The other day, in a sunny Internet Cafe in sunny Palmerston North, I logged onto MSN.
Ping! Someone has added me to their list... the email address reeked of communism, but the username didn't give any clues.
But then a pretty picture showed up... pensive... aviators... could it be... the famous Agent Fare Evader?
What follows is a dramatization of the conversation that followed:
Elderly English Toff (me): Good afternoon, what what.
Flava Flav (AFE): Yeeaaaahhh boyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
EET: Quite.
FF: Word to the k-money, homes! The bright eyes of May shine asunder.
EET: Okay, this is just getting ridiculous.
The point is, he busted a revelation on my punk ass that was rather shocking.
He was all, "Hey, I know you, or I know someone that knows you."
Well... that's great (I thought, and possibly said)... cos I got no clue who you are, boyyyyyyyeeeeeeeee!
Okay, excuse me for a second, while we take a break from our regular programming...
yo it's going down baby
it's going down family
that's my word
we gettin ready to turn this shit to the two and three zeros
ya know what I'm sayin
have all the clocks goin backwards
have everything goin haywire
you laughed before let's see you laugh now blue cow
how now black cow
word to bird
word to bird
word to bird nigga
Woah. I just had to get that out of my system.
Anyway! Absolutely nobody responded to my heartfelt call-to-arms in the previous entry, except for Jerome from Wisconsin, who said that he once knew a guy called Trey McLaughlin, and "perhaps there was some relationship there."
Thanks Jerome!
Anyway, Jerome, the point is... what the fuck? How would the topic of me even come up in a conversation between cultured, urbane cityslicker types?
Is it my charming smile? My haunting green eyes?
Surely it couldn't be my zany escapades, which I have time and time again claimed are not nearly as zany as people make them out to be.
Example:
It was Friday night.
Or rather, it was Friday morning.
Or Friday afternoon, actually.
Okay, so I got into the shower at 11:55, and got out somewhere in the vicinity of 12:03.
Economical.
First, I washed between my toes. Then behind my ears.
Okay, let's speed the pace up, shall we. The point is, I busted some conditioner on my hair. Bam.
In retrospect, this was a good idea.
As someone who has followed a one haircut a year regimen for the past decade, I find this sentence failing spectacularly.
The point is, around five years ago, I was told that I shouldn't use conditioner. That conditioner was not good for my hair and the lustrous shine I lusted after so.
This is something that I have not forgotten.
Nevertheless, at some point, conditioner found it's way into my bathroom.
And like some guy who climbed a mountain, "cos it was there, homes," I too would make use of this conditioner.
But first, the shampoo?
Sorry, what was that? Pace? Ahahahahaha.
Anyway, I completed the showering procedures, and dried my hair. It was silky and smooth.
It had bounce.
Yes!
Skip forward ten hours. Me, Vegie, SteveSteve, Army Paul - we're sitting in my car. The car is moving with a forward motion that was the envy of all the parked cars.
Vegie: Dude, your car fucking stinks.
Me: I know, I left it with my uncle and aunt while I was away... they're hippies. It's patchouli oil or something.
Army Paul (to every chick walking along minding her own business): Show us yer tits! I would!
SteveSteve: Cam, you won't remember my contribution to this conversation.
Me (to any bald people walking along minding their own business): Get a haircut, hippy!
The Police Scanner: Pksshhhh - some sort of crime happening at Some Location.
All: To Some Location!
Watching crime is fun, but so is committing crime, which meant we had to buy papers and a lighter.
We sent Paul in to the supermarket to buy big papers and a cheap lighter. He failed spectacularly on the first count, but was showered with praise for his success in attaining a cheapass lighter.
Drug-fuct and fancy free, we cruised around the empty backroads of the general Warragul/Trafalgar area for a bit more, running over schoolchildren and robbing old ladies of their precious handbaggery... suddenly, Paul made a noise with his mouth.
Somehow, he managed to convey the idea that he was both full of pride and disgust, all with the same words.
I believe those words were an old phrase known to many a pothead: "Beer then grass, you're on your arse. Grass then beer, you're in the clear."
I've never found this to be true, myself, but Vegie and Paul had been drinking earlier in the evening, and the side of my car was now covered in Vegie's vomit.
I don't know if you've ever seen a car that's been vomited out of the window of at 110 kilometers an hour.
It's fucking awesome/incredibly disgusting.
I pulled over. "Hey bro," I asked with concern, "Are you okay?"
This, as I pointed out to SteveSteve on Saturday night, was the opposite of my reaction to him being assaulted all those months ago, when my immediate response was to check on:
1. The state of the car, which had sustained something of a kick.
2. The state of the drugs, which had been in a bag in the same general area as people that were getting pulled dramatically out of things.
3. The extent of SteveSteve's injuries.
Funnily enough, SteveSteve didn't see the funny side of this.
Vegie was okay, but my car was now multicoloured, and thus a trip to the car wash was necessary.
God, the car wash was fun. There was soap... and water...
One time, I was over at the house of Jason Lives Luke, and I was telling him some anecdote. I got to the end, and he made the comment, "Man, all your stories are like that... they're full of excitement and danger and zany escapades... and then they fizzle out into anti-climaxes."
Anyway, as we drove out of the car wash (my car having gotten the Silver Wash treatment, after Vegie made a donation - not wanting to see me miss out on extra wax) we were beset upon from all sides by German Cyber-Terrorists, ala Tom Clancy's Net Force!
"Halt, mein Scnieben!" shouted one, brandishing some fiendish Aryan machinegun, "Your time is up, ja!"
"Think again, you facist bastards," yelled Paul, as he retrieved a throwing knife from his army boot.
A flurry of machine gun fire greeted this denial of time-up-janess, which Paul artfully dodged, before sending the knife flying through the air, whereupon it severed some rope and set off some booby trap which captured our assailants in a peaceful manner, cos we is peaceful folk, who just want to be free to disco dance without fear of retribution.
"Who sent you?" I demanded of the man with the bushiest moustache - he seemed to be the leader... To emphasise my demand, I busted a little bit of robot dancing, then a light twirl.
"Please... please..." he pleaded, "No more! I vill tell you everyfink!"
That seemed like it was probably going to take too long, so we all went back to Vegie's and played megadrive and ate seaweed flavoured biscuits.
"Don't you see," we explained to our Nazi-Hostages, "These biscuits are Asian in origin, and you find them delicious and unique!"
They agreed, and vowed to embrace multiculturalism.
Hahahahaha. What the fuck was the point of all this?
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