16 September 2005

Home again, home again, jiggedy jig.

“That went swimmingly! ” Declared the Boss loudly as he weaved in and out of the thick New Jersey traffic. “Swimmingly” is one of his favorite phrases. He actually described a recent trip to New Orleans as having gone swimmingly. He is also immune to shocked stares.

Irish Bob, concealed in the back seat under his suit coat, moaned plaintively, perhaps in agreement. More likely, in protest of the odiferous breakfast-sausage sandwich that I had bought for him, (ostensibly for him to eat, but in reality so that I could wave it under his nose every 10 minutes). Don’t disturb my sleep.

And that’s pretty much the way the rest of the four hour trip went. Mario Andretti weaved through traffic while burbling happily, Irish Bob moaned, and I amused myself by trying to get Bob to yack again. Alas, he proved an empty vessel.

When we arrived home, Bob suddenly expressed the urge to use the facilities.

“I could take a leak myself.” I confessed.

“No,” Replied Bob unsteadly.” It’s not that.”

“Ah, the ‘Morning-after-the-night-before’ alcohol poop.” I gave him a companionable pat on the back. “You’ll feel 100% better when you get the remaining toxins out of your system.”

He smiled weakly and headed for the bathroom with the paper.

I wondered; did he remember the Vietnamese restaurant last night? Did Bob recall any of the conversation he had with the ancient, wizened proprietor in which Bob insisted on ordering the hottest of all possible sauces? Or the look of pure psychotic glee on the old man’s face as he nodded?

The Guinness and liquor would insure that the Bob byproduct would be almost liquid; maximizing the surface area of sensitive rectal tissue exposed to capsaicin.

I ran to get my guitar out of my office. I don’t get to play it much, but times like this make up for the hassle. I tuned while giggling, which attracted a lot of cubicle prairie dog attention.

“Come with me, my pretties!” I led them Pied Piper like to the hallway outside the Men’s room.

Wait for it, Evil,…. Wait for it….


I started strumming, and did a very credible Johnny Cash:

“I fell in to a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down
and the flames went higher.
And it burns, burns, burns
the ring of fire
the ring of fire.”

“Fuck you, Evil!” Retorted an almost sobbing Bob. After a few high fives, some cackling and plenty of self congratulation, we left him in peace.

That’s the last we saw of Irish Bob. Some say that he passed on, and on stormy nights you can still hear him moan. Others say he spontaneously combusted and the smell of burnt pork is not from the BBQ joint down the street, but the very essence of Bob.

Me? I think he’d better get the hell out of the bathroom; he’s been in there three hours now, and I need to use it. Any longer and I’ll use his office.

Besides, it’s his turn to buy the beer.

And that's the way I likes it.