Alabama: Time to make you a man....
I just came back from Alabama. I was lucky enough to attend my buddy Harry's wedding. While there, I visited with some co-workers, and met up with this character.... Some people call him "Bob." But his real name is either "Flounder" or "The Bob." He's never really come clean with either...
Those of you who know me, know that I can be an unkind co-worker.
This was back in the days of when I lived with this guy Corey. Me, being the cheap bastard that I can be, I lived in Corey's walk-in closet. Every night, I would crawl into there with a sleeping bag, and fall asleep(or as I like to say, meditate with my eyes closed while making sound effects with my nose). Every morning, I would cheerfully call out "Corey, I'm coming out of the closet!"
When I met up with Bob this past weekend, he reminded me that I used to call Corey "Chocolate Thunder."
Me and Chocolate Thunder were pretty much the bachelor's of our project. Well, there were other bachelor's, but they were much older than the rest of us. They had gotten that old person's smell too, like a tube of Ben Gay that's been left out in the sun too long. (Ok, maybe not, but I just wanted to write that anyway. I'll sacrifice truthiness for my ramblification, eight days a week.) Me and old ChocoThunder would go to the two bars in Montgomery and look for trouble.
We never found any.
And then Flounder joined the project. Within a couple hours of meeting him, I had planned it. Me and ThunderPuffs were gonna make Flounder into a man. In other words, take him to the nudie bar.
The Bob maintains to this day that he's been to the ballet before. Y'know, where people go to watch ballerinas dance. ("Ballet", and "ballerina" copyright Ted Spencer, 2001).
But I don't believe him. Not because he's untrustworthy, but because I really want to go to the strip club.
There aren't any good strip clubs in Alabama. So says everyone we work with. But apparently, there are some pretty "good" or "bad" or "whatever" places across the border in Georgia. Coincidentally, right by the Army base over there.
How weird is that?
So I convince CocoaCloud that it is our responsibility and our duty as The Bob's co-workers, friends and significant Arnaud's partners to make him a man. On a Sunday afternoon, me, Chocolate Thunder and The Bob jump into ChocoThunder's SUV, complete with Texas license plates, and start driving towards Georgia....
.
.
.
It takes about 2 hours to get across the border. Once across, we stop at a gas station and ask for directions.
Me: Do you guys know where the strip clubs are?
Gas Station Dude: Just about 1/4 mile up the street.
Me: Sweet! Can I get some singles....
We drive down the street for a mile. We're driving SLOWLY, and we've got like 8 pairs of eyes looking every which way for the Budie Nar.... After driving a while, we hit another gas station.
Me: Do you guys know where the strip clubs are?
Gas Station Dude: Just back up that way for 1/2 mile.
Me: Sweet!
So, we go back the way we had just come from. Driving even MORE slowly, and looking everywhere for huge neon signs that say "Come here for SIN!" Nothing, nada, zip....
We go back to the first gas station.
Me: Are you sure there are strip clubs down there?
Gas Station Dude: Yep, just a 1/4 mile down the road....
Me: Sweet?
We drive down the road. All the way to another gas station. I get out, and for the sake of my wrists(and my carpal tunnel prevention program), I won't repeat the scintillating conversation that occurred there. I think you can guess how it went....
Apparently, these strip clubs never existed. It was a hoax. SOme elaborate sort of joke where everyone in Georgia decided to screw with three hormonal guys, lost in the backlands of Appalachia, desperately trying to avoid banjoes....
Or that maybe in the South, when they say everything closes on Sunday, they mean EVERYTHING closes on Sunday.
Fuckers. We'll make you a man someday, Bob. Some. Day.
Those of you who know me, know that I can be an unkind co-worker.
This was back in the days of when I lived with this guy Corey. Me, being the cheap bastard that I can be, I lived in Corey's walk-in closet. Every night, I would crawl into there with a sleeping bag, and fall asleep(or as I like to say, meditate with my eyes closed while making sound effects with my nose). Every morning, I would cheerfully call out "Corey, I'm coming out of the closet!"
When I met up with Bob this past weekend, he reminded me that I used to call Corey "Chocolate Thunder."
Me and Chocolate Thunder were pretty much the bachelor's of our project. Well, there were other bachelor's, but they were much older than the rest of us. They had gotten that old person's smell too, like a tube of Ben Gay that's been left out in the sun too long. (Ok, maybe not, but I just wanted to write that anyway. I'll sacrifice truthiness for my ramblification, eight days a week.) Me and old ChocoThunder would go to the two bars in Montgomery and look for trouble.
We never found any.
And then Flounder joined the project. Within a couple hours of meeting him, I had planned it. Me and ThunderPuffs were gonna make Flounder into a man. In other words, take him to the nudie bar.
The Bob maintains to this day that he's been to the ballet before. Y'know, where people go to watch ballerinas dance. ("Ballet", and "ballerina" copyright Ted Spencer, 2001).
But I don't believe him. Not because he's untrustworthy, but because I really want to go to the strip club.
There aren't any good strip clubs in Alabama. So says everyone we work with. But apparently, there are some pretty "good" or "bad" or "whatever" places across the border in Georgia. Coincidentally, right by the Army base over there.
How weird is that?
So I convince CocoaCloud that it is our responsibility and our duty as The Bob's co-workers, friends and significant Arnaud's partners to make him a man. On a Sunday afternoon, me, Chocolate Thunder and The Bob jump into ChocoThunder's SUV, complete with Texas license plates, and start driving towards Georgia....
.
.
.
It takes about 2 hours to get across the border. Once across, we stop at a gas station and ask for directions.
Me: Do you guys know where the strip clubs are?
Gas Station Dude: Just about 1/4 mile up the street.
Me: Sweet! Can I get some singles....
We drive down the street for a mile. We're driving SLOWLY, and we've got like 8 pairs of eyes looking every which way for the Budie Nar.... After driving a while, we hit another gas station.
Me: Do you guys know where the strip clubs are?
Gas Station Dude: Just back up that way for 1/2 mile.
Me: Sweet!
So, we go back the way we had just come from. Driving even MORE slowly, and looking everywhere for huge neon signs that say "Come here for SIN!" Nothing, nada, zip....
We go back to the first gas station.
Me: Are you sure there are strip clubs down there?
Gas Station Dude: Yep, just a 1/4 mile down the road....
Me: Sweet?
We drive down the road. All the way to another gas station. I get out, and for the sake of my wrists(and my carpal tunnel prevention program), I won't repeat the scintillating conversation that occurred there. I think you can guess how it went....
Apparently, these strip clubs never existed. It was a hoax. SOme elaborate sort of joke where everyone in Georgia decided to screw with three hormonal guys, lost in the backlands of Appalachia, desperately trying to avoid banjoes....
Or that maybe in the South, when they say everything closes on Sunday, they mean EVERYTHING closes on Sunday.
Fuckers. We'll make you a man someday, Bob. Some. Day.