11 April 2006

We Should Get the Fuck Out of Here!


My first punk rock apartment was located in a building with the worst reputation in all Sliverville. I was not living there long before a 3 year old boy approached me with a butter knife and said, "I'm going to cut your weiner off motherfucker." Shortly thereafter one of the notorious tenants burned their end of the building to a crisp. They did a dime in the Pen for their misbehaviour. I was chugging beer and drinking barrel rye with my noisy friends when the fire alarm went off.

Jimi slurred, "We should get the fuck out of here." He then stood up and promptly passed out cold onto his face. The rest of us laughed so hard some of us leaked piss on to our jeans.

Stan slurred, "You lead the way Jimi you drunk motherfucker."

Axel burped ominously then heaved mom's homemade beans over his KISS t-shirt. The heave sat there on his chest absorbing sparkles from the word KISS.

Curly spewed beer all over the fucking place when he laughed at the same time as he chugged his stubby. He got up, waved a Stooge's LP at no one in particular and stuck it onto the record player. He slurred, "Might as well crank it. We're probably the only ones left in the fucking building."

Bjorn rolled up what was left of the bag of Venezuelan dope we had started the night with. He slurred, "If we don't get the fuck out of here the firemen and the cops will be here wondering what the fuck we think we're doing so we might as well finish this off before they show up." He struck a wood match off his jeans and breathed in deeply on the Venezuelan bomber before passing it to anybody who could still move.

And sure enough the spliff was barely out, Curly swallowed the red hot roach, when a couple firemen barged in the door. The first one shouted, "Are you motherfuckers deaf?" over Iggy's screaming about TVs. Those of us who were not already passed out or choking on our vomit all answered, "What?" except for Henrik who slurred, "Hey asshole! Did you just call me a motherfucker?" before he hurled himself at the source of the insult. Henrik's double vision caused him to punch a hole through the wall into the hallway, missing the fireman by about four feet.

Next the police joined the little party. The first RCMP to bless my apartment with his presence took one look at Henrik, who was still punching the wall furiously with one fist as he tried to pull his other one out of the wall, then kicked him in the head so hard his trapped fist did dislodge itself as he passed out on the beer soaked rug. The RCMP asked, "Who's place is this?"

"That would be me," I slurred. Trouble was it sounded like, "Fuck off you dirty pig, get the fuck out of my apartment you fucking bastard!" to the RCMP so he swatted me out of my chair into the growing pile of bodies.

I don't know what happened after that but we all woke up in the lock up and had a good laugh over the whole experience over tables full of beers at the nearby hotel when we got let out the next day.

1 comment:

AllNewChickenHotDog said...

AAAAAAAHHHH!...Tables full o' BEER,those were the days.Pity the neighbours that lived below you lot.Made for some good stories with the vomit laden flower boxes and such.