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
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