This story was posted on Google+ in response to my wishing Jim a happy 207th birthday and requesting that he “never tell anyone about that night in New Orleans. You know the one.”
Thank you for the kind words, Christy, but I’m sorry, the New Orleans story should, nay, MUST be told. Gather ‘round, kids and let me tell you the story…
The year was 2011. Justin Beiber was moistening the labia of millions of prepubecent girls. A young African American man named Barack Obama was hoping for a second term in the white house, Google+ was rapidly becoming the social network of choice for nerdy hot chicks, and a bunch of social outcasts from a Comedy message forum decided to head to New Orleans for a weekend of partying, drinking, hedonism, debauchery, and reading thesaui.
It was Saturday night, if I recall. I was still nursing a hangover from the night before and I just wanted to die. I was feeling sorry for myself, trying to crawl into a glass of cheap scotch, when I looked up and saw her sauntering into the room. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in my life. Tall and thin and with an ass like you read about. Her long hair flowed from side to side as she walked towards me and her eyes… her eyes were the kind that could make any man confess to crimes not yet committed. She smelled of sex, and I knew she’d let me do anything at all I wanted to her. Anything at all. I seriously mean anything. Even ass stuff. I’ve always wanted to try ass stuff.
She approached me and leaned over and looked me directly in the eye. This was no mere ‘come hither’ look. This wasn’t even a ‘I must have you now look’ or a ‘take me’ look or ‘let’s get it on’ look. No, this was a look that said ‘please insert your penis into my vagina.’ In addition to being beautiful she also had Aspergers, I think. Anyway, my point was this woman was a knockout and she wanted me.
But she was blocking my view of Christy so I told her to get the fuck off my table before I called the manager. She obliged and went off to the kitchen to count toothpicks or something. I had no further contact with her.
It was then that Christy suggested we head to a club. Not just any club, but her favorite club. It was located down on the docks and it was a rough place – the seediest dive on the wharf. Populated with every reject and cutthroat from Bombay to Calcutta. It was worse than Detroit.
But they got my ‘Airplane!’ references, so I knew they were good people.
Unfortunately, as we walked into the club my arm brushed a guy with a tattoo of a tattooed neck on his face. He turned to me and asked me what the fuck my problem was. I explained to him that my problem was the fuck that the foyer of the club was rather narrow and I am somewhat of a klutz, especially in dark places like this club, and that I would the fuck attempt to be more careful the fuck next time. He seemed satisfied with that explanation and wished me a good night.
His girlfriend, however, was not going to let me off that easy.
There are certain sounds that are unmistakable, sounds that can send chills down a man’s spine no matter what. The cock of a shotgun, the cry of a baby, my mom’s voice on the other end of the phone, that sort of thing. But the flick of a switchblade is worse than all of them. Ok, maybe not my mom’s voice, but it’s pretty damn close. Anyway, I heard that noise and turned around to find myself staring at the shine on an eight inch blade. I was transfixed. It captivated me, my whole world was this blade and I couldn’t stop looking at it.
I have ADD, so shiny things do that to me.
Where the hell was I? I totally lost my train of thought just now. Hey, did you guys see that episode of Community the other night where Abed was…
Oh yeah! The story of that thing with Christy. Switchblade. Ok, yeah. Let me continue…
So anyway, I’m staring at this blade, not realizing it’s being thrust towards me, when out of nowhere I see this black blur. Before I know it this woman’s heart is hanging from a ceiling fan, spurting blood on the walls as it swings around, like some sort of grotesque spin art, something you’d see at an art fair in a Montessori school or something.
That black blur? Christy.
Christy is a ninja, you see.
Not just any ninja, but the most bad-ass ninja this side of the Mississippi. Not that there are many ninjas this side of the Mississippi, or really on the other side of the Mississippi, but if there were more than, say, one, she’d be the most bad-ass of them all.
So yeah, Christy tore this woman’s heart out right in front of me. It was pretty gnarly.
Long story short, Christy and I sat down and had a couple beers then both retired back in our hotel rooms and then had breakfast the next morning and chatted like two pals. There was no sexual awkwardness or anything because we are two mature adults with a strong sense of mutual respect between us.
Also, at breakfast I noticed Christy still had the same spinach between her teeth that she had the day before. I did mention the spinach, didn’t I? What? I didn’t? God dammit that was the whole point of the story and the reason she didn’t want me to tell it. Dammit, I always screw that part of it up. Stupid ADD.
OR IS IT?
Yeah, it is.