I got an e-mail from my friend Trep...
"Hey man, I'm passing through your area on Sunday- Lets do dinner or something."
Well, haven't seen Trep in over a year because of disparities in our travel and work schedules. I missed seeing him by one day back in July; He was sliding into home as I was on the seaplane heading out, and prior to that is was like... July of 2005?
So aside from buying pornographic action figures and WWF memorabilia for him and leaving them in his quarters (where I stayed while he was TDY elsewhere) we've been chatting via e-mail.
Little Red Riding Hood?So, when the opportunity to sit and shoot (heh) the breeze for a while arises, the occasion is not to be wasted.
After a few phone calls and some minor planning, Sunday afternoon found us in a local (Jacksonville) sports bar, telling war stories and catching up on the Coconut Telegraph- island news, gossip on our friends and those not-so-friendsome, discussions of ballistics and edged-weapon offensive techniques...you know, fun stuff.
As we were drinking with the Captain, (and you know the Captain always urges one to "Drink Responsibly, Captain's Orders! wink wink") things were deteriorating rapidly...
Is there a little Captain in you?Conversation went from a
discussion of small arms and bladed weapons to takedown techniques and demonstrations (aided by a oh-so-willing waitress in a cheerleader outfit), to an impromptu display of WWF wrestling moves, including one particularly impressive coreography involving two pool cues, an orange traffic cone, a dozen Buffalo wings and a garden hose, performed barefoot and wearing a waitress's thong panties as an eyepatch that was a real crowd favorite.
For such a big guy, Trep is suprisingly graceful...
...And not unlike last week in Germany, where a couple of us fell into a lens grinding machine in the eyeglass factory, we were making a specatcle of ourselves at the bar.
It seemed like a good idea at the time, (and how many times have I said that whilst sitting in a holding cell or in front of a judge?!) that we should endeavor to test the first-responder time for the Jacksonville Sheriffs Office...
Good idea? Yeah...No, not so much.
And try as we might, all efforts at getting a call into the JSO were naught... Trep did a body shot of tequila off a somewhat recalcitrant waitress...
(Initially she was very indignant, but it seemed like her sense of injured decorum was a bit feigned, since she later clandestinely passed Trep her phone number scribbled on a napkin...)
Wanting to go him one better, I pulled the infamous "Double Offensive": I picked out a couple that was watching the Houston game, a guy almost big as I am with a huge walrus moustache that looked he might have played for the Houston Texans at one time; Ms. Moustache was, let's say, overly well endowed, and I'll have to give her credit- at least all of her (exposed) tattoos were spelled correctly...
"Hey Moustache!... Hold my drink while I do a shot out of your daughter's cleavage." I said, handing off my beverage to the amazed ex-linebacker. Trep watched for the bartender to make a move for the phone or the Moustache to pull out a weapon.
Alas, it was not to be... The bartender poured a double shot of Dirty Sanchez tequila and Ms. Moustache willingly, nay,
eagerly nestled the shot glass in her decolletage. (For the benefit of our Constant Readers in North Florida, that'd be between her boobs.)
In a series of graceless movements, I snorted a line of salt up one nostril, squeezed the juice of a half a lime into my left eye and slurped the tequila, most of it soaking my beard and moustache and Ms. Moustache's tank top.
Unfortunately, it did not have the desired effect of a barroom brawl and/or a visit from Jacksonville's Finest. The Moustache cheered the effort then ordered another round of tequila for everyone in earshot in celebration (of what, I have no idea), and one of the Moustache's compatriots prattled off unintelligibly for a few moments, waving a cocktail napkin in one hand and a empty martini glass in the other, gesturing at Ms. Moustache and then me...
As he finished I got the impression we were either married, divorced, or we had been ordained clergy in Great Greasy Gonads Church and Pediatric Hospital...
I never found out exactly what kind of degree had been conferred, as the Bishop quickly passed out and slipped into a coma.
Trep looked at me through eyes so bloodshot they looked like two baseballs made from lean bacon...
"Lissen, Big Guy... Nex time the Saints score a touchdown" he said, indicating the screen behind the bar "I'm going to pull one of my signature show stoppers- if this doesn't rate a call to 911, nothing does."
As the score changed on the screen in the NOLA/Philly game, Trep up-ended his drink, then reached over the bar and took the bottle of Captian Morgan out of the well, splashed a little in his hand then dabbed the alcohol behind each ear, like he was using Eau de Ruhm...
"Here goes nothin'..."
I stepped back from the bar, knowing it wasn't going to be pretty- The bartender was finally dialing the phone.
Trep stood atop the bar in a lime green speedo and a t-shirt reading "Baaaaa means Noooo!", a Cuban cigar in one hand, the bottle of Captain Morgan in the other annointing the crowd; he was reciting "Beowulf", in old English of course, as he urinated on the collective heads of the Moustache and his compadres... Trep was juggling 3 billiard balls as he finished singing the last stanza of the Saga; On the closing notes, he sailed the balls over his shoulder into the mirror on the bar-back, shattering the glass...
The crowd, including the management and the wait staff cheered and requested an encore.
(With one waiter exhorting him to "Take it off, take it ALL off, Big Boy!")
The bartender was not calling 911... He was just ordering up another case of Captain Morgan from the bar manager.
He could tell it was going to be along night...
The cops were never called... We finally threw in the towel and sat back to finish watching the game and waited several hours for the alcohol to wear off before we headed to our respective vehicles; Me with a purloined bottle of Grey Goose in my shorts, Trep with a waitress under each arm.... Bastard.
Another wasted evening in North Florida.
Famous, out-
