Tuesday, July 30, 2013

San Clemente (We Are Punk Rock!!!) Vol. 2





It's my birthday MOTHERFUCKERS!!!






            I remember feeling cheated and irate, as I stepped foot inside and discovered that we were amongst the first 20 people let into the club that night.  The lack of visual stimulation left my brain vulnerable to the worst thing ever, MY BEST THINKING!!!!

MISTAKE  # 1 – Immediately tipping the bartenders the sum of a Mexican King’s ransom (that would be about $10 U.S., a stick of gum, and three lottery tickets), so that my drinks would be served to me as a priority over the rest of the club, for the rest of the night.

MISTAKE # 2 – Selecting “Black Russians” as my drink for the night (served with goat’s milk too)

MISTAKE # 3 – Feeling angry when the rest of the guests arrived, because I am no longer the center of attention, and am to inebriated to communicate my superior ability of carnal incantations…and as a result, pushing every male of his female counterpart, in order to usurp their female bodies.  This eventually led to my expulsion from the club by the time I got around to the 8th or 9th couple.

MISTAKE # 4 – Paying my way back into the same club, while simultaneously quenching my parched throat, and climbing the drunk latter, up to “Super Baracho” status.  In this heightened state of wisdom, and unconditional empathy, I decided it was a wise choice to make an example of the man who dresses up like a bumble bee and sneaks up on all the patrons while they are dancing.  He first, blind folds them, and then forces tequila down their throat, while simultaneously blowing a god damn whistle in their ears.

            The nerve of that bumble bee man, asking me for a tip, and not checking me for consent in the first place.  American violence solves all problems, except in private clubs run in foreign countries, where my constitutional rights don’t even apply.

MISTAKE # 5 – Ignoring my friends advice, to just lay low at the beach, and paying my way into the club a third time, just to pick a fight with a bunch of spring breakers from Florida.  Since the pussy’s declined, I decided I had no choice but to ascend the bleachers during the climax of the foam party (they literally pump soap suds on the dance floor), whipping out my wang, and proceeding to piss all over the crowd from Florida.

MISTAKE # 6 – Breaking the cardinal rule for American’s visiting Mexico, and peeing anywhere OTHER then the toilet, and ending up in Mexican jail (a very, very pleasant place).  My friends posted my bail, and I was escorted to the car.  On the way to the parking lot, one of the guys I pissed on spotted me.  As soon as I made contact with our car, I immediately passed out into unconsciousness.



            As a result of my unpredictable slumber, and timing being the key to everything in life, the knuckle sandwich (that was intended for me) was served up to my friend who posted the bail.  The next thing I can remember, is yelling at a federal agent on the U.S. border.  I had an epic size epiphany that could not wait, and very truculently expressed my views about how “due process sucks” whilst my friend who bailed me out was profusely bleeding all over the leather seats of his brand new car!    (PUNK ROCK!!!)

            Or the time I acquired a management position at a local pizzeria, and convinced the owner that I could make sound and responcible hiring decisions, then proceeded to hire my heroin dealer as a pizza driver, my homeboy “Eyeball”, who always smelled like a cannibis despensory as a server, and some random junkie I met in the San Juan Creak, who paid me for his employment...at the cost of 20 methadone tablets, three clean rigs, and two used “Hustler” magazines, thus creating the perfectdream team to ameliorate the pizzeria.

            My dealer fucked of all the deliveries in exchange for his private black tar deliveries, and was last seen on a Wensday afternoon, Eyeball was arrested for selling weed to minors on his shift, and the random junkie robbed the pizzeria for all of its toilet paper, crushed red pepper packets, and plastic spoons (he also left a fat dookie in pepporonie tray).

            When the owner asked me for an explanation, I coyly excused myself, to the bathroom, where I prepared a phat shot of tar in my neck.  When I woke up 45 minutes later, covered in my own vomit, I was courgily escourted out by the sherif’s department.
           
            When presented with the ultimatum to either leave voluntarily, or risk criminal processicution, I responded with a cackle and posed the million dollar question…

            “Dude, how long does it take to do three days in jail??? Hahahahahaha!!!!  At least the rent is free, and I get to see my friends!”  (PUNK ROCK!!!)

            Sooooooo, in the interest of maintaing the creadability of the punk rock spirit in San Clemente, I vowed to make 31, as good as I made 21.  After I visited iHOP (the local transient resource center for hum-bums, tramps, and wine-o’s) for a shower and a shave, I conceived my approach for the day.

            I had “punked” my ex-girlfriend the previous weekend for her guitar and cell phone, because she was a dirty whore!!!  The source of revenue to fund the festivities should have been self explanatory…except that my ex-girlfriend also happened to be a schizoaffective, middle-eastern crystal meth addict, with a flash light, and an affection for revenge. 

Whilst I was busking one night, outside Goodie’s bar, I was tackled by my ex (all 5’1 of her).  I knew that my ex had an obsession with pepper spraying people…many conversations with strangers went like this.

“That’s you girlfriend?  She pepper sprayed my father!!!” or

“Your psyco chick peppersprayed my dog, my baby, and my wife!” or

“Yeah man, she said she was gonna suck my dick for $30, but then she sprayed me, robbed me, and kicked me in the nuts…where is that bitch anyway?”  So I surrendered the guitar to her (but dropped her cell phone in the toilet after sending her nudey pic’s to all of her contacts, and then importing them into my phone, and sending them to all of my contacts)!

I decieded that good ole fashion “pan handleing” with a sign was my best bet.  I took a second, and then wrote the following on my sign!

“It’s my dirty first b-day!  Only 12 shopping hours left till my jubilee!  Suggested gifts are as follows…*Beer *420 *Cigs * A guitar * Food *A job…it don’t matter, I would be happy with a bag lady!”  But after writing the last sentence, I pondered the value of the last line.  My ex was indeed a Persian bag lady…a HOT Persian bag lady, but a bag lady none the less, so I placed a comma between the words “bag” and “lady” so that it implied a bag and a lady!

As customers pored in, I professed with much ebullience “IT’S MY DIRTY 31ST MOTHERFUCKERS!!!  ONLY 8 SHOPPING HOURS LEFT TILL MY B-DAY BEGINS!!!” 

A baffled patron inquired the meaning of this esoteric message…”Wait…it’s your birthday toay, but I have 10 more hours till your birthday starts?” So I replied,

“Yes sir, I give everyone a 72 h our head start in case im too busy to bestow my presence on them!  Feel free to get me anything on this list, other acceptable gifts could be a Raider’s football helmet filled with blue berry yogurt, a naked picture of Barbara Striesann, a toilet bowl filled with swimming pigme dolphins, or a Russian hooker with circus trained pubic lice that can sing in four part harmony…or a bag of heroin!”

“How about a beer then?” The man replied

Sierra Nevada!”  My day continued like this.  I progressively became more intoxicated, more ballsey with my approach, and more abnoxous.  I was soliciting anyone for anything, the true panacea of the day!

By 2pm, I had consumed six bottles of Sierra Nevada, acquired two grams of California chronic, and made $17.26…I was living life styles of the insane and homeless!  It was then, when another bum (a fellow roof top bum, a higher social class of bum, unlike the dumpster bum, or a bush wine-o) made an estute observation.

“Hey Wylie?  I love how a job is listed as your last priority…I was tinking mon, maybe if it were you first one, then you’d have all dos ohter tings mon!”

“Fuck off” I replied “Its my birthday you fucking reaggae poser, now smoke some fucking weed in this apple…I gotta fart, excuess me!”






Friday being a shower day for me, let my opulent appearance do most of the hustling, giving my crude loquacious mouth a rest, and by 10 pm, I was shit faced drunk, stoned off a gram of killer chronic, ate two pizzas, made four prank calls to the 711 I was standing outside of, and made two different girls cry, by inventing scenerios depicting their boyfriends commiting lewd acts with a toilet plunger, whipped cream, and a hooker from Dana Point. 

I had decided to abandon 711, in pursuit of the bars!  On my way, I was side tracked by an associate who said to me “Hey Dowg!? You got a shit pipe?”

“No but I know some one down the street who does, but he’s really fucking annoying.” I said

“Fuck it, let’s go birthday boy!” And with that, we ambiled down the ally, and met up with…I’m going to call this idiot Faggot Face. 

We smoked some shit, and then smoked some more shit, and listened to Face profess how cool he was.  After we smoked a few more bowls (remember to always start your tweak-end on “spun-day”) Face followed me to the bar, to act as my wing man (and how he did a piss poor job).  He immidieately proved that diahrea does indeed flow freely from the lips of an egomanic with a self esteem complex.

Within 20 minutes, I proclaimed Faggot Face to be totally useless, and abandoned him at the bar.  I then elected one of my other personalities as my honorary wing man, and spat game!  This switch up resulted in two more pints of beer, a birthday cupcake, complete with birthday cocaine, a few casual kisses from random drunk chicks, and a dry hand job from a crazy drunk chick who smelled like hamster feed.

After last call, we all smoked another bowl of shit (meth), set three trash cans on fire, drew crude pictures of president Obama sucking off a another crude picture of the 711 employee that never, ever, ever, sells me beer, no matter what.

The next day (the actual day of my birth), I picked up some black tar, and boned my homeboys old lady while he was off playing golf.  With a sigh of alacrity, I patted my self on the back and said (PUNK ROCK!!!)

Happy Dirty First!!!