Caught in a Panic
…brought to you by Redd’s Apple Ale, the preferred beverage of folks who just got hit in the head with a piece of fruit. Actually, I have Strawberry at the moment, but I don’t like it quite as well. I don’t often drink, but when I do, I usually post, so it seems like I do it a lot. Drink, I mean.
First off, welcome to Nick & Sam’s ridealong of last night, if you found your way here. I was told you were surprised to find I have a blog (why surprising? it’s not exactly dangerous, right? RIGHT?), and that you thought I was funny. I wouldn’t have thought I was, since I was mostly scolding Nick for dropping my money on the floor. OK, I guess seeing such a beast cowering before me was amusing. Point taken.
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
I remembered what I forgot to say last night, but luckily, Sam can add to it. We had a run involving a female who was picking up rocks thinking they were Xanax (Zanax? Does it matter, since it’s a made-up word anyway?). What I did not know was how this woman thought you dosed yourself with Xanax. Remember my “Place pill in mouth” instructions from last night? Well, this woman placed her supposed Xanax (which was actually rocks, you’ll remember) in–well, in what an old advertisement once referred to as “the most girl part of you.” (That may actually be the only girl part of me, but I digress.) She was also under the impression that they would explode if they fell out of her. Some people lead exciting lives.
I WON’T TAKE YOUR DIRTY MONEY. OH, WAIT, I ALREADY DID.
I discovered, amongst the various dollar bills Nick pelted me with, one which had written on it, “I WANT F*CKED. LOVE, MICKAY” followed by a phone number, which I am grievously tempted to call. But I don’t f*ck anyone who can’t construct a simple sentence.
SPEAKING OF RIDEALONGS
I try to avoid them. But today I encountered the comedy team of Nick & Sam at Thornton’s, along with the even-shorter-than-Sam Hollie S. In spite of fondling his taser longingly when I came in, Nick was surprisingly tame. He emptied all his pockets for my inspection, and even ate a beast treat FROM HOLLIE’S HAND, although he could not be prevented from eating spilled candy off the floor. He begged me to allow them to give me a ride home (I’m telling this story, Nick, and if you don’t like it, start your own blog), so I graciously accepted. Just as I was stepping into the car, they got a run–accident with injuries. I hastily pulled my leg back out of the car, congratulating myself on my narrow escape, and they started to speed off. But they didn’t get far before pulling back into the lot. “We got a disregard,” they explained. It sounded like a trap, but I got back in the car anyway. We pulled around the block, but it was rush hour, so whatta ya know, they got called again. Another accident with injuries. “%$#@!” I said, having forgotten my other vocabulary words. “Would you like to be let out?” Nick drawled. “Yes, I would.” I started scrabbling frantically for the door handle, forgetting that police cars don’t have door handles on the inside in back, because I’ve only been doing this job since, what, 1986. “You have to wait until Sam lets you out,” Nick explained, but, since I had not taken any Xanax, I was not good at accepting direction. But I was indeed released, and they sped off, sirens blazing. The End.