Damn You Gout!

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Damn you Gout!

An alcoholic’s battle against an affliction that threatens his disease!

My old man was a good dude— hard working, light-humored and universally loved, wise and respected but of all the wondrous and life changing things he could have passed down to me…. Things like land with oil, Berkshire Hathaway stock or a 12” dick that dirty prick willed me a bad case of GOUT!

Oh gout! Sometimes called gouty arthritis or the “rich man’s disease”; this devil’s lullaby is the accumulation of uric acid in the blood which form razor sharp crystals in the joints. It causes immediate, grotesque swelling and feels like long, lean, red-hot hat pins are being jabbed between the toes though the length of the foot then out the Achilles’ tendon. After that it really starts to hurt. Gout is a real dick.

The largest contributor to a gout attack is diet; primarily foods rich in purines like beef, seafood……. and ALCOHOL, ESPECIALLY BEER!!!

Booze is the big trigger and Im an alcoholic! My name is Stumbling Otis, put it together.

What kind of cruel test is this I ask myself as I ponder my own story– I open my fourth beer using muscle memory as I consider the dichotomy of me? I am Adam with my apple–frosty, cold and cursed.   Fuck you Gout!

When you drink like I do this goddamn affliction really affects my life. It commands constant vigil, it dictates stupid choices.

Example:

Its 92°, I just finished 3 hours of scooping dog shit, running the weed-eater, mowing the lawn— Imagine the ice cold silk of that first sip of beer rolling over my parched tongue. At the classic bottle pop of vacuum sealed air alone my heart flutters, I gulp a dry cracked gulp. I am Pavlov’s dog. I could empty this first, pure kiss of malt and hops in a single pour. I have a second amber colored bottle already at stand-by….

But if I do drink this beautiful beer I could easily have an attack, especially being dehydrated in the heat- DAMN YOU GOUT!

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Shit Fit!

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A Stumbling Otis Original 

This took place a long, long time ago. I was about seven and I had a shit fit, at least that’s what my Dad called it.

A fucking bad day is what I called it. I was a farm boy. I grew up working, that’s why my parents had me; to do shit. After marriage they waited seven years, till the chores piled up, before Ma popped me in the oven. There was a plan, believe me. I was no accident of passion; no awkward, backseat hotshot.

Anyway, it was hay season, late summer and hot. August soil thin as dirty flour stuck in every pore. The dry scratch of the dusty air was amplified by wheat chafe; it made you itch on the inside. There was no shade in sight. Though only in early elementary I had roll to play, I was driving. I would put our pick-up truck in first gear, pop the clutch and start idling down the field. The men would then walk beside, loading straw bales as we went. Bale after bale, hour after hour we worked. My dad and uncle throwing sixty pound bundles of dead grain up to my Grandpa, in the bed of the vehicle, stacking the cubes; doing the working man’s version of Tetris.

YOU HAVE HEARD THE TERM – BUM FUCK

Well, we were somewhere past that. Literally, we were in the middle of nowhere; 25 miles from a town, six miles from the nearest random ranch house. We had exactly what we brought with us, nothing more; no cell phones, and no 7-11 down the block, no AAA with a shiny blue and yellow tow truck to roll up and save the day. We were goddamn plainsman, the stuff Marlboro commercials are made of. In Webster’s under ‘rugged individualists’ you’d see a picture of my Uncle Jim heaving a bale while my little, blonde self was peek-a-booing over the steering wheel. We are working men and at seven I was a valuable member of the team. Pretty big deal for a boy.

CLIMATE CHANGE OCCURS IN A SECOND

I didn’t start the day sick, but something happened. Suddenly, I had to poop. Not your standard civilian “gee, I think I need to go”, I had to shit! Right then, it was not an option, it was happening. Let me be clear, bodily functions out-of-doors are a non-issue for me but I was panicked and embarrassed, basically horrified. It wasn’t sanitation, it was pride. To be a boy included and needed by men, your own family is a badass feeling for a kid. The last thing I wanted to do was crap myself when hanging with the dudes.

I stopped the pickup, yelled for my dad. He ushered me to the front of the pickup, and scrambled for toilet paper, napkins, rags whatever….

I tore at my pants but there was no time, I tried to lean back but my diarrhea had charted a path with extreme velocity. Foul, acid gravy filled my undies and pants
bundled around my ankles, soaked into my socks and shoes. It dripped down my skinny, pale legs like caustic egg yolk. It was a certifiable, unabashed fucking MESS!

There was no saving the cloths. Had they been weaved from the Golden Fleece, stitched with the hair of angels and buttoned with diamonds those pants would have been cast to wilds.

“Take’em off! You can wrap up in one of my flannel shirts,” said my truly sympathetic father. My uncle and my Grandpa were keeping their respective distances at the back of the truck. I peeled off the shit covered garments, shoes, socks and all; everything but a ragged t-shirt. I was buck naked below the waist, narrow white ass and pinky dick in the wind. The toilet paper was sticking to my legs as the hot wind dried the shit like yellow lava flow. I was tearful and shamed, stomach aching with a hot coal for a b-hole; I consider this a bit of a low point.

THEN THE HORSEFLIES ARRIVE

This was cow country, when fresh shit hits the wind armadas of insects take flight. Primarily this means large, ugly, wicked creatures called we called “horseflies”. They bite with malice leaving heavy welts that itch for days. They swarm to fresh poop intent to lay their demon eggs. Not only did I have feces splattered around me in the field dirt but it was still coating my naked legs.

Things went very wrong from here……… tragically, epically, fucking wrong. The first few flies were hardly noticed, I was trying to collect myself, clean myself and roust the courage to wear my father’s flannel shirt like a kilt. I causally brushed away those early insect Argonauts, but soon, one was four and then four was twelve. Exponentially they came. I started to slap and swat, they were landing all over my legs, flying between them, buzzing my groin.

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So We Egged A Porn Shop!

http://thethrillsociety.com is your link to Thrilling Stuff! This article is just a taste!

This weeks Mostly True Tales submission winner is Stumbling Otis

Find him on Instagram at @grandreopening for tons of great pics and prose

 In the early 90’s there was a quaint little porn shack on the main drag in Kalispell, Montana. It was nondescript in a way typical for a boutiques of its type. The building looked to be a converted old house, slightly ramshackle and in need of a hug. The windows were painted over white to shield the Flathead’s citizenry from forced acknowledgment of their inherent horniness.

Little more than a window placard and a slightly embarrassed, glowing OPEN sign advertised its invitation for commerce. There was no official parking lot, the front door swung directly onto the narrow sidewalk, almost past the curb and into traffic. If discretion was a necessity, you had better time the change of the stoplight further up the street, because to exit the store meant full and complete exposure to four lanes of traffic. No bushes or bus stop kiosks to screen your departure. Whether by design of the local conservative power majority or mere real estate bad luck discretion was the toll to pay if you needed some anal lube or the current issue of Jugs magazine. Face the gambit, roll the dice— Would your Grandma or minister or boss or wife be passing by at the very second you popped out the door, festooned in guilt and caught like a deer in low beam headlights.

BOYS WILL BE BOYS

We were enjoying a great ski weekend at Big Mountain. The slopes by day, carousing Kalispell by night. It was our usual gang, then by coincidental luck we bumped into another car load of fellas from back home; also in the Flathead for a ski weekend. With them was an old, mutual friend that had transplanted to the area with his family. A truly funny motherfucker he was. Let’s call him “Stain”. Stain was the type who could make watching a mound of grain dry into a raucous evening. Constantly a comedian, master of flatulence and prank Stain was always a one man fun brigade. In his presence you could count on SOMETHING good happening.

No Booze For You

We were not drinking, which in hindsight seems a bit shocking. Whether the habit hadn’t yet struck or we just couldn’t find some sad, desperate loser to buy for us, I honestly don’t remember, but I do remember booze wasn’t involved. This is important, for if we’d had booze we probably wouldn’t have been so bored. We might have gained the sparkling eye of the numerous Kalispell skanks which circled the four lane drag ripe to trade just about anything for a bottle of Boone’s Farm. Things would have been different is my point.

It Seems So Obvious

“Lets go check out the porno shop.” suggested Stain. Off he marched toward that dull, poorly lit grail of teenage interest. We all glanced at each other, considering no one had a better idea we fell in tow.

Athletes all, we were tall and strong but even the sporadic tufts of whiskers didn’t fool the old crone that sat behind the display counter. Stain barely made it through the door we before a crooked finger started wagging and a smoker’s voice demanded our departure. The ancient woman had no interest in quid pro quo, seeing our ID’s, excuses, stories nor notes from our mother’s. She wasn’t fooled and not about to let us in.

On a stool sat an equally old man, smoking a cigarette. He gestured rudely and guffawed at us. He was clad in a baggy plaid shirt, suspenders and dirty jeans; he was as age-shrunken tiny as the woman was sloppy, mustard stained fat. She had a poofy head of tight curls colored a cliched elderly blue.

We took offense to not being granted entry, though we all knew the law. Slurs and expletives were exchanged like cannon volley. I think the geezers were as bored as us. We departed in a huff. We had gained no new comprehension of undiscovered perversity nor the arcane apparatuses of pornographic bliss. We were disappointed.

If you mix equal parts boredom and disappointment in teenage boys you typically concoct a plate of revenge and prankery. Indeed it is, indeed.

LETS GET SOME EGGS!

It is unimportant and unknown who actually suggested we buy a few dozen eggs, but within mere minutes that is, in fact what we had. It’s surprising how many eggs you can actually hold at one time. Easily three eggs in your throwing hand and maybe up to five or six more cradled as reinforcements in the other. Plenty is my point. There were nine guys, each fully supplied; you can do the math. And a plan, we had a plan for maximum damage and immediate avoidance of capture. A get-away vehicle sat around the block, idling doors open, rear hatch gaping like the mouth of brown Ford hippo.

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