VISIT TO DEAD-HEAD TRAILER *YECH*
Dale Clark
VISIT TO A DEAD-HEAD'S TRAILER
------------------------------
I have to preface this first. First, I do not wish to offend anyone with
my stories, but in the course of my illustrations I am forced to use words
which depict the reality of a situation more clearly. I am perfectly
aware that many dead-heads have room temperature IQ's, can't multiply
more than 12 times 12 in their head without getting sick, and as a
result of their inanition from eating foods touted as being for Total
Wellness, the size of their popularity matches their pay vouchers. As
a consequence I'll probably be inundated with enough obloquy to
fill up a moderate-sized hard disk.
You know, one of the things I didn't mention were some of the women
at the concert. Mark found his girlfriend at a dead concert, if there were
girl shows like there are cat shows, her category would have been
"Luscious Blond Ditz" and she'd have been a cinch for "Best of Breed."
Just looking at her causes the male anatomy to intumesce. Part of the
reason I let myself get talked into going was a fruitless hope I
might be as lucky. Instead, all I was flooded with were knobby-elbowed,
blotchy-skinned hippie women, some of whom had keloids the size of an average
7-11 cookie on their backs.
After the show, Mark took me to meet some friends of his girlfriend in LV,
who are really into these concerts. The house trailer we went to was just
as I imagined it would be. A small, cramped, dingy and undecorated
barn of a place with a drippy roof. I was not at all suprised
that the place was home to about a dozen scrawny cats and dogs who
were free to come and go as they pleased because the doors wouldn't
shut. Unfortunately, these animals were as much as the humans the
victims of a grossly unsatisfying meal we were offered - a brown broth
containing shriveled fungus, and little chunks of something that
most closely resembled florist's sponges. It was capped with a
floating clump of itchy, bitter, woolly bean sprouts that looked
like an unkempt pubic bush. And so, in their desperation for
something tasty, the dogs combed around the trailer and their
neighbor's yards for carrion, garbage and cat turds.
Further enhancing the opulence of this boudoir was the fact that, because
health brands of flea and tick shampoo and clove-scented flea collars are
completely lame, and the fact that these typical dead-heads were too
softhearted to kill insects - the maximum extent of their brutality is
either to shoo them away or take them outside with the utmost care,
even if it's a wasp - each section of the trailer was infested with
fleas and flea eggs, and each beast was the site of a thriving
entomological microcosm. Also, as a result of using health-based
organic remedies and products - insisting all the while they were
just as effective as the stuff Dow Chemical makes - the
mildew ran wild. Either that or perhaps one of the members of the
Grateful Dead band proclaimed in some song that mold was a sentient
being and thus sacred, so they refused on moral grounds to combat it.
"Hey." was the only thing the guy could manage to say to me before
the speech centers in his brain shut down and he became aphasic. He
offered me a limp paw of a handshake. While I was sitting there,
trying to watch television through a haze of insects, the wife of
'Barry' I think his name was, offered me a cookie. Seeing me eyeing
the bowel-colored discs skeptically, "It's carob." she said, "It tastes
just like chocolate." "Sure," I replied, "and monkey piss tastes like bonded
bourbon." There wasn't any kind of soft drink in the house and it was
hot last Saturday. So I had the choice between water or vegetable
juice - home made stuff that was run through their new juicer which
excreted a hearty glass of dirt-flavored juice topped with a
sparkling tier of dirt-flavored foam. While the heads greeted each
gulp with slurping glee, I was gagging from the first sip all the
way until the dreadful moment I realized I had just licked away
a kale/rhubarb-flavored foam mustache.
I had a small bag of Cheetos I grabbed from the car and as I ate each
one the dogs would sit and watch me with a mournful look. When I
went to give one to one of the dogs, a horrible dog-fight errupted
between all three over which one was to receive it. Finally
I through down the bag. (One of them happened to be a pit-bull).
When I went into the bathroom, I was greeted with a thick, noxious
atmosphere from an unflushed toilet. I had to flush three times to empty
the huge, beefy, pillars of extrusion into the sewer, which left
a gagging pall of death that all but caused the wall-paper to peal.
No doubt the result of sundering their bowels with a diet of bulgur and
goat's cheese they enjoyed for breakfast.
Needless to say, I didn't wish to stay long and I looked at my watch
frequently and pointed to the car behind their backs so only Mark could
see me. Finally, I recalled an imaginary appointment with an old-time
friend back at the hotel, enabling us to withdraw fairly quickly.
But it has left an enduring stipple on my mind. Is this the way
only a small minority, moderate, or majority of dead-heads live
out their lives? Surely in this computerized reticulation it should
be possible to take a poll and find out.
--
___________________________________________________________________________
_ _ _ _ _O_ __ __ __ __ | DALE W. CLARK [ da...@unislc.slc.unisys.com ]
| | |\ | | (__ \ / (__ | I'm not there because I'm here. If I come
`__' | \| _|_ __) _|_ __) | back before I return, I'll ask me to wait.
___________________________________________________________________________
Joe Brust
>
>VISIT TO A DEAD-HEAD'S TRAILER
>------------------------------
>
>I have to preface this first. First, I do not wish to offend anyone with
Now THIS is more like it! Thanks for the entertainment Dale, or whoever you
are. For what it's worth, I think you're you, because I figure anyone else
who would know about the P Dude would have to be a semi-regular reader and
therefore would like the dead/hippie stuff at least a little and therefore
couldn't come up with such anti-dead/hippie stuff. :-)
>Just looking at her causes the male anatomy to intumesce. Part of the
I can't believe I have to read the dead net today with a dictionary. Great
vocabulary Dale.
>blotchy-skinned hippie women, some of whom had keloids the size of an average
Back to the dictionary. "Say it ten times and it's yours."
>most closely resembled florist's sponges. It was capped with a
>floating clump of itchy, bitter, woolly bean sprouts that looked
>like an unkempt pubic bush. And so, in their desperation for
>something tasty, the dogs combed around the trailer and their
>neighbor's yards for carrion, garbage and cat turds.
Oh oh, lunch is coming back up...
>the bowel-colored discs skeptically, "It's carob." she said, "It tastes
>just like chocolate." "Sure," I replied, "and monkey piss tastes like bonded
>bourbon." ...
Then what did SHE say? :-)
>atmosphere from an unflushed toilet. I had to flush three times to empty
>the huge, beefy, pillars of extrusion into the sewer, which left
>a gagging pall of death that all but caused the wall-paper to peal.
>No doubt the result of sundering their bowels with a diet of bulgur and
>goat's cheese they enjoyed for breakfast.
>...
Thanks again Dale. You're a master. Now I gotta run to the can.
Later. Joe
--
Joe Brust /
Acoustic Signal Processing Branch / "...'cause when life looks like
Naval Research Lab, Code 7124 /// easy street
4555 Overlook Ave. SW / there is
Washington, D.C. 20375-5350 / danger at your door..."
br...@wave.nrl.navy.mil 202-767-2493 /
Chuck Stickelman
>
> VISIT TO A DEAD-HEAD'S TRAILER
> ------------------------------
> gulp with slurping glee, I was gagging from the first sip all the
> way until the dreadful moment I realized I had just licked away
> a kale/rhubarb-flavored foam mustache.
^^^^^^^
This line made me laugh so hard, I almost had rhubarb pie comin' out my nose!
See Ya' at Buckeye!?
Chuck
ch...@cmhcsys.com
BTW Dale, why _are_ you here!? (rec.music.gdead that is.)
Wade Williams
For an abhorer of Dead-heads, you sure do like to hang out with them a lot...
Fess up, fess up!
>I have to preface this first. First, I do not wish to offend anyone with
>my stories, but in the course of my illustrations I am forced to use words
Of course you do, why else are you posting to r.m.gdead?
>which depict the reality of a situation more clearly. I am perfectly
>aware that many dead-heads have room temperature IQ's, can't multiply
>more than 12 times 12 in their head without getting sick, and as a
>result of their inanition from eating foods touted as being for Total
>Wellness, the size of their popularity matches their pay vouchers. As
>
And they are Dale's best friend!
>Just looking at her causes the male anatomy to intumesce. Part of the
>reason I let myself get talked into going was a fruitless hope I
>might be as lucky. Instead, all I was flooded with were knobby-elbowed,
Ahh so you hangout with Deadheads hoping to score with one and since
your are so pathetically unlucky you have to blast them on the net.
All you get are chocolate chip cookies and juice so ya gotta complain.
>out their lives? Surely in this computerized reticulation it should
>be possible to take a poll and find out.
No one here is a real deadhead, we can all use computers and read
whiney articles. People who stay up all night drinking and
gambling, then wonder why they are poor with a headache the next day...
Dem is da REAL smart ones!
Wade
Lisa M. Smith
The fact that hundreds of Deadheads are able to read your post via the
network should be answer enough to your queery. Most of us have good
jobs, computers, interesting lives, and by the way, IQs significantly
higher than room temperature.
The fact that you put yourself into a situation that you had anticipated
would be abysmal in hopes of finding the bimbo of your dreams says a lot
about you - and NONE of it is flattering.
lms