Shake Hands With
April 5, 2007
Hi, my name is lakrfool, and I'm an alcoholic. (you're supposed to say
But enough about that, let's just focus on me. Yes, I have been on
hiatus for a while..a sabbatical if you will. Nestled in the mountains
of Yemen with a loosely associated tribe of wildly comedic sherpas and a
stand-up shaman, I was able to get "the funny" back. And along
the way I lost 175 precious pounds in Tucson that I would really like to
have back, but such is life. Oh well, enough of this hemming and
hawing…let's get down to business.
The other day I was talking to a friend about the state of the
stoner/desert rock scene. We were discussing the parallels between Kyuss
recognized as the founding fathers of the genre, and Fu
Manchu the current kings of stoner rock. I was then reminded
of a story from my days in Santa Monica that my buddy Patrick shared
with me about working at an independent guitar shop with Brad, the lead
guitarist for Fu Manchu.
Late one summer night we had fired up a "cuppa two tree" (©JK)
rounds of Humbolt's finest as we melted into the couch to watch one of
my favorite TV shows of all time, "Nightstalker," featuring
Darren McGavin. I related to Patrick
that I had just picked up the latest Fu CD at the local used record
shop, and he began to spin this yarn about the guitar shop he worked at
A bunch of musicians were employed at the
store for their expertise, and they also happened to be an outstanding
collection of smartasses. Over time, it had become a storewide goal of
sorts to demean the customers as much as possible for their own
For example, a couple of guys with feathered hair came in asking about a
particular guitar, and Patrick pulled one off the wall and said
"this would be perfect for your gay ass Culture Club cover
band." Another time, a mother and her bratty kid came in, and he
wanted to be a "guitar player" and have Patrick hook him up.
When Patrick asked what kind of music he liked, the kid replied
"Duran Duran." Patrick
then hollered across the store "Hey Brad!! Do we have any more of
the Nerf guitars for severely retarded children!!" That kind of
As you can expect, many customers became irate at them and theirs being
made a spectacle of, and demanded to speak to the manager. The manager
was cool as hell, but came off as a hardcore, toe-the-line, corporate
guy when he needed to. The customer would then relate their beef to the
manager, and he would look them in the eye, nodding affirmatively with
them along the way.
When they were finished, the manager would call the offending employee
over, confront him with his offense, and after he acknowledged it, he
would tell them:
"Get your timecard and report to my office. You're fired!"
Patrick said while the manager was smoothing over everything with the
customer, he would go lay down on the couch in the breakroom, and light
About five minutes later, the manager, after impressing the customer
with his impressive show of authority in commitment to customer service
would make the sale, would come into the breakroom, and start cracking
He would then repeat and critique what Patrick said to the customer,
laugh about it some more, and tell Patrick to come
back out the floor in about 5 minutes. Patrick held the record for
getting fired 4 times during a 10 hour shift. Good stuff.
Also, when Patrick finished his story, we realized that Nightstalker had
ended, and an infomercial for some sort of electroshock pain-relieving
device had taken its place. We soon discovered that Evel Knievel was one
of their pitchmen, and he was elaborating on the fantastic painkilling
qualities of the product. When Evel delivered the following "big
pitch" line, we found it to be quite hilarious: "I highly
recommend Product XYZ for those with nagging aches and pains…because
believe me if there's one person that knows about pain, it's Evel
Knievel." No shit man... (watch the last
2 vids in that hyperlink)
My work environs have changed since my last contribution. I have a new
boss, and I now report to work in Plano instead of North Dallas. This is
much better for me as my commute has been cut by 2/3rds, and let's just
say that the "scenery" in the cube farm here is much more
preferable than the old building. Wuff. It's like a Baskin Robbins
sexeteria here, all the flavors you could possibly want.
There's a little Asian number that goes by the name of "Von
Ngo." Even though I know the pronunciation is different, I am still
half inclined to send her an email with my
ear as an attachment. Love you long time GI.
You might recall that I am an urban commando of sorts, utilizing the
combined efforts of my mountain bike and DART rail to get around The D.
However, weather didn't cooperate
last week, and I was forced to use a shuttle/rail/bus combo commute to
get to/from work.
On the shuttle bus that at the end of the day carries my sorry ass from
work to the DART station, there are a very entertaining "band of
bruthahs" on the same shuttle. In my mind, I have nicknamed them
"Big Bruthah," "Dredloxx," and "Other
Brother." Their conversations are lively and colorful, usually
centering around sports or getting pussy (not necessarily in that
One day, Big Brutha used words to weave a delicate tapestry of an
encounter he had experienced the evening before at an exotic club named
"Peeping Tom's." I will now attempt to recreate this
conversation using the vernacular in which it was presented.
"Yo n*gga! I rolled up ta Peepin Tum's last night, an dat bitch Cee
Cee wuz dancin. (he then distributed a "bidness cahd" of said
erotic entertainer…I believe the word "juicy" was used to
describe her physical attributes) An yo n*gga, when she come slidin down
dat pole, I said 'yo, this n*gga gonna get his ass a lap dance from dat
ho. (this was received by his comrades with much gusto.) Yo check it…I
waved her ass ovah ta me an akst her how much fo a lap dance. She said 'fohtee'
an I said 'coo' and she stahted ta git awl up on me, straddlin me an
slappin me round wit her big ass floppy tiddies. (again, the fellas were
highly amused with this revelation) So she did dat fo a while, an den
dat bitch slid down an stahted grindin her shit awl up an dahn my dick,
an lickin me in my erruh. Man, when she did dat, I said 'yo fuck dis'
and I cumm-ded awl up awn myseff."
At this point, the bruthas erupted and were howling with laughter, yours
truly included. See, this is the kind of entertainment you don't get on
the expressway parked in traffic in your SUV. Fuck Howard Stern and all
self-styled "radio personalities" jamming the airwaves with
their douchenuggetry. Give me all the ethnicities, punks, gangstas,
freaks, hookers, homeless and retards every day, and twice on Sunday.
That's how I "maintain one's authenticity" (AKA 'keep it
The other night me and my buddy Ken (the self proclaimed "Rock And
Roll Chef" of Dallas) and I were attending a late night engagement
of an exclusive organization of which we are both members. Afterwards,
we were chatting up some females on the sidewalk, when I noticed a peculiar
advertisement for an adjacent deli. (That's me by the way,
staying in character.)
Then across the street, Ken spied this dining
establishment. (me again, still in character) There seemed to be
a theme at play here, and we deemed it worthy of a "Kodak
As we were driving home, I was still speculating on the comedic
potential of the deli. I then came up the idea that we could employ
Ken's older brother Chris (my Best Man at my wedding) who is a
burgeoning documentarian, for a prank.
Under the premise of being a food critic for a local access cable
channel, I would interview the proprietor of the deli about his
specialty. Here would be my line of questioning.
"So I see in your window that this is the 'home of the johnson.'
Could you tell me about your johnson??"
"I see, so how big is the johnson??"
"How does the johnson come??"
"Do you have packages of condomm…ents for a big johnson??"
"In the interest of substitutions, could I get some tuna to
come on my big johnson??"
And so on…
is the first cartoon in a series entitled "MEN" by my
Lakerbrother and good friend Splunge. He told me National Lampoon
owns the rights to it already, so no reason not to run it in here.
As a parting gift, I offer you this. Last night after a run to the
grocery, when I peeled off my cap, I noticed atop my reflection an
outstanding head of superhero hair (a
la the fleet Avenger, Quicksilver.) I attempted to capture
it, but it came out kinda blurry.
Or artish fartish, however you want to look at it.
Yes, this has been a long update, but I had to make up for lost time.
Don't worry, there's plenty on the plate for next week, including
details of my buddy Chris' wedding, and an in-depth analysis of dog
Shakes The Clown
West Virginia Surf Report!