Friday, January 28, 2011

The San Ysidro Incident or As Seen On T.V.

So we were at the Hilltop gas station, me, Frances and the hippie. He said that his name was Coyote *rolling eyes* but that seemed so ridiculous that I refused to call him by it. I called him Prairie Dog (which he hated the moment it left my mouth) and anything else that happened to pop into my head. It's a gift.
We had all gotten out of the car, the pina colada/wet dirt dump aroma was too much and cold though it was, it beat the fuck outta that smell! Frances was gonna pay to have my car cleaned if it was the last thing he did. I poked him and asked if we could leave yet. I was told that we were waiting for someone to show up and that it should be mere minutes...yeah right! I didn't see why we couldn't just leave the hippie to fend for himself, I said I'd bring him to HT and here we were, job complete. I was outvoted which I think is unfair because Wombat shouldn't have gotten one but whatever.
I did appreciate being able to breathe freely however and as long as I stood upwind from P.D. it was aces. I made sure to do so at every opportunity and tripped Frances in the process when I jumped away from Mr. stink bomb a little too quickly.
"So Prairie Dog, what's the deal, where's your homeboy at, I don't have all night, tick-tock."
"Don't call me thaaaaaaaaaaaaat maaaaaaaaaan, my name is Coyoooooo.."
"Uh yeah, whatever" I interrupted, "I wanna beat feet outta here, those truckers are giving me the eye and I ain't in that line no more."
Frances laughed and gave me a look but I kept on, "So unless you feel like explaining to those large gentlemen over there that you are not in fact my patchouli permeated pimp and that they will not be enjoying the pleasure of my company this evening, I suggest you GET THE FUCK ON WITH IT!"
P.D. eyed the truckers and began to text furiously. I told myself I'd give him 10 more mins and then I was gone. A couple minutes later he tried to approach me but I yelped, "That's close enough, tell me from there! Enunciate Weasel, E-NUN-C-ATE!"
He sighed and asked if I could “Maaaaaaaaaaybe, poooooosssibly” take him as far as San Ysidro? I didn’t even answer, I turned on Frances, “San Ysidro Frances? You just came from Bernalillo, you know just how long it takes to get to FUCKING SAN YSIDRO!” I was in a yelling kinda mood, I guess.
It takes approx an hour and thirty minutes in case y’all didn’t know and I was not in the mood to do it. Even the way I drive it would be an hour each way and that was too damn long, especially since my car reeked of dirt-fruit-crap cocktail.
Frances shrugged apologetically, knowing that despite my issues with our companion's fragrance, I wouldn’t leave him stranded in the cold. That was nail #1 in fat Cyndi’s coffin.
“The guy who’s house we’re going to is a good connect, after this we can score from him instead of driving all over this *pinche state.” *fucking
I sighed and got in the car, it was gonna be a long night.
Driving in 20 degree weather at night with the windows down is not the way I had envisioned my evening. I was cold, pissy and generally not a nice person to be around. I just wanted to get all this shit over with and get back to the house so Frances could get me high in comfort.
P.D. sat silent and shivering in the backseat, knowing I was in no mood to deal with him or anyone else. Frances nodded and chain smoked, though how he could stand the taste I’ll never know. He slept through most of the drive and when we got there I was extra gratified to wake him up in the manner of my choosing.
“Fraaaanceeesss” I whispered...right before I flicked his ear, “WAKE UP!” He jerked and dropped a lit cig onto his lap, prompting him to move faster than he had all night.
“Don’t burn my seat, cabron” I cautioned, climbing out of the car to stretch. We were parked in front of one of the ramshackle houses that is typical of San Ysidro, I was not impressed. Nail 2 Fat Cyndi, nail #2.
We followed the hippie up to the front door, he knocked and we heard a muffled, “Come iiiiiiiin.” I was steeling myself for some kind of retarded scene inside but even I never could've guessed what was waiting for us behind that door. Have y’all seen Hoarders? I’m betting you have, I’m also betting that you’ve never been in a house so inundated with cat piss that it literally took your breath away and refused to give it back.
There were stacks of magazines and newspaper everywhere, some as high as my head and I’m 5’9. We maneuvered through, using the little trail between the piles to get us ever closer to the voice calling from somewhere in the back. Everything was obscured by crap and all you could see was a light and the flickering of the T.V. set. I tripped over what I think was a cat and stepped in what I can only assume was cat shit. It woulda been nail 3 but it was so old it had dried into concrete and crunched when I trudged on through it. Had it been fresh Fat Cyndi would be in the fucking ground right now!
I took some satisfaction in the fact that Woodchuck was having problems with the smell, ahhh sweet irony. He coughed his way to the back and we finally met our host.
George was sitting in a recliner swaddled in yards of fleece that seemed to have hearts, spades and diamonds all over it. The only things showing were his hands and head. The thing looked familiar but I couldn’t quite place it.
Beyond him was a kitchen and seated at the cluttered table was a brunette girl of indeterminate age and abundant size shoveling snack cakes into her maw. And I mean shoveling! Bitch was double fisting those bad boys and horking ‘em down like she was getting paid. She was dressed in some sort of tight blue dress that showed an excessive amount of flesh and was completely inappropriate for one of her girth.
I leaned over to Frances and whispered, “She looks like a sausage about to burst it’s casing.”
He sniggered and whispered back, “Chorizo bomb. I hope I take some shrapnel in the eye cuz it ain’t gonna be pretty.”
I bit my lip to keep from cackling and nodded in agreement, not pretty was an understatement. She turned her head my way and gave me a look I didn’t care for at all. She hadn’t heard us, I suppose she was just being territorial, for all she knew we were there abscond with her delicious (gag) snacky cakes.
Geooorge” she whined, showing off an overbite and buck teeth with a gap you could drive a Lincoln through, “Why are all these people here? Why is that girl here? You know I can’t stand girls like her.”
“Like what?” I asked, doing that thing where I don’t quite mumble, "Girls who aren't one step away from mainlining buttercream frosting?”
Geooorge, tell her to leave, she’s bothering me. She looks funny”
I was at a loss as to what exactly I was doing since I was just standing there but whatever.
“Be cordial Gloria” he whined back, “She can’t help who she is.”
I was getting agitated, “That heifer could bite a hog through a picket fence and I’m the one who looks funny? Fuck that shit.” I started to move towards her, fairly sure that size would triumph over tenacity in this case but caring not a whit.
Frances grabbed my shoulders and stopped me, putting his mouth next to my ear he said, “Calm down, we’re almost done here. That *marrana is his sister and if you piss him off it’s back to ‘Spania when you want quantity.” *sow
I looked over at our effeminate, whiny host and decided I didn’t care, so not worth it and wow, I could find another hook up. Before I could say anything George instructed his sister to show P.D. the guest room. The hippie said his goodbyes and left us there surrounded by mess and stench.
I opened my mouth to launch into some sort of tirade about the myriad smells and insults I had endured thus far but I didn’t get a word out.
It seemed that George was in a hurry to say something as well, “You really think you’re hot shit don’t you honey? There’s no need to be so bitchy *lowering his voice to a loud whisper* is it that time of the month?”
Nails 3 through 103! I heard Frances sigh and it was on. Plus I had finally identified what he was wrapped in.
I’m bitchy? What I really am is too annoyed to put up with a simpering jackass in a Snuggie who is too stupid to realize he has essentially paid money to wear a robe backwards!”
“It’s not a Snuggie, it’s a Slanket! It’s called Sleavin’ Las Vegas” he sniffed as he smoothed it, “I wanted Slumberjack but they were sold out...”
“ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME??? I barked at Frances, “First I hafta play nice with Not So Little Debbie back there and now this?” I turned back to George, “I’ll wipe my ass with your Slanket you prissy..”
“HEYYYYY, lets go outside and smoke a *frajo” interrupted F, cutting me off before I could get any more complimentary. He took my elbow and led me through the forest of paper goods and out the front door. *cigarette
I was busy muttering to myself, so it took me a moment to notice that Fran was doubled over in silent laughter. When he came up he was streaming tears and trying to catch his breath. “I can’t believe you called him out on the Snuggie. Not so little Debbie...” He wheezed, unable to go on.
“It’s not a Snuggie it’s a Slanket!” I pouted, doing my impression of George, “Fran! You know that bitch must’ve inhaled at least a box and a half of Zebra Cakes in the 15 minutes we’ve been here, two at a time no less! What the fuck else was I gonna call her? And that smell, don't get me started on that smell!” I was begining to giggle.
“Y-you g-got schooled b-by an asshole wearing a b-b-b-blanket” stuttered Frances trying hard to get himself under control.
“Hey fuuuuuuuuuck you.” I replied, setting us off all over again. It was time to go home, I was so over the whole thing.
On the ride home Frances said, “A box and a half? That’s alot of fucking cakes!”
“Ya think?” I asked sarcastically, “Those things are nasty besides, if you eat one and drink milk it makes lard on the roof of your mouth, it’s sick and wrong.”
“I guess that explains the ‘Not so little’ part huh?”
“It’s definitely not helping the situation, I know that much.”
“Wipe your ass with his Sl-Slanket” He choked out, “Damn girl...”
“Yeah, I know, I ain’t right but at least I’m funny and that almost makes up for it.”
I drove us home, my car smelt of hippie and putrifying fruit but I sustained myself by counting all the ways in which fat Cyndi Lauper would pay for this evening’s, pay, pay.