Hello, my name is Peter Reginald O'Cairbre. I have been dead for several years now. I am in a space and time that you cannot ponder, and I have been coerced into not revealing certain tidbits of information related to my whereabouts from my superiors. However, I have a story to tell and I feel compelled to tell it. My story is simple, bitter-sweet, and points to a certain lesson of human experience. I have nothing to gain nor nothing to lose in the telling of this tale. At the same time, I warn my readers that the punchline lacks a certain Hollywood quality that is saleable.
Nevertheless I feel compelled to commence into the tale.
I was born in the early sixties in a continent known currently by your time as North America. I was borne into a world filled with strife and reflection, and my parents, being of a certain analytical variety of human existence, were tuned into this conflict. My mother, a liberal person who engaged in the process of writing witty children's books, drove the pathos of our family's moral imperatives. My father, an east-cost educated purveyor of widgets, worked himself to death in order to further the O'Cairbre clan's causes. Unfortunately for mankind, he died an early death in the mid-60s, and left the O'Cairbre family to toil in the vagaries of Southern Californian social justice. That is the only way I can describe this, and I tip my hat to the nay-sayers of social justice for my vague expositions. However, they exist in the grand scheme of things, and I appeal to your collective consciousness of faith in one aspect- please hear me out on this.
My father died when I was seven years old. At that time, I lived in Pasadena, California. My mother moved quickly to Newport Beach California, in which process she carted along myself, Matheus, Susan, Beth, and Diane- all my siblings. My mother, equipped with a small fortune obtained in the aftermath of the foraging at the O'Cairbre trough by the lawyer's, accountants, and person's of our faith, bought a small house on a manmade island called "Lido Isle" in Newport Beach California in 1969.
When I arrived in Newport Beach, I was a stranger in a strange land. Every boy and girl hated me. I didn't care deep down. Actually, there was a side of me that reveled in their collective objections. I wished for the day in which I would be on top of things, and this day, in the grand scheme of things came sooner than one would think. And so I collected friends of a similar disposition and countenance. I will list these friends as follows:
Smiley's dad died within months of my dad. Smiley's family, minus his dad, arrived in Newport Beach a few months after I did. His economic/social background matched mine very precisely. His father was well-educated and overworked, and he died from a combination of stress and the joivre de vivre. His mother was liberal, and the family was in disarray from the loss of a figurehead. And of course, like the O'Cairbre family, despite the mutual musings of liberal causes, salutes to the Kennedy family and the Democratic Party, they were steeped in a very precise observation of the decidedly vague rules of Catholicism. You see, Smiley, like me, was a Catholic. I am, er, I was an Irish American, whereas Smiley was of Italian descent.
Newport Beach, California, was a highly focused village of tanned, blond-haired, blue-eyed Northern Europeans. Newport Beach, California was a place in which Catholics, yes, readers, Catholics, felt slightly out of place. And thus, Smiley was my first friend- a friend of the same faith, of the same familial tragic background, of the same epoch of turmoil in the world. And thus, I worked on Smiley. I made him my confidant. He was my underboss for an emerging gang of upscale hoodlums.
The years passed by, and despite the myriad of teachings acquired by an array of well-meaning Sunday school nuns, I built up a gang of unruly and scrappy young boys. One day at an after-school program at the local Church called "Our Lady of Mt. Carmichael", Smilely was personally put to the test by the authoritative nuns. This test was a portent of things to come, my fans, please register that thought. Sister Mary Ellen proposed that any of us could leave the class if they were not interested in hearing the lessons of the Catholic faith. And so, Smiley got up, and gathered my scrappy gang, along with my person, and we left the Church in unison in order to wreak childish havoc on our fair little Californian village by the sea. I was proud of my Smiley, for he undertook a very arduous task of organizing strategies of stealing candy, throwing rocks at adults on the beach who deserved a good thrashing, and general tendancies of hooliganism. He performed these duties, which, for the record, were not etched in any stone at the time, with abandon worthy of a true warrior against the status quo.
Chimp came later on fans. Chimp was born to wealthy Irish Americans in Newport Beach. He had the advantage of being immersed in the selective social habits of this obscure village by the sea. And yet, perhaps genetically, he had a predisposition to get into trouble. Chimp was small and wiry, and when he walked, he drummed up the image of a Chimpanzee, hence, the name. But, he was Catholic. We need not go into the contradictions at this point of taking bong hits prior to mass, but, let me instill into my readers that Chimp enjoyed a Bong hit before Mass, much in the way that a Frenchman enjoys an Aparatif before a meal of Filet Mignon de Porc avec une bouteille de Vin Rouge.
It is fair that I go into the description of Chimp's countenance. As I said, Chimp was like a chimp. He walked with a certain Simian swagger, with hands hanging low and a certain bop to his steps. He was small and yet he had presence. He had power. He conveyed confidence. He got chicks. He was having sex with young girls at the age of 12. And for all of these reasons, he angered my underboss, the burly, decidedly more handsom Smiley. And thus, in the early years of our thing, Chimp and Smiley had several altercations of a Physical variety.
and so, Chimp and Smiley battled it out. Chimp was lean, slightly odd looking, full of vigor, and had the advantage of having been born in Newport Beach. He was socially inclined, a good athlete, and gregarious. Smiley was large, intelligent, and quiet. He kept to himself, but he challenged things at every opportunity. He challenged, in particular, the essense of Chimp. Deep down, he was jealous of Chimp by my best estimates, and yet, this raw sin of human experience rolled off of his back- he accepted that Chimp was my left hand, while Smiley served as my right hand man in our illicit-goings-on. At the end of the day, Smiley designed our collective acts of mischief, whether it be the stealing of a speedboat, or the robbing of a summer house. Chimp was the master of execution, but the plans were the design of Smiley, the master of strategy.
A few years went by, during which time I collected another friend:
Gay was a young Jewish boy. He was maladjusted to the religious proclivities of our village, and was slightly ill-at ease in the juvenile social circles in elementary school. Thus, he was confused, angry, and generally rejected by his peers. Hence, he was in many ways a perfect addition to my little clan. I took him in, and showed him our ways of meting out carnage and destruction. Ok, it wasn't exactly carnage and destruction, but, nevertheless, we had our day with the local authorities. My little foursome went about on jaunts of stealing, breaking windows, and getting into other forms of trouble.
We had a right, I must say, as we were outsiders. Silly isn't it, to think that we were outsiders here, but, at the time, I felt that we were. Now, I understand that you may ponder the reason for our illicit-goings-on. It was precipitated by the following single event that broke the straw on the camel's back. We were playing merrily in a sand lot by the bay one Spring day in the early years. We were not more than ten years old at the time. I cannot recall the events that led up to this, but, basically, other young kids did a very tortuous thing to us. They lined us up the wall, and made us smell dogshit that was speared on the heads of wooden sticks. The dogshit was ripe and moist, and it hung off of the wooden sticks like pieces of brown sausages at a campfire. We had to take it.
We were the disenfranchised youth, and they were slightly older and more attuned to juvenile society in our village. I stood in the middle stoically, and smelled the wafting and pungent s**t, while Smiley offered a slight resistance on my left. Chimp complained as well. Gay whined on, and almost broke into tears. Of course, the boys were bigger than we were, and thus, we had to simply take the s**t that was being served to us on the ends of wooden sticks. After that experience, I passed down an edict to our little clan that went along the following lines, "I am not going to take s**t anymore, neither is Smiley, and neither is Chimp!" After Gay complained with a modicum of effort, I implicitly included him in this newly found edict, even though I was thoroughly disgusted with his behavior at the shitsmelling event in the sandlot by the bay.
At this point, the names of my friends must sound strange. Ok, maybe not that strange. I was also known by other names, including Wheatie, Dogman, and Wig.
These names were all the inventions of Chimp. The Chimp was the master of on-the-fly moniker invention. He changed names at whim for everyone in our early teenage years. First I was Wheatie, then I became Dogman, then Dogface, then Wig. Smiley morphed into Bear, then Growl, then back to Smiley, then, in a shortened breath that spoke of efficiency, Smiley became simply "Smeee". But it did not stop there. Chimp created new verbs and adjectives on a daily basis. "Whaling" meant having sex. "Weasel" meant marijuana. But he changed nomenclature quickly. One month it was cool to say "I wanna whale that chick". The next month, you had to say, "I wanna snarf that chick." Gay, being the blacksheep of our little gang, was always a month late in getting Chimps vocabulary right. Smiley, on the other hand, purposely mis-used the ever-changing Chimp language, and ultimately resorted to using proper English, much to the chagrin of The Chimp.
Nevertheless, The Chimp continued over the course of a year to complexify his Chimp language. I must say that I was impressed, despite his poor tendencies in school work, by his ability to construct a truely new language with verbs, nouns, adjectives, adverbs, and grammatical structure. His efforts were not fully apprecicated by Smee, who continued to spite The Chimp by learning more and more proper words to use from English. But, admittadly, The Chimp had at least Gay and me honing in on our Chimp language skills. I picked things up rather quickly, and I wager this was due to an odd ability to meld minds with such an odd friend. As I previously documented, Gay was always a day late and a dollar short on this. In the time that my little tale takes place, let me provide a short tutorial on Chimp Language. Waaaaa means yes, weazzzz means no, Marijuana was, as I said, Weasel, while cocaine was Wazzel. I was Wig, Smiley was Smee, and Gay was, well, Gay really was Clay, but at the telling of this tale he was Gay. Wiggle meant riding a bike to school. Waggle meant stealing your parent's car for a joy ride after a bong hit, and Woogle meant going to Las Vegas for some gambling with fake Ids and credit cards. Of course, I am speaking of an age of male adolescence in which young boys want to whale chicks, lolly some Wazzel, and role a Weasel haffer in my digits. So, here is the deal. The gang built a business of wooping Weasel and Wazzel out of my digits. All the young kids would come up to my window in the back of the house and place their orders. You see, on Lido Isle, every street was seperated by a Strada instead of an alley. A Strada was a nice fern-lined walkeway that allowed people to stroll through the graceful and peacefule environs of our faux-Cote-d'Azure, red-tile roofed hamlket. So, my window, which face the Strada, was the perfect portal that connected my Weasel and Wazzel stockpiles to the myriads of desperate kids in our little neighborhood. From my business connections, Chimps marketing skills, and Smeees strategic planning, we built up a nice little Weasel/Wassel business. What did Gay do? Gay provided, er, liquidity. Gay had seemingly bottomless sources of funds. Needless to say, this was at a time in which trade finance did not exist, and we needed cash to buy the goods.
Months went by. The Chimp took up the habit of constructing rules for a very simple grammatical structure in Chimp-Speak. It went like this. A subject, followed by a an adjective or another noun, was immersed into the center of the sentence. Each end of the sentence was capped by a verb. Thus, The Chimp would say, Wiggled Smeee Wiggled! This meant that Smeee rode his bike to school. Sometimes this structure was inverted. When he barked out "Wazzle oo-oo Wazzle", this meant that the cocaine that he was in the process of tasting was good. I will not promote the idea that this led to a highly complex language that was totally alien to American English. In fact, surely, it was a raw bastardization of known words and constructs in English, mixed with a surprising application of simple logic. Smee, being the most analytical of our crew, scoffed at Chimp-speak and thus continued to improve his reading comprehension, writing, and analytical thought processes. This led to more confrontations between the Bear and the Chimp.
During this time, our crew grew. Soon, we had roughly twenty messengers and couriers who helped in our business endeavors on Lido Isle. As can be expected, there was a natural delineation of loyalties that were allocated to, respectively, Smee and Chimp.
Raj, Mob, and Alligator sided with Smee. Chuckie and Jeremy were inclined towards the Chimp and the Chimp-speak platform. I recall that it was roughly in this short period of time that Chimp decided one day that anyone who did not agree with his view of the world was a pure "Lip".
And thus, we are in the following scenario in my digits one Spring day. After a bong hit of Weazel, chimp barked out "Smee, hey, go lip go."
"What in the fuk are you talking about Chimp?"
"Smee oo-oo Lip Smee."
"Get the fuk outta here, can't you speak in plain English, you meager excuse of a faux-Simian!"
"Smee oo waaaa Smee! Hahahahahahahahaha!!!!! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"
During this time, there was a little boy named Eddie Munster who lived a few streets away from me. He was small and introverted, and yet, he was born into a world of privelidge. His parents had a large house next to the bay with a dock that housed a large yacht. He was an only child and was rather homely. He was short and thin, and he wore a greasy and unnatractive haircut with a cowlick in front.
He had a wallet full of cash and a voracious appetite for weazel. The only source for his weazel was from the Weazel bodega operating from the window of my bedroom. I sold weazel to Eddie, simply because I pitied him and because I was greedy. Ok, really, it was simply a matter of greed.
Eddie also had a very nice shiny new motor cycle, on which he rode around the island at high speeds at the ripe age of fifteen.
at times, in a certain mood of sadistic tendencies, I liked to engage in a Weazel depravation plan on my little Eddie. Heheheheehe. Yes, on the one hand, this was evil, and yet, if I appeal to the my understanding of American Christianity, I was doing a service, hehehhehehe, depriving Eddie of his Weazel.
There are many stories to tell about Eddie, yes indeed. Let me whet your appetite with one of them before I serve up the main course. This appetizer concerns the escapades of the Chimp and Smee. I have given a taste of the natural dichotomy between my pal’s respective personalities. In a phrase, they hated each other. However, they were forced into a certain bonding of teenage spirit. That is to say, they were forced to play tennis together on the high school team, as well as during the summer Southern California tennis circuits. The Chimp was a bong-hit-smoking, cocaine-snorting, beer-drinking swaggerer throughout this time. Smee was reserved, abstinent, and dedicated to school and sports. His only tie to the Gang hinged on the fact that he was my first friend and that he had a similar background as mine. As such, he felt inclined to be loyal to all of my childish proclivities, ranging from throwing rocks at tourists, to selling pot, to stealing speed boats. He was loyal. I do not know the source of his tendencies of loyalty. He was certainly not loyal to the Chimp, let alone to the Gang. Nevertheless, Smee agreed to be the Chimp’s tennis doubles partner.
Ironically, The Chimp was the better tennis player. The Chimp would smoke a bong hit before a tennis match and serve up aces and smack winning overheads. His display of ape-like abilities on the court was accented by an unusual ability to become completely inebriated and yet focused on the game in process. Upon the changing of sides, the Chimp would guzzle beer that was carefully hidden in a tin tennis ball can. This infuriated Smee, who had piously worked on his serves, his forehands, and his volleys for at least four hours per day for two years. Smee was smarter, but, alas, he did not have the nimble athletic skills on the court. He was tall, clumsy, and yet, he was naturally muscular. At his ripe age, he naively felt that his stature and his prodigious muscles gave way to a natural athletic inclination. And yet, to his Chagrin, the small, nimble, ugly, and seemingly weak Chimp could outplay him even after a bong hit of strong Californian Sensimilla.
To add insult to injury, the Chimp would shout out “Waaaaaa….” And raise his racket into the air after every winning serve, killer overhead, and deadly volley. Of course, The Chimp was Smee’s partner, so, normally, one would think that the Smee would be happy over a winning shot. But, he was not. The Smee was angry that his partner would out-play him.
One day, Smee and Chimp were due to play at a tournament in a small village near Newport Beach called Corona Del Mar.
|Smee had a plan. He was not going to let the Chimp be the hero of the day. And thus, he met Eddie Munster two hours before the match. Smee knew that Eddie needed Weasel, but, it was in between Eddie's allowance days, and Eddie had already smoked his previous allowance three days before. Smee always had Weasel on him. Smee always was ready to buy temporary loyality from young kids in need of something. And thus, Smee instructed Eddie to do something small, just a small favor. Smee, in return, would give Eddie two bong hits of Weasel. Hehehehe, oh, er, actually, this was totally evil, yes, it was.|
Smee instructed Eddie to sprinkle a powdery cleaning substance into a bong. He instruced Eddie to show up at the match in Corona Del Mar and offer it to the Chimp just before the match. Eddie was to tell Chimp that the powdery substance was pure cocaine. Eddie, being of a less rational mind, was convinced by Smee that the substance would not harm the Chimp. Eddie agreed, and took his two bong hits as payment in kind.
Eddie showed up to the match ahead of schedule. I was there too. This was not a strange situation, since, our parents were not inclined to show up to our respective sports activities. Thus, we encouraged each other. The gang went to Raj's water polo games.
The gang went to Alligator's track meets. The gang went to Gay's plays. We were a family. We reinforced the family values of Wigman, that is, me.
Eddie appeared before the match on his motorcycle toting a backpack with the Weasel/Powder-laden bong. He met with the three of us in an area of bushes and palm trees next to the courts. He grinned and he hobbled in our direction, and his appearance pleased Chimp. Chimp was smoking a buddily at the time, while Smee was engaging us in a topic of social philosophy at the vanguard of our mental abilities. As Eddie approached us, Chimp looked up and over towards Eddie and cried out, "Waaaaaaa".
"Yo Lip, watchyou got?"
"Chimptster, I gots the goods, hehehehhehee, the Eagle has landed bigtime. Hehehehehe, chaik this out…." Replied Eddie. He then reached into his black backpack and produced a bong fashioned out of ceramic materials and fashioned into the head of a skull of a half-human, half mythical creature facial form. Smee feigned surprise and touched the bong.
"Dude, you chilled this fuker up real good, didn't cha?" replied Smee.
Of course, Smee had no interest in inhaling the cannibis smoke. He simply wanted Chimp to smoke the powder and then choke on the courts so that he would, relatively speaking, look like the better player. Of course, one may wonder to whom he wished would think of him as the better player. Smee's parents were busy playing golf in Palm Springs. Chimps parents were somewhere on a small yacht off of the Newport Beach coast. The only spectators at this match that he could possibly care about were Eddie, me, and a few tasty, heheheh, yes, tasty little snarfable chicks in the makeshift grandstands. Of course, Chimp had already given Smee and me a whaling report of the young vixens in the stand. He had whaled not less than four of the young girls already, and this knowledge surely added a certain amount of jealousy and desire in our respective hearts, souls, and loins. I recall that I whacked off five times that evening thinking about those young and ripe girls in the grandstands.
Eddie handed the skull shaped bong to Chimp. Chimp responded with "waaaaa", took a lighter, lit up the bowl, and sucked in an enormous hit that made even Smee wonder how a human/chimp could stand the influx of natural and manmade smoke particles.
Even Eddie and I were dumbfounded. Chimp let the smoke out with an orgasmic and cathartic zeal that appealed rendered us speechless. The sun was bright, there were no clouds in the sky, and everything seemed perfect in our little microcosm of the world in Southern California, circa 1977. It was dry, warm, and nothing was on our minds other than to take in the sites and sounds of cheering blond haired, blue eyed snarfable chickees. Of course, I was not going to play tennis for two to three hours, so, it is easy for me to say this.
Chimp and Smee meandered through the dirty path of the faux-forest, which was surrounded by palms, eucalyptus, and other flora common to our environs. Eddie and I followed. Ironically, at the time, I had no clue as to what was going on. However, in retrospect I did notice that Smee did in fact watch the Chimp's responses to the bong hit. He waited and waited with abandon for a twitch and possibly a pending convulsion from the powdery substance. But, it did not occur. Actually, the Chimp howled at the blue sky and danced along the dirty path to the courts. A young and exotic looking girl passed by and smiled at the Chimp, as if she were ready to surrender her loins to his comical countanence. She frowned at Smee. At least that was my impression. The
Chimp bopped and strutted onto the court amidst the sound of cheers of several girls in the stands. Smee looked angry.
The opponents, young rich Mexicans from La Jolla California shook my capo's hands at the border of their respective playing areas seperated by the net.
Smee and Chimp were pitted against Hector Nunez and José Martinez, a pair of suave, rich, and very talented young tennis players. They flipped a coin to see who would serve. Chimp and Smee called heads. It was heads. Smee told Chimp to serve. And thus he did. Chimp's first serve missed the outside forehand side of Hector's right hand return by about three feet. It was a fault. However, it was a fault propelled at a speed that made the entire makeshift stadium gasp. They were impressed with the force of Chimp's ill-placed serve. Smee grinned to himself. He thought that the Ajax powder was taking its effects. Chimp then thrust forward on a second serve that should have been toned down a few notches. It was an ace! Chimp's second serve was an ace! Hector shook his head, Smee looked perplexed, the girls in the stadium cheered, and Chimp let out a wailing "Waaaaaaaaaa". The next three serves were aces. Chimp won the game with four consecutive aces, much to the chagrin of Smee.
The match continued in the following way. Smee double faulted on several occasions. Chimp made winning volleys, over-heads, and aces. The crowd cheered for Chimp. The Mexican boys were dumbfounded. Girls were yelling out, "Wooooo." And, of course, Smee was furious. He looked at Eddie and me and scoffed. He was ready to explode, or that was my perception of his countenance. In the end, the Mexicans did in fact win, but, Chimp was the hero of the day. The Mexicans were U.S. Tennis Association nationally ranked tennis players. Chimp and Smee were respectively ranked 242 and 123 in the Southern California Circuit of the USTA. The match went three sets however. This long match was made possible by the unbelievable plays of the Chimp. At the end of the match, Hector Nunez approached Chimp and asked several questions about his tennis background and the availability of Chimp's time, down in La Jolla, on Hector's expense, in order to practice on his family's court nestled in the backyard of a Californian Hacienda by the coast. Hector simply nodded to Smee and shook his hand with a grace and style that belied his age. Smee was furious.
Smee stormed off of the courts. Chimp smiled and howled at the crowd. Eddie felt nervous from the non-response of the powder. I was indifferent. The four of us went to my digits and smoked a few bowls. During our session in my room next to the bodega window, Chimp relived the highpoints of the match against the Mexicans.
"I was like, waaaa, acing those buddilies. Snarfer Chimp Snarfer, waaaa! Those Mexican buddilies were like, yo estoy surprisio! Waaaaaa, Smeee, you see those tasty aces. Smee eeee-ace-eee Smee! See that sheah? Hahahahhaa!"
"Yeah Chimp, you aced em reel good" replied Smee as he looked out of the bedroom window at the rays of light shining through the thickets of palms and eucalyptus.
"Eddie, you monkster, hehhehehehe, bong hit swiggle bong hit?" barked out the Chimp.
"Ah, yeah Chimp, you hot s**t and stuff. Acing the sheah outta a those beaners. Fuking beaners…."
"Eddie, you cowlick-inflicted loser, those Mexicans had infinitely more class than your lazy, motor-cycle-seat-formed a*s…" replied Smee with a tinge of anger. Smee then looked at his nails with the concentration of a 70s SoCal coke-b***h.
"Dudes, take a bong hit and chill", I replied with a modicum of teenage spirited diplomacy.
"Whateva lips, yo lip, you sucked big time in that match Growler. Growl, what the fuk? You snarf on the courts for four hours a day, fuking losssssssssssa, Look at me….waaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!! Eddie could probably ace the Lip outta yo Lip." Chimp was was swaggering on my bed in suggestive dancing motion.
"You're an idiot Chimp. I could kick your a*s in a match of two outta of three, so don't go there….fuking chimp. Get some bananas and shut the fuk up….Waaaaa!"
"Grooooowl, bear b***h angry, Grooooowl Smeee Groooowl…Grooooooowl"
Just then Smee jumped up and then tackled Chimp. He began to choke Chimp with all of his oversized efforts. Chimp gasped. I jumped onto Smee and tried to pry the two apart. Eddie looked confused
Smee then looked at Eddie and said, "You little s**t! I outta slaughter your pathetic a*s. Fuking loser with a sugar daddy who probably rapes you in the night."
I replied, "Smeee, dude, chill out! What in the fuk is wrong wit ya?"
"Growl no can play tennis play can no Growl!!!!! Hahahahah……..waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Smee bear can't play tennis! Smee can't play can't Smee! Smee can't play can't Smee! Smee can't play can't Smee! Smee can't play can't Smee!" sang Chimp, after I was able to loosen the bear grip that Smee applied.
Soon, Eddie was joining in on the chorus with Chimp. The two of them chanted in unison, "! Smee can't play can't Smee! ! Smee can't play can't Smee! ! Smee can't play can't Smee! ! Smee can't play can't Smee! ! Smee can't play can't Smee! ! Smee can't play can't Smee! ! Smee can't play can't Smee! ! Smee can't play can't Smee!"
Smee then collected himself, jumped up, dusted himself off, looked at Chimp and Eddie and then he pondered things for a few minutes. I do not know what Smee was thinking, and, honestly, I would wager that he angrier at Eddie than Chimp. Eddie sided with
Chimp. Eddie fuked up on the Ajax laced bong hit. Or so it seemed. Eddie was the microcosm of the reasons why the world rallied behind Chimp and not Smee. This angered Smee. Smee felt that he was smarter, better looking, worthy of the tastiest snarfable chickees, and yet, it appeared that Chimp had all of the things that Smee deserved. And, in his mind, he felt that it was boys like Eddie who made it possible. Eddie, at the end of the day, sided with the glossy and amicable hero of the day. Chimp was someone who Eddie could relate to. Smee was quiet, reserved, and a little shy, despite his self-reflective visions of superiority. But those visions did little to further the seemingly altruistic cause of the Smee, the Bearman, the hard core tennis player who had brains and muscles. Thus was the conclusion of Smee's thought processes.
And so Smee plotted. He would win this match. He would gain the upper hand on the Eddies and the Chimps of the world. In order to satisfy his appetite for revenge and satisfaction, Smee plotted to cut the head of Chimp's support. This meant, he needed to teach Eddie a lesson. Of course, in retrospect, this lesson was ill-formed and certainly it lead to tragedy, but, Smee was convinced that the travesties of Smee-esque justice justified his decidedly evil means of exacting revenge. Smee plotted out a very careful method of setting things straight.
The first thing he did was convince the Gang to pitch in on a skateboard ramp. This ramp was about three meters high and had a slight concave shape to it. It would eventually be placed in the Strada behind my Bodega window in my backroom. The skateboard ramp was implemented at a time when skateboarding was taking off in California, at a time when the only slacker variety of skaters consisted of Surfer dudes near the coast. Of course, we were all, but construction, surfers. Therefore, we were all skateboarders. After the installation of the curved skateboard ramp, we would Weazel bong Weasel and then skate on the ramp for hours. I completely forgot that Smee was the sole Gang member who pushed for this ramp.
A few months passed in which our gang grew. We were about fifty slacker strong now. Fifty surfer/wigger/bong-hitter/lips would get stoned on Weasel and then skate up and down that ramp for hours. Of course, Chimp was the best, despite the hours of practice that Smee put into the skating practice. It is amusing to me at least that Smee convinced us to buy the ramp for a very precise purpose, and then, he took that ramp very seriously. And Chimp was never the wiser on Smee's grand plans for revenge.
Once a week or so, Eddie would ride up through the Strada on his nice shiny new motorcycle. He would ride up to my bodega window and ask for a seventy dollar bag of Weasel. Every time he did this, we tried to convince him to attempt a feat worthy of a Las Vegas stuntman. Evil, ain't it? We wanted Eddie to ride his bike at full speed down the Strada and jump into the sky like a Weasel-crazed bong sucking lip. We wanted him to try our ramp with his bike. Hehehehee.
One bright and blue day, the Gang was bonging Weasel bonging in my digits. We also were under the influence of a enormous amount of Budweiser beer. It was 11AM Monday morning. Smee looked unusually happy, and the Chimpster was commencing into a preposterous tale of whaling three cheerleaders while wooping some wazzle. Raj, Alligator, Jeremy, and Chuckie were there. Gay was singing along to a sappy Fleetwood Mac song. Chaz and Big Pete were skating ramp skating while stoned beyond recognition.
Matty was rolling a joint. Crow was talking on the phone talking to a young whalable chickee. Boopoo was laying on the bed and lamenting about how much he wanted a cheeseburger. Bob Blob was pondering the philosophical aspects of bonging weasel bonging another hit of buds. Smittie was thinking about his next water polo game. Mongo was scratching his arm pits and picking his nose. Jerry was laughing at the sight of Mongo. Everyone was in a good mood. Laughter and chatter filled the air. We had made a lot of money doing the rounds of Weasel and Wazzle delivery on the island. Chimpster convinced me to steal my mother's car for a joy ride down to Laguna Beach.
Amidst the glory and revelry of a mid-morning bong session, we heard the distinct sound of a whining motor cycle down at the southern end of the Strada in the back. The whining sound grew louder. Everyone stopped what they were doing. Chaz and Big Pete ceased from their ramp skating. They looked south and then towards my window. They gave the universal sign of the presence of Eddie Munster, which meant they made a gesture that suggested the presence of a cowlick in the front of a greasy hairdo.
The sound of the cycle grew louder and louder, and I distinctly remember that Eddie, irrationally, pumped up the gas and shifted into high gear right before he approached my digits. Then, he put on the brakes and commenced into a petrol-stench inducing screech next to my window.
He then walked up to the window, while Chaz and Big Pete looked on with an expression of puzzlement.
"Wig, I need some Weasel." Uttered Eddie.
"Eddie, don't call him Wig, you lip, he is Sir Wigmeister to you, lip!" shouted out Chimp. His response was met by a sea of childish guffaws from my stoned gang.
"Er, sorry Chimp, Sir Wi…"
"And, don't call me Chimp, call me….lemme see lip, call me, King Bong….waaaaa!" another sea of laughs followed Chimps response.
"Ok, King Bong. Sir Wigmeister, I need a bag of weasel. I gots not cash right now dude, sorry, but I really need it….I can pay you tomorrow."
I looked around at my gang. King Bong grinned and took another bong hit. there was silence, save for Gay's singing to the wimpy Fleetwood Mac song. Smee raised his left eyebrow.
then, Smee said, "Eddie gotta pay in kind Wig, gotta pay in kind."
"Mkay Smee, how Eddie gonna pay then?"
Smee then thought about it for a moment, looked around in a feigned show of search and discovery, then, he said to Chimp, "Chimp, how could I say this in your language?" Smee then pointed to the 3 meter skateboarding ramp. Smee then raised his eyebrows again, as if to indicate to Chimp that the payment in kind was clear.
Chimp looked slightly confused at first, then, he grinned, and said, "Go, Eddie Go!"
And with that, Chimp's side of my gang slowly began chanting, "Go,Eddie Go, Go Eddie Go! Go Eddie Go!"
Soon, even Smee's side of the Gang chimed in with a chorus of "Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, !!!!!!!"
And then, everyone, except Smee, was shouting "Go Eddie Go". They were pointing to the motor cycle and the skateboard ramp. The message was clear. Eddie would have to pay in kind with a daredevil feat of racing his motor cycle up and over the ramp!
"Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie GoGo,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie GoGo,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie GoGo,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie GoGo,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go"
This continued for sometime while Eddie scratched his head and looked a little concerned about the pending payment. Smee sniggered while Chimp wailed out, "Waaaaa". Eddie then looked at his motor cycle, then he looked at the bag of Weasel. Then he looked at Sir Wigmeister-me- and gave me a look that I cannot get out of my mind. His look was one of pleading. He was weak. He wanted his Weasel. And the gang was calling for his feat! In the end, he shrugged his shoulders.
He kick started his bike and revved it up. There was a boisterous chant of cheerful glee amidst the sound of the whining engine. Still, some were still singing "Go Eddie Go!"
And then, Eddie rode off south while the gang's shouts stopped. It was quiet. Eddie was a mere blackhead at the southern end of the Strada. We could hear the putter of the idling engine. This seemed to last for several minutes, although, it is hard for me to really tell now. And then, all of a sudden, Chimp began with, "Go Eddie Go...Go Eddie Go...Go Eddie Go"
and then, soon the whole gang was chanting for his feat again.
"Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie GoGo,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie GoGo,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie GoGo,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go, Go,Eddie Go"
There was a silence, and then, we heard the whining of the cycle's engine. and then, the blackhead of Eddie's body grew bigger as he raced down the Strada. Our jaws dropped! Eddie was going to do the feat in order to score a bag of Weasel! He raced down the strada and had enough time to kick the motorcycle into the highest gear. He raced onward and forward towards the goal of proving his mettle our myopic world, circa 1977. And then, he raced up and approached the ramp. He flew off the ramp into the sky. All of our heads turned to follow his parabolic path into the sky. And then, crash!!!!!!! He crashed. It was a very bad crash. His head struck the ground and I distinctly heard the sound of bones cracking. Blood exploded out. The whining of the engine died down. And then, there was nothing but the sound of Eddie's groans.
The gang ran away, away from the scene of the accident. Actually, surely it was the scene of a crime. Even Chimp ran away. Only Smee and I stayed. We walked over to the moaning Eddie and then ran back to get help after we could see that this was a very serious situation.
Eddie had brain damage from that accident. It haunts me to this day, even though I am dead.
I must go now. Goodbye.
<<Just then, we hear the sound of footsteps, and then, the teller of this tale, Wigman, says, "Yes, Sir Bourbon Key, yes sir.....Wigman then hears the chants of his superiors in another room. They are saying, "Go Wigman Go, Go Wigman Go, Go Wigman Go, Go Wigman Go, Go Wigman Go, Go Wigman Go, ". Wigman leaves and mounts a motorcycle for his hourly race down a hellish strada in a netherworld onward and upward over a skateboard ramp lit on fire.....>>