I was hanging out with the armadillo last weekend, just sitting around the house and having a few, you know? Like six or seven. Doubles. Anyway, about halfway through I lost what little manners I have and started prying. I wanted to know what he’d been doing since the last time I saw him. The conversation went something like this:
“So, I haven’t seen you around much,” I said. Where have you been hanging out lately?”
“Here and there,” he said.
“That’s not very descriptive.”
“Nosy bastard, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Oh, come on, man, we’ve hung out often enough. You can trust me.” He contemplated his feet for a moment (easy enough since most armchairs aren’t dillo-sized, so his feet were on the seat cushion), said “What the hell” more to himself than me, and started his tale.
“Ever since the move things have been a bit hectic. New place, new surroundings. I’m not a big fan of change. Jeff was always headed to Pier 1 or something, and since his son is getting more mobile he’s had to child-proof the house. I’m not as tall as the kid, so it started getting even harder to get at everything.” He emphasized “everything” by raising his glass a bit. “So I decided the best thing to do was to bail for a while.”
“Where’d you go?” I asked.
“On the road. I made quite a bit of money.”
“Doing what?”
“Dancing, of course.”
“Really,” I said. “Where were you dancing that you could make money at it?”
“Places. You know.”
“Not really. Care to elaborate?” He mumbled something.
“What?”
“I did drag shows, okay?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You were bitching all over the place after last time.”
“Yeah, well,” he said. “Then I started counting my money. I made a truckload in tips even after all I spent on drinking. Soooooo.” he trailed off.
“Yeah, but…”
“Look. People like to watch me dance, but they hardly ever give me anything for it. When I’m all dressed up, they give me a lot of money. It’s that simple.” He paused a few seconds. “Plus, I killed with the whole novelty factor.”
“Not many dancing drag ‘dillos, huh?”
“Nope.”
“So, what brought you home?” He shook his head. I freshened his glass and waited. “This is between us, right?” he asked.
“Absolutely.”
“After hanging out with the girls for a while, I started to treat them like women.”
“Okay.”
“Same with the customers. Some of them dressed up, too.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed that,” I said.
“So, I got really relaxed. Since I was in a bar every night, I was drinking all the time. A lot.” He stared at his feet again.
“Okay, so?”
“One night after a lot of long islands, I went home with someone I didn’t know.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said. “I thought I told you before that’s one thing you shouldn’t do at those places.”
“Screw you and your ‘I told you sos.’”
“Sorry.” I said. He took another gulp of tequila. “So, what happened?”
“You can imagine. I woke up with a he that the night before I thought was a she. He said that I had passed out as soon as I got there and that nothing had happened.”
“Probably true. I had to carry you home last time. You shouldn’t worry about it.” He finished his drink and poured himself another one.
“I’ll bet this happens to a lot of people,” he finally said.
“Not really,” I responded. “Even when I’m wacked out of my mind I don’t make mistakes like that.”
“Well, aren’t you Mr. High and Mighty?” he sneered.
“Not really,” I said. “I’m just incredibly boring. I don’t often take chances. I have no stories like that to tell.”
“Really?”
“Nope,” I said, “nothing even close to that.” A few seconds passed. “Eventually, you’ll get over it and use the story to get laughs.”
“Maybe.” We sat quietly for a few minutes. “After that happened, I figured it was time to head home. Anyway, I’m glad to be back. The place is in shape and soon you guest-posters will go back where you came from. Obscurity.”
“Yep. That will suck, but it was inevitable. The party cannot last forever.”
“Maybe not,” he said, “but I will damn sure try to make that happen.”
Author’s note: if the narrative deviates from the official one, blame the armadillo. He has a tendency to exaggerate at times, when he isn’t outright lying. He’s usually more interested in telling a story and getting a reaction than relating the truth. And ultimately, he’s interested in dancing. But if you want to catch him dancing, you have to be in the right place at the right time.
Armadillos can’t talk.
LIAR!
Perhaps they don’t talk to you. Maybe you’re boring or something. Or you just aren’t listening.
XENARTHRAPHOBE!
Don’t make me cut you, bitch.
*Yawn*
I’m just trying to impress my father.
*sobs uncontrollably*
Hey, WTF happened to Witheld?
Last I saw him he was helping the ‘dillo and me throw the landlord in the basement of the old place.
You don’t suppose he fell in, do you?
I wondered if it was the same guy.
You remember the drink called “boilermaker”? We were doing “moviemakers”—Percocet washed down with Budweiser. (Another reason to take Percocet. It makes bad beer taste good.) Some people call it a “back door”, after the Creedence song. Boilermakers make your head pound afterward. Moviemakers produce the most amazing visual narrative…
Anyway, dancing armadillos are just sort of middle of the road under those conditions, but fun, y’know? Especially when they aren’t purple. So I wasn’t sure if it was real, or really real, if you know what I mean. Pretty good, he was. And I think he had more fun that he really remembers. I mean, Sally-Anne McGinnis is still tryin’ to figure out where all the little claw marks came from. Think I should let her know?
He needs to think about it. People have made careers out of worse things.
Regards,
Ric
You remember the drink called “boilermakerâ€Â? We were doing “moviemakersâ€Ââ€â€Percocet washed down with Budweiser. (Another reason to take Percocet. It makes bad beer taste good.)
**PSA**
Wow(!) Didn’t anyone ever teach you that acetaminophen + alcohol = liver failure, even in very small doses. Perococet is just oxycodone wrapped inside a big hunk of tylenol – you’re slowly killing yourself. If you’re going to do drugs, do them smartly – nasaly injest the perococet, so it isn’t absorbed by the liver. **PSA**
The idioticy around this place knows no bounds…
That explains all the bodies!
Huh. Whoda thunk?
I think he means “idiocy.”
Situational irony. That’s what this is.
I think he means “idiocy.†Situational irony. That’s what this is.
Ohh *SNAP* – burned.
Hmmm…
I suppose it’s a rational dichomety, though. On the one hand, you’ve got someone bragging to his internet buddies about doing something even your most lowly crack addict knows not to, and on the other hand, I added an extra “i” to idiotcy. On the idiot scale, I don’t even register.
At least I’ll have a healthy liver.
You might also consider having a humor transplant. Medical science can do wonderful things these days.
Regards,
Ric
tw:likely42. Hmmm….
The problem with humor transplants is that you need a donor.
I couldn’t think of where to go with this… .
Jeff,
You know I’m usually “down” with the narcotic advice around here……but we’ve just entered a very large fuzzy area here………if I have to snort my percocet , can I like… cook it somehow
to get rid of that tylenol crap…… without , you know , creating greenhouse gases…. cuz God knows , I will not pollute …. unless I can snort my percocet , of course.
Fella seems to know an awful lot more about the effects of drug abuse than about the words he’s using to insult us.
Hey man, anybody could accidentally add an extra “i†to idiotcy. Really, it could happen to anybody! Who can’t spell idiocy either.
Sooo….what are we drinking? And where’s the sewer rat on the half shell?
Extra “i” your left lower hanging fruits…. What about the extra “t” !?
Idioticy doesn’t begin to explain the idiocy of this digression from the dillo dilemma – did he or did he not dance the light-loafered fantastic with his she/he?
Truthlier words have rarely been writtened.
tw: When I make a choice75 to write badly, I want it too bee a conscious won.
I didn’t want to push him on that point, but I highly doubt it. Once he’s that far gone, he tends to curl up in a ball and snore loudly.