Propeller Skies

[As per usual, conversations are not verbatim and have been paraphrased, rephrased, and generally rearranged to make Smoove D sound far more funny and clever than he really is. Isn't the internet great? - Ed.]

“Thank god you answered, I have a dilemma. I like the blonde, but her brunette roommate is smokin’ hot. Which number should I get?”

“The blonde.”

Maybe I will get around to calling her.

A couple hours later.

“Your husband isn’t here?”

“Nope.”

“Awesome.”

Standing outside Kroger at 2:30 in the morning*, Smoove D is munching on some recently purchased** honey roasted peanuts and minding his own business. A minivan pulls up next to him.

“Can you tell us how to get to I-20 East”

“Man, I’m drunk. I don’t know.”

“Haha!”

This motherfucker is crazier than Horselover Fat. Good reading. I do hope he manages to get some hot biker chick poontang. This should be obvious, but as a public service for the legions of clueless: not safe for work.

“Don’t you know who I am? I’m the pool boy, bitch.”

My car is right where I left it. Awesome.

No tasty breakfast food in the ghetto fabulous apartment. Back through the Kroger with the riff raff again.

notes:

* Or maybe 1:30 in the morning, fuck daylight savings time. Fucking government.
** Despite the best efforts of the motherfucking goddamn U-Scan to prevent Smoove from actually checking out. Fuck Kroger.

Kneeling down with your head in a bowl
Telling yourself there should never be days like this
Just when you thought that you had it down
You woke up dreaming of cocaine and clowns
–13 Engines

Officer Naughty, Jason, and I are chilling on the dock waiting for the shuttle. Two tall brunettes walk past looking for the shuttle, one with stunning ice blue eyes and the other with legs longer than a Stephen King novel. I ignore the hotties and continue admiring Officer Naughty’s cleavage and pounding Old Chubb.

Three cans of Old Chubb later, we arrive at the houseboat. I drink a few more cans of Old Chubb and end up in the water.

the hot carltons

Around three o’clock, The Hot Carltons played. I think. I do not remember their set.

big vessel

After The Hot Carltons played, I switched to Dale’s Pale Ale because the Old Chubb was fucking my shit up. Hence, I actually remember most of Big Vessel’s set. Highlights included Big Vessel playing the supremely appropriate Raft and one of my favorites, Something Out There, which name checks 6th Street. I highly recommend catching Big Vessel, especially if they happen to be playing on the water*.

drunk, drunk, drunk in the gardens and the graves

Big Vessel finishes and I remain in the water with various other recurring Propeller Skies characters. One of them expresses concern about my inebriated swimming skills. I respond I can swim better than I can walk. This turns out to be true. I pick a chair on the beach and sit, since this walking thing is not working out so well. The Quiet One brings me an extremely zesty brat filled with cheese and wrapped with bacon. I highly recommend brats grilled by The Quiet One.

I am essentially out of commission at this point, as is most of the crowd. I decide this is a good time to stop drinking. I reflect that three Old Chubbs ago would have been a great time to curtail the imbibing while launching a technicolor yawn off the side of the boat.

Notes:

* Let’s just say the lead singer is not so difficult to look at in a bikini.

Saturday night, my friend Big A threw a party. Recurring Propeller Skies character The Beaver and I stopped by after eating at Cafe Sampan. As per usual, Big A’s soiree was well attended and kicked ass. There was plenty of with delectable food, including some mighty tasty ribs. Providing a soundtrack for the gathering was a live DJ spinning vinyl on actual turntables. Despite zesty food and excellent music, no midgets were in attendance. I highly recommend hanging out with Big A, even though no little people graced the party with their presence.

Saturday evening, two recurring Propeller Skies characters threw a party at their parents’ house while they were out of town. This was just like high school, except instead of 40s we drank microbrews. Also, no one threw up or was hospitalized.

The barbeque was excellent with plenty of tasty food. To go with the aforementioned microbrews and zesty food, football in high definition on a sweet plasma set was served upstairs. Unlike previous parties, this one featured a pool and a hot tub. As the miscreants who participated in hot garage action at a previous soiree were also at this party, I was very disappointed no one got it on in the hot tub. One of the best moments of the night happened when The Quiet One passed out on the couch with her dog. Too precious. Overall, this was a pretty tame party, but fun nonetheless.

Last Saturday, a friend was in town visiting. In her honor, recurring Propeller Skies characters The Dog and The Rabbit hosted a party at their place. Sandra arrived late, as usual, and brought a smokin’ hot friend (SHF) with her. However, SHF asked for water when she was offered a drink; setting a new record for least time elapsed before a deal breaker. I thought the party started off a little slow, but a bottle of wine and a few high performance Margaritas improved the situation immensely. Thanks to The Beaver for driving.

In college, it was not a party until someone threw up.

In my mid twenties, it was not a party until midgets arrived.

Last Saturday at C-dogg’s country estate, the bar was raised yet again. Now, it is not a party until people bump uglies on the couch in the garage.

Last Saturday, I took a ride through Cracktown On Boulevard with The Quiet One and C-dogg. About a quarter of the way into our little journey through Cracktown, C-dogg decided to engage the hoodlocks, starting an argument with The Quiet One. She theorized the crackheads in Cracktown would be jumpy, being all hopped up on fat rocks of crack and all, and would start busting caps when they were startled by the sound of the hoodlocks clicking into place. Or something like that, I was too busy checking out the fine ass crack ‘hos to pay much attention. Amazingly, we survived the trip through cracktown and arrived at the Fulton Cotton Mill Lofts.

Upon arriving, we proceeded to start drinking heavily while the first band, The Hot Carltons, set up. As this was their first time playing out, my expectations were low. Much to my surprise, they totally rocked out.

After The Hot Carltons played, Recurring Propeller Skies character Ted showed up. I chilled with him for a while and drank more wine while we waited for Big Vessel to go on. As per usual, Big Vessel played a great show. Even though their acoustic album Riversongs is totally swell, I love seeing them electrified. Sometime after Big Vessel played, Ted mentioned that a woman had crashed into the buffet table. I assumed it was The Quiet One, but I later found out it was The Nice One.

In conclusion, it is a great party when a friend walks in and states, “… I’ve only been here fifteen minutes and I already smoked with the band.” Additionally, there were loads of MILFs and a midget in attendance. This party was sweet.

Last Friday recurring Propeller Skies characters Mark and Skye threw a birthday party in the hood. As the original partay in the hood was totally bitchin’, I cleared out some space on my schedule and made it a point to show up.

Showing up was easier said than done. Astute Prizzo Skeezy readers will recall that I have been depending on MARTA for my transportation needs. While MARTA works well enough for getting between my residence and place of employment, riding it to social functions presents a unique set of challenges. Since none of my five broke ass readers have contributed to the Smoove D Nissan Pathfinder Fund I found myself riding the bus on Friday evening. While I was waiting for the number eighteen at Candler Park MARTA Station, recurring Propeller Skies character Ted called and graciously offered a ride. I put the top back on my bourbon bottle and took him up on it.

Ted and I arrived on the early side, because we are both losers without fuck all else to do. Before I could even pour myself a proper bourbon on the rocks, Skye saddled me with a camera. Apparently word got out that I know how to take a picture without any fingers in front of the lens. After taking a few pictures, I was forced to conclude that the camera totally sucked a sweaty sloth ball. At least ten seconds elapsed between pressing the shutter button and an actual picture being taken. My primary main objective shifted from drinking heavily and photographing hotties to unloading the camera quickly.

I was successful in ditching the camera and spent some quality time drinking and chilling with Ted and several other revelers. Eventually recurring Propeller Skies character Big A showed up. Unfortunately, she was having a bad hair day or something and just hung out on the couch quietly. Sometime during the festivities, several of Mark’s DJ friends showed up and began spinning.

In conclusion, Mark and Skye threw some really sweet parties. I am bummed they are moving to Florida to sharpen up their shuffleboard and bridge skills.

By the way, for those keeping score at home, the incredibly slow camera had “Canon” emblazoned on the front of it.

Saturday afternoon, I was walking through a cold gray drizzle reminiscent of the good old days in Buffalo. Unfortunately, the Buffalo like effect was spoiled by the lack of a cold biting wind whipping past. A black SUV pulled up next to me and recurring Propeller Skies character The Quiet One asked if I needed a ride. I hopped in and gave C-Dogg directions to my apartment. After a quick stop for coffee, doughnuts, and a post to aspherical, we were on our way OTP.

I observed this was great drinking weather and roughly thirty minutes later, we pulled into World Liquor. Moments later, the Quiet One, C-Dogg, and I were at the counter with a twelve pack each. After some debate, we decided that should be a sufficient amount of beer. We loaded up the truck and headed over to my cracka Smoove B’s place to get loaded and eat gumbo help him celebrate his birthday.

At this point, astute readers will note that I frequently disparage the vast hinterland commonly referred to as OTP. Usually with plenty of justification, since it is filled with militant fundamentalist neo-con Ford Valdez™ driving soccer moms with assault rifles, although some details may be slightly exaggerated for comedic effect. Because of the location, I had somewhat low expectations for this party.

Smoove B’s birthday soiree started out somewhat slow. We arrived around two in the afternoon and promptly began drinking. By five, C-Dogg and I were giving thanks that we each brought twelve packs. About that time, the MILF crowd departed and left only the serious partiers. Things picked up from there and the party transcended location and became totally bitchin’.

Eventually, we ran out of beer and left the party, heading over to C-Dogg’s place. On the way there, we stopped by Wendy’s and picked up some tasty burgers and fries, despite The Quiet One’s best efforts to antagonize the kid working the drive through. The night concluded with C-Dogg throwing his shoes from the far end of the living room into the kitchen. Which, at the time, was pretty fucking hilarious.

I highly recommend Wendy’s after a hard afternoon and evening of drinking heavily. All three of us woke up the next morning hangover free.

When we arrived at recurring Propeller Skies character Kara’s, the party was in full swing. After pouring myself a glass of wine, I wandered out onto the patio, where Guy and Some Dude Whose Name I Don’t Remember were busy launching serious fireworks off the roof. By serious fireworks, I mean professional grade pyrotechnics, not just bottle rockets and roman candles. Although there were plenty of bottle rockets and roman candles around. Good times.

Eventually, we had our fill of explosions and booze and headed home. A big and heartfelt Propeller Skies shout out goes out to The Dog, for staying sober and graciously carting the rest of our drunk asses around.