SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES #8

SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES #8

BATFISH

ISLA MUJURES

Business was winding down at the beach bar. It usually does after the boats head back with the tourists to Cancun. The majority of the tourist trade does not stay overnight on Isla Mujures. Which is one of the reasons I live here. More low key, more out of sight, more out of mind.

I took the days receipts up to the hotel and locked the doors to the bars coolers.

Artimus and I then strolled down to the sea wall with two six packs of Bohemia beer, apiece. We often sat and drank the nights away there.

Whatever he had taken was really starting to wind him up.

“You want a couple of these?” Two black capsules sat in the palm of his outstretched hand. “Black beauties, dude. The real thing. Not those fake, caffeine, diet pieces of shit they sell in those women's magazines.”

I washed the capsules down with a swig of icy cold brew. Knowing that I wouldn’t probably be getting much sleep for the twenty hours or so now.

“So do your folks know all about this shit? Did they come see you in the nuthouse?”

“No, they sure didn’t. In fact, I haven’t seen or heard from my parents since the day I left for the Navy. I’m sure they have no idea where the hell I am. I don’t even know if any authorities have ever tried to contact

them,” I replied.

“I hated the fucking Marines, man. Those guys were some of the most uptight assholes I’ve ever met. Should’ve joined the Air Force. They had it dicked. Navy didn’t seem much better. How did you decide on joining up with those gonads?”

“Just like I said before. That Nicholson movie. I thought it would really be like that.”

“I’d like to find my recruiter and beat the ever living shit out of him. Fucker fed me a pack of lies and I ate it like a hash brownie.” Artimus belched out. An annoying habit he has when he’s been seriously drinking.

“Coming from where I was though, I sure bought the hell out of it. Here I am seventeen years old, 120 pounds soaking wet, buck toothed, and no one is mistaking me for Paul Newman. And here sits this Navy recruiter telling me about going to the Philippines and screwing all the broads you want. Even two or three at a time. The Navy should have made that part of their advertising campaign. All I could think of was laying around at night while my oriental house girl serviced me in ways the sluts of Albert Lea hadn’t even thought of.”

I was starting to feel the intense black beauty buzz

coming on.

Not much fanfare when I left home. I had graduated a few weeks earlier. Not much to say about that either. The old man dropped me off at the bus depot and told me to “give’em hell boy” and drove off in his calf

shit yellow colored Ford Torino.

He was probably glad that I had made it that far considering the families recent experiences with the military.

Before my big brother bought the big one at the state reform school he had been given an option to either enlist in the Marines or go to the state reformatory in Red Wing. He had been caught on a breaking and entering charge. He and some buddies had broken into the local high school and tore the place up. The coup de grace had been the taking of a shit in the principals top desk drawer.

Offender of said heinous crime never identified. He enlisted and it took him four visits to the induction center before the Marines had had enough of him.

First time up he was running a fever, probably had some cigarettes tucked under his armpit.

Time number two he went to “wash up” after his physical and someone stole his glasses. There’s a big black market out there for stolen prescription glasses.

Third time was not the charm; he “slipped” on ice the night before he was to leave and broke

his arm. Probably had someone drive a car over it.

Fourth time he simply walked out the door of the induction center before they swore him in. Some jarhead called my Dad on the phone a few hours later and told him to keep his “pussy” of a son. His exact words.

Both of his buddies that had been involved in his crime of the century had also been force enlisted into the Marines. One was killed in Vietnam within six months by a sniper. The other one had been busted shitting in his

commanding officer’s desk top drawer and was serving three to five in the brig. Mystery solved on the who shit in the principal’s desk.

But the judge wasn’t as forgiving to my brother as the U. S. Marine Corps had been. He didn’t buy his USMC rejection story. Sent him straight up the highway to Red Wing reform school and the rest is history. Shank in the gut and a bar of Ivory up your ass.

There was uncle on my mother’s side of the family who had also joined the Navy, but he wasn’t a real popular subject of family conversation. Something to do with young boys and syphilis, but the facts aren’t very clear

I had just turned drinking age and made the most of my last night in Minnesota. They put us up at the Raddison Hotel in Minneapolis and a couple of us filled a bathtub full of ice and Crazy Horse malt liquor. Got insanely fucked up and went and saw my first porno movie down on historic Hennepin Avenue. Historic because it’s such a shithole.

Not much of a going away party. I had an old army vet in my room who was going back on active duty and I was slightly afraid of losing my anal cherry but

had nothing to worry about. He came in and said he had drunk about “a fucking hundred beers” and passed out.

I was sworn into the Navy with a hangover that would have killed a fucking horse and I couldn’t have cared less. The induction center reeked of the smell of dirty feet and bungholes and it was all I could do to hold down my free continental breakfast. It was a relief to leave the place even if the next stop was the San Diego Naval Induction Center.

I started to bang down screwdrivers and soon as the drink cart rolled down the aisle of the plane. Looking out the window at the cornfields down below I never realized that I how long it would be before I ever saw Minnesota again.

I didn’t remember until I was two days into boot camp, that the night before I left Albert Lea, high on LSD and beer, me and a buddy of mine had shot all the streetlights out in Alden, Minnesota and then burned down an abandoned farmhouse. The blood of Al Capone must run in the family.

THE COST OF BEER AND BARFING AT THE SUPER BOWL

THE COST OF BEER AND BARFING AT THE 

SUPERBOWL

Growing up in Minnesota I have personal experience & knowledge about the amount of boozing that goes on in that State. Next to the Minnesota State High School Hockey Tournament, drinking is the most popular thing going on in the frozen tundra of the Great White North. Winter or Summer.

So naturally I was curious about what the cost of a beer would be at the Superbowl which is being held today in  Minnesota's temple of the Vikings - which the Vikings actually had a chance to play in if you put aside the fact that the Eagles kicked the holy shit out of them two weeks ago and in the process making them look like a second rate Arena League squad.

On the web I couldn't pin down the exact cost but the estimates seemed to be $12 for a small shit beer - Budweiser product - or a premium beer - they're probably considering Leinenkugel as a premium beer - for $14. That doesn't include the plastic cup "souvenir beer" which will probably run you around $18.

Being an ex-sailor and ex-drunk, I then thought about how much beer the average drunk is going to put away before they puke it all up - either at the stadium or out in the parking lot after the game in 0 degree weather. That's a lot of cash firing out of your gut either down the toilet or freezing on the sidewalk. Or even worse....

...down the head, neck, and back of the person sitting in front of you who just bought their ticket this morning on StubHub for $5000. Which most likely would turn into a massive brawl with eviction from the game and possible arrest!

Which led me to think of my most memorable barfing incident. And like I said - being a sailor and a one time drunk I have hurled many a time.

But being it is SuperBowl Sunday and it is being played in my home state - the home of the Coen brothers, Jesse Ventura, The Trashmen (Surfin' Bird), Scott LeDoux (boxer), Bob Dylan, Judy Garland, pervert Garrison Keillor,  16 time world wrestling champion Verne Gagne who in the throes of dementia body-slammed another resident - killing him in the process - at the care facility he was living at, and many other dignitaries...I decided to share my own personal GREATEST PUKING INCIDENT of my life...but the incident had to be one of the times I yakked in Minnesota...since I've vomited from Hawaii to Amsterdam.

No problem. Since my greatest kneeling before the porcelain princess story, did in fact, happen in Minnesota.

The #3 greatest upchuck was while I was in the Navy and my ship, the USS Dixie AD-14, was in the yards in Long Beach. The night before I had gotten totally shithoused smoking hash oil and drinking copious amounts of Olde English 800. Nursing a hangover that could kill a horse I almost made it through the work day without incident - even while I was in a porta john which was up on the main deck, taking a leak, and two deck apes started to push it back and forth, and shit/piss and that blue crap was sloshing all over inside. Somehow I kept it all down. But near the end of the day I was nursing a Coke and looking down at the water and saw this huge turd floating in the harbor. Back then when you flushed a toilet on a ship it pumped straight into the surrounding waters. Of all sudden, a huge sea gull dropped down into the water right next to the turd and happily gulped it down while giving a gull screech of appreciation. That was it for me! What little I had in my stomach - a microwave burrito and a Almond Joy - became the dessert for the seagull.

#2 was also while I was in the Navy in Long Beach. I was living in Savannah Navy housing in Long Beach which was part of the ghetto off of Santa Fe & PCH. A buddy of mine and I were getting high and drinking vodka. When we ran out of vodka we decided to to stroll over to Santa Fe to Anchor Liquor & pick up another jug. On the way back as we staggered down the sidewalk, we were hitting the vodka straight out of the jug and I could suddenly feel it all ready to blow! We must have been really loud because this Navy wife opened her front door and told us to "shut the fuck up because we were keeping her kids awake". I responded by calmly walking over to her car and puking all over the hood of her car and then turned and screamed at her to "Get the fuck back in the house"! Which she did! Probably to call the Shore Patrol. That taught her for trying to ruin our good clean wholesome fun! What ever happened to support the troops anyway?

But #1 - the all time personal alcohol induced vomit story happened the night before the Super Bowl when I was home on leave in Minnesota. This guy was throwing a huge bash in his apartment which was on on top of this bar in Alden, Minnesota,  a tiny town just outside of Albert Lea (my hometown which isn't a whole hell of a lot bigger). The bar owner was there so every time a keg went dry he'd just pop downstairs and grab another. There was a shitload of bikers there and they had mixed up this punch in a 50 gallon trash can. At the time when I was drinking the punch I had no idea what was in it, but it gave you this incredible urge to drink more and more of it. Finally, after it ran out, you could see a white residue in the bottom of the can and one of the bikers told me that they had mixed over 200 hits of speed in it!

After that, everybody, while talking the speed of sound, started to hammer down the beer, and I drank so much that I felt that if I poured anymore down my throat it would run out of my mouth. Since the party was just starting to roll, I decided the best thing was to discretely sneak out the door and barf in the back alley - giving me more room in my gut so I could drink more. I walked out on to the back outdoor steps but the urge to barf was so intense so I simply hung my head over the railing and let go! 

It had to easily have been 30 degrees below zero without the wind chill and the geyser of puke (the relief was was so great it just felt wonderful - I could have done it all over again it felt so good) cascaded down on to the windshield of the car below me - freezing instantly! I then returned to the party which went on until the sun came up. I woke up that evening with a hangover so severe I thought that I may have had a stroke! I can't imagine what it was like scraping that windshield that SuperBowl morning.

I've got a feeling that tonight after the SuperBowl (because this is Minnesota, home of the some of the greatest alcoholics in history) - whether it's the Patriots or the Eagles that's crowned the World Champions - that someone is going to have to scrape some nachos and hot dogs off of their windshield.

$18 dollars for a beer or not! 

***And remember Uber charges anywhere from $25 to $150 to clean puke up in their cars.***