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/\ \
\_| |
| _____ ________ |
| / \ ___.__. \_____ \____________ ____ ____ ____ |
| / \ / < | | / | \_ __ \__ \ / \ / ___\_/ __ \ |
| / Y \___ | / | \ | \// __ \| | \/ /_/ > ___/ |
| \____|__ / ____| \_______ /__| (____ /___| /\___ / \___ > |
| \/\/ \/ \/ \//_____/ \/ |
| _______ .__ .__ __ |
| \ \ |__| ____ | |___/ |_ _____ _____ _______ ____ |
| / | \| |/ ___\| | \ __\/ \\__ \\_ __ \_/ __ \ |
| / | \ / /_/ > Y \ | | Y Y \/ __ \| | \/\ ___/ |
| \____|__ /__\___ /|___| /__| |__|_| (____ /__| \___ > |
| \/ /_____/ \/ \/ \/ \/ |
| |
| Or: "How I thought I met Bob Newhart and can't eat oranges now." |
| Six/DLoC |
| _____________________________________________________________________|_
\_/_______________________________________________________________________/
It was 1986 or 1987, and I was working a shit job with Shutter Jockey/NSR
who ran the local ESI outlet BBS. If you don't know what that was, you
probably don't have any business reading this file.
Shutter Jockey worked off and on for a bunch of those little shit
companies that set up in hotel rooms and did family portrait contest scams.
They'd put sign-up boxes in a laundromat near a trailer park, hawking a
chance to “win” a free 16×20 color portrait of your family. You know the
ones, they all have names like "Benchfart" and "Fuckstone".
One week, we found ourselves sent to Crystal Lake, a rathole of a town in the
northwest suburbs of Chicago. There was a Holidome there, which was the
pimped out version of a Holiday Inn, with an indoor pool and a hot tub. It
was pretty nice by comparison to the usual shitbox hotels we'd get sent to,
as it didn't look like anyone had murdered a hooker in our rooms.
Crystal Lake just happened to be within driving distance of Pro Hack, and we
hadn't hung out in a while, so we'd arranged for him to meet us there. I'd
scored some superb acid and a bunch of weed, so it was going to be a party.
I'd also spent the day trying to feebly spit game at any women unfortunate
enough to get within earshot of me and struck out completely. It looked
like the night was going to be mostly about getting as fucked up as possible.
Pro Hack showed up as expected, but in the middle of the work day. If
you've never had a guy like this hanging around your work, you wouldn't
know, but it's not condusive to getting work done. He immediately constructed
this bizarre bong apparatus under one of the hotel beds and started blazing
every time there weren't customers in the room. Shutter Jockey was (still is)
a pretty straight-laced guy, so he was having none of it and shut it down.
This, of course, left Pro Hack free to wander the Holidome and somehow he
managed to talk some girls he met into coming to our party later on.
5:00 rolls around. I rinsed the stink of WTBs off of me, and meet Pro
Hack in the parking lot to unload his gear. As it turns out, he'd stopped
at a gas station in Des Moines at the same time as they were unloading
a beer truck. Always resourceful and not one to let an opportunity pass
him by, he parked on the other side of it, and while the driver was inside,
he fills his car from floor to ceiling with beer.
So now it's 6:00, we have acid, weed, a 6-foot bong. We ALSO have a bathtub
full of ice and beer. Unfortunately, said beer is fucking Milwaukee's Best,
which smells (and I assume tastes, though I haven't compared, maybe you
should?) just like dog piss. What's worse, the ice machine took quarters,
so I'd blown through about $10 to cool off bad beer.
The C64 is set up, we've pulled the next room's phone line through the wall,
and we're downloading warez. Man, we are in fucking Nerdvana. That's when
the girls showed up.
Now I may have mentioned that I have about as much game as Urkel, but that
probably had something to do with context. The last thing hairspray girls
in the 80s wanted anything to do with was computer guys. Naturally I start
talking about my C64 and how we're in a hacking group - Pro Hack's trying
to shut me down, but I'm nervous, so I just keep spouting this shit. To
their credit, the girls hung on for about half an hour while I rambled
nervously about assembly language, but then they'd had enough and bailed.
Pro Hack's pretty pissed at this point, but he cheered up when I brought
out the acid. I also had the world's shittiest fake ID, and I wasn't
drunk or high enough yet to want to drink Milwaukee's Best, so I figured
we could drop our acid and fuck off to the hotel bar. I was 17, and looked
12, but they let me in with the fakie.
We took a spot at the end of the bar. The place was smoky as fuck (people
still smoked indoors everywhere in the 80s), and full of uptight pricks
wearing suits and chicken-fried old hairspray hags. As it turned out,
there was this insurance convention in town and all the suit dicks and
hairspray hags were there for that. It was almost too much, listening to their
vapid conversations and braying laughter, but the beer was ok and the music
wasn't too bad, so we figured we'd tough it out.
About an hour went by before this guy sat down next to us who looked just like
Bob Newhart. I'm not sure if the real Bob Newhart is dead now or not, but
back in the day he was this guy on TV whose whole shtick was to look
uptight and straight laced.
Of course, it wasn't Bob Newhart, and the guy said he gets that sort
of thing all the time. He explained that he worked on some mainframe system
that prints out bills for insurance customers or something, I can't remember,
but it involved computers so that had us talking shop.
We talked about computers, how we'd struck out with those girls Pro Hack
had met, how we were there on a shoot, pretty much everything and anything,
Bob Newhart guy actually seemed ok for a suit dick.
I'm not sure what time it was, it seemed like we'd been there for a few
hours. The acid was really starting to kick in, and I was ready to go
drink our bathtub full of beer and have another go at the six-foot bong.
As we were getting up to leave, Bob Newhart guy says, "Hey, you boys want to
make some money?"
Immediately my warning alarms started going off (fool me once, shame on you,
etc...) and I replied "No way man, I like girls." Pro Hack concurred.
He threw his hands up and assured us, "No, nothing like that, everyone would
have their clothes on, no cocks involved. I'm no queer." (Note, this was the
80s, so people still got really wound up about that sort of thing)
So Pro Hack and I huddled up and decided that whatever freaky shit this dude
was up to, we should at least have a look. It seemed likely to give us
something to laugh about later while we were drinking bathtub beer.
He gives us his spare room key and says to give him about 30 minutes to
set up his stuff. We spent the next 30 minutes speculating on just what kind
of weird shit we were about to see, but we weren't even close.
Drunkenly, and really starting to trip now, we went up to this guy's room.
He let us in and immediately it's not a good scene. He was done up in this
weird French maid's outfit complete with stockings and garters and a blonde
wig. A dude who looks just like Bob Newhart dolled up in a French maid's
outfit is not what you want to see when you're peaking on acid.
As we re-iterated that we weren't about some buggery, he again assured us that
he intended nothing of the sort, and launched into what seemed like a really
long and pointless spiel about how dressing in women's clothes didn't make
him a homosexual (I should point out here that neither Pro Hack nor I cared
in the least whether someone was or wasn't a homosexual - whatever makes
people happy is their own business)
Eventually, he wound up his lecture by offering us $50 to stick around. I
figured it would be a good way to recoup my bar tab, and TBH, Pro Hack and I
suspected that maybe this guy really WAS Bob Newhart, and he was filming one of
those hidden camera shows, so — remaining right by the door — we agreed to
stay.
Bob Newhart guy rummaged in a large suitcase on the bed, and eventually comes
up with two giant bags of oranges. If you can believe it, this freaky
motherfucker wanted us to throw oranges at his ass from across the room while
he leaned over the bed dressed up like Fifi the maid.
Well, 50 bucks is 50 bucks.
Pro Hack and I spent the next 20 or 30 minutes winging oranges as the guy's
ass. After a while, we started to make some sport of it, seeing who could
hit a bulls-eye. My aim was pretty bad, but near the end it was starting to
improve. We were really pitching those oranges, too - a few of them split
open, dude really seemed to enjoy that bit. He'd groan really loud every
time one of them really smacked him.
After a while, he kind of air-humped the bed, and I guess finished
his business — thanks us, gives us the $50, and offers to let us take any
of the oranges that didn't bust. I'm pretty sure he was going to fuck
the ones that did, and they'd all been upside his ass, so I passed on that.
On the way back to our room, Pro Hack picked the lock on the pay ice machine,
got all my quarters back - and about $100 on top of that. We used that to
order a bunch of pizzas. We tried to explain the night's events to Shutter
Jockey, but he was completely over our antics and locked himself in the shoot
room.
After that, we proceeded to drink most of a bathtub full of horrible beer and
gorge on several pizzas to sate our acid munchies. I can't possibly stress
just how bad this beer was — I'm probably unfairly maligning dog piss by
comparing the two.
It was probably 1 or 2 in the morning, we were still tripping, high, drunk
as shit, and got the bright idea to wander around the hotel. I'm not sure
how, but Pro Hack ended up in the hot tub.
Hot tubs, cheap pizza, acid, and shit beer are not a good combination.
Before long Pro Hack was heaving his guts up in the hot tub - and the sheer
volume of vomit spewing out of him was epic. He looked like my 5th grade
science fair volcano.
He heaved and heaved and puked and puked, kept trying to get out of the hot
tub, but I wouldn't let him. For some reason, the idea of him filling the
hot tub with beer and pizza hurl seemed like the funniest thing in the world,
so instead of letting him out, I started cheering him on like he was a pro
puking athlete -at least until the smell hit me. Then I was puking in the
hot tub right alongside him — but between heaves, I was yelling ridiculous
shit like “Come on you slacker, I want to see some quality chunks!”
Eventually we both ran out of puke, but the hot tub looked like chowder.
Pro Hack jumped in the pool to wash it off, and we hoofed it back to the room.
As for the rest of the night, I'm really not sure. I blacked out some time
after I got back to the room, and woke up the next morning in the bathtub
full of ice. For a minute I thought someone had stolen my kidney, but it
was just a beer can poking me in the back.
I found Pro Hack passed out in the closet with one of the girls we'd met
earlier, so his night went better than mine I guess.
We packed up the gear from the shoot with what seemed like the worst
hangover I'd ever had, and on the way out who's in the hot tub but Bob
Newhart guy and three of the insurance ladies. I don't know how they
didn't smell the puke - I could smell it 20 feet away, and when we walked
past, you could see a film on the water, and the occasional piece of used
pizza topping.
Maybe it was the acid that imprinted this on my memory, but ever since, I
can't see a bag of oranges without laughing.
__________________________________________________________________________
/\ \
\_| That's all, folks! Be sure to pick up the latest DLoC text files, |
| available on our website and our BBS HQ. Coming soon, the story of |
| why Pro Hack and I are banned from an entire town in Iowa. |
| -Six/DLoC signing off... |
| The Darkside BBS: telnet://thedarkside.dnsalias.net:6969 |
| _____________________________________________________________________|_
\_/_______________________________________________________________________/
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