29 March 2006

Chapter 5. Homeward bound.

It seemed the low point of our trip. We were without alcohol. Franklin was mourning the loss of his cheese and A.J. his shirt. However, the news of our dye escapade reached the ears of the staff, and off we were sent to the psychiatrist specializing in troubled youths.

We were a little offended, as he had earned a PhD in Bovine Psychology, but hadn’t actually worked much with people.

Oh, it all makes perfect sense now. I get frequent bovine looks from teenagers. “You were caught, at 3AM, releasing skunks into the teacher’s lounge” I say to them on what seems to be a weekly basis. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

In response, I get a cud-chewing ungulate looks. “Whhhaaaaa?” they respond.

Seriously, that’s damn near a moo.

“Sneaking out of the house that late on a school night!” I continue scolding “I am very disappointed in you both!” Alas, it’s in one cow-like ear and out the udder.

Be that as it may, we understood that a surly, bovine response would only land us in deeper hot water. Our only hope was complete, total and utter dishonesty. We informed him that we were rushing at a fraternity and this was part of our initiation ceremony.

“Which one?” He asked.

“Tappa Kegga Day” Well, Duuuuh…

He’d heard of it. We were free to go. We asked for our robes back, but to no avail. They were infested with crabs and had been burned. We were to see the nurse for some Qwell cream on the way out.

“What about my cheese?” “And my shirt?” Frank and A.J. queried almost in union.

They could have them back as the hospital staff refused to burn them, citing toxic combustion gases.

We were each given bus fare, a pair of hospital-issue skivvies, a tube of Qwell and sent on our way.

We entered the bus station apprehensively. As usual, it was filled with furtive heroin addicts that have achieved the minor miracle of looking more unsavory than Charles Manson on a bad-hair day. They edged away from us. “We don’t want no trouble, guys…” They said, eyeing up our hospital gowns and the now throbbing cheese.

Now the good side about having blue skin, wearing hospital gowns, skivvies and paper slippers is that we got the very best seats on the bus; back by the commode where no one would bother us. Franklin pushed the cheese under the seat in front of him and we all tried to get some sleep. Sometime, during that hot July night,the pressure and heat proved too much for the abused wax rind. Half of the now liquid cheese poured into the heating duct and the rest oozed down into luggage compartment.

We were made to walk the last few miles and haven’t been allowed on a Greyhound since. We promised ourselves we would never do anything that stupid, at least until the next weekend when we were going to have a hard liquor and trampoline night, and finish testing our latest invention; the self-adhesive, prosthetic unibrow.


After graduation, A.J. decided that neither Philosophy nor Physics was challenging enough, so he went to medical school and is currently the chief neurosurgeon at Cedar-Sinai hospital. He frequently offers to perform brain surgery on me at a greatly reduced rate.

Franklin went into the Navy’s nuclear program and retired last year after a successful career culminating in the command of an LA class fast attack boat. He still mutters to himself, at least he does when I’m around.

I own a very profitable Herpestidae ranch and sell mongoose and ferret dairy products to lactose intolerant folks world wide. I also sell Amway, Tupperware, Mary Kaye Cosmetics and navy blue Speedos.

Greyhound Bus Lines adopted our “Über-ripe sheep’s milk gorgonzola/burnt transmission fluid” aroma as their official company fragrance. Judging by the smell of their buses, they must have spent millions to equip their fleet with atomizers.

The bastards never paid us a penny in royalties.

And that's the way I likes it.