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The Sherbet Enigma

2007-01-04 - 8:55 p.m.

Current Multiplier Most En Vouge: Seven (7)

Listening To: Beck, Fiery Furnaces, Velvet Underground, David Byrne

Quote:"Man, I really put a hurtin' on the butter." - Jamie, to all, about the tri-flavored popcorn tin




As in - ouch. But more like Ouch. Or even Ouch.

I am in some pain. But you knew that already, right? Everything was going fine. There I was sitting in the chair at the oral surgeon. Inhaling into my nostrils the sweet, sweet strawberry scented/flavored nitrous oxide. [No relation to the CTR villain of the same name. As. far. as. I. know?] And then they had to go and ruin it by slicing and dicing up my head and tugging and cracking and whipsnaping (Indy?!) wisdom toothery from my mouth. It seemed rather fuzzy and pleasing at the time. But now? It's just the (expected) bloody, soggy, no eaty, no talky, migrainy, broken jawy, Mark Loretta to the Astrosy son of a bitch. And that's the tooth!! (Get it? Instead of truth? I said tooth! Because my tooth is in current events! Much like Imelda Marcos! Especially if this was 1989! Or '90. Or around there. I don't feel like googling Imelda Marcos. Did you know David Byrne and Fatboy Slim are writing a musical about Imelda Marcos. Obviously? Anyway, I'll meet you outside of this parenthetical in 10 seconds.)

Hi. You might remember 10 seconds ago when I told you I'd meet you outside that parenthetical. Jamie brought me to the Oral Surgeon this afternoon and Big Nick picked me up. Sifl and Olly would definitely qualify them as "Rock and Roll Friends". They'd certainly check each other's books back in. Does anyone other than me get that joke? Anyone? Please raise your hand if you do. Anyway, Nick was highly disruptive at the Oral Surgeon's office. Even if I was the only one who realized it. As I was waiting in the inner lobby to be finally released back in to the wild, freshly shorn neck w/ tracking device clipped to my ear, Nick is pressing himself up against the secretary's window (who was at lunch) and lifting his shirt up to press his (pierced) nipple against it and rubbing it on the window. Look, I was already pumped full of nitrous oxide. I didn't NEED reasons to laugh - nor did I particularly want any, since my mouth was full of more blood than a house full of sorority sisters. But that didn't stop him. No one saw him but me - but don't think that won't stop me from rubbing my nipples on the window of his workplace next time I get a chance. Oh wait . . . bad idea. Well, then I'll go to his house and do it. Oh wait . . . worse idea. Dammit! He's covered all his bases! Oh well.

After Nick picked me up we stopped to get my narcotic prescription filled (since I haven't had any narcotics since . . . oh . . . December 23rd. Oh. Wait. That's the last time I didn't have any narcotics. Remember that video game NARC?? And the bad guys were druggie homeless dudes who threw hypodermic needles at your thighs?? And when you killed them, they'd drop bags of cocaine - which you picked up so you could put them "in evidence lock up" (yeah right). And Mr. Big was the bad guy. And was there a giant head on some tank treads? Wait - now I'm mixing in that Smash TV. Another game, like NARC, that didn't translate well from arcade to the NES. Except NARC had a message from Nancy Reagan in the beginning about Just Saying No To Drugs.

God, I'm on a regular Nancy Reagan jag aren't I? Damn, that psychic was right when she cryptically told me, "You're probably gonna go on a Nancy Reagan jag." CREEEEEEEEEEEPY!!!

My face hurts. And it's killing you. I know. I know because it's killing you so bad that it's killing me back. I want to go to Montreal? Who's with me?? Or maybe I want to go to San Diego. Who's with me?? Oh wait - Brazil!! Who's with me?? Japan would be nice. Who's with me?? Fine. I'll settle for the Lee Traffic Circle. But this is the last time. The LAST time.

When I was coming out of the nitrous - well, the real strong stuff, and I was laying there in the chair - I had this weird epiphany, that seemed to come out of nowhere. It was linking into a phone conversation from days ago. And an answer to a question I never even asked came up. And just sat there in my mind's eye so plainly and obviously that it's like I knew it all along. I'm not sharing it with you papaya-scented jackals. But maybe you'll find out what it was in issue #60. If BKV is gonna make us wait to find out what Yorick's was back in Colorado then you all have to wait for mine too. (Hey, don't grumble! At least mind didn't come at the hands of a leather-clad, topless, dominatrix who was trying to both drown me AND have sex with me. So there. Waitaminute . . .)

Oh yeah, so I got my prescription filled. Man, I'm all scattered-a-munches. I wonder why? And we went to the grocery store after so I could get applesauce, baby food, pudding, food made of babies, jello, placenta casserole, and sherbert. I got the sherbet that is in the big plastic see-through container that has three flavors (lime, orange, raspberry) and you always eat a bunch and fall in love and then you forget about it and find it in the back of your freezer with some Easter chocolate bunnies, wedding cake, and the deed to your house 10 years later. Raspberry is my least favorite in the world of Tri-Flavored Sherbet. And yet there is almost always a 45 / 35 / 20 split with raspberry, orange, lime respectively. And I don't care for that. So I made Nick stand there while I practically crawled in the fucking ice cream freezer, still out of my gourd, demanding (in various moans and groans - which were the only kind of noises I could - and still can - make) that I get a sherbert with the flavors having more equal representation. I found one that was about 37 / 32 / 31. Good enough. Until next time Sherbet. Until next time.


It's been real,

McKennas Cole

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