Mr. Before You Know It

Remember when we were at Coco and played “Before You Know It”? I thought about that last night while I watched a rerun of Scrubs. Scrubs is a TV show that takes place in a hospital. It’s way better than, say, 7th Heaven (I’ve never watched an entire episode thereof, but meet it from time to time in the 7-channel-wilderness); not as brilliant as AD.

So this one lady-doctor and this one lady-non-doctor are in the cafeteria talking about their doc-dudes’ last names. The lady-non’s dude’s last name is Cox. And the lady-doc says, “You don’t like Cox?” and the non-dude-non-doc says, “No, I like cocks just fine.” Then, boing!, the wacky (gah) sex-crazed dude-doc suddenly appears at their table and says, “This is the best conversation that ever existed.”

Not exactly, buddy. Cause on Quiet Duty at Coco’s, something much, much more best occurred.

“Then you’re sitting at the airport bar, wondering what’s going to happen.”
“Maybe he put something in your drink.”
“Does it matter?”
“Heh.”
“Then he tells you you’re not allowed to talk to anyone, not even the bartender.”
“Then he leaves you alone for a while and reappears with some lame businessman traveller guy.”
“Salesman?”
“Pharmaceutical.”
“Then he makes you go with the business guy to an airport motel.”
“Stinks like an ashtray.”
“Yeah, and mustard-colored polyester bedspreads.”
“Knee burn.”
“Yes.”
“Then he tells you to goddamn suck the guy’s cock. Or whatever the Russian idiom is.”
“The salesguy is starting to get weirded out now.”
“And you’re like, Please, I don’t want to.”
“Then he grabs you by the hair and slams the side of your head into the mirror over the particle board dresser.”
“The business dude is like, I don’t know what the fuck this is. I’m getting out of here.”
“And in his fucking accent, he’s like, You’re not going anywhere, asshole.”
“etc.”

Anyway, this bit is what I was trying to get at last week at Union Pool, when I was talking to that guy who said, “You didn’t plan this very well, did you?” Precisely, asshole. And I said something about “spoken word sex” but got (understandably) distracted by the phrase “Nuyorican Poets Cafe” (can we make that a link to a picture of a teenaged paleboy sticking his finger down his throat?)? The conversation was a series of semantic distractions, and while that’s our stock-in-trade, in this instance it kept the staggering conflagration that is OUR LONG-LOST HOBBY from making its non-accidental debut. (Style guide? Accent aigu?)

by Left Hook | 24 January 2007 | MFABFF, OTOMG, remember when | Comments