Hayseed Huck
04-15-2010, 11:18 AM
Even the air hurt.
I was hung-over but clear and sane-- sane enough
to appreciate the sight of Tiffany's bare cheeks
an inch away from my face.
But right then all I wanted was relief-- and a Coca-
Cola laced with codeine. I want a warm Bloody Mary
too if I can mooch one off a cocktail girl, when I'm
in Vegas.
(Note-- the above construction is an example of the
rhetorical scheme prolepsis-- my favorite scheme of
all the schemes I like)
I'll know she has one because I could see it on the
tray she carries around. She looks confused. Maybe
the guy who ordered it left the casino and his
Bloody Mary behind.
Not me.
I would never ever leave a bloody Mary behind. In
fact, I'd let her walk ahead of me and if all the lights
went out, I could still find her-- easy.
I crave cognac.
Tiffany beside me moans.
I think she peed the bed sometime last night. If I
knew how fast pee dries, by some calculus, I could
tell the exact time.
All I know is something's wet.
I love Tiffany, so she can pee all the beds she wants
to, and I won't say one word to hurt her feelings. I
know she didn't do it on purpose to make me mad,
or anything like that. She was drunk for God's Sakes!
Leave her alone!
I know a lot of girls who tell me they get drunk and
pee the bed. Then they wonder if the guy they wake-up
with will be mad.
Not me.
I knew a fellow in Laughlin, Nevada who went by the
name, Pee-The-Bed Fred. He was, more or less,
a bum who slept every night under the Colorado River
Bridge that links Laughlin and Bullhead City, Arizona.
(See the irony here?)
All I know is I don't want to wake up with such a hang-
over I can't remember if I committed an unremembered
murder, which is only a little more comforting than to
remember murder.
Then comes the reality
I am resting my drugged-out, smelly body in pee and I
need a drink, bad-- a cold beer, a Greyhound, a Margari-
ta, or suicidal straight, eye-pinching Tequila.
Tiffany's eyes open. They look jaundiced yellow with
toxic glare. She sweeps a hand across her face and
picks away dried snot off the side of her nose. Quick,
she slides her hips away from the wet spot.
"Huh," she asks. "Did you, my sweetest lover of all
time, pee the bed?"
It comes to me, as in a dream induced by DeQuincey's
Levana that maybe I did pee the bed. Only two things
can cure a morning hangover and knowing who peed the
bed is not one of them.
Time is one. The other?-- your choice.
Oh, by the way, outside of a normal peeing of a bed,
there is only one other explanation that there's pee
in a bed.
Oh well. I'm going in to take a shower.
HH
I was hung-over but clear and sane-- sane enough
to appreciate the sight of Tiffany's bare cheeks
an inch away from my face.
But right then all I wanted was relief-- and a Coca-
Cola laced with codeine. I want a warm Bloody Mary
too if I can mooch one off a cocktail girl, when I'm
in Vegas.
(Note-- the above construction is an example of the
rhetorical scheme prolepsis-- my favorite scheme of
all the schemes I like)
I'll know she has one because I could see it on the
tray she carries around. She looks confused. Maybe
the guy who ordered it left the casino and his
Bloody Mary behind.
Not me.
I would never ever leave a bloody Mary behind. In
fact, I'd let her walk ahead of me and if all the lights
went out, I could still find her-- easy.
I crave cognac.
Tiffany beside me moans.
I think she peed the bed sometime last night. If I
knew how fast pee dries, by some calculus, I could
tell the exact time.
All I know is something's wet.
I love Tiffany, so she can pee all the beds she wants
to, and I won't say one word to hurt her feelings. I
know she didn't do it on purpose to make me mad,
or anything like that. She was drunk for God's Sakes!
Leave her alone!
I know a lot of girls who tell me they get drunk and
pee the bed. Then they wonder if the guy they wake-up
with will be mad.
Not me.
I knew a fellow in Laughlin, Nevada who went by the
name, Pee-The-Bed Fred. He was, more or less,
a bum who slept every night under the Colorado River
Bridge that links Laughlin and Bullhead City, Arizona.
(See the irony here?)
All I know is I don't want to wake up with such a hang-
over I can't remember if I committed an unremembered
murder, which is only a little more comforting than to
remember murder.
Then comes the reality
I am resting my drugged-out, smelly body in pee and I
need a drink, bad-- a cold beer, a Greyhound, a Margari-
ta, or suicidal straight, eye-pinching Tequila.
Tiffany's eyes open. They look jaundiced yellow with
toxic glare. She sweeps a hand across her face and
picks away dried snot off the side of her nose. Quick,
she slides her hips away from the wet spot.
"Huh," she asks. "Did you, my sweetest lover of all
time, pee the bed?"
It comes to me, as in a dream induced by DeQuincey's
Levana that maybe I did pee the bed. Only two things
can cure a morning hangover and knowing who peed the
bed is not one of them.
Time is one. The other?-- your choice.
Oh, by the way, outside of a normal peeing of a bed,
there is only one other explanation that there's pee
in a bed.
Oh well. I'm going in to take a shower.
HH