From: Leaf@theleaf.worldonline.co.uk
Newsgroups: alt.drunken.bastards
Subject: Daves of Our Lives
Date: Sat, 12 Aug 2000 21:20:28 +0100
O.k. I thought that the tattoo story would be the winner in my books.....
but the 'Suicide by Bar-B-Q Attempt' takes the fucking biscuit.
For some reason, we got drunk. I think it was the alcohol.
Anyway, the rumblings of hunger stirred and we set about a jolly good
drinking preparation period. Cruise became cave man mad set about rubbing
sticks together to make the bbq. He was doing such a great deal of huffing
and blowing and gathering of twigs I decided it would be an opportune time
to take an amble to the pub while the coals went off. We stumbled around the
pool table a while and I don't remember offending anybody but I could be
wrong.Anyway, the bbq was just about ready to be re-lit when we got home. It
was a dark and musty evening and the stars were sparkling somewhere behind
the clouds when Jaz decided that *now* would be a good time to get the chain
saw out. I am sure this is a natural drunken thing to do but I felt this was
not a good idea. I was very very right. But not for the reasons that you are
now shielding your eyes from. 11.30 at night is quite quiet until a chainsaw
kicks in. 'Shat up!' was heard and we offered the neighbours a beer. They
accepted and the next thing we knew we were hosts to a host of lesbians. A
flock flew in, raided the beer and the bbq and settled right on in. Eight of
them in all. Quite a large flock by lesbian standards. Anyway, the party was
rocking and the chain saw was safely put away. But somehow this was just not
enough for one american from America. Nope. Not at all. Not at fucking all.
*This* american needed to leave his mark indelibley etched on the landscape
of this small shady village.
In the midst of the lesbian feeding frenzy, Cruise tipped his hat and
flipped his ass over the bbq because he failed to notice that the bbq was
set into a wall on which he precariously perched. He paid no heed in his
tumbling antics to avoid the array of crockery, glasses and lesbians perched
below. The lesbians had legs and moved. The glasses and plates however,
being of an less animated nature to lesbians, remained to be made extinct.
Then the Red Sea parted. Parted from Cruises hand in a lava spill of
proportions only to matched by Vesuveus herself. The bastard bled for
England that night. All over our patio. And a lesbians sweater. And the
plants, plates and a neighbouring cat. It was magnificent. I pulled the
flesh asunder to rid the man of shards of glass as the lesbians ran about in
manly ways, ordering ambulances, wayward men about ..and more beer.
Stage two: Hide the lesbians!!! The ambulance has arrived! (I know I dwell
overly on the lesbian aspect of this story, but, dear reader, can you think
of anything more bizarre to add to the tale of a bunch of blood than a flock
of lesbians?) So Cruise is bundled into the bloodbus and one of the flock
deems it her duty to accompany Cruise and myself on the long and tortuous
journey to A&E. We explained to the bus crew that we could have managed
without their assistance had it not been for the DB rule of not driving
whilst totally fuckfaced. Jaz, on the other hand, was very content to remain
at home and watch over the beer supply and his newly acquired flock. ( I
phoned him from the hospital a bit later suggesting that it was about time
the lesbians went home and was greeted with the response "Fuck off! I'm
having FUN!")
We were seen quite quickly at the hospital. Bright red stands out. We were
polite drunks and were greeted firstly with a distinct air of ' Oh fuck.
More drunks.' and then 'Hey! They are *nice* drunks!' Indeed, our pleasant
drunken banter was met with just rapour. They liked us. They signed Cruises
hat. From the radiologist who signed ' I hope it's broken, you motherfucker
' to the Stitching Nurse who daubed ' I bet you won't let me darn your
socks, now ' to the receptionist who scribbled 'Not such a lucky hat, eh?'
Cruise doesn't to like the sight of blood. Not even his own. Not many people
require wheelchair assistance for a hand injury. Cruise did. I learned
wheelchair wheelies pretty quickly.
Cruise was asked if he had eaten anything earlier. He forgot the meat he had
plucked off the bbq that was his undoing but remembered to tell the doctor
he had consumed, and I quote, 'a lot of alcohol, some dope and 4 valium for
breakfast'. The doctor agreed that it was best to be honest.
They stitched Cruise. Nine times and declined the suggestion that 'ten was a
nice even number'.
Jaz was very asleep on the settee when we got back. He was unbudgeable. I
went to bed. Cruise did whatever Cruises do after experiencing the
experience he experienced.
Jaz stole the sheets and we cuddled and threw shirts at each other and
shouted and cuddled for an hour. Cruise hurt. But he still managed to clear
up the glass cos I said I was not going downstairs to face leftover drama
scenes. He even scrubbed the blood with a brush and a bucket of water.
Yorkshire stone patios are retentive bastards and there will always be
something there to remind Jaz and I of Cruises visit. But he has new friends
who mustered up his favourite painkillers.
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