Saturday, May 8, 2010

Naked Brunch

Every now and again, The Yossarians would host a backyard bbq brunch, to which friends and associates alike were always invited. These were quasi baccanalian feasts usually climaxing in a pancake supper, as Yossarian fandangoes tend to go on all fuckin’ day as that’s how the whole damned Yossarian family liked to party, damn it!

The latest video shoot for the Wild Riderz show was wrapped up just in time for Janet to think about firing up the BBQ for the entire neighborhood. As this can go for hours, all who braved these fandangoes could count on lots of bangers and steaks and kidneys and a big-assed pot of baked beans on an old propane grill that looked ready to fall apart.

Well, one year it did…during a particularly heavy rainstorm. Both the Yossarian and Haskin families were heavy duty hardcore in that they’ll brave a monsoon for a damned fine BBQ brunch. They ended up moving the BBQ to the Bauhaus Café that day. There they could likewise count on a damned fine cuppa coffee or a pint of guinness as well. Additionally, there was an electronic dartboard for anyone who felt up for a few rounds of darts.

In time the storm passed and the afternoon found them back at the Yossarian “mansion.” Janet and Punk Mother were on the back porch sharing a pipe.

Stella and Cannes were getting the kitchen cleaned up and ready for the next round of feasting, and they could both see Janet passing the pipe to Punk Mother. “Look at the two of them…” Stella commented. “Prattling on like they’re in some damned chick flick!”

“As disgusted as I am by this blatantly public display of affection, and I am…” Cannes responded, “I hope to God that this,” She then gestures to the two ladies on the patio, “becomes our future.”

“Well, if that’s to be your lot, you’d better have a damned good backlog of memories…and they’d better not be boring.” Stella replied. She then turned to her sister to let her have this; “How could you of all sorts be so freaked out over a little black dog, or a black dog of any kind?!? That is so uncharacteristically racist especially for you.”

“It’s not the damned dog that’s freaking me out. That damned dog is only the messenger. It’s what he had to show me; this terrible image of you dying right in front of me.” Cannes had this kind of conversation with Stella once before. Ever since she came out of her coma, she’s been having these recurring nightmares of following this black dog into the woods only to find Stella dead.

Cannes had every good reason to be concerned about this; Stella can be every bit as wreckless as her Dad.

“Hey, unless proven otherwise, a dream is just a dream.” Stella pointed out. “And even if it is meant to be, it may have already happened in some other dimension far removed from the universe you share with me. Either that, or the dream could have the totally opposite meaning, that you could go before me. In which case I should be freaked out for you; after all you were the one who went into a coma not too long ago.

“Anyway,” Stella prattled on, “You shouldn’t be afraid of anything, you’re the biggest bully in school after all. Even Jarvis is afraid of you.”

“Oh please; if anything we don’t want to be seen as some chickenshit who has real problems even with the way air molecules flow together.” With that Cannes’ mind began to wander to a moment when Fergie Mum-Mum would let her have at least some sweets in her pre-type 2 days while Stella did without. Noting the floating memory she continued. “I’m surprised you haven’t bullied me into giving you all of the cakes and sweets that Mum-Mum shared with me, being the bigger sister that you are.”

“You’d’ve kicked my ass!”

“Well, so what? I mean, it’s easy enough to avoid an ass kicking by being nice and giving you everything you want. But you type 1’s, man, have this fuggin’ sword of Damocles riding your ass the rest of your life?”

“And the type 2’s don’t? Oh puh-leeze!” Stella rolled her eyes.

“I mean, I’m more worried about you not having eaten enough than I do about you eating way too many sweets, really.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…So in what way does living with this fine mess differ with dealing with bullies? Look…” Stella continued. “As much as I know you love me, I think you’re really more worried for yourself now that you’ve got it…”

“Yeah, well duh!” This was said in a much more soft and gentle tone than it appears in print, gentle reader, so don’t even assume Cannes is pulling attitude here, okay.

“…which is perfectly understandable; The hypos are hell, and they scare the shit out of me. But I’ve lived with this long enough to learn a few tricks. Have a meal with your shot. Drink juice when you feel light headed; if the glucose ain’t low the potassium might be. Keep your stash loaded and on you at all times. A preemptive strike is the key, and yes I realize it sounds militaristic of me, like a fucking general, but y’know, there’s a WAR…” of course she emphasizes the word WAR, “…going on inside of me and I’ve fought it for many years already. But even so, it’s far easier for me to manage what happens in my body than to control what other people do..

“And quite frankly, it ain’t so much that I fear having my ass kicked. The plain and simple truth is I’m not a masochist by any means – yes, you heard right,” Stella added in response to an arched eyebrow that Cannes shot her as she prattled, “I’m not a masochist, and neither do I have the time nor the patience to let myself be dragged into whatever little dog and pony show you tough shits wanna play out for your own amusement.”

Stella then drew a deep and heavy sigh, and she felt as if a tremendous weight was lifted off her. No wonder she began to feel lightheaded.

“Okay, Estelle, deep breaths here. You’ve said quite a mouthful to say the least.” Cannes wondered if she might need a cola right about now. The impact of Stella’s speech could almost pass for the old baseball bat to the stomach. Stella can be every bit as long-winded as she is intense, and often it was hard for the listener to tell whether she was talking out of her ass or not…even when Stella was clear about what she was saying half the time.

But she wasn’t done yet, but proceeded at a slower verbal pace than before. “How long have you been alive anyway? You’re about what – late 20’s maybe? That’s long enough for you to have grown out of a lot.

“Anyway, you’ve had it pretty lucky, really, in that Baba’s at least encouraged you to be tough and kick people’s asses in my defense as well as yours…which I appreciate on the one hand and yet on the other hand I find completely embarrassing.” As much as Cannes found this last statement from Stella coquettish and endearing, she detected an undertone to her words that betrayed the onset of hypoglycemia.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a drink.”

“How the fuck did your daughter get a nickname like Cannes anyway?” Punk Mother asked as she and Janet passed that pipe back and forth to each other.

As Janet began to tell the story, her mind flashed back to the time when she gave birth to her youngest daughter. After hours of labor, Janet gave the inevitable final shove that brought this new infant into the world. Janet took one look at her and could only say, “Holy Crap!” She then named the child Candace.

Richard would visit and hang out with Janet as she recuperated from the birth. “Was that a labor or a struggle?” Janet would wonder aloud.

Richard had this odd questioning look on his face, which prompted a “what?” from Janet.

“Candace…” Richard began musing. “Not sure I’m gonna like that name.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“I’m not liking the thought of my little girl being called ‘Candy’ as a nickname.”

“Well, that is a banal nickname, I’ll give you that.” Janet thought for a second or two and, realizing the possibility of a hassle for a name change so soon, offered this suggestion: “We could call her ‘Cannes’ instead. That would be pretty cool, don’t you think?”

“After the film festival or the town they have it in?”

“Both, obviously.”

“That I can live with. It has a nice avant garde ring to it, being french and all.”

“And it’s got a way of lending glamour to just about anything. You know me too well, Richard. I want my babies to have a sense of style and glamour instilled in them throughout their lives.”

“You know I wouldn’t dream of depriving them of that.” Richard responded. “Having said so, though, I must say that if I cannot have a son, I’d love the next best thing…a tomboy! A real hardassed, bulldaggered, punk-assed bitch!”

Janet could not keep from laughing when he said that. The laughing fit she had was enough to define “It only hurts when I laugh.” Barely recovering from the pain induced by her chortling, she laughed and sobbed, “The way the labor went, I think that’s exactly what you’ll end up getting.” In fact, the most striking quality Janet noticed about the contractions was the blatant belligerence that seem to be inherent therein…much more so than what she’d experienced with Stella a couple of years earlier. Janet drew a heavy sigh as she turned to Richard and said, “Yeah, I got to get my influence in there somewhere. So now that we’re even we can drop the fetters and be ourselves.”

With that Richard kissed his wife on the forehead. That was the great thing is that they know each other well enough not to have to put up a front, and Richard can be exactly the kind of himself that he feels like being…able to careen from being a closet dandy to a total badass with comfort and ease. It’s quite beautiful to watch, really.

This was the story Janet shared with Punk Mother along with the smoke.

About the same time, Milo and Richard were hanging out together in another part of the yard drinking guinnesses and passing a joint between them. And they were getting really drunk and really silly.

“Listen to those ladies, willya? Whaddya suppose they’re talking about, anyway?” Richard said to Milo.

“Oi’m sure itser laed o’poxy roobish!” Milo cracked. “A load of bleedin’ blah-blah-blah!”

“I’ll go long with that! Blah-blah!” Richard agreed, laughing. “A load of bleedin’ blah-blah!”

“Anaet wulld prolly gae abayt loik theys” With that Milo began to gesture wildly and speak as coquettishly as possible. “Blah-blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blablablablablablah!”

Richard followed his lead, blahbbing and gesturing wildly. As the two of them went on, and those two dudes did go on, Miss Scarlet ;-*, they got louder and funnier. Somehow, the ever enduring memory of poor old Count Dracula got dragged into this, as the “Blahs” turned into “Vlahs,” and Milo’s right arm was held up at nose level in a pantomime of hiding behind an invisible cloak.

“Vla-vla-vla-vlah! Vlahvlahvlahvlahvlahvlahvlahvlah!!!”

Richard was roaring with laughter at Milo’s schtick.

Then somehow the blahbbing and vlahing became more and more operatic. “Vlaaaaaahhhhh!”

This caught Janet and Punk Mother’s attention. “What the fedge?” Punk Mother wondered aloud, trying not to exhale her smoke too soon as she turned in mid toke to the direction where that so-called “singing” was coming from with a puzzled expression on her face.

Janet decided they needed to barge in on all that nuttery, and so they did. “What are you two on about this time?”

“Loidies, please! We are ‘avin’ a very proivate and intellergent conveesation…,” Milo responded playing up his UK origins to the hilt. By this time Richard had cleared his throat in time to start guffawing uncontrollably at this spiel – he was so drunk – as Milo continued. “…’at is prayfayndly meaninfoll onner very deep levull. D’yer moind?”

Punk Mother laughed and turned away, shaking her head. Janet was all like, “Whatever guys.” The two of them wanted to get stoned some more, so they went back to the porch where they were sitting before all this commotion caught their attention.

Milo decided to have a real conversation after the wives headed back to the porch. “Sae, d’yer ever sae any o’dat old boiker crayd ye useter ‘ang aet wid in th’ old doys?”

“Not really…save for that damned Yankovic!” Richard replied. “I mean, he’s in town, but we really don’t have much to say to each other.

Richard is referring to one Harvey Yankovic. Like Richard, Harvey had once been a geek who had tranformed himself into a badass biker, renamed himself Harley Davidson, and became a leader of the biker gang that Richard hooked up with. Not long after Richard had earned the respect and trust of the rest of the bikers, it became apparent to everyone that Harley was becoming less and less right in the head, even by badass standards.

There could never be a consensus among the other bikers, Richard included, regarding which of his mood swings were more intolerable; his depressive withdrawn moments where all he was into was just moping around at the tavern – The Trainwreck – where they all hung out, or his manic mode where he’d ramble on and on, or stick his nose into other people’s business at the slightest suggestion of a distraction, or just being hostile and mean for no apparent reason. But they all agreed that something was not quite right when – as they hung out in an old abandoned bar in the middle of nowhere – that being somewhere between Magmaville and Tango Valley. Harley was just coming out of a depressive mood when Richard passed a joint to him. He took a draw, and was soon going on about this being the best smoke he ever had. And this was cheap-assed mexican bud shake which was the best they could get at the moment. Then it went on to him running and jumping for joy in the night, yelling “Yahoo!! I’m stoned!!! Whoohoo!! Yeah!! I’m stoned!! Stoned, I tell you!! Yeeehaaahh!!!”

Even then the bikers couldn’t decide whether he was really beginning to lose it, or was just being sarcastic.

After a time it became really apparent when Harvey decided that he was the King of the Bikers and didn’t have to settle for some dingy old barn or moldy old dive as a hangout. As the King of the Bikers he could get a free hotel room anytime and anywhere.

With that the bikers found themselves at the Tradewinds Inn, located in Scenic Tango Valley. It was a very posh place, too. When they checked into the Tradewinds, he registered as “King Dingleberry and a party of favorites.” It turned ugly when he was asked to pay in advance – as any hotel would. An outraged Harley bellowed, “How dare you, you peon!! Do you know how you’re talking to? Huh?”

The poor clerk wanted to be all snarky and say, “Yeah, I’m talking to some big asshole who wants everything for free.” But he knew better than to shoot off his mouth at some crazy biker dude that’s 3 times his size.

“I am Dingleberry, King of The Bikers!!!”

The rest of the bikers could only watch and feel really embarrassed and disturbed as this played out.

“My minions and I are entitled to room and board free of charge. So, I’m sure as a wise man you know what’s good for you.”

Realizing that this guy was right out of his mind, and as evidenced by the expression on the other bikers faces his “minions” seem to think so too, he handed the keys to room 313 on the third floor. One key went to Harley and the other to his pet sidekick – one Solomon Solomon, or Solomon as he preferred. As the bikers followed Harley to the hotel room, Solomon assured the clerk saying, “Hey man, don’t sweat it! Summer’s almost here and y’all make thousands more from all the bermuda shorts, knowhatImean?”

“Bermuda Shorts” is slang for tourists.

The appearance of acquiescence before the self-proclaimed King of The Dingleberries bought the clerk enough time to call the riot squad. It was gonna take several of Tango Valley’s finest to restrain a big fat looney with a belligerent streak.

As a matter of fact, it took a swat team fully armed with their rifles pointed at several heads including Harley, Solomon, and Richard to get the whole gang downtown.

In the holding cell at the Tango Valley Police Department, Richard looked around at the gaggle of suspected criminals sharing the space with him and his gang. The sight of this group – drug dealers, theives, potentially violent people, and drunks – would’ve caused a younger, nerdier Richard Yossarian to piss in his pants in sheer terror…which would’ve been the only place he could pee in that holding cell since the only toilet in the place had been destroyed by a raving mad King Dingleberry. But after going through all that it took to ride a Harley, and after hanging out with these guys as long as he had, his fear factor had been completely annihilated.

Besides, he was too pissed off with Harley. Their fearless leader, “King of The Dingleberries,” had gotten them all arrested with his delusions of grandeur, and at the moment was threatening to “shoved this damned toilet down” the throat of some poor junkie who’d been crying like a baby from his withdrawal symptoms.

Solomon had said something to the effect of, “They don’t call this ‘the holding cell’ for nothing obviously.” But Richard, simmering with a rage that would not be controlled at all for any circumstances, proceeded towards Harley with the intent to get right in his face. He knew he risked being torn limb from limb, but was way too pissed off to care.

Harley had just declared himself to be the one and only true God, when Richard roared, “That’s enough of that bullshit!!! I’ve had it with this shit you damned Yankovic King Dingleberry Head!!! You think you’re so bad you can call yourself God??? I got news for you, Harvey!!! Any asshole can call himself ‘God’!!” And only an asshole would call himself ‘God’!!”


Well, “Harley” was stunned. No one, not even Solomon, not even Count Leatherface – Harley’s biker mentor – ever spoke to him like that since he became a full fledge biker gang leader. But when Richard stood up to him, he realized this once a pencil neck geek really was bad to the bone…too badassed to care whether he got torn apart…especially with the entire gang and a beavy of anonymous criminal suspects standing with this ex-nerd.

Then Harley saw the iron bars on the holding cell door and realized what a fine mess he’d gotten everyone including himself into. He had to admit at least to himself that this kid had a point, and he felt less like God and more like a damned fool! But while his grip on reality was returning, his foolish pride was still somewhat intact and his manic energy was still high. “Fine, Yossarian!!” Harvey roared back as he threw down the broken toilet, which narrowly missed wounding some male hustler in cutoff shorts and a tank top. “Believe as you will, but I am the Way!! And I don’t need no fucking syncophantic minions to repeat that one back to me all the time!! I’m going home!!”

With that, Harley bent the bars on the door wide open – he was really quite strong physically – and stormed out of the holding cell with a swarm of cops in pursuit.

In fact, with all the cops rushing after Harley it was quite easy for the rest of the inmates to walk out of jail.

That was the last Richard saw of Harvey Yankovic…until a few days after Cannes got the bad news of having diabetes. In fact the guy who was at the clinic that Halloween afternoon, the guy who ran out of the clinic all elated about being diagnosed as having bipolar disorder, was the ex-biker that lead the gang her father had hooked up with.

Cannes had been depressed about the diagnosis, so the whole family took her to dinner at Smiley’s Café to cheer her up or at least console her. As they were passing the menus around, the man himself strolled past their table as he made a beeline towards the men’s room. Cannes recognized him instantly. “That guy was yelling ‘Yahoo, I’m bipolar!!’ at the clinic when I was there the other day.”

Stella noted the look of recognition on Richard’s face and asked, “You know this guy?”

“Yes, I do.” Richard replied. “He’s from my old biker gang. But we didn’t part on pleasant terms at all.” He then excused himself and went to check out the erstwhile self-proclaimed dingleberry king.

Richard entered the restroom just as Harvey was zipping his pants up. Harvey recognized him instantly. Turning to Richard, he beamed, “The King of The Dingleberries is dead; long live Harvey Yankovic.” Harvey had clearly underwent a radical transformation. Wearing burmuda shorts and a hawaiian shirt of many colors, he seemed much more blissful and happy, more refined, gentle, humbled, and sane.

The two men bear hugged each other, and played catch up as Richard relieved himself. Harvey had been put on meds for bipolar disorder, and was seeing a therapist, and was staying with his brother who ran some investment firm.

They left the men’s room and Richard introduced him to his family. After Harvey gave his kudos to Richard, he confided, “If I knew then what I know now (Yes, that spiel!), I’d’ve taken better care of my own diabetes and spared everyone a lot of shit!”

Now it was Richard’s turn to be stunned. He never knew this about Harvey at all. This was the first time he’d ever confided this. Harvey then thanked Richard for setting him straight and gave him one last bear hug before heading back to his double cheeseburger and fries (yes, so much for taking better care of his diabetes!).

This was the last time the two of them spoke.

“Whot a sad twat!” was all Milo could say after Richard concluded this story.

Anyway, getting back to the Yossarian’s bbq brunch – a day long fandango including many pints of guinnes, lots of assorted finger food, briskets of various sizes and doneness, doobies and hookahs and pipes (“Oh wow!”), and every swear word and off color remark in the book. Milo had barely finished exhaling the last syllable in the word “twat” when Richard passed a nice big fattie to him and asked, “Say Milo, you’re a bit of a rambler dude. Have you noticed an increasing frequency of roaches being left behind in the parking lot at the base of Five Finger Peaks. I mean, fuck man, it’s like the whole world just wants to roll a joint and mellow out, man, fucking been too fucking crazy! I mean, … fuck, man…”

Enough hits offa dube and the not always so mild-mannered Richard Yossarian becomes…Fuck Man!!! However, we do interrupt this parodia of superhuman strength – evidently evident in his ability to use the phrase “fuck, man!” more times than even God would care to count – to drag Mortimer Johnson into the picture.

Now Morty is hardly in one of those Meg-Ryan-in-Hanging-Up trips with Fergie Mum-mum. No way! They get on each other’s nerves so much that Fergie often lets him take all the long walks he wants. And while I’m on the subject, Morty’s no namby-pamby pantywaist when it comes to telling anyone off when the appropriate moment arises. In fact only this morning Morty made it plain that he was gonna go to the Yossarian BBQ brunch, and if she wanted him at her beck and call, she’d have to come with him. On that note, Fergie agreed to let him go, on the condition that he first drive her to her appallingly normal neice Linda who lives in a nice, normal house in a nice, normal neighborhood with a nice, normal man and has two nice, normal kids – a boy and a girl respectively (Yeah, I know…Blurrrch! >X-P >X-S ) … and no damned dirty derelicts running around showing off their tatats. As much as he detested driving her around anywhere anymore, he’s only too glad to drop her off at Linda’s where she can indulge in her teas and her card games and her catty, undersexed banter…if only to get back to Magmaville where he can indulge in the Yossarian Thai Sticks and some catty, undersexed banter of his own.

By the time he got to the Yossarian “mansion,” he had a couple of passengers. Like a dumbfuck, Teddyboy had forgotten his emergency glucose stash. Clay was fortunately by his side, assisting his stepfather’s staggering friend as they made their way to the nearest 24-7 mini market for a Tiger Bar or something. Luckily also for Ted, Clay had an arresting whistle which pierced the eardrums of Morty as he was jolted into a sudden stop.

“Oi!!! Glucose emergency!!!”

Realizing he’d probably never hear the end of it from Milo – Really! He can be a roight badger, that one! – as it was he was already getting plenty of it from his stepmum, Morty gave Punk Mother’s boys a lift to the BBQ. Milo noted their arrival as Teddy practically fell out of the car, with Clay rushing to his side to help him back up on his feet. Between Clay and Morty, he was practically carried to the patio.

“Oopsteys, ye lot.” Milo drawled, pointing towards the kitchen. Morty released Teddy as he grabbed the handrail and made his shakey way up the stairs with Clay still at his side.

“What private converse did I barge into this time?” Morty asked. He didn’t really care, he just wanted to…

“Morty, you’re a trav’lin’ man, man! Have you noticed there’s been a lot more roaches left behind in the parking lots of these wild places Jan and I’ve been riding to? I mean, fuck, man…”

“Speaking of which, Rich, I need a hit!”

“Well, fuck, man..” Richard barked as he passed the dubie to Mort.

At the top of the stairs was the breakfast nook and there was still quite a spread, with plenty of slow and fast acting carbohydrates such as what I’ve spelled out before. How Teddyboy managed to get to the table w/o stumbling was a bit of a mystery, but he made it to the table and just downed a cupcake. He needed a glucose boost real quick.

Clay was about to get Teddy a glass of juice when he heard one of the girls crying out in pained half whine/half scream that sounded like it was muffled by a very thick terrycloth towel.

“Stella!” He recognized the voice. It was coming from the bathroom.

Stella had taken a piss and when she leaned back against the toilet lid she felt something small and sharp in the middle of her back. She’d taken off her shirt and discovered a huge, inflamed pushead there, precisely where she couldn’t reach it. She’d been trying to burst that pimple when she felt a sudden spike come upon her. At that moment a very desperate Cannes barged in. Before she could get any relief, however, she found herself working on this damned pimple – which by now was drenched with sweat from Stella’s insulin reaction, making it a bit difficult to squeeze the pus out.

“Get it out!!” Stella growled into her washcloth. “Get it out!!”

As desperate as she was, Cannes somehow maintained her calm as she worked on the damned thing. “Really, Stell, I wish you would’ve gotten something to eat before we started this.”

“Never mind that!!” Stella gritted her teeth into the terrycloth. “Get that damned thing off my back now, then we can stuff my face!”

“You’re sweating all over!!”

“Oh, just dab it dry already!”

That made it three times Cannes’ done so. And that third time was a charm because the boil burst finally.

“Now get outta here, willya!! I gotta pee like this second!!”

Stella had forgotten to put her bra and shirt back on, but she didn’t care. For all her priorities, Stella could only endure a glucose plummet for so long. She headed towards the breakfast nook.

Teddyboy – having been made aware of Stella’s diabetes story with the help of his friends the Haskins – understood too well what Stella was going through. As he was just beginning to recover himself, took not much notice of the fact that she’d entered the room completely topless. But he complimented her on her rack anyway.

“ ‘Ranks.” was how the word “thanks” ended up sounding like seeng as Stella had jammed half a slice of garlic bread into that trap of hers.

Back on the porch…

“I have come to smoke some pot and drink guinness!!!” Richard roared. “And I’m all out of…both!!”

Milo would’ve pissed his pants laughing if’n he hadn’t already done so over Richard’s previous bon mots already. Richard stumbled backwards into his green plastic chair and stopped just short of falling backwards into it.

“Oi Richard! Surely Oi doan ‘arftae be checkin yer glaycoose levs ‘afore ye straddle on that motorboik o’yers, dee Oi?” Milo drawled. “Oi deersay, oolreedy y’eev aytdoon yeself bigtoim, dinnye.”

“We gotta do this:” Richard continued, “We gotta work our anniversary, your anniversary, and the friggin bbq brunch in one big fat assed holiday, man!”

“’Ow th’ fook we gerna dae that, mate? We’ve married 6 moonths apear froom each ootheh!”

“On a day we don’t have an anniversary, ya fuckhead!”

“Troi Frank Zappa’s Borthdee.” Teddyboy crowed drowsily. “Ee wuz born ‘raynd th’ solstice, wunnee. Reckon that wus a gerd ‘olliday, wunnit.”

Speaking of holidays, did I mention that this bbq brunch fandango took place on New Years Eve??? No?? Well it did. So there.

Meanwhile, back upstairs in the bathroom, Cannes demonstrated that she knew a thing or two about multi tasking. She began to strip herself of her clothes as she took a much needed leak. “I’m gonna need a shower after this,” She decided quietly to herself. That was precisely where Clay was headed to take a leak himself (he wasn’t about to kick his girlfriend off the toilet in her own house). When she emptied out she noticed a strong tingling sensation that signaled both relief and arousal…which wasn’t exactly uncommon for her. While she didn’t consider herself a piss fetishist, she was all for anything that made her horny as hell.

So when it sounded like Clay had finished peeing into the bathtub drain – the sound of which only added to Cannes’ arousal – She flung open the shower door and intoned, “Hey, bebbeh!” She was completely naked and looked fucking gorgeous! She stepped into the shower and wasted no time helping him get his clothes off. Then she turned the water on real hot and soon the two of them proceeded to ravish each other.

“Roight! Oi’m gerna ‘ave a pissoop!” Richard roared in a mockup of his pal Milo. It certainly doesn’t take any time at all for the Stout to plummet through every fiber of his being to collect into an extremely ardent pain pool…a stinging yellow lead ball waiting to be dropped.

You can probably guess what’s coming up. Richard’s just drunk enough to be oblivious to the two lovers in the shower, but not so drunk that he’d forget to flush.

So here’s Clay and Cannes getting it on in the shower, while Richard’s taking a leak.

“Babe…” Clay whispered. “We’ve got company.”

“I’ll try not to scream when I come, okay!” Cannes responded as she continued to grope his backside. It really doesn’t take much to turn Cannes on. In fact, there’s a deliciously subversive element inherent in getting it on right under the noses of their parental units. It was one of the things Clay loved about her; in fact this adds to the common ground the two of them shared as part of one people. They both loved sex, and regardless of where and what maneovers are taken, preferably in the company of each other.

Even the sudden shock of cold after hot water couldn’t deter little Miss horndawd here. Hoh-no, she has this uncanny ability to incorporate it as part of the banquet she makes of herself. And Clay savored every morsel without shame or apology.

“Wouldn’t it be cool if we could do insulin without a prescription? I mean, no one in their right mind on this earth would want to do insulin for kicks, so it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. And we could get the medicine we need to more people at affordable prices…”

This was a kind of running joke between Janet and Punk Mother. If she ever got tired of running The Bauhaus Café, the two of them jested about opening an insulin bar.

“If people can open oxygen bars, like they do in Los Osos, then why can’t we have insulin bars?” Punk Mother continued. “People like Me, Stella, ‘Dick’, (that’s what she often called Teddy) Cannes, Simon, …who else do we know that has this disease? Anyway, I’d make some good money from everyone in town with diabetes. They could come and have a shot of insulin with their drink. We could also sell cinnamon pills instead of glyburide, and have medicinal teas, vinegar tonics, and things like that. We could have massages, energy balancing, spleen cleansing, things like that.”

“Sounds like our inner hippies are coming out of the closet for this.” Janet observed.

“Meh, they had some good ideas up their Nehru jacket sleeves. Passing this healthy crap around was one of them.” Punk Mother said referring to the pipe in her hand, which she passed to Janet. “Lissen, you brought two little assholes (and she used the word “assholes” affectionately) with diabetes into the world, that can’t be an easy reality to cope with by any means, can it.”

“Well, you would know, of course,” Janet replied without the slightest hint of offense taken to both her daughters being referred to as a couple of diabetic assholes by yet another one. She knows her daughters can be real assholes.

“They just want to forget all about this diabetic crap and just be punks; can ya blame ‘em?” Janet replied.

“That ain’t the point, tho, Janet. I mean no way they’ll be the last of their kind. We seem to breed like fucking rats, don’t we. If there’s going to be an increased demand for glucose management medicines, why shouldn’t we get in on the market? It’d be a good way to score us some free insulin. It’s such a fucking scam anyway, the fucking pharmaceutical industry making so much bank at our expense.” Punk Mother pointed out. “The café’s barely breaking even anymore, and these medical expenses are eating me alive, so I could use all the help I can get.”

Somehow Milo caught the last sentence with both ears right before he was again distracted by the schenanigans about to commence in the kitchen. The toilet flushed, and Richard barged out laughing at having “forgotten” not to flush when anyone’s in the shower. He was laughing out so loudly that you couldn’t hear the young lovers even if they did cry out in pain from the sudden temperature change.

As it was, Cannes and Clay couldn’t give two shits. They’re too busy getting it on in there. I mean, they’re a bunch of hillbillies, those two families.

As Cannes kissed the base of Clay’s neck, she launched into her imitation of Mrs. Count Dracula. “I’m Mrs. Count Dracula, and I’ve come to take your blood down to ze last drop before Ve mek you Vun of us, bubbulah!”

It turned her on when Clay cracked up. Eventually, the two of them began to cum. Then Clay felt a burst of song come upon him. He breathlessly began to sing the lyrics to Cotton Crown by Sonic Youth. He thought this was a particularly cool sex-in-the-shower song, because something about the way Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon sang this song together made him think that they were recording this song while they were making love in the shower. So he started singing this song, and then Cannes joined in singing with him, still in the shower with the water cascading down their bodies.

It was almost midnight, and as I might’ve mentioned before the Yossarians held this big assed BBQ brunch of theirs on New Years Eve. Stella felt a wave on excess insulin coming on, not terribly quickly this time, but it was making her head start to spin. She brought this to Richard’s attention, and by this time he began to come down from the excess alcohol in his system. He immediately began to fix her a holiday-worthy remedy.

There was very little orange juice left, the bulk of which had been incorporated into various random cocktails. Still there was just enough to mix with a full goblet of sparkling apple cider – or “faux champagne” as Janet often called it.

A basic virgin mimosa was concocted from those two mixers.

As he handed the concoction to Stella, he advised her, “Be gentle with this one. She’s a virgin.”

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