, thinking he had just misheard her.

“Yeah, how you spell that?” One of his coworkers even laughed at him. Stunned, Laura spelled it for him.

 A few minutes later, the salad that came with my people was brought out. One of my friends had ordered the same thing, and was actually ahead of me in the line, but no salad came for him. I had almost finished mine when the cross eyed guy came back to deliver some more food. Thinking that perhaps, with his eye condition and all, he had SEEN two salads when he only brought one,  I spoke up about the missing salad, but he was distracted and ran off before giving me an answer.

More food arrives without incident, the missing salad is finally accounted for…all is good. Except…

the pregnant lady’s food has NOT arrived. ( I might normally insert a photo of a pregnant woman here, but what I found when I did an image search shocked even me…so just picture an angry pregnant lady if you will). She’d been the last of us to order at the counter, so we gave a few moments benefit of the doubt. She had ordered a BLT, so prep time should not have been a concern. Laura, who had already established rapport with the counter staff, went to check on missing BLT.

“It will be right out” she reported. But ten more minutes passed. We wondered aloud what could possibly be holding up the BLT. My pregnant friend stormed off to the counter without any word to the rest of us. We watched as one hand hit the hip, and the other went up with a little index finger wagging.  Some head movement followed and a petrified counter employee starting hitting buttons on the register. She came back to the table with her returned money in her hand, a waitress following a few seconds behind with the long lost BLT.

Is it any wonder I’ve eaten at home the past two nights?