DESERT SNOW CH 1300 MEN ABOUT TOWN

Remember what happened last night? Good. Now tell the world.

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The Urbane Spaceman
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DESERT SNOW CH 1300 MEN ABOUT TOWN

Post by The Urbane Spaceman »

We were ghosts in that evening between the dying of the light, and the brightening of the darkness.



Joey said, “Ya know, there, Urb, you don’t stink so much anymore.”

I said, “Joseph, you still smell like a French whore. Sup with that? Why?”


He said, “My balls sing like ravens when they are squeaky clean.”

Huh. Didn’t know that. He must have buffed his balls in the shower.


We stepped out into the dry desert air in our tuxedos.


*Ahem*


Here, the word tuxedos is in reference to leather jackets that smell like bad things. You have to own that smell. You can’t make it up in a laboratory, nor a lavatory. It’s kinda real.



CHUG



The taxi cab pulled up to the curb, lit by the glistening gems of streetlamp promises and rude lawn sprinklers. We two gentlemen found our land legs. The whole world awaited us. It would be a wide, weird evening, and morning did not hold a chance against us.



We climbed aboard and showed the pilot our map. We began form the X on the chart, and we would return with an empty hold, and pockets laden with gold. Islands of dive bars, seedy motels, and fancy night clubs awaited us.



NOSNOW!NOWSNOW!NOSNOW!NOWSNOW!NOSNOW!NOWSNOW!NOSNOW!NOWSNOW!NOSNOW!NOWSNOW!NOSNOW!NOWSNOW!NOSNOW!NOWSNOW!NOSNOW!NOWSNOW!NOOOOO!



Evidently, Joey knew his way around that tawdry giant in the desert, that megalopolis we knew and hated as Fuckno. He was the Tawdry Lion. I saw a new side to this little man. Of course, he was the sort of man who danced on floor in a way that afforded him kisses form them ladies and also form the ones who were not ladies.


He loved all attention. He was attenuated to adoration.


Me? I hung back in the shadows to take care of business. I am a shadowy figure. Borderland. Metisage. Meti. Half white, half red. I stand in two canoes. Never do this, unless you are me.



“Psssst. C’mere. You like to ski?”

“Been known to.”




“Tell me what you think.”

“How much?”




“The first one is free.”

“Oh. Well then, fuck yes.”



Of course, we did not do this everyone. Just the big dogs. Never fuck with puppies. They only lick your face.



Deal as much as you can, then get the fuck out, leaving them wanting more, then on to the next place.



*AHEM*



We ended up at the last place on Earth that we should ever be. Silver Dollar Saloon on Shields Avenue, below the airport. This was the place where I got my first job. My first working job, you dirty minded Drunkard. Jeez.


Everything was different since I quite that shitty job then I was fifteen years old, trying to save money for a decent ten speed bicycle. It was a Raleigh, and it was blue. Thin tires, aluminum hubs, that sort of thing. Still, it weighed twenty pounds. Hey, it was the 80’s. Gimme a break.


We did not touch our product throughout the night. Never do your profits. Never. Of course, we had sampled each mix from the mirror before dumping each 16th oz into them paper envelopes that Joey made form pron magazines. We had to make certain that our product was good. This is called Quality Assurance.

It also made us want more.


It took a lot of will power to sell and not intake. A hell of a lot of will power. Especially when folks came running back from the corner tables in each dance club, or the far off pool table in a dimly lit smoky hall, or a toilet in a dive bar-

…or a shitty place like a biker bar where I once worked in the morning, cleaning up broken teeth and blood, semen and used condoms, before school.



The owner came over to us and said, “Urb. What the fuck are you doing back here in my house? You could get killed here doing this. There are others around you who are selling.”

I said, “I’m saving up for a new bike.”


He leaned his head back and he roared with delight. He settled down and blew a snot rocket form his nose onto the nearby table. He said, “Got any more?”

Of course we did. Only a little more to sell, and then we would get the fuck out and head back to our place.



And then, someone had a word to say to us.




He was very large. Joey is still a little lion man, and to this day we communicate, across the land, from ocean to ocean. Me? I am big, not very large. We faced this very large man. I think that there is a term for it in Hipsanica, but I am not sure how to say it.


“Hey, S.A., what the fuck you think you doing chicas?”


Joey stepped up, and he looked right into that large man’s face. Of course, he looked up two feet above his own noggin, into the eyes of this new enemy. That is why he was (and still is) the little Lion Man.

He said, “What's this?”




Very Large said, “You stepping on my shoes you two cerditos.”

Joey said, “You must have little toes, because I have big feet.”



Very Large chuckled. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Escucha! This tiny dude wants to punch my balls! Come check this shit out!”


Whoever he was yelling at did not pay attention, because when Joey punched him in the balls, the huge dude doubled over and fell onto the floor that was covered with piss and vomit and lost watches and he rolled around in pain in that mess.

That was when we got the fuck out of there.

Good idea.


Good idea for a PROSIT! right about now.





.

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oldsmartskunk
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Re: DESERT SNOW CH 1300 MEN ABOUT TOWN

Post by oldsmartskunk »

There is no better way to end a great story than a cock punch. Good ol' sneaky genital slap. Roarrr

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Dear Booze
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Re: DESERT SNOW CH 1300 MEN ABOUT TOWN

Post by Dear Booze »

oldsmartskunk wrote:There is no better way to end a great story than a cock punch. Good ol' sneaky genital slap. Roarrr
Cock Punch. I believe that's the name of a drink down at the Rusty Trombone Lounge.
DRINK!

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mistah willies
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Re: DESERT SNOW CH 1300 MEN ABOUT TOWN

Post by mistah willies »

Dear Booze wrote:
Mon Aug 10, 2015 11:19 am
oldsmartskunk wrote:There is no better way to end a great story than a cock punch. Good ol' sneaky genital slap. Roarrr
Cock Punch. I believe that's the name of a drink down at the Rusty Trombone Lounge.
Soon, I can do something like this.

But in a different way.

There are some really good explorers, musicians, writers, engineers, scientists, detectives, artists, scholars, esquires, rockers, and otherwise intelligent people on this gawdayam forum, and above all, Modem Drunkards.

Me? I just work well with my hands. I hail form Maine.

Make the most of this marvelous opportunity to be here you summina bastidges.

DRINK!


.

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oettinger
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Re: DESERT SNOW CH 1300 MEN ABOUT TOWN

Post by oettinger »

Put some pressure on that balls
Drink!
Image
Image

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mistah willies
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Re: DESERT SNOW CH 1300 MEN ABOUT TOWN

Post by mistah willies »

oettinger wrote:
Sat Jan 12, 2019 1:58 pm
Put some pressure on that balls
That's very cool that you brought me back to the good times, my friend.

Yup.

Prosit indeed.

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