A Brief B! True Hollywood Story, Kansas City-style: Douglas Adams
After a weekend to rest, I think it’s time to get back to business. Business of course, meaning cubes, pubes and supine boners. So how was everybody’s weekend? Did you destroy yourself as much as possible again by overeating, overdrinking, and oversleeping, and now you’re back in your little cubicle hating yourself for it? That’s cool, because you probably should. I mean, everyone else pretty much does, so…
There are a couple of things that I had in mind as boner-fodder for today. The first of which came to me as I was watching 60 Minutes last night. Anybody see that? If so, you’ll know what I mean when I say that anyone who thinks we (Americans) are still the world’s power, probably still thinks that just because their dick is invisible underneath a belly that sticks out further than their arms do, doesn’t exactly make him fat. Look around you and take a good, hard look (that’s what she said) at your cubicle space. Does it just scream, “Only 9,739 more days before I can retire?” Or, “I’m a bigger pussy than the cat on my calendar, and I gave up on life long ago at the age of 26?” Well, you could always become a bodybuilder, or you could try to be a little bit more like my buddy Douglas Raymond Adams, the cubicle gangsta that invented the rat tail, and the person whom today’s boner will be about! So heat some Sanka up in that filthy mug you drink out of, plaster down the hair from your back that you’re using to come over the bald spot on your head, and pop five or six pieces of Nicorette into your mouth because Doug is a doozie, and will be the first pubic-hair chairman to be featured in the B! True Hollywood Story, Kansas City-style!
I first met Doug as a youngster when we both went to the same elementary school. He was a grade above me, and although unbeknownst to him, he made a lasting impression on my life before we had ever exchanged a word. I can’t remember what the year was, but it had to be in the mid to late 80s when Doug invented, and wore, the world’s first rat tail (according to me). If you want to know how sweet this collection of lettuce was, which cascaded well into the middle of his back, then I would refer you to the Boner archives to see The Most Bitchin-ist Rat Tail Ever. For today though, the roden’t tail is only going to be supplemental to the story of the man, behind the man, behind the man. D was a great athlete who was not afraid to slide hard into any base during intense games of kickball that were played on a non-field, parking-lot-turned-playground, concrete jungle. Did that ever hurt? You bet your ass it did. So let’s fast forward to the mid 90s. Doug and I were both in high-school at this point, and besides being the guy that my girlfriend left to date, I didn’t know him beyond the tail. It wouldn’t be until we became teammates on the baseball team that we both decided that not only did we not like to practice, but we now hated to slide, even if it was a very nicely groomed field. It was this fact that caused us to hit it off, become good friends, and decide to write a book together. I will get back to the details of the book later on, but you’re pretty much reading it right now, so…again we will fast forward through college years that were spent in different states, to where I really got to know Doug Adams, as the best man in his wedding. I would rather not get into it, but I have been to A LOT of wedding receptions in my life, based purely on the worst job I ever had, and Doug’s was the best ever. It took place in the basement of some community center, and that was disgusting, but what that didn’t hold a candle to was the fact that Doug didn’t think to shave, shower or brush his teeth for about a week leading up to his wedding. No, it wasn’t because he was trying to be funny, because if he had done that it would have been anything but funny. I can’t tell you why he did it, and because they were nothing more than a few minor details that he had somehow looked past, that made him the best guy of all time. Did I mention that it was hard to tell exactly how greasy his bird’s nest actually was because it was jam-packed underneath a dirty trucker’s cap that he threw on two seconds after the wedding ended? If not, then he did. What he didn’t do however, was think to get his denim tuxedo cleaned before he got married in it, but why would he? After all, his bride Dawn Adams didn’t seem to give a fuck about any of the other stuff. What she did seem to care about though, was that the caterers from the barbeque joint made sure to use the nice paper plates and plasticwear, and that everybody had plenty of Jack Daniel’s to shoot all night. That’s all I remember about that, except for that giant cowboy who fell on his head after the party. Remember that Doug? And that pretty much brings us to my point today: Doug, I need some more idears fer this here book, so send some to me. Other than that, I need to go back to work, and am going to leave you with a picture that is not Doug, but I wish was…
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