2005-11-28 - 9:54 p.m.

This a short tale, but it needs telling. It involved neosporin and it involved pie. And it goes like this:

Last Monday, almost exactly a week ago to the hour, as I write this, it was the eve of my trip to New York and after dropping my clothes and various funamunches off at my mom's in Sanbornton, I continued on to Bristol to drop off comic goodness for Beth and Ryan. Much like the hordes of other zombified friends that I've got hooked on comics like so much black tar heroin, Beth and Ryan have jumped right into the printed addiction that is comics. Specifically Y, Fables and Ex Machina. With a Superfuckers thrown in for good measure. Yes, yes, I hear what you're all saying. "What about Runaways?" I know. Runaways one day. I've already overloaded them as it is. Besides, you'd all agree Runaways isn't a good first book to read. It's a good 2nd or 3rd. And yes, Hayley and Aly, I know Ex Machina has too many words and it makes your eyeballs swim, but this isn't about you, it's about me. And my trip to Bristol. So I arrive in Bristol with bags full of comic fun. Beth greets me by running out, in the dark, to my jeep. This isn't entirely unlike how her and Ryan bid me adieu at the beginning of the month - when I was leaving the house, overtired and in a rainstorm, by jumping out from some bushes and towards my car . . . IN THE STREET . . . WHILE I WAS DRIVING. Aren't they precious? So Beth led me into the house this time not by the front door, but like so much chattel through the bakery entrance.

I can't begin to describe what the bakery room was like. But I shall still try. The last time I had been in the store room next to the bakery it was cold, dark and mostly barren. Save some furniture and a 7-Up cold storage unit. The 7-Up unit was still there. Everything else was different. It was warm, brightly lit, and the smell . . . the smell. It was like all the Smucker's Preserves puked in my mouth. And then I digested it. And then I puked it up. And you know when you puke it kind of burns your nose, and you can kind of do that weird smell/taste thing in your nose and it makes you either really relish having Italian before you got drunk, or really regret having Chinese before you got drunk, so my nose was smell/tasting the metaphorical Smucker's Preserves that had been puked down my throat, digested, and puked back up, only to burn my nose with it's sweet, sweet, jambled up smell/taste. Are we clear? If we're not, let me say this: It smelled so fucking good. Like a million pies all cooling at once. Maybe that's a more pleasant metaphor? Except it's NOT a metaphor, it's the TRUTH. There was roughly a million pies cooling at once. A million blueberry, apple, cherry, pumpkin fillings, quivering in their crisp crusts, begging to be devoured! Don't believe me?

Now see, that's a million, jillion, jajillion, FUCKLOAD of pies. Don't mind Beth and Ryan meandering & skulking their way amongst the pies. They know they are mere peons to the mighty power of the pies. Mmmmmmmmm. Pie.

Hmmmm, well. Yes. I guess that covers the pie portion of our tale. Now for the neosporin. Perhaps you've heard tale of Beth and Ryan's little bundle of feline joy named Sweeney. If not, here's the jist: Crazy ass cat who used to be borderline feral/wolverine-esque pre-neuterization and when living in Manch. Then got neutered and moved to Bristol with Mom (Beth) and Dad (Ryan). Became an outside cat and general peace and tranquility set in. Kind of. So fast forward to last week and Sweeney is outside for most of the evening that I'm there. And then, my heart aching for the laid up, drugged up, fucked up Kenichi that I left lamely at home, I went downstairs and let Sweeney in. In! To the warm, wafting intoxication of pie and away from the harsh and bitter winds of Newfound Lake. He thanked me in the regular feline way. He looked at me briefly and then trotted away from me. But I figured he was at least happy that I let him in to the Pie Wonderland. I figured wrong. Dead wrong. Or at least Seriously Mamed Wrong. A few minutes later I went back upstairs, all puffed up with my pride that Sweeney and I were finally life long friends. When I got up there, I noticed that he was sitting in the computer room with his face towards the wall and back towards the room that we were all sitting in. For the record, this is cat behavior for don't come anywhere the fuck near me. Unfortunately, Kenichi's most learned signal is "if his tail is wagging that means he's *extra* dumb", so I wasn't familiar with this one. So I picked up Sweeney and brought him into the main room to proudly show Beth and Ryan how copacetic things were betwixt Sween and me. And that's when it all went horribly wrong. I must have zigged when I should have zagged, because the next thing I know, in the fraction of a froggy second, Sweeney hissed/reared back/swiped me across the side of the head, by my ear, and my recently (and proudly) cultivated scraggily sideburns. I dropped him. Obviously. He ran. Beth yelled at him. I swore. Ryan express shock. I swore some more. Beth looked for Sweeney. I swore even more. And that was what we thought was that. We sat down to watch some tv. About ten minutes later, I thought the place where Sweeney scratched me seemed burny. Or itchy. Or burnitchy. But I ignored it. Since I'm a stupid guy and that's what stupid guy's do. And then I got up to pee. Because that's what stupid guys with small bladders do. And that's when I looked in the mirror. And saw the raging river of blood slowly trickling down my face. As much as a "raging river" can "slowly trickle". I showed my less than Universal Precautions to Beth and Ryan, to which Beth, ever the School Nurse in training screamed, "GET THE NEOSPORIN!" Well, first I think she suggested Nix. But that's lice shampoo, so I think she was confused. After I washed the blood off, Beth applied the neosporin. It should come as zero surprise to any of the Wallakers girls that I was the biggest possible baby during this as possible. Wincing and moaning over the "stinging". Even though I don't recall it actually stinging. Jack Bristow would be so ashamed of me. He fishes bullets out of his rib cage as a HOBBY! But yeah, I left Bristol pretty late, didn't get back to my mom's until 1 in the morning, and then got up at 4 to leave for New York. I wasn't tired. At all. Except I was. A lot.

Before the bloodshed. Oh look, everyone's a happy frappy family. And I'm an idiot for trusting the first white cat since Snowball McLaughlin wouldn't be a Satanic Missionary

Oh the humanity. The humanity! Mostly I'm refering to those monstrously unkempt sideburns!! I hope nothing happens to them in our next chapter! Hint: Something happens!

So that is my tale of woe. It should make you think twice before you ever, EVER go to Bristol. A million pies or not. It makes you appreciate nice, sweet, dumb, chipmunk catching cats like Kannerson.

I would prefer that you all remember Chef Chen like this. Naked in his idiocy in the wild. Trying to catch a chipmunk and a leaf at the same time. That's my boy.

And definitely, don't remember him like this! I'm warning you, don't click that link unless you want to lose your lunch, gnash your teeth, bleed out your eyes, eat your feet, etc. and whatever else you would do after seeing a Kenichi at his lowest ebb.

So tune in to our next installment, to follow the continuing adventures of my sideburns, the day the balloons ruled the planet, and all sorts of big applery fun!

It's been real,

Delexis Orbanion

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