
RATS
OFF A SINKING SHIP
The
following events may or may not have happened. Things
are just so unclear these days; I don’t even know
when I’m lying anymore. What I do know, however,
is that some of the best parking on the dogleg can be
found East of the Ready Ice building on 9th Street,
just around the corner from Stubb’s Bar-B-Q. Under
the shadow of downtown Austin’s police depot,
this area may be considered an arrest risk by many partiers,
but I have a theory that may counteract those fears.
All of the patrol cars driving in and out of that station
are manned by officers who are either on their way to
their respective beats in other parts of town, or who
are returning to the motor pool after a hard nights
work. This has created a small vacuum right in the belly
of the beast where all sorts of criminal activity can
go unchecked. The throngs of crack dealers and panhandlers
who inhabit the blocks surrounding the station seem
to ascribe to this theory as well. (Did I use the word
ascribe properly? I have no idea.)
Anyway, that’s where I park when I go downtown.
Often times, I end up fucking in my car when it’s
parked over there, and have never really been worried
about police interference. I find fucking in the car
to be a good way of avoiding many of the complications
and inconveniences that can arise when you actually
go home with a girl. If nothing else, it allows you
both a chance to get to know each other, while at the
same time letting you avoid the awkwardness that accompanies
a hasty departure from one’s home late that night
or early the next morning. On top of that, the snug
confines of an automobile can actually lead to some
pretty creative lovemaking. Besides, what kind of girl
wants to bring a strange man to their house anyway?
I fondly remember banging on this one chick over there,
not only because she was markedly better looking than
my usual haul, but also because of a rude interruption
we suffered during the throes of passion. This particular
time, I was parked right at the entrance of the APD
parking lot, just begging for trouble. I had her laid
back in the passenger seat, and was huddled up on top
of her, just a humping and a bumping when the passenger
door swung open. Being so close to the police station,
and having already ceded the fact that I was bound to
get caught fucking in public someday, I calmly looked
up to face my accuser, fully expecting to see a police
officer standing over us. What followed was a classic
good news-bad news predicament. The good news? Not a
cop. The bad news? Mexicans, five of them, fully intent
on joining the party.
I could tell they were Mexican Nationals by their diminutive
size and complete lack of style. As they began forcing
their way into the car, they gave off yet another telltale
sign of their nationality. See, when Mexicans get involved
in a serious felony, they tend take on a silent desperation,
nothing at all like their larger, louder, American-born
cousins to the North. As quiet as church mice, they
went about their business, two of them climbing right
in on top of me with the other three pushing from behind.
Without even withdrawing from my date, I stiff armed
the pair and started pushing them back out into the
street. In a mixture of English and broken Spanish,
I asked them where their gun was, and told them that
if they didn’t have one, they were wasting my
time as well as their own. If they had had a gun, I
may have had to take a couple of shots while stomping
the vermin. As it was, I never even had to quit fucking
while I threw them back out onto the street and locked
the door.
I watched them for a minute as they ran back to their
car to regroup, but I soon lost interest, completely
unimpressed by their attempted treachery. The punch
line here folks, is that the girl I was with was so
drunk, I said “Jesus Christ, can you believe that
shit?” and she was like “Believe what shit?”
I really fucking hate these new toilets in office buildings
and other public locations that are self-flushing. You
know, the ones that somehow sense when you’re
done taking a shit, and flush on their own? Oh, it’s
great that you don’t have to touch anything to
flush them, but doesn’t everyone use their foot
to flush a public toilet anyway? What sucks about these
things is this; what happens when you want to flush
halfway through a shit? You have to get up and pretend
to leave the fucking bathroom just so the toilet will
flush for you, that’s what happens. What’s
worse than that is when you get to the bathroom, and
there’s still shit left in there from the last
guy. You have to hover over the commode as though you’re
taking a crap, and then pretend to leave just to get
it to clear out for you. I know this may seem like a
lot of work, but I’ll be goddamned if I’m
just going to sit down and mix turds with some fucker
of god knows what race.
I know I say this a lot, but this time I really mean
it. I have absolutely nothing to write about. I wish
somebody would send me a letter from prison, just so
I could waste space. Instead, I’ve resorted to
doing this “the funny thing about taking shits”
routine for the second week in a row. Now I know what
Jerry Seinfeld feels like when he shits his pants. I
hate that little fucker, by the way. I love many of
the characters on “his” show, but I swear
to God if I ever see that little cunt out in public,
I’m going to kick a hole in his ass. What I really
hate is the way he’s always getting all this pussy
on his show. Are you fucking kidding me? There is no
way in hell Jerry Seinfeld pulls wool.
Did I ever mention that Ricky Williams knows me personally?
No, I don’t mean that I know him; I mean that
he knows me. Back during the height of his Heisman Trophy
campaign, The Longhorns were practicing in the huge
white tent that now sits due South of the football stadium.
Apparently, the alumni bought this thing in the guise
of it being needed as a temporary locker room while
construction was being done on the current facility,
and then moved it over to the stadium to serve as the
beer gardens/ restaurant complex during Longhorn home
games. If you are wearing the proper wristband, you
can enter this place during a game and buy a 32-ounce
beer for seven dollars. If you don’t have the
proper wristband, there are several steps you can take
to secure one, none of which we are going to elaborate
on at this point.
Anyway, I was working at Elk Electric, the company that
had secured the lucrative electrical labor contract
from the UT physical plant. I was part of the crew that
installed all of the power to the tent while the football
team was moving in. While working there, we had minimal
contact with the players, at best. The most interaction
I had with Ricky Williams was stealing his nametag off
of his locker, yet I must have caught his eye somehow,
because he would always stop to talk to me in the following
months when I would run into him on campus.
The thing is, I always got the impression that he wanted
to fuck me. You know how sometimes you can just tell
when someone wants to fuck you? Well, that’s the
feeling I got when I talked to him. Don’t get
me wrong, if Ricky Williams wanted me to fuck him, I
probably would, especially in light of everything he’s
done for the State and the University, but there’s
no way in hell I would let him fuck me, no fucking way,
and absolutely no kissing either, ewwww.
When Greg Powe called me well after midnight on Halloween
and told me he wanted to go to the UT-Nebraska game
at 11 o’clock the next morning, I must admit I
had my doubts about his sincerity. These doubts were
completely erased at 7:04 the next morning when he called
me from the parking lot of The Texas State History Museum,
asking me where the fuck I was, as he had already begun
tailgating. Apparently, much like Mike Brant, (see my
Bowl Games article from the “Handsome Joel”
edition of Rank and Revue, February 2003) Powe had decided
to stay up partying all night on a major holiday in
order to assure himself he would be up in time for a
football game the next morning.
When I finally made it to DKR Memorial Stadium at 10:30,
it was already obvious that Powe’s plan (like
Brant’s) had backfired. Too drunk to find the
stadium on foot, Powe caused Jim Isaacs and I miss the
opening kick-off as we talked him in on our cell phones.
Within minutes of reaching our seats, Powe leans over
and tells me he’s about to beat up guy behind
us because, “He’s talking shit about Texas.”
Noticing that the man in question was wearing all burnt
orange, and had his entire family with him; I told Powe
that perhaps he heard the guy wrong. Powe’s response
was “How the fuck would you know?” Shortly
after Vincent Young’s 65-yard touchdown run, Powe
gets up and tells me not to be surprised if I never
see him again. He calls me during halftime because he’s
having trouble finding our seats. Problem is, he’s
at the intersection of MLK and Trinity. In conclusion,
seeing UT romp Nebraska 31-7 only made this year’s
losses to Arkansas and Oklahoma all the more bitter.
-CHAD
HOLT
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