The Strange Events That Unfolded That Zany Night At Wilsers
It all started with Mark and Sharon …
“We just moved away from Deanna’s painting,” said Sharon, “and now you want us to move home?”
“You better not be putting this on your blog, Biff,” said Mark. “I’ll stab you right through the eyes with a semi-colon if you put this on your blog.”
“Honest,” said Biff, “I’m just gonna use this in my memoirs. By the way, could you finish your beers and move home … we have guests coming.”
“You certainly are a prick, Biff,” said Mark.
“Jack, eat Biff,” said Sharon.
“Whaaaaaaa?” said Jack. “It’s hot. I’m sleeping. I’m tired. It’s been a long day. I’m communicating with the floor. I’m transcending. Biff, stick your gawdamn guests where the sun don’t shine.”
Jack thought a moment and said, “Everybody happy now?”
Nobody dared say a word.
Meanwhile, a member of the Blacktop MotorCycle Gang said, “I drink this beer only while thinking about the ontological proof for the existence of intelligence in the human species. By the way, does anybody else smell dawg or maybe I should stop snorting every second beer and did anybody notice Sharon throwing her beer in Joe’s face and how come this place doesn’t have a saxophone?”
Deanna stood by the painting she did on Canada Day and thought, “I love his painting more than life itself, but I’d gladly trade it to Wilsers for beer for a year.”
Beer for a year.
Biff said, “I’ll do Qi Gong for you, Deanna, and the energy will permeate the bar and everybody will focus on beer for a year for you and the pleasure of having this painting here for all time.”
Whereupon, the painting ate Biff.
St Thomas was sitting just outside the reach of the painting.
Unfortunately, he was just within reach of Marilyn who had just arrived with a friend who had given her a bag of firecrackers and a bottle of Jack Daniels earlier.
The night was about to take a strange turn.
“I just stuffed a firecracker up St Thomas’ ass,” said Marilyn. “And he was so plastered, he didn’t notice.”
St Thomas said, “I think a firecracker just went off in my ass. Now, who would do a thing like that?”
“I can’t believe I stuck a firecracker up St Thomas’ ass,” said Marilyn. “Let me see … um … yes … that dirty little fucker Jack Daniels made me do it.”
Joe said, “Try sticking one of those up my ass and I’ll beat you to death with my journal … and then write a haiku about it. Oh shit, I think I feel a poem coming on.”
WhiteFeather said, “I can’t believe I cooked a tourist today.”
“And he sure changed his tune in the pot, didn’t he?” said WhiteFeather. “Not so ha-tee-ta in the pot, was he?”
“I think I’ll cook another tourist.”
Tourists hiding in a tower in the uncertain distance decide to stay there for the night.
“Did Daddy really taste like chicken?’ said Little Johnny.
“Quiet!” said his mother. “Or she will hear you. Do you want to be soup?”
“I’m thinking tourist ragu next time,” said Deanna. “With lots of sauce.”
“Or, we could go with a Caribbean theme,” said WhiteFeather. “With lots of sauce.”
“I think I have a recipe for Tourist a l’orange in my journal,” said Joe. “Does Marilyn still have those damn firecrackers? I can’t believe she stuffed one up St Thomas’ ass.”
“Personally, I prefer a good tourist kabob,” said Marilyn’s friend who had given her firecrackers and Jack Daniels. “Just call me old fashioned.”
“Maybe we can find a good tourist recipe on the Internet,” said WhiteFeather.
“Just as long as you don’t start any of that damn Facebooking,” said Deanna.
“Oh look!” said Deanna. “There’s a recipe for tourist tacos! I love tacos.”
“With a little tourist guacamole … might be good,” said WhiteFeather.
Just yards away, Cora said, “Have you heard about the strange disappearances of tourists in the Barracks area? Very strange indeed.”
Biff managed to escape from Deanna’s painting but was immediately confronted by her necklace. “Do you like my necklace,” she said. “WhiteFeather put real coral in it. Look deep into my necklace, Biff. Now, get the hell back into that painting.”
“Look,” said WhiteFeather, “I got a picture of Biff staring at your necklace.”
“Oh my god, he looks so clueless,” said Deanna. “I think we should …”
“No,” said WhiteFeather, “he goes in the painting or he goes in the soup.”
“You have two minutes to finish that beer, Biff, “ said Deanna. “And then it’s back in the painting for you.”
“By the way,” said Deanna, “did you know that WhiteFeather put real coral in my necklace?”
“I did not know that,” said Biff.
“Well, now you do. Back in the painting.”
Before disappearing into the painting, Biff quickly drew a picture of Deanna in Joe’s journal.
“The little bastard gave me a mustache!” said Deanna. “I’ll get him back for that.”
Deanna’s hand moved furiously, yet elegantly, over Joe’s journal. After 3.234322 seconds, she lifted the journal triumphantly and announced, “See? Robococo Cop Biff. Now, get back in the damn painting.”
Biff dissolved into the painting (and nobody noticed that he took a couple of beers with him) just as a tourist with lots of neck hardware showed up and tried to steal WhiteFeather’s necklace (see insert for details).
Boy, was he in the wrong place at the wrong time ….
“I found the perfect recipe!” exclaimed WhiteFeather. “Touriste a la Pomegranate!”
“How much do you weigh?” said Deanna to the tourist.
posted by Biff at 9:42 p.m.
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