It seems appropriate that I should be sitting at the Tiki bar writing this post. Franklinton has turned in and I have the place to myself. Well, me and the crickets, and the full moon. It has been some time since I wrote anything about the Tiki bar. I have tried to limit my articles to the subject of beer, as the spirit of charter of this site is supposed to be, and only include the Tiki bar when it applied to the story I was trying to tell.
Not this time.
A scandal has rocked the Tiki bar!
Yes, Dear and Gentle Reader, The foundations of said Tiki bar have been shaken. One of the Tiki’s founding members has been caught in the most heinous act of TREASON!
All in attendance were shocked!
The story can only be told as I know it, as I’m the one who has to do the tellin’.
Saturday evening started off in the best of fashion. I arrived at a little after nine. We were fortunate to have five founding members in attendance, and the Tiki bar had been decorated with festive new lights, in preparation for the coming holiday. The skeletons with their flashing green glow added to the flood of moonlight that bathed the Tiki bar. The mood was jolly and everyone was glad to see me. The conversation was buoyant and happy. The candles were lit and the Tiki torches shone. A better night for a Tiki cannot be pictured.
The scent of newly fallen leaves filled the air. The stars themselves were ready to shake off their nightly grind and shine a little brighter, just to celebrate a good week’s work well done. The night promised nothing but good times and a lot of laughs.
Such was not the case.
Patrice came down from Cleveburg to visit, and brought some new lighting to the bar along with well wishes and regrets that she couldn’t make it more often.
Fat Wally, and his lovely wife, Ms. Snap, were there. Markus was settled in by the fire and was, for the first time in my limited memory, and not sporting a cap. John and Meshell scooted over and patted the seat next to them, so I sat down.
As I say, the story can only be told by me, as I’m the one doin’ the tellin’.
We talked of how we plan to “WINTERIZE” the Tiki bar. The new heater was brought in, with that, rough plans were made, and wood was secured. We talked of work and kids. We kept saying what a fan-effing-tastic night it was to be out.
After a while, refreshments were needed, and the Grand Pooh-Bah suggested slammers. This was a drink that I was unfamiliar with.
“What’s in it?” I asked.
“A shot of Yukon Jack and 7-Up. You hold the glass in one hand and put your other hand over the top and slam it on the bar. While the pop is still fizzing, you slam it down.” The Grand Pooh-Bah explained.
“We have some tequila,” he offered.
“Not for me, thanks Frank.”
“How about vodka?”
“I’ll have one.” And I did. I had one. It wasn’t bad, although I think I might have missed out on some of the whole slammer experience, as mine was done with vodka, and not the Yukon Jack that the recipe called for. I was content to sip my delicious and inexpensive French beer, La Pabst.
Everyone had a slammer the first time they were offered, and toasts and cheers followed. The true spirit of the Tiki was in full swing.
It has been mentioned in a previous article that, under no circumstances, should Fat Wally be allowed to have rum. It tends to make him act up, and he really isn’t himself after that. I would like to amend the list of things that, under no circumstances, should Fat Wally be allowed to have. Let’s add Yukon Jack and Jose Cuervo tequila.
The conversation meandered. Football was discussed. Sex was mentioned, as it is a frequent topic of the Tiki bar, along with snide suggestions that Franklinton and Patrice “needed to put the food away”.
The Grand Pooh-Bah, in a very rare pronouncement, said that the driving spirit of the Tiki bar was love, and friendship. He doesn’t wax poetic like this very often, so it tends to make an impression when he does. This will come into play later.
We contemplated starting a new reality T.V. show entitled Tiki Nation, where we would travel cross country and build Tiki bars for people, and then show them how to use their new bar to full effect. Franklin would head up the landscaping, Markus would be our resident carpenter (look out Tye Pennington!), I would play host and help out with the decorations, John was to be our electrician, and Meshell would do hair and make-up, while Wally would produce it and be the flunky for Frank, Markus and John. Wally suggested that at the opening of the show we could all ride up on custom-made choppers and most everyone thought that that was a good idea. I was the only one to object. I wasn’t willing to drive, so someone had to have a sidecar, ‘cause I wasn’t willing to “ride bitch”. Markus volunteered to have the sidecar added to his custom chopper, as long as he got to keep all the great tools that it was going to take to build everything for Tiki Nation. We are trying to get the good folks at HGTV interested. We laughed and kidded each other as this beautiful fall night settled in around us.
Earlier in the evening, Wally was frying up breaded mushrooms in a deep fryer, in an attempt to add them to the regular Tiki bar fare of beer and peanuts. He was the only one interested in eating the mushrooms, and in the process of frying them, had spilled grease down the front of his ample shirt. This will come into play later in the story.
Wally decided that he liked the slammers, so he had another. Soon, the half bottle of Yukon Jack was exhausted. Wally was feeling what he thought was the spirit of the Tiki bar, and it moved him. It was not the spirit of the Tiki however that moved him. It was the bottle of spirits that he had just consumed. In his defense, this is a common misconception. Many have made this mistake, just not on the grand scale that Wally was about to embark on.
Wally’s conversation and attitude became more animated. He argued more vehemently about what football teams were going to win, how the Tiki should be run (those Republicans, always grasping for more power) and how he was really going to deliver in the bedroom when he and Ms. Snap got home.
Yes, it was that kind of evening.
Wally was tipsy and there was no going back now. With all this posturing, Wally got too warm and removed his grease stained button-up shirt, and was content to sit in his equally grease stained T-shirt. Now that he had made himself more comfortable, he decided that there was just too much mucking about with all this slammer business and he would just switch to shots. Tequila shots. And since things were rolling along so well, maybe two at a time would not be a bad idea.
Wally got loud. He became more obnoxious. He worked himself up to rude.
We laughed and snickered and threatened to marker his overbearing drunk-ass as soon as he fell unconscious. Markus has had several years of art school and a large 128-color selection of markers to choose from. He and I contemplated designs to decorate him with, while Wally settled into the Grand Pooh-Bah’s bottle of tequila.
When Wally closed one bleary eye and stared at the rapidly disappearing contents of the bottle, he made one more fatal error. The shot glasses would be dispensed with, and as no one but him seemed to show any interest in drinking more tequila, he would drink straight from the bottle. All of it. The last third of tequila went down in three gulps.
It was about this time that his saliva glands decided they were going to make themselves known. Not one word could stagger from Wally’s drunken lips without an accompanying spray of spittle. To make matters worse, he became a “close-talker”. His breath reeked of fried mushrooms, tequila, and the south end of a northbound horse. He got even louder, and despite the cool temperature, beads of sweat rolled down him.
Now, a few nights ago, there was a running joke of “God Bless America”. When someone felt uncomfortable with the subject matter at hand in the conversation, they would start in with “God Bless America”. Everyone who agreed that it was time for a new topic would sing along. It was a funny, but polite way to change the subject. We all laughed. We, as a group, could steer the conversation, and no one felt left out or was faced with a topic they weren’t prepared to talk about. I will be the first to admit that no subject is taboo at the Tiki bar, but only where it stands up to group approval. It is democracy, in its most basic form. Granted, We have a Grand Pooh-Bah, but We need at least one executive officer to get things done, or to delegate, as he sees fit. We only have one other office holder at the Tiki. That is the position of Secretary, who is supposed to keep track of rules, bylaws, minutes, and monies, and whatnot that may arise. Wally invented the position, and seeing as how no one else wanted the job, he ran unopposed and was sworn in.
He kept trying to introduce new topics of conversation to the Tiki bar. The size of his genitals, his prowess in the bedroom, and butt-f**king, only to be drowned out by “God Bless America” again and again. Markus and I kept track of how many times he had to be censored by this patriotic anthem, (a job that should have been handled by our Secretary) and at 12 we decided that it was time for an ass-kicking, or, at the very least, Fat Wally should go home.
I have never seen Ms. Snap with a more pleading look on her face than she had that night. The warm and loving husband that she had married, and had beautiful children with, was now a drooling imbecile who threatened to do bodily harm to himself and others. It was at this time that Wally was doing more leaning than standing, and found every single bottle of beer on the bar that had the least little bit of beer left in them, and proceeded to knock them into the laps of everyone in attendance, twice.
Something, way, way back in his mind must have fallen in place and made him realize, in some small way, that he was being a jerk, because he then became very affectionate. Not to his lovely wife, as would have seemed appropriate, (he was still too busy trying to convince us that when he got home, he was going to “Rock Her World”) no, he became affectionate to us all. He seemed like a man possessed. He hugged, kissed, and tried to fondle everyone there.
Have you, Dear and Gentle Reader, even had to shrug off the advances of a fat, sweaty, greasy, drunken man? I had not, and I’m willing to bet that most of the other members hadn’t either. (The jury is still out on some, I mean really, we have got a guy that used to tend bar at this really wild hangout here in town and we haven’t heard all that went on there, but I guess this place was just a den of iniquity.) What made it even worse was the fact that he really needed a shave. Not only did you have the wet ring of slobber on your face, but his 5 o’clock shadow would sandpaper a little bit of your face off every time, and he didn’t seem to mind if he used a little tongue. He would bear hug you and press his sweaty, greasy funk all over. I came home smelling like a stinky drunk’s jock strap. Needless to say, I had some explaining to do to my wife when I got home.
Then came the dancing. We always have music at the Tiki and dancing is encouraged. Most of us guys are not dancers per say, but the ladies usually take to the sand for a little shimmy and shake. Fat Wally wasn’t content with smooching and hugging, and felt like he needed to move to the music, if for no other reason than to move a little more of that booze laden blood a little closer to his head. He called for Ms. Snap to join him on the sand and they gyrated to the music, or at least, he danced as well as he could in his condition. It was more of a poorly controlled stagger.
He fell with the high-pitched giggle of a little girl. Then I helped him up and said that maybe, just maybe, it was time to go home. He fell again with another fit of girlie giggling.
“Nice,” the Grand Pooh-Bah commented, as Wally floundered at the edge of the sand.
Markus and I continued to keep track off how many times we had had to censor Fat Wally, and at 12 we threatened an ass-kicking, or a markering if need be. At 21, we called for a motion at the Tiki bar. Never before, in the whole history of the bar has this been done. The motion was laid before the members, and was carried unanimously. We organized a delegation to carry Fat Wally home. John was on his right, guiding him, Markus took up the rear with Ms. Snap, to see that he didn’t fall backwards and crack his head open like he had already done earlier in the evening, and I, yes I, was wedged somewhere in the neighborhood of one sweaty left armpit. Unlike his political philosophy, when drunk, Fat Wally leans to the left.
I weigh in at a buck-seventy-five. Wally is twice my size, to the pound. Needless to say, I had my hands full. The whole time that we are carrying Wally home, he was trying to undo his pants so he could piss. This complicated matters. Not only could he not figger out the simple fasteners to his pants, but he could not also concentrate on moving himself closer to home, where he would have to face an ass-kicking by his wife, and not by his closest friends and neighbors.
We had to pause at the road to let traffic go by, and Wally found that he had gotten ahold of the end of his belt and was going at it like a man about to beat a naughty dog. He wanted to stop on the yellow dividing lines and relieve himself there, even though there are large trucks bearing down on us. We managed to manhandle him (a word that has taken on a whole new meaning in my vocabulary) all the way to his front steps.
I knew that this was going to be the greatest trial of the night. To get Wally to place one foot in front of the other, and on different levels, enough to get him in the house. I encouraged him to concentrate, as he is still intent on pissing on the yellow lines in traffic.
“C’mon big guy,” I plead. He stumbles and his upper body swings in circles as he is grasping vainly for balance.
“Damn it Man! You are a Republican! Act like one!” I yelled in his ear. And for one brief moment, he seemed to find himself. He straightened up, and put one confident foot forward.
Then he fell to his knees and hurled like a first year frat boy. He must have been shooting for effect, as he turned his head slightly with every heave, so as to cover more ground with his upchuck.
Markus turned and never looked back as he returned to the Tiki.
John stared, with mouth wide open as the scene of horror unfolded, until he could stand it no longer and was tempted to barf himself.
I took Ms. Snap in a friendly embrace and tried to drown out the sounds of Wally emptying his gut with words of comfort, that this too, would pass. John had to look away. I called to him to be a friend and at least hold Wally’s hair back as he puked. (Wally has a buzz cut, and this was a totally unnecessary thing to say, but I was trying to add humor to a very bad situation.)
No amount of kind words or humor could convince Ms. Snap that this was anything but a complete disaster. She was on the verge of tears. I couldn’t leave her with this 350 lbs. train wreck at her front door, so John and I carried Fat Wally to the sofa in the front room and took his shoe off, as one was lost in the trip home.
John and I scampered back to the Tiki as quick as we could, before the drunken giant could raise more hell, and thanked our lucky, shining stars that that was over with for tonight and only the fallout needed to be dealt with when we got back.
We tried to have a good time, now that the ogre in the middle of the Tiki had been safely laid to rest, but, try as we might; we were still reeling from the experience. We tried to talk of other things, we tried to go back to the great time we were having earlier, we tried to wrap our heads around more pleasant things and how glad we were to be together again, but no, the memory of the awful thing that we had witnessed was too strong. Like people who have survived some horrible catastrophe and lived to tell the tale, we kept recounting how the evening had gone so horribly wrong.
That brings us to the high crime of TREASON!
The Grand Pooh-Bah earlier in the evening said that what the Tiki bar was all about was love and friendship. Fat Wally was tried and convicted of violating this one rule. None of his friends felt the love that night, despite the slobbery kisses and sweaty hugs.
His sentence: Every Monday, for a month, he has to wheel the beer bottle laden trash to the curb. He is banned from the Tiki for this coming weekend. He has to split firewood until everyone is satisfied that he is truly sorry, and when he is allowed back, he has to wear a helmet with a chinstrap to protect his head from further injury and guarantee no further damage would be unleashed on his already addled brains.