The Puke Helmet
So we’re at this house party in 1977, ya see. (think , “That 70’s Show” for those of you born after 1985) George and I sneak away into the garage to go “under the rock” (that’s where we kept it in those days). We were known as “El Ka-bong and Dr. Destructo” for the amount of mayhem, and carnage that seemed to follow us. So we sneak surreptitiously through the kitchen to the debris-filled suburban garage. Minding our own business, blowing a joint and pondering the universe, we are rudely interrupted by some underclassed drunk. Ya know, “Hey dude, what’s happenin’, I’m sooo drunk, my girlfriend says..., When I played football, I...., I could beat you guys....on and on.”
“SHAAAAAD-AAAP!” George says, as he palms the guy’s face and shoves him into taking a seat on some newspapers behind a green garbage can. Bumbed out for the moment, he relents and leans over the open can, elbows on the edge, hands cupping his forlorn face.
Peace and quiet! That’s better. Now where were we? We continue our ever-so-important discussion until “Timmy” the drunko-boy begins to heave. In a flash of comic brilliance, George grabs a full-faced motorcycle helmet from the shelf. You know, the kind with a solid jaw piece and a full windshield. He spins and proceeds to pop the helmet onto our drunken victim.
If I may digress for a moment, each of us in our youthful transgressions, fell prey to the abuse of those around us, if we had the audacious stupidity to pass out or lose control of various bodily functions while in the company of our mischievous crew. Once you have been the recipient of such brotherly concern as tying your laces together, magic markering up your sleeping face, having shaving cream squirted up your nose,etc., you learn to control your drinking or at the very least to crawl off into a hiding place to escape the torture. We all painfully learned this lesson in our own way.
It was survival of the fittest.
It made for a sharp crew, and at the very least an entertaining interlude ‘til we lost interest. NEVER, I repeat, NEVER show weakness or ARROGANCE in front of the crew. (Drunks are tailor made for this, God knows I learned the hard way!)
Back to “Timmy”, our arrogant drunk. As the helmet slides on with a “shwop”, Timbo barely reacts. One beat, two beats, he realizes something’s amiss. He stands bolt-upright. His hands are still on the sides of his face.....IN THE HELMET!
He wobbles unsteadily from the waist as he tries in vain to loose his hands, panic sets in, his eyes widen as realizes his dilemma. He dry-heaves again and his eyes bug-out in pure terror. He seems to say “Pul-eeease” (a-hah, I know what you’re thinkin’) George and I look at each other, shrug, it’s definitely too late to do anything now. We turn back to Puke-head just in time to see his face disappear behind lunch, dinner and 13 beers.
His initial thrust was so hard that it shot out of the back of the bottom of the helmet, like two chum jets. It was one of the strangest things that I have ever seen. And except for the splat on the floor it was silent.....kinda like it would be in space.
He struggled to get free and we lent a hand. In the end, he was shaken but relatively unscathed. Needless to say, he stunk and nobody at the party wanted to talk to him after that. I’m sure that if we x-rayed his head we would find bile-laden food particles in his cranium. His hair looked a lot like that messed-up-just-got-outta-bed-thing that’s so popular today (except with peas in it).
Was that wrong?
“SHAAAAAD-AAAP!” George says, as he palms the guy’s face and shoves him into taking a seat on some newspapers behind a green garbage can. Bumbed out for the moment, he relents and leans over the open can, elbows on the edge, hands cupping his forlorn face.
Peace and quiet! That’s better. Now where were we? We continue our ever-so-important discussion until “Timmy” the drunko-boy begins to heave. In a flash of comic brilliance, George grabs a full-faced motorcycle helmet from the shelf. You know, the kind with a solid jaw piece and a full windshield. He spins and proceeds to pop the helmet onto our drunken victim.
If I may digress for a moment, each of us in our youthful transgressions, fell prey to the abuse of those around us, if we had the audacious stupidity to pass out or lose control of various bodily functions while in the company of our mischievous crew. Once you have been the recipient of such brotherly concern as tying your laces together, magic markering up your sleeping face, having shaving cream squirted up your nose,etc., you learn to control your drinking or at the very least to crawl off into a hiding place to escape the torture. We all painfully learned this lesson in our own way.
It was survival of the fittest.
It made for a sharp crew, and at the very least an entertaining interlude ‘til we lost interest. NEVER, I repeat, NEVER show weakness or ARROGANCE in front of the crew. (Drunks are tailor made for this, God knows I learned the hard way!)
Back to “Timmy”, our arrogant drunk. As the helmet slides on with a “shwop”, Timbo barely reacts. One beat, two beats, he realizes something’s amiss. He stands bolt-upright. His hands are still on the sides of his face.....IN THE HELMET!
He wobbles unsteadily from the waist as he tries in vain to loose his hands, panic sets in, his eyes widen as realizes his dilemma. He dry-heaves again and his eyes bug-out in pure terror. He seems to say “Pul-eeease” (a-hah, I know what you’re thinkin’) George and I look at each other, shrug, it’s definitely too late to do anything now. We turn back to Puke-head just in time to see his face disappear behind lunch, dinner and 13 beers.
His initial thrust was so hard that it shot out of the back of the bottom of the helmet, like two chum jets. It was one of the strangest things that I have ever seen. And except for the splat on the floor it was silent.....kinda like it would be in space.
He struggled to get free and we lent a hand. In the end, he was shaken but relatively unscathed. Needless to say, he stunk and nobody at the party wanted to talk to him after that. I’m sure that if we x-rayed his head we would find bile-laden food particles in his cranium. His hair looked a lot like that messed-up-just-got-outta-bed-thing that’s so popular today (except with peas in it).
Was that wrong?
posted by BUK at 3:06 PM
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