Plastered

by

I went to a Birthday Party today. Okay, maybe not “went to” so much as “crashed”. Fucking semantics if you ask me.

I realized the stir craziness here at The Compound was finally starting to get to me when I found myself sitting atop the Tiki Bar in the south wing in nothing but a soiled pair of Green Lantern boxer shorts eating cold Beefaroni out of a can. Also, I noticed that I had apparently, at some point in the last 48 hours, carved the word “revenant” into my chest with an exacto knife.

So I figured I needed to get out.

I decided that something creative would help so I threw on a my hat and glasses and a nice windbreaker and headed directly over to the local Plaster Fun Time.

I fucking love plaster painting, man.

Fun Times With Plaster

So I guess there was a birthday celebration being hosted over there or something. Some seven year old and a dozen or so of his pals had the place pretty well taken over and they were all whoopin’ and hollerin’ and stuff. Whatever. I’m there to work, man.

So I got myself a smock, some paints and a penguin and took a seat. I think some folks thought I might be one of the parents at first so no one really bothered me early on. I was sitting next to Jimmy “The Cunt” Bradenson, a feisty little cock knocker from, I think, Elmer Bernstein Elementary School in Dover. I gave him the nickname. I figured it fit. That kid can party, let me tell you. He was telling me he likes to sneak up and watch his parents when they “wrestle naked” and sometimes likes to crap in his backyard and not tell anyone. Cool fucker, no doubt.

I was in the middle of telling my boy about how paint huffing can be a cheap high when some doughy, near-sighted lesbian decided so sidle up and ask me why I was making my penguin “anatomically correct” and whether or not I though it was “appropriate” to be puffing on a big fattie at a children’s birthday party, no matter if I kept it under the table.

The nerve of some hermaphrodites, I’ll tell you

So, I stood up like a shot and went off. “Because I’m a fucking artist, that’s why!!!” Then I screamed to the college kid at the counter, “Yo, Weekend at Bernies! Get Rosie here off my ass, motherfucker, or I’m gonna bleed the bitch!!!”

It sort of went downhill from there. Some WWF wannabe describing himself as a “chaperone” blindsided me from the left where everyone knows my peripheral vision is shot thanks to that speedboat collision back in ’90. So he got me down but made the mistake of knocking me into the shelves full of all the plaster casts, most of which came cascading down on us like a goddamned avalanche. I can take a hit, though, so when the dust cleared I shook off the rubble and was on my feet before the other dude knew what happened. Before he could even roll over I fucking brained him a lawn fairy.

Most of the kids and moms were scrambling for the exits at this point, which was too bad because a) the real fun was just beginning and b) they were going to miss out on some real educational shit involving human anatomy, creative use of curse words and hand to hand combat in confined spaces.

I targeted the Plaster Fun Time staff next for their inabilty to control what they should have known would be a volatile situation. If a wobbly, unshaven drunk guy in a fur hat and sunglasses with no pants on comes in and want to paint little plaster animals at 11 a.m. on a Friday, you know what? You might want to expect the worst in terms of how that situation might develop. Might want to call the manager. I’m not telling you guys how to do your jobs or anything, but when a guys sits down at the little picnic table and you can see his hairy balls hanging down beneath his smock, chances are it’s not a gonna be a good thing for anybody.

So I pelted the motherfuckers with everything I could get my hands on, unicorns, a bust of Betty Boop, a Yoda head, some little ducks, a fucking shitload of sleeping kitty cats, one or two garden gnomes. They hid behind the counter mostly but I rained down jagged plaster chunks of screaming hell on their heads for a good 45 minutes until I heard the sirens and slipped out through the storage area out back.

Wriggled through a vent shaft into the kitchen of the pizza place next door and hid out under a counter for a few hours ’til I heard all the sobbing stop and then took off for home.

Forgot my goddamned penguin, too.

Anyway. All in a day’s work.

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6 Responses to “Plastered”

  1. Ozzy McGurt Says:

    Jeezus Ken. Here I was beginning to think lately that you’d gone soft. This is more like the Ken Socrates I know and loathe.

  2. Willie Sherman Says:

    Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck-fuck-fuck, fuckable fuckington fuck! Didn’t think to check what was inside those plaster fuckers, did you? I had a lot of cocaine wrapped up in those plaster animals. Those little elementary bastards were my dealers, Socrates!

    You owe me, bitch.

  3. Ken Socrates Says:

    Sherman, you dirty cocksucker, where have you been? You know how many irate phone calls I’ve had to deal with from angry hookers that you owe money to, since you disappeared? Thanks to you I can’t get a decent blow job for a radius of about 300 miles! That’s the last time I let you talk me into a whorehouse crawl, that’s for sure.

  4. Cullen Says:

    You know very well that I had to wait out the statute of limitations after you released that Sri Lankan sex tape …

    I’ve been sitting in a dirty, rat-infested hell hole on the back side of bum fuck Cambodia pimping out elementary school gym school teachers to visitng Russian businessmen just to get by.

    Now I’m freezing my ass off in fuck-stain middle of nowhere Ostrov Shumshu because some Russian got me drunk enough to think I should invest in an damn oil company.

    You every been cold, Socrates? So cold that you forget you have feet? Well, mother fucker, I did and I just lost three fucking toes! from frostbite. On top of that, the heat went out in my bitch’s building and I lost all the sluts in my 10-whore harem to hypothermia.

    Add to that, the fucker never told me that we could pump oil all day long but we had no fucking way of getting it off the island. We’ve got a howitzer and I’m stuck trying to shoot down a plane in the hopes that they’ll send a rescue ship.

    At least I have intenet porn.

    Other than that, things are going swimmingly and it’s great to find you up to your old hijinks.

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    Plastered | Ken Socrates

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