By Robert A. Nowotny
Did you bring the Jujubes?
Damn. You coulda looked harder.
Don't give me that shit. I know they still make 'em. Damn...
You say your time is short? Well e-x-c-u-s-e me! Maybe there ain't enough time. Maybe I'll just wheel over to the lounge and watch some TV. Maybe I'll just do that...
You sure you didn't bring the Jujubes?
Oh all right. Jeez-us you're a whinner. Just like that Lou Holtz fella. Cry-baby if there ever was one. Feels every call goes against him and those pussy players of his. Fightin' Irish my ass. Bunch of pussies. You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna piss on his grave, that's what.
Say what? He ain't coach of Notre Dame no more? Well fuck him anyway. Piece of shit.
What? Oh yeah, the story. Yeah, yeah — fiftieth anniversary and all that. Big fuckin' deal.
"Unprecedented?" "Bizarre?" Hell it weren't "bizarre," just a slight miscalculation, that's all. Anyway, ol' Rocky weren't too bright in the first place. Just wanted to belong. You know, be a part of our little club in high school. Called ourselves the Fightin' 69th Airborne. Wore them leather helmets like them flyboys in WWI. Had some nice silk scarves around our necks, too. Made us look dashing. Studs, all of us. Got our share of nooky. Seems the chicks loved them scarves. Some were stolen right off our necks in the hallways. Still got one in a drawer. It's the one Lana Beisser wiped herself off with after we played hide the salami in the back of my '56 Bel Air. Cherry she was.
No not Lana, the Chevy. Kept that scarf, never washed it, just let the aroma of Lana's twat linger. Still take a sniff every once in awhile. Brings back fond memories of better days, better lays.
Oh yea, sorry. So anyway ol' Rocky declared he would set a "World Record." That's what he called it. And who was to argue? Shit, if he could pull this off then he belonged in the Fightin' 69th alright. And so the preparations were made very carefully. Hell, NASA don't hold a candle to Rocky. Never ever saw such research and meticulous preparation. Pretty damn impressive, I tell ya. Like which brand of beans to use. Woulda' guessed Trappeys and just gone with 'em. Not Rocky. Checked 'em all out — Trappeys, Del Monte, Hunts, Kuners, you name it. And Rocky declared Kuners to be the best by far. Took him a week. Did all the research in private, of course. Who was to argue? So we all chipped in and bought a half-dozen size 303 cans of Kuners.
Never heard of Kuners, huh? Well we had 'em back then. Just like Jujubes an' Beemans gum an' cinnamon toothpicks an' Chesterfields. No fucking filters neither. Filters are for pussies.
O.K. already. I'm gettin' to it. So ol' Rocky declared that next Saturday afternoon was goin' to be "The Day." Weren't much to do anyway, not in a little shit-hole town like Ozona, so all the Fightin' 69th was there. Hell, none of us would miss this for the world. Around two o'clock or so we gathered in Rocky's bedroom and quietly closed the door. Know what I remember the most? Rocky's bedspread. Stupidest thing I ever saw. Had cowboys all over it.
No, not "Dallas" Cowboys. Hell the damn Dallas Cowboys didn't even exist until 1960 or so. You sure are dumb for a reporter fella. I'm talkin' regular cowboys. You know, like Roy Rogers and shit. Couldn't believe it. For Christ sake Rocky was a sophomore in high school and here he's still sleeping under this ridiculous Cowboy motif...motif, you like that word?
Pathetic...Rocky's mother musta ordered that piece of shit straight out of Lillian Vernon. We damn near told him to forget the whole thing. Fightin' 69th my ass, don't want no frickin' cowpoke in our club. But then he lifted his sweatshirt and the room went silent. Rocky's belly was extended like one of them weather balloons. Hell, his innie was becoming an outie. Those Kuner beans were doing the trick.
What? Sure did. Said he ate all six of those 303 cans just an hour or so before. Said we'd better hurry or we'd have a real mess on our hands. With time of the essence everything thereafter is like a blur. I do remember Rocky getting up on that bed of his, dropping his drawers and bending over. And of course the ceremonial candle was positioned all the way across the room on the dresser. And ol' Sweet Willie — that was our nickname for William Tyler Jernigan — ol' Sweet Willie pulled out a tape measure and confirmed that the ceremonial candle was exactly six feet and four inches from Rocky's bare butt. Six feet, four inches, can you believe? And...
Well we certainly didn't know for sure, but six fucking feet had to be a record. Shit man, you just don't go to the Encyclopedia Britannica and look this kind of shit up. Anyway, as Captain of the Fightin' 69th I was willing to declare this a "World Record" and that's all that mattered -- kapesh? And so Slick Willie, The Wiz, Foo-Foo, Schnoz and Jumbo Jerry all stood back as I pulled out my trusty Zippo.
Holy Mother of Pearl...you're one dense mo-fo if ever I met one. I wasn't going to light the ceremonial candle — Rocky was. That was the whole point, dipwah. You got shit for brains or what? Yeah, yeah, big fuckin' deal. Just as long as you spell my name right I could give a rat's ass.
So as I was sayin', Rocky was in place and ready. All the guys were crackin' jokes and standing back out of harm's way. "T-minus five seconds and counting — ignition!" I lit that Zippo and grasped the bottom with the very tips of my fingers. I then held the flame at arm's length about six inches from Rocky's smelly butthole. Jumbo Jerry said "Let her rip" and the next thing I heard was "BARAAP"! Scared the hell out of me but I didn't flinch. Maybe a nanosecond later this was followed by a "whoosh" which sent a flame from my Zippo toward the ceremonial candle. Just like one of them flame throwers you see in old World War II movies. It was a beautiful sight to see. Damn near made me cry.
No, the flame was maybe a foot long at most. Rocky was disappointed. He could see his handiwork from beneath his legs, bent over the way he was, and he was damn mad. He couldn't believe the flame was nowhere near long enough to light the ceremonial candle as planned. Shit, Rocky, we was all impressed anyway. You'ld be a fine addition to the Fightin' 69th club. But Rocky demanded one more chance and who was I to argue? Like I said, nothin' much happens in Ozona. In retrospect that was his mistake. But as they say, hindsight...
Yep, ol' Rocky stood up straight for a second, his face red as a beet it was. An' he was sweating like Dorella Hartman.
Huh? Well Dorella was the fattest girl in school. Boy did she sweat. Every dress had yellow armpit stains the color of Grey Poupon. Biggest tits you ever saw, so she weren't all bad. Bouncy, bouncy.
Anyway ol' Rocky decides to give it another go and I relight my Zippo. He bends over as before and he busts a fart to end all farts. Gas shoots past that Zippo with incredible force. And the resulting flame was a sight to behold. Yellow and blue it was, two fuckin' feet long! Then we hear a slight hiccup. It was Rocky and I swear to God that flame reversed itself and shot right up his ass. I can still see that flame doin' a 180 as though it were yesterday.
Hard to believe? Yeah, you might say it's hard to believe but I was there an' you wasn't. And then came the explosion. Musta been enough gas in ol' Rocky to float the Hindenburg. In a flash Rocky was gone. Just fifty million little pieces of flesh stuck to our faces and our clothes and the ceiling and the walls.
Just like bacon bits...