So I’m hanging out last night, writing, whatever. I had actually almost decided to go to bed when the phone rang.
“I can’t believe you answered your phone!” A drunken voice yells to me.
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Answer your phone!”
Ah. One of these nights. I hear party noises in the background. I open my brand new bottle of whiskey and take a swallow. You can’t be a part of this and stay sober. It’s some sort of law or something. Maybe more of a tradition, I suppose, but tradition among friends is stronger than law, anyways.
I wake up this morning, I’ve got a wicked headache, my throat’s all dry, and my mouth tastes like some sort of rotting something. I stagger out for a glass of water and to start the coffee, and I remember typing. Random bits and pieces of random conversations, typed as quickly as possible, no real thread at all. Typing as much as I can, which really wasn’t that much, considering that by the time I got to this idea, I was pretty well into my bottle.
I pulled up the file this morning, deciphered all the typos, and looked at what I had left. It’s pretty frightening, and the randomness of it makes it even more bizarre. I take a little comfort knowing that almost none of these quotes are mine.
“This is Clara.”
“Hi, Clara. I’m Ray.”
“I don’t know you, but I feel like I know you, you know?”
“I thought your voice would be deeper.”
“Yeah, sorry about my voice.”
“No, it’s okay. I just…you know, thought it would be deeper.”
“Me, too. It just peaked, leaving me with this.”
“Yeah, I guess I’m like part of the family. I was kind of adopted. I gave ‘em food. I was the one that waited on them when they came in, because no one else wanted to.” (About five minutes of me laughing) “Did that sound bad?”
How many people am I destined to know that manage Sonic?
(This next part, it’s all one person talking—she was acting out a scene. I was just laughing, except for the part about holding the onions.)
What if Jesus worked at Sonic? He’d be all, “Hey, welcome to Sonic, my name is Jesus, how can I help you?”
“Oh, dear Lord, please grant me a Number 2 combo. ”
“And could you hold the onions? (that was me)
“I would like a number 2 with mayonnaise, o please, but could you hold the onions?”
“No. No, I can’t hold the onion. I’m only the SON OF GOD! I think I can manage to hold the onions!”
“Is mom there?”
“What do you think Hell’s like?”
“For you? For you, Hell is being ass-raped by that clown from It, and he’s using a broken glass dildo.”
“Are you gonna post this?”
“How could I not?”
“We will go to Sonic and pray for you.”
“Dear God PLEASE MAKE THIS Number 2.”
“How drunk are you?”
“Good thing I caught you in time. You were almost not drunk.”
“Don’t be so desperate, or you’re just asking to be a sperm toilet.”
(To someone in the background) “He says not to be so desperate, or you’re just asking to be a…to be a what?”
“I think I said sperm toilet.”
“Huh. Don’t be so desperate, or you’re just asking to be a sperm toilet.”
“We’re mostly straight.”
“At least half of you there are gay.”
“Not that kind of straight.”
“I laughed so hard that I peed a little bit, you know?”
“Clara says twice. She says I did it twice. Because I did it twice.”
“It’s always the same: he lifts his shirt, rubs his belly, I’m like, put that thing away.”
“I must be in hell…being ass fucked by the clown from It.”
“Did you ever see him grab his liver?”
“We did share some of the shots, but he drinks vodka. That’s why I spent five minutes trying to decide if I wanted to pee in a tattoo parlor or not.”
On susceptibility to conversion: “I’ll probably be a Catholic tomorrow, I won’t have any idea.”
“Two people are Catholics.”
“Tell those bastards to straighten up.”
“I don’t think that I will tell them that.”
“Fuckin’ children. They’re the devils.”
“They are. They are the devils. And sometimes they smell bad.”
“I drank a half of a bottle of twadka? Hang on, gotta take this shot.”
(background) “Whoo hoo! Whoo hoo for you! Whoo hoo again!”
“Broken dildo assclown.”
“Volcom-punk skater….vee, oh, ell, see, oh, em…that’s the tattoo on his ass, and he’s got a belt and a hat, and he matches.”
“The internet ass guy. That’s you.”
It probably would have gone on longer, but the cell phone battery was rapidly running out. I was promised pictures, but I doubt it’ll happen. I’m sure that whipping out the camera phones seemed like a great idea at the time, but when everyone sobers up, the only thing those pictures will be good for is blackmail.
For soul purposes, the part of Rik is being played by some weight-lifting guy I saw on the internet.