The Oregon: Year One - The Tale of Cock Blockery

As with all Year One this story takes place during 2001. And as I’m sure some of you are reading this second in a row Year One: Oregon Tale and feeling like the left out kids listening to the stories of the previous campers at Camp Candy. What the fuck was up with that shit? Those kids must have felt like a rebound girlfriend from that. Always telling stories about the kids they didn’t even know, while I’m sure crazy shit was happening day in and day out while they were there. I mean its John fucking Candy. What was I talking about again? Oh yeah, Year One, right. So this takes place during Mike’s sappy ass “Tale of Love” blog, so you should go read that right now (http://biffcalhoon.blogspot.com/2006/12/oregon-year-one-tale-of-love.html), or you’ll have no frame of reference. Its cool, I’ll wait. See? That was some ‘Dawson’s Creek’ type shit, wasn’t it? But you know the time frame, and a little background, so I suppose I can continue now.

It was a Friday night, sometime in the early fall. Loads of ill gotten beers were floating up the chain from Dairy Mart, and there were lots of people carrying on at the house. I had managed to finagle a WHOLE weekend off out of my batshit crazy boss at Subway, and I decided to celebrate by starting drinking at 4 P.M. The drinking was in full swing by about 8 or so, and due to the confinement of the four walls, someone had decided to take the party to the yard, and indirectly, the street. Lying in the warm, warm road and pouring cold alcohol down their throats seemed to be a sacred ritual for D.W. and Mike. So they’re out there yelling at cars as they pass, trying to charge people tolls for using ‘our road’ and generally being traffic nuisances. After about an hour of this, hunger seemed to grip these self-appointed makeshift toll booth operators, and having nothing resembling eatables in the house, they decided to venture over to The Main Street Café for fried dead animals of some sort. Because they were men, dammit!

The thing to remember about the Main Street was that it was pretty much in out front yard. As much as Dairy Mart was the rear perimeter of The Oregon, The Main Street served as our front yard, auxiliary parking lot, and source of entertainment on Sunday mornings when the over 60 crowd came out in full force. In summary, we ate there often. Not because the food was particularly good, but because it was literally within crawling distance. If you were too drunk to get to The Main Street, you would probably have choked on any food given to you at that moment. Like a field sobriety test given by the friendly LCPD, it was a barometer of your alcohol content at any given moment.

So as I stayed and watched the house and drank like there was no tomorrow, because for me there wasn’t. Mike and D.W. wandered over to get some food, and due to going there on pretty much a daily basis, came back with the promise of some waitress’s as soon as the doors closed at 11. A roar went up as the brave lads drinking and breaking glass in the front lawn were promised illegal womenfolk, of the waitress variety. Needless to say, Mike’s Hard Lemonade had to be purchased to make the ladies feel welcome, and Everclear had to be added to make us feel amused.

We had a whole process for this. We’d get at least 3 guys sitting at the corner booth in a semi-circle with said lady-friendly drinkables. One of us would carefully pop the top and place the cap in a pile. Then, usually the Top Popper, would take a hearty swig to make room for much harder, and thus funnier, liquids. The Middleman in the operation would pour Everclear, through a dirty funnel, into the previously swigged upon bottle, until it looked ‘kinda full’ and pass it to The Finisher. The Finisher had the fun job. He’d put the cap back on, hit it with a random boot to seal it, and throw it back into the 6 pack from whence it came. All in all, it would take us as little time as 4 minutes to spike a six pack. And before you go thinking it was a date rape thing, it really wasn’t. It was more of a contest to see who could get a random girl to throw up in the yard first. I mean, we were pirate jerks, but date rapists? Certainly not.

So at about 11 or so, several VERY underage girls walked the ten feet between the back door of The Main Street and our front door, bags in tow. The bags? They held the clothes that they packed for a ‘slumber party’ that they had told their parents they were going to. Crafty little pixies, these jailbait waitresses. The bags were stashed in the front room under the table and the ladies grabbed some Uber-Mike’s and headed to the front lawn to tempt fate, the police, and the moral fortitude of everyone at the party in one fell swoop.

The one mistake these young ladies had made in their little con game was that one of them had given the phone number of our house to a parental unit. Not usually a big deal, had they managed to tell one of us. So it’s about half past midnight, and I’m sitting in the dark computer room, with nearly a retarded amount of alcohol gushing through my veins, downloading music for the party and the phone rings. Since its dark, I don’t bother to check the caller ID, I just pick it up and drunkenly mumble “ ’elo?” into the microphone. A pretty sounding voice answers me “Hello, is Amber* there?” I shrug, and then giggle because she obviously can’t see the shrug over the phone. “Hold on, I will check, it won’t take but a MOMENT, my dear!” I slur into the receiver. Like I said, pretty sounding voice. I look around for someone that looks like an Amber, and see several jailbait waitresses drinking and making out with my roommates and friends on the lawn through the window. “Yep, she’s here all right. But she’s making out with someone in the front yard right now, can I take a message?” I ask as I spill rum and coke into the ashtray. “*Pause* No, that’s ok…. Hey, it sounds like you’re having a great party over there! How close to The Main Street are you?” the sultry tones ask me. “OOOOOh, if you pull up to the restaurant, you can pretty much figure it out. It’s the big blue house on the left with the Pirate flag on the roof. You CAN’T miss it!” I reply into the phone as I take a swallow of rum and light another cigarette. “Thanks, I’ll see you in a bit then!” she says and hangs up. Proud of myself for recruiting another lady to out party, I hung up the phone and went back to downloading music.

Perhaps it was my shoulder devil, or maybe the ghost of Ben Kenobi, but about five seconds after hanging up the phone a voice said in my head “Do you have any idea what you’ve just DONE?!?” “Gotten another lady to show up for the party?” I replied aloud. “Not even close” the voice said, “Think about it for a moment. You pretty much just cock blocked everyone you know at this party.” I jumped from my chair and exclaimed “Oh COCK!! That was Ambers MOM!” I yelled to the dark empty room. “I have to DO something about this!” I bellowed, as I ran from the room, tripping over my chair in my haste, out the back door a plan already forming in my mind.

As plans go, to say this was half-assed was somewhat of an understatement. I decided the best coarse of action was to throw my grappling hook around the chimney to get the best possible view of the chaos that was due to ensue any moment. That was my plan; just watch the bad stuff happen. As I'm sure you have already guessed, I went and got my grappling hook and started to climb. I was sitting on the roof for about ten minutes when a minivan pulled into the driveway, yet stayed far enough in the street incase the need to get away fast became a factor. “Well thought out plan, soccer mom, well thought out indeed” I mumbled to myself, leaning on the chimney. “AMBER!” a voice yells from the drivers’ window, “This is NOT a slumber party! All of you get in the van NOW! You are in BIG trouble, young lady!”

Now at this point the fact that this mess was at least partially my fault had occurred to me, and the Shoulder Angel spoke up and said I should fix the mess, put the wrong things right, and hope that the next leap will be the leap home. So I did what any man sitting next to a pirate flag with a grappling hook at 1 A.M. would have done. I grabbed some rope and jumped. My arc took me sweeping into the driveway in a move that would make both Batman and Spiderman rigid in the tights**. I landed in the light beams of the minivan and hoped that my acrobatics would impress the mother of this drunken High Schooler enough to let her stay. I walked up to the door, just as D.W. was approaching, and said “Well hello there! You must be the owner of the dulcet tones I had the pleasure of addressing earlier. You should let the girl stay. Know what? You should come have a drink with us yourself.” At this point D.W. leaned on the van, peers in and trying to keep this lady from bringing the police into this, and thus, arresting everyone, says “You’re right, dude, she does sound kind of foxy.” She kind of giggled weather with genuine flattery, or amusement at the fact that I had figured out her little plan and tried to put a stop to it in the worst way possible. “No, I think well all be going. But thanks for the offer. I'll keep it in mind” she said as all the underage girls piled into the van. “Good enough for us.” I said as D.W. and I walked back to the house.

Surprisingly no one wanted to kick my ass for letting Amber’s mom know where we lived. I’m not sure if it was the pimp rope move, or the fact that deep down they knew it was partially Amber’s fault for giving out our number as the place she was staying. But the music went back on, the three remaining Uber-Mike’s were drunk by men, and the party went on.

Thanks for reading, but that’s it for now, kids

Dr. R.

* - Amber probably wasn’t her name. It was just the first random name I pulled out that sounded right in the story.

** - This is how I saw me from the rope perspective. It may have been a completely clumsy clusterfuck, and came damn close to killing me from the less intoxicated ground view.

The Oregon: Year One - The Tale of the Council of Evil

OK, now this, ladies and gentlemen, is my slump buster blog. It is my coming out of my funk and getting off my pudding ass and writing something amusing as I have been asked to for the past…fuck, 6 months. I really have no excuse for such a lapse in story telling. For the first 4 months of 2007 I was working midnights at Sam’s Club and pretty much gripped by crippling depression, a green bathrobe, and Justice League DVD’s. Then I recently started back at KFC, the first job I had in High School. But this time I’m running the show. While the Pre-Doctor of 1997 was a mere Padawan cooking the chicken, the Doctor of 2007 is the fucking Jedi Master pulling the strings, and telling some other fuck to “Cook me some chicken or I’ll have to use your (his) face to keep my pimp hand strong!” But I digress. A lot of shit has happened in the past 6 months that I need to write about. I was saving most of these stories for a book, but I think it’s easier to just throw them on the internet one chapter at a time and maybe publish them later. Hopefully I can get someone (Professor Tillman, I’m looking your way, dear brother) with some artistic talent to draw them into a graphic novel.

Now, this blog serves as my rebuttal and very minour correction to the recently posted The Oregon Year One: The Council of Evil. While I have no doubt as to the moral fiber of my good friend and former housemate Biff, for he is a learned scholar and a king amongst men, I do doubt the validity of his rum soaked brain of the evening in question. Being that I was in the minority of sobriety that evening, a foreshadowing of the forthcoming years, no doubt, I shall tell my side of the Tale of The Council of Evil.

It started out as a perfectly normal weekend eve in the summer of 2001 on The Oregon. The rum was flowing like wine, the music was wafting up through the floorboards from the basement jam room into the kitchen, and 90% of the occupants were thoroughly intoxicated. I was playing some glorious wonderful tunes on my newly acquired green Strat, and D.W., Mike, Joe, and Jim decided they wanted to see what was shaking at the Bailey Estate. So they took off and I used the time wisely to play my guitar even louder. A few hours later, I heard a ruckus in the living room and I went up to investigate. I saw a party in my midst, and decided to go back to playing guitar, with a freshly minted drunk Jim accompanying me on the drums. We’re rocking out, and I hear the volume of the party reaching critical mass. Next thing I know, Joe stumbles downstairs wearing what can only be described as the hand-me-downs of Cyrano Jones. (look up ‘Star Trek TOS: The Trouble with Tribbles’ to get that obscure visual. Mike, you just do whatever it is you normally do) “Hey Fucking Joe, what’s up?” I asked as I muted my guitar. “Some shits going down HARD, and I’m going to kill Lanzer!” he said with venom in his voice. “Ok, have fun!” I replied as I started playing ‘Hey Joe’ by Hendrix. Joe was less than amused with my witty antics, and said “No, Dan’s knocked out in the yard, you have to stop Mike, he's gone rogue.” So I put down my guitar, and followed the smallest of my roommates up the stairs.

When I walked out the front door, I saw quite the picture or mayhem. D.W. knocked out in the yard, Tiki torches strewn about the front lawn, and Lanzer bleeding profusely from the head. Now let’s back it up a little. ‘Why was Lanzer bleeding from the head?’ is probably the most logical place to start. Well, a hobby of this self appointed Council of Evil was to hit each other with household items to prove their dominance over the land and all of the creatures of the Earth. Lanzer had taken a hit to the cranium from a cookie sheet that had previously been smashed over Joe’s ripe melon and bent to a fine point. The effect was paramount to hitting someone with an ice pick at speeds that baffle the human eye. So Lanzer’s been concussed by a housemate, and one of my cookie sheets has been murdered before its time. No pizza rolls were to be had that late summer evening, I shall tell you.

Anyhow, I walk out the door to D.W. knocked out in the yard and Lanzer swinging a lit Tiki torch around like he was keeping Frankenstein’s monster at bay. So I do the first thing that comes to mind: jump off the porch motherfucking A-Team style and restrain Mike from behind. Now, I can actually see this from the patented A-Team camera angle made famous by Faceman and Murdock in, well, pretty much every episode. I deftly toss the torch to a bystander, and pin Mike’s arm behind his back, catching my cigarette between the inner crook of my elbow. Why I specifically remember that, I have no idea. So after I release Lanzer, knowing that he has no weapon, and has calmed down a bit since I put the fear of Mr. T into him, he shoulder checks me, runs into the house, throws on his hat and duster and runs off into the night, like a man on a mission.

I wake D.W. with a few gentle slaps to the face, grab a few beers for he and Jim, and we pile into Jim’s car. In Mike’s defense, it was Dan’s car until Jim threw up in it and kicked the mirror off the windshield, so I can see why he was a bit confused. But that’s neither here nor there. We take off towards Lanzer’s last known vector, and eventually find him going towards his future ex-wife’s house. I get out of the car and try to Jedi Mind Trick him into the car, but he’s too drunk. He just repeats what I say, looks confused at The Force, and keeps walking. D.W. grows tired of this little farce and try’s to restrain Mike with his body. I hear Mike yell at the top of his lungs “Fuck you, Warner! Always on your quests to SAVE the goddamn WORLD!” Jim and I look at each other, puzzled, and keep watching like it’s the most entertaining television program in existence. Mike keeps walking, D.W. keeps talking, and I trail them in the car. Fifteen minutes, four beers in Jim, and about seven rants later we arrive at Mike’s foggy destination.. I park with the front of the car facing the road in the event we need to retreat post haste, and Dan walks Mike to the door, like a surreal prom date. There is a pause, lights come on, and I light a cigarette and wait. A haggard looking woman answers the door, D.W. gestures grandly, shakes her hand, runs to the car and Duke boy slides over the hood and yells “fucking PUNCH it Robo!” and I take off. We arrive home shortly thereafter, clean the blood off the carpet, and call it an evening.

Thanks for reading, but that’s it for now, kids

Dr. R.

To see what happened after the rest of the residents of The Oregon left the house, and to see some of the motivation behind this sordid little tale, read Biff’s blog at:

http://biffcalhoon.blogspot.com/2007/06/oregon-year-one-tale-of-council-of-evil.html