Hold on. [check]

Yes, yes I am. That beast is going to eat my entire being, but before he does, I’d like to recall the last 12 hours that got me here. Reminisce with me, before I am slaughtered slowly by his massive brown tentacles.

Last night, I attended a concert a few of my friends were playing at. They were armed with body-rockable guitars, cello and synth. I waited through three hours of some simply terrible bands to get to the packaged prize at the end. Imagine a huge elephant ate your wedding ring, and you had to wait two days and sift through huge piles of elephant dung to find it. That was exactly the ear-raping experience last night.

I killed some time with Shannon and Jeremy, blowing my not-so-hard earned money on frozen coffee drinks and making fun of the asstacular opening bands. And then, the surreal hit. Or rather, it hit hours before when a short dude wearing an army hat took the stage and screamed into a microphone the lyrics he wrote in the ladies room, minutes before taking the stage. But more so, the surreal rolled in like a dark cloud when S. showed up. We sat down, Shannon, S. and myself, and she took slow draws from her keg and that conversation crawled into areas of my mind that I don’t have enough shame to be ashamed of. Somewhere around the third band, I don’t know what the hell happened. She had digressed to conversations about “Bangkok thongs,” and then Shannon wondered whether or not culturally relevant themes in underwear would be a hit. Shan reminded us of the popular “Make Free Trade Legal” underpants. I was curious as to whether terrorist themes would run over big. I’m thinking now that “Terrorists Have Hijacked this Vehicle, Want to Go for a Ride” and “Mustard Gas isn’t the Only Thing I’m Storing Up” probably don’t have much of a market. This was the beginning.

45 minutes later: a conversation about hollowed out leg bongs, designer love handle purses, eating someone elses kidney waste, and S. yelling “what a hideous purse.” Then, our friends took the stage. In the end, it was worth it. The band had a great sound and I got to see K. act like a huge crazed beast as he pranced around the stage dancing with the microphone like his lover.

Awesome.

Then I got home, and I can’t remember how long I stayed at the Subservient Chicken, or really, how I even arrived there. This isn’t one of my prouder moments, since somewhere along the line I typed in, “have sex with couch” and I laughed in boyhood curiosity and anticipation. The chicken just shook his finger at me. I am ashamed.

I shut my computer down, and walked into the kitchen. It was midnight. A huge napkin note loomed over a plastic cup in the kitchen. “Billy is Back.” I knew exactly what this meant, because I had written a note on a napkin only days prior. Late last week, I rolled out of bed at 3am and strolled into the kitchen to get a drink of water. Strolled actually isn’t the best way to describe it. How about – walked in a crusty stupor in my drawers to the kitchen. I flipped the light switch on and a cockroach cruised across the kitchen table. I said “EYA!” or something and jumped backwards, as if the cockroach eight feet away could go-go-gadget his nasty thorax into my mouth. I freaked out a bit, then grabbed a cup and threw it over the new house guest. I put a note on top: “LIFT UP FOR FUN ” No one did. It took four of us to get the roach out of the house. Mostly because I am freaking scared to death by these bugs. Ryan opened the door, I slid cardboard under the roach cup, and I don’t remember what Sonath did. I don’t think he did anything. Dave ended up grabbing the cardboard/cup cockroach prison, and mumbled, “You guys are ridiculous” and took the roach outside.

And I thought that was the end of the roach problem. But, as Sonath so eloquently wrote, Billy was back. I walked further than usual from the cupped roach, and went to get a drink. And then, I looked on the wall, and there was another roach. An uncupped roach is about 70 times more dangerous than a cupped roach. Roaches are like the Hummers of insects. They can survive almost anything, go anywhere, and they are frickin’ huge. Except for their legs. Small spindly legs supporting a massive off-road body.

An uncupped roach in my house cannot be allowed to survive. I grabbed the broom and beat the wall around the roach with all of my might. Roaches are quick and I am inaccurate. With each swing, that roach crawled closer to my end of the wall. Eventually, he dropped to the ground and scurried towards me. I flipped out and suddenly, I was a Canadian in the Stanley Cup finals. My broom transformed into my hockey stick and I hit that puck out of my zone…right under my favorite tv-watching chair. Now I couldn’t see it. He could be anywhere now. I could be watching “Last Comic Standing,” and he would crawl right into my pants. Or into my sandwich and I would eat him. So I grabbed the bug killer and hosed that room down. A roach infestation perhaps? Certainly possible, since we have enough food sitting in open cereal boxes and encrusted on the countertops.

Here I am, 9 hours later, looking at a roach oh so close to my body. How did it get to this point, this standoff between man and beast? I think it happened this morning, when Ryan left for work. Your guess is as good as mine as for what transpired on Sonath’s computer chair, only a few feet from my desk.

This is what a crazy man looks like.

Then I got the crew involved:
Click here to see the rest of the people. Insanity is contagious.

Kitty died in the custody of a friend over the summer. I’m sure he did a good job taking care of her, but the good die young, right? I justified Kitty’s plagued existence by the fact that, well, a snake could have eaten her. What’s worse: living a life of solitary rest and dying in a pile of your own pellet-shaped waste or sliding down the pulsating, lubricated gullet of a boa constrictor and being slowly digested by acid (all the while managing to take the snake’s owner’s attention off his level 34 druid warrior with +2 to dexterity and axe mauling). Ok, so I didn’t treat Kitty right.

That’s why I feel like I have some amends to make. Thus, I bought another rat, christened him Kitty 2, and embarked on another pet adventure.

Kitty 2 has so far proved to be a much better pet than his predecessor. He doesn’t eat, pee, poop, or make me feel guilty. There are a couple drawbacks. I’m pretty sure Kitty 2 is at best mischievous and at worst criminally insane. While he adores me and squeaks gleefully when I lovingly squeeze his sides, he seems less fond of the roommates. He often glares hatefully at Ryan and he has actually murdered Dave in cold blood. I promised him I wouldn’t say anything, but it has to stop. Here’s a picture…please tell someone…

PLEASE HELP ME! HE WON’T LET ME LEAVE! I HAVE TO GO…he’s coming…

Jess and I pulled into the parking lot at about 5:45. I knew going in that this particular Elk’s lodge’s patronage was at a median age of 70 or so, but the full realization did not set in until I got out of the car and noted the steady stream of hoary headed senior citizens slowly walking toward the door…the lustful look of regular fish fry partakers sparkling in their eyes. I instantly felt out of place. “Would they welcome me into their grotto of fish consumption? Do I need to belong to AARP? Will a wild-eyed devotee of Tom ?Sexpants? Jones offer to sell me bootleg Viagara?”

I walked Jess to the entrance, pulled open the door, and was stared down by the impressive wall of Exalted Rulers. Each of them seemed to welcome me…offering me their fried fish and baked chicken, reassuring me that my age was not an issue. Their smiles assured me that the Elks were good men, accepting of diversity and loving of all God’s creatures. Then I entered the grand ballroom (read: wood paneled dining room with a linoleum dance floor) and was faced with two monstrous, severed elk heads. Their twisted countenances put me again at unease.

I had a beer and my dad got us tickets for dinner. Uneventfully, the night brought us good food. The tasty fish passed through my esophagus and into my belly with the aid of tartar sauce-based lubricant. Then the real action began as the quiet Elk lodge was transformed into what can only be described as a senior citizen rave.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a pianist (and I use the term loosely) resembling a balding Egon Spengler from Ghostbusters began playing a horrifying rendition of some vaguely familiar country-western song. Instinctively, like salmon traveling upstream to spawn, the Elks and their wives slowly lifted themselves from their seats, migrated to the center of the room, and began dancing.

While some managed to revive their younger selves and really “bust a move,” others could only stand in a dazed state on the floor while their spouses circled and bobbed. One couple, obviously adept at “cutting a rug,” danced circles around the others. The male member of the duo taunted the sexually challenged members of the audience by thrusting his brown polyester-wrapped pelvis to the organ beat (at this point the “pianist” had put on a ridiculous hat and began playing the cha-cha). I tried to scrape my jaw off the tabletop as the couple engaged in some sort of choreographed mating ritual version of the cha-cha where the man turns his back on the woman and the woman, rebuffed, pleads for the attention of her lover. The reluctant man embraces the woman and cha-chas the night away.

At the conclusion of the song, the couple kissed passionately while the pianist again changed his hat (this time into a lovely woman’s sun-bonnet). I did the only thing I knew to do…I gave the couple a big thumbs up, silently prayed I’d be that virile at 75, and resumed sipping a beer and eating my beerfish…all but sabotaging with barley and cholesterol any virility I might retain through the years.

I want be the Exalted Ruler of this surreal land.

It was 4:30 in the afternoon on Wednesday. Kevin and I were sweating profusely since it was around 112 degrees outside. As we reached the top of the stairs Kevin tried to open the door to the apartment, but it was locked.

I sat down and sighed. “Well now what are we going to do?”

We were both frustrated. Not because the apartment was locked but because we just got kicked out of the second pool at the party. No sense in moving back to the first pool as planned, we’d only get kicked out again. We figured the best alternative was to visit Dan’s apartment and rest in the frigid delicacy known as air conditioning.

When all hope of air conditioning satisfaction was lost I noticed someone coming up the stairs. She was a brunette, short and wet, most likely from the party we previously attended, and under her arm she smuggled a box of Bud Light.

She stumbled a few times as she struggled to make it up the stairs. It was clear that she was inebriated.

“Hey you guys! Are you from around here?” And she added, “My name is Katie.”

After an abrupt conversation we decided she should be escorted back to her apartment, wherever that may be. Katie grabbed hold of my arm and led us down a corridor to another area.

“My boyfriend is seriously going to kill me,” Katie exclaimed as she opened the door.

Kevin and I felt awkward. We didn’t move an inch as we stood in the doorway and watched Katie stumble inside and greet her friends. Kevin made the first bold move and walked in setting his case of beer on the counter, “You guys want some beer?”

“Umm, No thanks,” said one of the friends.

Not knowing what to do, I quickly sat down on the bar chair and watched the conflict. Katie stumbled around swearing as Kevin and I introduced ourselves to the others in the room.

Suddenly I looked over and saw Katie attempting to retrieve a beer from the refrigerator. She instead knocked over an expensive bottle of Tequila, breaking the top of it. Amy, who seemed to be living at the apartment ran out and proceeded to scold her. As Katie and Amy debated whether the bottle was broken or not, Kevin and I realized that Amy doesn?t know Katie.

Amy walked away in frustration swearing. I too would be insulted if someone walked in my kitchen and broke a bottle not knowing who she was. My conclusion was that Katie?s boyfriend would step in and say something. To my surprise, the other guys in the room began to introduce themselves to Katie.

“Wait a minute, so none of you guys know this girl?” Kevin questioned.

“No way, we thought she was with you,” They replied.

“What the hell, we thought she was with you. This is weird, she said this was her boyfriend’s apartment!” I exclaimed.

Katie defended herself, “Boyfriend? What are you talking about, I never mentioned that.”

It appeared to us that Kevin and I followed her into a strange apartment. We didn’t know them and they were most likely wondering who the hell we were. As I apologized for intruding Amy proceeded to kick Katie out.

As Katie put on Amy’s shoes and walked outside, the rest of us glanced at each other and laughed hysterically.

35 minutes or so later Kevin and I left the apartment with some new friends, and a great story. What a weird day.

“Not really…I mean, it’s certainly not the most glamorous of jobs.”

“Well, when you think about it, it’s gotta be pretty trippy. I mean, there you are, sort of physically and emotionally standing outside of all kinds of daily situations. Sure, if you’re watching someone make out with their co-worker on the desk of their office you might start unconsciously wiping more seductively with your squeegee or something, but for the most part you should be able to remain outside and unaffected. Right? I mean, things would never get in your head, right?”

“I don’t know. Why would you think of that?”

“Because I bought a new squeegee Hal…and I’m on Red Bull.”

“Good God, Rebecca…stop coming towards me! What is the meaning of this? You can’t use that squeegee on a person. It’s too powerful. Also, you’re married. And you work for an accounting firm. It’s completely out of character.”

“Hal. You’re dirty. We’re all dirty. Only I can see. I’m the walrus. I’m the cosmos. I’m the window washer.”

“Rebecca…that’s crazy talk. You’re not making any sense. You’re a middle-aged woman with a penchant for buying Cuisinarts. You don’t want to endanger that…that DEEPLY MEANINGFUL PASSION.”

“You’re right, Hal. I’ll just smear this peanut butter on my eyelids and do pelvic thrusts to the rhythm of this Kenny Loggins song.”

“That sounds good, Rebecca. I’m calling the police.”

Now that I have the attention of 95% of the chimpsahoy.com readers, let me continue. I’ll set it out straight right now: I have strange fears. Not like arachnophobia or agoraphobia. I have weird fears like my inability to drive with the car doors locked (not unlocked, mind you) or my fear of the number five or things that come in fives (fingers freak my crap out – especially when there are five of them).

Well, maybe not the five thing, but the car doors being locked is big business for me. Think about it. If you get in a car accident while driving, get knocked unconscious and start bleeding from the head, and your doors are locked, say goodbye. Aint nobody gonna pull you out unless you get a locksmith. Or a hammer to break your window. But who brings a hammer with them? That’s ridiculous. You’re stuck, dying, and no one can help you. Shouldn’t have locked your doors, Bozo.

Anyway, my other strange fear is going to the bathroom next to a closed shower curtain. Not a see-thru curtain, but one that people can hide behind and jump out from after I’ve unleashed the beast. When I was a younger, I hated going over to my aunt and uncle’s house because they always kept their jungle-themed shower curtain closed. Always. And every time I went to use the bathroom, I’d have to look behind it to foil the “midstream mischief” of any jungle-themed George looking to swing on my vine.

I’ve grown up since then. I can’t even remember the last time I pulled back the curtain. Sometimes though, I catch myself leering around the edge of a partially open curtain. Friday, I went to a friend’s house, and while it could have been the DayQuil I was on, it was perhaps the strongest urge I’ve ever had to pull back the curtain since my childhood. I lifted up my hand, but pulled back quickly. I thought, “I’m above this.” So, I continued my business slightly paranoid, and nothing happened. While I still don’t know if anyone was behind that curtain, I stood ten feet tall when I left that bathroom. It’s small steps like this that are helping me to live a normal life.

“Donnie Darko was a movie. I liked that movie. I watched it a couple times. But I didn’t understand it the first time because I was carving pumpkins. Oh yeah, I carved pumpkins this weekend, better tell the table because this is relevant.”

It made sense to me, but he just stared at me and said, “Well I watched a movie while sitting on the couch.” The whole table had a good chuckle, I just gripped my Exacto knife and waited for a good moment to bury it deep inside his ribs. Yeah, you laugh now, but you wait. The moment you turn to sharpen that pencil, I’ll be there. When you go to your mailbox, I’ll be hiding behind that red metal flag. When you pour that bowl of cereal, I’ll be the toy that pops and and and *BAM YOU’RE DEAD!*

Waiting…patiently…stroking the cool aluminum exacto knife handle…waiting…thinking…yeah, you just wait…

Or maybe it should be *SHIV YOU’RE DEAD!* I can’t decide which sounds better. I will think it over. I have time.