I’m reporting today about a rather ugly incident that occurred over the weekend. To say that alcohol was involved would be to understate the issue a bit. A better characterization might be to say the night involved a “visionary flood of alcohol,” to quote Leonard Cohen. Yeah, so, four of us polished off a bottle of Appleton rum before we headed to the bar and stopped to purchase a bottle of Chivas Regal on the way. Luckily my buddy Rocky was our designated driver. And by “designated driver” I mean the least drunk guy we designated to drive us to the bar. Anyhow, the ugly incident happened somewhere around three in the morning, after we returned from the bar and were halfway into the Chivas.

 

When I awoke the next morning I had largely forgotten the entire episode, and then I walked into what used to be my mother’s room (she has moved out, but left some of her things) whereupon my eyes gazed a horrid sight of depravity and degeneracy. It looked like a drunken bomb had exploded during the night. An antique dresser laid on its side in cracked pieces, every drawer from every piece of furniture had been removed and emptied, random crumbled pieces of paper littered every inch of the floor, and the ironing board was a twisted heap of metal junk.

 

“What kind of fuckery is this?” I wondered, “What sadistic asshole would do such a thing?” And then slowly I began to remember the circumstances that lead up to this very ugly incident. Apparently this all had something to do with the 1988 presidential election.

 

But I digress for a moment. The night started off just fine. We were in jovial spirits as we downed the rum, listening to good tunes and sharing in pleasant conversation. Much the same could be said when we arrived at the bar. In fact, while at the tavern I successfully talked a 56 year-old conservative black guy named Mason out of being a Republican. I was quite shit-faced as I ranted at Bush-loving Mason, but I managed to have him hanging on to every word. I went down several argumentative avenues as I attempted this political conversion, but I eventually won him over by somehow convincing Mason that he had aligned himself politically with the same people who shot Medgar Evers. It was a bit cheap on my part, but politics is a dirty game and sometimes you gotta shove your hands in the shit.

 

“Man… I ain’t been livin’ right,” my new drunken ex-conservative buddy eventually remarked.

 

“No you haven’t, Mason, no you haven’t,” I said. Come to think of it, Mason also told me that he was originally from Holland and had only been in the states for ten years and that he was a millionaire. You know what? I think Mason was a goddamned liar. Fuck that guy. The Republicans can have him back. Anyhow, it was an entirely different political conversation that sparked the later ugliness.

At the time it seemed absolutely necessary. Hell, we were obligated to destroy the room at that point. I mean, why shouldn’t we? We had to. As we started to ransack the place, my friend Kevin, who had been vomiting profusely for about an hour, crawled out of the bathroom to see what all the commotion was about. He quickly proceeded to join in on the mayhem. Actually, all Kevin did was remove the batteries from every electric device in the room and throw them on the ground. And Rocky, well, I guess Rocky really didn’t do anything but watch the fracas with an indifferent stare. Okay, well I guess I was actually the one who destroyed the room …You know, come to think of it… I’m not so sure Rocky said anything about Joe Biden at all. Anyhow, after the room had been well annihilated and looked like a shit-storm surrounding a cluster-fuck, I was barricading the door with the antique dresser and I stopped and calmly said, “Look, all I’m really tryin’ to say is that I would have voted for Gary Hart.”

 

Luckily when I surveyed the room the next morning, there was very little permanent damage. I could fix the dresser with some glue and some screws and everything else could be fixed with some basic tidying up. That is everything except the ironing board. The ironing board was history. No amount glue, screws or even a welding torch could repair it. I had to throw it in the dumpster and get rid of the evidence. If my mother ever notices it is missing I think I’ll take the angle of denying there ever was an ironing board. In fact, I’ll probably have to get meta with her. I’ll say, “If you really think about it, Mom, there actually couldn’t have been an ironing board here. It’s just not possible.” But in the meantime I have a different solution to the problem. The way I see it, Joe Biden owes me an ironing board. You may have noticed that this email has been forwarded to Senator Biden’s office. Now, I’m sure he’s busy planning his next failed presidential run, but in the interim, he’s gonna have to find time to mail me a new ironing board. Senator Biden, you can send my ironing board to:

 

Paul Smith

1998 J. R. Dobbs Dr. #1012

Pensacola, FL 32504

 

This way if my mom doesn’t buy the whole “there never was an ironing board” bit, I can just say, “Don’t worry, Mom, Joe Biden is sending a new one.”

*note – this is a copy of a mass email I sent out a while back

As I said, the incident went down at about three in the morning after we got back from the bar and were halfway through the Chivas. Somehow or another we got onto the topic of the ’88 election and I vaguely remember saying something about Dukakis being a “cocksucker” and how I wished Willie Horton had “raped and beaten him instead of that white woman.” I was quite upset about Dukakis getting the Democratic nomination and was singing praises for Gary Hart. “Gary Hart got a bad rap!” I exclaimed. Well, apparently Rocky was fonder of Joe Biden as a viable candidate. “Joe Biden? What the fuck is he talking about?” I wondered. The next thing I know, the room had to be destroyed.