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Posts Tagged ‘Hunter Thompson

Off-the-Cuff: Eggnog Escapades

with 2 comments

By Velleitaire and Paleocrat
Dec. 11, 2008

EDITOR’S NOTE: There was at no point during this event, or even thereafter, where Paleocrat was intoxicated. Furthermore, the Meijer associates at no time referred to the Jews or spun recklessly on the floor. The rest has been slightly dramatized for the reader’s enjoyment.

Eggnog…we need eggnog. But where? That is the question… Aha! Meijer, of course. Most certainly Meijer.

Paleo and I jump recklessly out of the vehicle as it speeds at 76 mph towards a most frightening curb made of adamantium and dynamite. Dusting the bitter remains of failed dreams and government cheese off our clothing, we made our way to the door.

“Dang Nazis,” he said, “why are the enter doors on the left side?”

Curious question. Curious question indeed. But we submit ourselves – grudgingly I might add – to the whimsical fancy of the fascist draftsman who plotted out the absurd left-side entryway. We hadn’t passed through the automated doors once operated by low-wage immigrants before Paleo began rambling on about Koreans and how “it’s all their fault.”

“Well of course, why wouldn’t be?” I replied.

In typical Paleo fashion, he is oblivious to – or just ignores – the fact that there is a door greeter just a few feet away. She heard ever word… and was apparently made nervous by what appeared to be a racially charged accusation against all Korean people! With her gross globs of lipstick and painted on eyebrows, the elderly woman uttered what was obviously nothing more than a nervous chuckle.

Paleo turns around abruptly, looking the woman straight in the eyes. She smiled, but no amount of caked makeup or globs of lipstick could hide her sudden timidity. I can only imagine her wondering what was going to happen next. I was wondering the exact same thing. A crazed white man ranting about Koreans in the middle of the night.

“I’m talking about my wife,” Paleo explains. “My wife is Korean, and most certainly to blame for everything.”

She gives a nervous laugh, then says, “Now don’t you go forgetting about those Jews.”

For the love of all things sacred! Did she just say what I thought she said? No… there is no way… certainly the sweet, old greeter didn’t say something about the Jews! Oh well, we must move on. To the dairy section… focus Mary, Paleo certainly won’t can’t focus for himself. No, not tonight.

Ah…yes, alas, rows and rows of artery-clogging eggnog. For the first time since entering this establishment I thought all was well and good. No more Koreans, no more Tammy Faye Baker greeters… oops, spoke too soon.

“The ether is suppose to stay in the car, Mary!”  he said with the kind of frustration that comes from those who know too much when speaking to those who know too little. “For crying out loud, Mary, you have it all over your scarf.”

In most any other situation this would be no problem… but not this time. Paleo, pretending to be in a drunken stupor, just so happened to have blurted this out in front of another customer. She looked like she got a kick out of the entire thing, but she was probably confident that Paleo was on a copious amount of drugs. To make matters worse, the woman probably thought that I was also a drug addict! How to get out of this? How? I will insist that I am his designated driver!

I walk towards the woman, signaling that I wished to tell her something. “Ma’am,” I said…

“Can you help us?” Paleo interrupted.

No, he did not just do that! He chose to use that very moment to begin asking innocent bystanders whether a jug or a carton is a better deal. “I am not good with this stuff,” he admits, “too many numbers. It’s like demanding me to Velcro my shoes! Tough stuff for any man, really.”

The woman, apparently moved by what appeared to be his drug-induced state of mind, convinces him that the best deal is to buy three cartons. She also informs him that any more than about a shot of Captain Morgan in a glass of eggnog will overpower the other flavors.

“Honestly, toots, I am not at all sure that would bother me at this time.”

Oh goodness! He called her toots! Am I blushing? The woman was, but almost in a way that gave the impression that she didn’t mind being belittled in such a way. Toots? Toots??

Check it out, bag it up, and walk towards the exit. That is all we had to do. Simple enough, no trouble, and certainly no Koreans.

It is in this comfortably safe place that Paleo began jabbering on about Rumple Minze putting hair on your eyeballs. “Everyone knows it.” Yeah, everyone… everyone except for me!

“What the heck does that even mean?” I asked. “For that matter, what is Rumple Minze?”

He stopped mid-stride, jaw hitting the floor.

“What? Are you serious? Everyone knows! Even these two broads behind the counter.”

The comfortable safety quickly vanished as the two “broads” he was referring to overheard his remark. Here it comes… we are so screwed.

“It’s a figure of speech,” one of the girls said. “It’s like the saying about how drinking Brandy puts hair on your chest.”

“And don’t forget potato  chips,” Paleo added, “those worked for me.”

The woman rubs her chest in a manner much like Paleo, admitting, “It worked for me too.”

The two of them began laughing hysterically, the woman obviously having no qualms with being referred to as a broad. Sanity had vanished. They began giggling so hard that snot was running out of their noses. The two of them hit the tiled floor, spinning wildly in circles, faces turned red with laughter over what appeared to be some kind of sick inside joke. He later told me he never met her before that time. His reaction was purely spur of the moment. He was just amazed that she was as much into the hysteria as he was.

So we head for the door… oh no, the greeter! Isn’t it past her bedtime? Doesn’t she have to get back for the Golden Girls, Murder She Wrote, or Matlock? Aren’t there hard candies or sherbet to eat?

No matter what her excuse, she was still there by the doors. Paleo chances one more encounter with this woman. He tells her that if a Korean woman comes asking for a man named “Jeremiah,” that she is to tell her that he went on a safari, and that, Lord willing, he will be back sometime Tuesday.

Finally, back to those irritating backward doors we first entered. We had our eggnog. That is all we came for… Or was it? As I looked over at Paleo, he cracked a half-smile, returning to his typical sober demeanor, only to make a snide, off-the-cuff remark about how gullible people really are.

What a sick man. Truly a sick man. I always knew public apperances with Paleo were unpredictable…unpredictable indeed… but this had been something altogether otherworldly.