New Year's Eve
It's funny what forces memory to the fore - Proust's madeline, the queen of hearts, some twine tied around the index finger. For me, it was paging through piles of ancient Leg Show and Black Tail magazines at my dermatologist's office that, like tsunami through village, slammed heretofore blacked-out memories of my New Year's Eve to the front and center of my consciousness this afternoon.
I had a fuckin' great time, it seems. The evening started around eight o'clock.
To grease the skids prior to dinner, the wife and I had a bottle of outrageously-priced champagne while seated on the porch wicker. It was lovely chatting with her, sharing the anticipation that precedes a fine evening, but soon it was clear that French bubbly was not getting me remotely fucked up enough to have a good time, considering where I live. You might know it as Hades.
"There's a dinosaur!" I bellowed, pointing towards the sky at about a 60 degree angle, the height I thought credible for a phony dinosaur sighting.
The wife didn't move.
"NO! REALLY! LOOK!" I repeated that six times - each more frantic - until my frenzy and the addition of "don't be a cooze!" forced her to take the bait, which gave me the three seconds I needed to whip out my coke grinder, thankfully already spun, and cram it into my nose. By the time my wife told me I was "full of shit," I'd already hidden the near-depleted apparatus near my penis - cops! - massaged the coke into the recesses of my nostrils, and given my gums a quick "freeze." You know the drill.
"That shit's fucked up, honey," I said. I finished the champagne. I told her if we didn't get to the restaurant right away, we'd be in a lot of trouble food-wise. It's the oldest trick in the book - if you ever want to get your girl off the subject of a bullshit dinosaur sighting, pretend you're going to be late for your reservation. She got into the Benz faster than... a tsunami through a village, the only image my mind was capable of conjuring then. I did 84 mph in a school zone, but only kids not worth worrying about would be studying then, I figured, and they're too light to do any real damage to my grill.
We arrived at Le Star, our favorite restaurant. I told her the smart move would be for her to handle the maitre d' while I "powdered my nose" - get it? - "because I know you hate it when I keep going to the can during dinner." (I am manipulative, cleverly so; she bought it hook, line, and that other thing.) I basically snorted an eight-ball while I was inside; I guess it took a long time, too, because some asshole continued to pound the door no matter how loudly I screamed for him to "fuck off!"
I came out, unleashing my best wide-eyed, bad intentions look. The guy was a cop. He didn't have a uniform on, but I know from cops. He kept staring at me as I bolted past, as cops will do. Since I didn't want to cause a scene, I only said my mission in life was to nail his daughter in the ass. (I could've fucked him up just for looking at me, but even I show a little restraint now and then.) Anyway, since cops are pussies, he didn't say a fuckin' thing back. He may have said something to the manager, though. I didn't give a fuck.
My wife, still at the bar, was pretty pissed off; apparently, I'd been in the unisex bathroom for twenty minutes. "Then have a few drinks. Jesus!" I said, then ordered three martinis, as if we were having lunch. I knocked back two like they were shots before savoring the third for a couple of minutes. A good martini, properly made, is meant to be sipped, and even a Type A guy like me will stop and smell the roses, so to speak, before ordering another two. The bartender was a sweet-looking college co-ed who I suddenly realized I wanted to fuck, but even with that heady wind in her sails she couldn't make 'em fast enough. No matter how many times I pounded the polished oak, she took forever. Sighing really loud and saying "fuck!" a lot didn't help, either.
The maitre d' finally showed, except he's Mr. Attitude now. "The fuck?" I said. "It's fuckin New Year's Eve. Am I the first guy to ever want to get his drink on?" The guy didn't say anything. He shepherded us to our table, located somewhere between Siberia and the dark side of the moon. The wife wouldn't have it, nor would I.
"How many times have we been here?" I asked, grabbing his arm.
"Mr. Moore, you seem quite intox..."
I shoved three C-notes into his mouth. "Get us the fuckin' table we asked for, you fuck!"
I ordered a pitcher of martinis for me and a bottle of champagne for the wife. The martinis, however, were having the perverse effect of counteracting the coke. I couldn't have that. I just couldn't fuckin' have that. I called my guy on the cell, and once I told him he was a paranoid homo for complaining about my use of cellular technology, he agreed to come to the restaurant
with some blow and ecstasy. Remember that, reader - I requested cocaine and ecstasy.
You'll be unsuprised to find that Marvin took twice as long as promised to get there. He was dressed in fatigues, a Hawaiian shirt, and smelled like he'd just cornholed both Cheech and Chong in their pot humidor. I called him a motherfucker when he stumbled to our table. I grabbed him by his white-guy Afro and forced him into the bathroom.
I pulled out my roll, waiting while he went through dozens of pockets; I finished my martini and was well into jonesing for another when he finally recovered his "stash." And what did he have on him? Two ecstasy pills, a baggie of heroin, and a half-ounce of Mississippi dirtweed.
"You're fuckin' kidding, right?" I asked, not really asking.
"Man, it was such short notice, man, and it's New Year's Eve and..."
I grabbed his white-guy Afro once again - risking a massive lice infestation - and smashed his face into the mirror. He started crying, but it was more from the shock of me being "uncool" than from physical pain, something he was incapable of experiencing on that and most other evenings.
"I've taken shit from my wife," I said, "shit from a cop who happens to be in this restaurant as we speak" - that sobered Marvin's ass up a bit - "and shit from the maitre d' who normally begs to blow me when I eat here, so I'm not going to take any shit from you, Marvin. Now give me what I asked for, goddamnit!" I admit I use kid gloves on Marvin, but guys like him aren't easy to find.
Marvin wiped his nose. "That reefer's good shit, man. You should try it..."
I bounced his face off the mirror again; blood muffled the crunch of skull on glass. "I'm not in the habit of taking copper when promised gold, motherfucker."
Marvin came to his senses and handed me the coke and the ecstasy, and I took the baggie of heroin as a bonus to help cool the pain-in-the-ass edge I knew I'd have at 8 a.m. I peeled a bunch of Cs and shoved them in his mouth. (By the way, I consider myself the inventor of that move, so I wish to be properly credited by any thieves thinking about stealing my contribution to intellectual property and thuggish popular culture.)
After popping a tab and doing three lines off the largest piece of broken mirror I could find, I left Marvin to clean up. I saw three old ladies when I opened the door; they seemed pissed.
"You've been in there for twenty minutes," one of them said, pointing a gnarled finger at me. "Didn't you hear us knocking?"
"No, I didn't fuckin' hear you knocking and it wouldn't have mattered if I did. And don't go in there until Marvin's done wiping my cum off his face." I shoved ol' pointey-finger against the wall. She was near-weightless, giving the push a comic element.
The wife was pissed, of course, so I ordered her a fifth bottle of Dom along with a few bottles of whatever the fuck fancy Bordeaux the place was pimping. The hooch calmed her down - a bit. She hadn't liked this "amuse-bouche" thing they first served. She hadn't liked the fuckin' salad, either, and from the look on her face when the (hot little) waitress served the fish course, it didn't look like she'd be enjoying the mahi-mahi. Abandoning her for forty minutes contributed to her pissiness, which seemed unreasonable because I'd finally explained the important matters at hand. Anyway, when I asked for the waitress's phone number "because you and me really ought to fuck sometime," it seemed I'd found my ol' lady's proverbial last straw.
Blah-blah-blah a woman scorned, but it's not like I'd actually fucked this chick. For all the wife knew, I could've been joking around, engaging in a little end of the year frivolity. The hot little waitress didn't give me her number - she kept doing stage glances directed at the Mrs. - so the wife's hurling of the fish course was a complete overreaction. What's more, she didn't hit me, she hit the bony-fingered bovine who'd whined about me doing business in the ladies room; I ducked, quick-like, letting the plate fly over me and on to the dowager's boa.
Her reaction was seriously funny, and I laughed a good five minutes, maybe longer. I was getting massively fucked up by this point, so I can only speak generally, but images of a burning rooster and a spinning top are what keep coming to mind. That bitch could holler, too! She was working us over like a mad preacher, braying and spitting. My wife wasn't in the mood. She shoved the old biddy away. I used the break to shove a few more bills into the maitre d's mouth to pay for this bitch's meal and a cab home for her and the rest of the garden club. I mean, fuck!
The wife left while I paid our way back into the graces of this shitheel place, so I was free to spread holiday cheer at the bar unencumbered by a peanut gallery. (I let the busboy have the uneaten portion of our venison entree.) Nothing breaks the ice with a silver-haired old man better than calling him "fuckface," just like the way to a lady's heart is staring at her titties like you're about to make them explode, then putting your hand over her mouth when she begins to speak. And in spite of what you've heard, young folks love when an affectionate slap winds up hurting like hell as much as baby boomers dig the word "cunt." Of course, when the Dom gets ordered, everybody quits whining and gets in line.
I tried to force the waitress into the bathroom for a quickie, but she wasn't into it no matter how many Benjamins I tried to shove down her blouse. Bitch. I staggered out and drove home - I think I hit a dog - and that's when I mistook my wife for a major appliance.
God, did I have fun.
- Brian Moore
I had a fuckin' great time, it seems. The evening started around eight o'clock.
To grease the skids prior to dinner, the wife and I had a bottle of outrageously-priced champagne while seated on the porch wicker. It was lovely chatting with her, sharing the anticipation that precedes a fine evening, but soon it was clear that French bubbly was not getting me remotely fucked up enough to have a good time, considering where I live. You might know it as Hades.
"There's a dinosaur!" I bellowed, pointing towards the sky at about a 60 degree angle, the height I thought credible for a phony dinosaur sighting.
The wife didn't move.
"NO! REALLY! LOOK!" I repeated that six times - each more frantic - until my frenzy and the addition of "don't be a cooze!" forced her to take the bait, which gave me the three seconds I needed to whip out my coke grinder, thankfully already spun, and cram it into my nose. By the time my wife told me I was "full of shit," I'd already hidden the near-depleted apparatus near my penis - cops! - massaged the coke into the recesses of my nostrils, and given my gums a quick "freeze." You know the drill.
"That shit's fucked up, honey," I said. I finished the champagne. I told her if we didn't get to the restaurant right away, we'd be in a lot of trouble food-wise. It's the oldest trick in the book - if you ever want to get your girl off the subject of a bullshit dinosaur sighting, pretend you're going to be late for your reservation. She got into the Benz faster than... a tsunami through a village, the only image my mind was capable of conjuring then. I did 84 mph in a school zone, but only kids not worth worrying about would be studying then, I figured, and they're too light to do any real damage to my grill.
We arrived at Le Star, our favorite restaurant. I told her the smart move would be for her to handle the maitre d' while I "powdered my nose" - get it? - "because I know you hate it when I keep going to the can during dinner." (I am manipulative, cleverly so; she bought it hook, line, and that other thing.) I basically snorted an eight-ball while I was inside; I guess it took a long time, too, because some asshole continued to pound the door no matter how loudly I screamed for him to "fuck off!"
I came out, unleashing my best wide-eyed, bad intentions look. The guy was a cop. He didn't have a uniform on, but I know from cops. He kept staring at me as I bolted past, as cops will do. Since I didn't want to cause a scene, I only said my mission in life was to nail his daughter in the ass. (I could've fucked him up just for looking at me, but even I show a little restraint now and then.) Anyway, since cops are pussies, he didn't say a fuckin' thing back. He may have said something to the manager, though. I didn't give a fuck.
My wife, still at the bar, was pretty pissed off; apparently, I'd been in the unisex bathroom for twenty minutes. "Then have a few drinks. Jesus!" I said, then ordered three martinis, as if we were having lunch. I knocked back two like they were shots before savoring the third for a couple of minutes. A good martini, properly made, is meant to be sipped, and even a Type A guy like me will stop and smell the roses, so to speak, before ordering another two. The bartender was a sweet-looking college co-ed who I suddenly realized I wanted to fuck, but even with that heady wind in her sails she couldn't make 'em fast enough. No matter how many times I pounded the polished oak, she took forever. Sighing really loud and saying "fuck!" a lot didn't help, either.
The maitre d' finally showed, except he's Mr. Attitude now. "The fuck?" I said. "It's fuckin New Year's Eve. Am I the first guy to ever want to get his drink on?" The guy didn't say anything. He shepherded us to our table, located somewhere between Siberia and the dark side of the moon. The wife wouldn't have it, nor would I.
"How many times have we been here?" I asked, grabbing his arm.
"Mr. Moore, you seem quite intox..."
I shoved three C-notes into his mouth. "Get us the fuckin' table we asked for, you fuck!"
I ordered a pitcher of martinis for me and a bottle of champagne for the wife. The martinis, however, were having the perverse effect of counteracting the coke. I couldn't have that. I just couldn't fuckin' have that. I called my guy on the cell, and once I told him he was a paranoid homo for complaining about my use of cellular technology, he agreed to come to the restaurant
with some blow and ecstasy. Remember that, reader - I requested cocaine and ecstasy.
You'll be unsuprised to find that Marvin took twice as long as promised to get there. He was dressed in fatigues, a Hawaiian shirt, and smelled like he'd just cornholed both Cheech and Chong in their pot humidor. I called him a motherfucker when he stumbled to our table. I grabbed him by his white-guy Afro and forced him into the bathroom.
I pulled out my roll, waiting while he went through dozens of pockets; I finished my martini and was well into jonesing for another when he finally recovered his "stash." And what did he have on him? Two ecstasy pills, a baggie of heroin, and a half-ounce of Mississippi dirtweed.
"You're fuckin' kidding, right?" I asked, not really asking.
"Man, it was such short notice, man, and it's New Year's Eve and..."
I grabbed his white-guy Afro once again - risking a massive lice infestation - and smashed his face into the mirror. He started crying, but it was more from the shock of me being "uncool" than from physical pain, something he was incapable of experiencing on that and most other evenings.
"I've taken shit from my wife," I said, "shit from a cop who happens to be in this restaurant as we speak" - that sobered Marvin's ass up a bit - "and shit from the maitre d' who normally begs to blow me when I eat here, so I'm not going to take any shit from you, Marvin. Now give me what I asked for, goddamnit!" I admit I use kid gloves on Marvin, but guys like him aren't easy to find.
Marvin wiped his nose. "That reefer's good shit, man. You should try it..."
I bounced his face off the mirror again; blood muffled the crunch of skull on glass. "I'm not in the habit of taking copper when promised gold, motherfucker."
Marvin came to his senses and handed me the coke and the ecstasy, and I took the baggie of heroin as a bonus to help cool the pain-in-the-ass edge I knew I'd have at 8 a.m. I peeled a bunch of Cs and shoved them in his mouth. (By the way, I consider myself the inventor of that move, so I wish to be properly credited by any thieves thinking about stealing my contribution to intellectual property and thuggish popular culture.)
After popping a tab and doing three lines off the largest piece of broken mirror I could find, I left Marvin to clean up. I saw three old ladies when I opened the door; they seemed pissed.
"You've been in there for twenty minutes," one of them said, pointing a gnarled finger at me. "Didn't you hear us knocking?"
"No, I didn't fuckin' hear you knocking and it wouldn't have mattered if I did. And don't go in there until Marvin's done wiping my cum off his face." I shoved ol' pointey-finger against the wall. She was near-weightless, giving the push a comic element.
The wife was pissed, of course, so I ordered her a fifth bottle of Dom along with a few bottles of whatever the fuck fancy Bordeaux the place was pimping. The hooch calmed her down - a bit. She hadn't liked this "amuse-bouche" thing they first served. She hadn't liked the fuckin' salad, either, and from the look on her face when the (hot little) waitress served the fish course, it didn't look like she'd be enjoying the mahi-mahi. Abandoning her for forty minutes contributed to her pissiness, which seemed unreasonable because I'd finally explained the important matters at hand. Anyway, when I asked for the waitress's phone number "because you and me really ought to fuck sometime," it seemed I'd found my ol' lady's proverbial last straw.
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Blah-blah-blah a woman scorned, but it's not like I'd actually fucked this chick. For all the wife knew, I could've been joking around, engaging in a little end of the year frivolity. The hot little waitress didn't give me her number - she kept doing stage glances directed at the Mrs. - so the wife's hurling of the fish course was a complete overreaction. What's more, she didn't hit me, she hit the bony-fingered bovine who'd whined about me doing business in the ladies room; I ducked, quick-like, letting the plate fly over me and on to the dowager's boa.
Her reaction was seriously funny, and I laughed a good five minutes, maybe longer. I was getting massively fucked up by this point, so I can only speak generally, but images of a burning rooster and a spinning top are what keep coming to mind. That bitch could holler, too! She was working us over like a mad preacher, braying and spitting. My wife wasn't in the mood. She shoved the old biddy away. I used the break to shove a few more bills into the maitre d's mouth to pay for this bitch's meal and a cab home for her and the rest of the garden club. I mean, fuck!
The wife left while I paid our way back into the graces of this shitheel place, so I was free to spread holiday cheer at the bar unencumbered by a peanut gallery. (I let the busboy have the uneaten portion of our venison entree.) Nothing breaks the ice with a silver-haired old man better than calling him "fuckface," just like the way to a lady's heart is staring at her titties like you're about to make them explode, then putting your hand over her mouth when she begins to speak. And in spite of what you've heard, young folks love when an affectionate slap winds up hurting like hell as much as baby boomers dig the word "cunt." Of course, when the Dom gets ordered, everybody quits whining and gets in line.
I tried to force the waitress into the bathroom for a quickie, but she wasn't into it no matter how many Benjamins I tried to shove down her blouse. Bitch. I staggered out and drove home - I think I hit a dog - and that's when I mistook my wife for a major appliance.
God, did I have fun.
- Brian Moore
posted by Brian Moore at 1:47 PM
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