The 'Super-Exciting Sunday Morning Driveway Chase' Story. Continued.
Okay, so I'm going to pick up right where I left off. (I'm getting right to it, in case you're really excited to know what happened. So you don't kill me for leaving you hanging. Which I only did because the post was so wicked long and how are you suppo--What's that now? Oh! Yeah, okay. I'll get on with it, then.)
So, I rounded the corner and my heart? It stopped. Because, my friends, The Dog was not barking at some super-brave deer. Oh, no he was not. Because, my friends, right there, in my back yard, staggering toward my crazy-barking dog, was a COMPLETELY, TOTALLY, SPECTACULARLY, FUCKED-UP GUY. And when I say 'FUCKED-UP,' I am not just talking about a regular, run-of-the-mill *drank all night and need to sleep it off* kind of fucked-up. I am talking about an *on some kind of insane drugs plus LOADS of booze all night long at MANSON'S PLACE* kind of FUCKED-UP. Also? He was SUPER-DUPER DISHEV. I don't mean that he was a little dishev from a night of hard partying. I'm saying that he was COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY GRUBBY. And also? He was covered in blood. Yes, yes. That's what I said. He was covered. in. BLOOD. And he was INSIDE my FENCED-IN back yard. Staggering. Toward my stalwart and oh, so, good The Dog.
I did mention that this was just before 7AM, on a Sunday, right?
My heart started beating again, double-time and in my throat, thankyouverymuch, and I watched, horrified, as he came closer to The Dog and to ME and to my TOTALLY OPEN BACK DOOR. He lost his balance and fell, head-first into our glass patio set. That's when I closed the door (leaving The Dog out as my [sacrificial lamb] protector) and went to get The Man.
[Aside: if you're [a skimmer] a new reader, and you aren't able to predict how The Man might process this kind of awakening, do yourself a HUGE favor and read this post, here. I'll wait for you because you'll miss at least HALF of the funny contained in this story without the knowledge afforded you by the post.]
The Man acted true to form and so this was, oh, probably the third time in his life that he'd LEAPED out of bed to come to my rescue, bumbly, disoriented and wearing only his underpants. On his way to the back door, he picked up his aluminum baseball bat. Like a true Super-Hero.
Let's pause here, to give you a minute to fix the mental picture.
Got it? M'kay.
So, The Man goes tearing through the house toward the back door, adrenaline pumping, as I turn to pick up the phone to call 911. And this is the part where The Man utters the line that will be etched on his tombstone. This line, spoken with such amazing urgency at the time, has rendered us helpless with laughter every time it has been spoken since. And now, dear and patient readers, I will share it with you.
As The Man got to the back door, he surveyed the situation and then, as he fumbled with the knob, he turned to me and said this:
"GET ME PANTS!!"
Which, of course, I did.
I returned after getting the pants and calling the police, The Man and I go out into the yard, just in time to see the IFUG (Incredibly Fucked-Up Guy) trying to *escape* by climbing over the fence. HOWEVER and OF COURSE, he was WAY too fucked up to accomplish the move and he ended up FALLING FLAT and applying his FACE DIRECTLY TO THE ASPHALT on the other side of the fence. He staggered to his feet and was now GUSHING blood.
About this time Manson shows up, wild and crazy-looking as ever. Having heard the commotion, he came barrel-assing out of his house, trying to [avoid further exposure to law enforcement] calm the situation. And for whatever reason, upon seeing Manson, I became ENRAGED. I started screaming and cursing and OMG, it turned into a full-blown episode of JERRY SPRINGER on my driveway. I'm not even joking. It went like this:
TNG: 'WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON, DUDE?! THIS IS TOOOOTALLY FUCKED UP, DO YOU KNOW THAT? FUCK FUCK FUUUUCK KAJA GOOGOO CURSING CURSING CURSING INSULTING CURSSSSIIINNNG.'
Manson: 'I know, I know, I'm so sorry, I don't let him come over, he just came over. I'm so sorrysorry sorry soooooorrrryyyy sorry, I'm so soorrryyy.'
TNG: 'Well WHATTHEFUCKEVER. I just called the cops, and they'll be here ANY MINUTE. So, sjlfoiub;l licjoj;glki And also CURSING CURSING STILL EFFING AND CURSING WHAAAT THEE FUUCCCK??'
I then go into the house and do a Gladys Kravitz out the side window and this, friends, is where the comedy portion of our show goes into full swing. Because Manson was trying desperately to help his friend to get away before the police came. And as he's easing the guy into his car, something clicks for the IFUG. He changes his mind and backs away from Manson. He refuses to get into the car. They start to quarrel, Manson trying to Talk Sense and the IFUG trying to get away...from Manson. Then? He started to run. And Manson started to chase him, pleading with him to get into the car for his own sake.
Dudes. They ran around and around and around the car. Needing only some of that catchy circus-clown music to make the scene complete. I had to hand it to IFUG, though, he never fell for that crafty trick that you do when you're chasing someone. You know, when you turn and run the other way? Even in his fucked-up, dishev and bleeding state, he was hip to that jive.
Anyway.
The police came, an ambulance came, and the comedy continued. The only other moment of drama was when The Man discovered that the side mirror on his BRAND NEW CAR was broken and dangling. That was a little touch and go there because by then, The Police were on the scene and I was a little reluctant to do the Full Jerry on the driveway with The Fuzz parked on the street. Oh. And I should say that there were SEVEN POLICE CARS there, lights flashing and all. On a SUNDAY MORNING.
Then I went in to finish getting ready for work. HO HO!! Did you forget that I was in the middle of putting on make-up and all when I went to check on The Dog? I went back into the bathroom and when I looked into the mirror, I got the surprise of a lifetime. For underneath and between my eyes and on the sides of my nose were perfectly placed dots of concealer that had yet to be blended.
And so, yes, friends. Yes. I was out on the driveway, unleashing my PERSONAL POWER onto Crazy Manson with what looked like WAR-PAINT on my face.
And this thought occurred to me: 'If there had been an uninformed, impartial observer witnessing that entire event, who would have looked crazier? The quiet and apologetic Manson who was trying to help out his [recent parolee] friend? Or the SCREAMING, CURSING, WAR-PAINTED, JERRY SPRINGER, MOFO NEIGHBORS?'
Uh-huh. That's what I thought, too.
And then I scheduled my basket-weaving class and wrung my hands and cackled myself to death. The end.