Good Vibrations, Bad Vibrations, & Those Awkward Vibrations Somewhere In-Between

“Okay, so this one’s dedicated to all you beautiful fucking losers out there who’ll inevitably jerk off on your honeymoon!”

And with that snotty aside, Calli caustically counted out the rhythm and the Rebelettes kicked into their next number.

Somehow, Kyle had tricked us into telling him that we were going to the show that night. Well, actually, he got my recovering stoner of a wife high with Trainwreck to the point where she was so relieved not to be diarrhea-ing that she kinda let it slip that we might be heading over to Gilman to finally check out the band.

Man, you really don’t know how old you are until you go to an all-ages punk club. Seriously, the kids slamming into us were young enough to have been sired by my loins. That is, if me and Tina Yohannon hadn’t used protection those first few times.

I wonder what Tina’s up to these days? Probably pregnant with some brat that’ll soon be a raging teenager doing all the same stupid shit that teenagers have been doing since the beginning of recorded music. I mean, I highly doubt that she ever made it to Milan to become a famous fashion designer. Then again, maybe she did. Perhaps she’s even the one who came up with the glittery pink hoodie with the hole in its top for your mohawk that the twelve-year old next to us was confidently sporting, despite the fact that the word, “pussy,” was spelled out across her chest in rhinestones that were vaguely reminiscent of the Bedazzler.

Psst, Tina, if you’re reading this crap in the Reader’s Digest, why don’t you send a guy an e-mail and let me know what’s up? Just don’t Tweet me, I can’t stand that Twitter bullshit. I got 140 characters or less for you: FUCK OFF! (Not you, Tina, I always dug your style and I never meant to hurt you, it’s just that I went off to Cal and you were still in high school and. . . Well, you know the rest of the story.)

Anyway, so yeah, basically we all ended up at the punk rock show. And I gotta admit the Rebelettes shredded. Like seriously. Calli totally fucking rocks. She even played the theremin. And the so-called kids were going wild for that crazy noise. It was almost like she was controlling everyone with the tips of her magical fingers. In fact, the pit was so huge that even when we moved to the way way back of the club, mofos still kept plowing into us and spilling my soda bottle filled with whiskey.

“You’re gonna get us kicked out, you know that right?”

“No way, sweetness. Back in the day, everyone used to do this shit. I mean, no one above the age of say thirteen can tolerate four punk bands in a row without some booze.”

“Um, honeypot, need I remind you I haven’t had a single drop of alcohol in like a year?”

“Yeah, but you’re stoned.”

“What?”

“I said that you’re as high as the band’s skirts.”

“Alright, people. People, please settle down. We’re going to do a couple more.”

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Calli added with a coy grin: “If you’re nice. Also, I just want everyone to know that that fucking wanker with the shirts over there is no longer affiliated with the band. That’s right, Randy, you fucking heard me. We fired your ass. So stop selling our shit. Don’t make me sue you!”

As Randy Rebel tried to hide from the roar of youthful obscenities being directed at his merch table, Kyle snuck up behind me and punched me in the kidneys.

“Body blow, body blow.”

“Jesus, K-Rod, what the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“I dunno, dude. My stomach’s been acting hella crazy. I just barely made it to that yuppy bar across the street before I almost shit my pants.”

As the guitarist carefully tuned her instrument, my starting-to-come-down wife shot me a wicked glance.

“You know the punks tried to stop that bar from being built, right? Said it would ruin the neighborhood. They petitioned the mayor and went to City Council meetings and everything.”

“So? Who gives a fuck? Why are you constantly telling me stupid shit like that? As if I fucking cared. All I’m saying, dude, is that I ain’t feeling so hot. I got me some like serious ass squirts.”

“Hmm, that’s odd. I mean, that was like what, the third time you’ve had to run over there tonight? Aren’t they starting to get suspicious?”

“Fortunately, the crapper’s right by the front door.”

“Why don’t you just use the one here?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t even think they have a toilet in there no more. Fuck me, I wouldn’t even piss in that shithole.”

“Wait a second, didn’t you do what’s-her-name-from-the-dorm like doggy-style in that very same bathroom?”

“That was the ladies’ room, dude.”

“Oh, my bad.”

“Anyway, I’ve grown more sophisticated in my old age. I’ve got certain standards now.”

“For where you’ll poop?”

“Yeah, for where I’ll poop. It’s like on the way over here. Scooter offered to drive and we’d already made it to the bridge when it hit me.”

“What? The fact that you’re a total fucking asshole?”

“No, the trots. So I made him turn around and go back to the apartment.”

“Why didn’t you just shit in Emeryville?”

“That’s what he said too. But I was like, hell no! Whenever possible, I like to use my home court.”

“So why didn’t you make him drive you back to The City this time?”

“Dude, I fucking tried! But he’s been outside on his cell ever since we got here. Must be something important since he just waved me off. Plus, I think he’s still kinda pissed that we already had to pay the bridge toll like three times.”

As the band started their next song – which was, of course, “Can You Feel My Love Rug?” – I wondered: “Why’d you have to do that?”

“Huh?”

“I said, ‘Why the fuck did you have to pay the bridge toll three times?’”

“Cause we like kinda sorta made it over the bridge on a couple different occasions when nature called. Like I said, Scoot’s a bit pissed about the whole thing.”

“I can only imagine.”

“What’s that?”

“Never you mind, princess.”

“So what the fuck, dude? Have you talked to her yet?”

“Who?”

“That cunt, Calli,”

“No.”

“And why the fuck not?”

“Well, it looks like she’s kinda busy right now.”

Nodding at the stage, I added: “What the hell do you want me to say to her anyway, man? I mean, why do I care if your special ladyfriend hates her for stealing some boyfriend back when they were fucking kids?”

“Cause I’m like your best friend, dude, and this shit’s driving me nuts. I swear, Lydia’s so upset that she won’t even come out of her room. And it’s like I told you earlier, a man has certain needs.”

“So you want me to talk to some woman that I hardly even know about some stupid drama just so you can get laid?”

“Shut up, dude! I keep telling you that Lydia’s a fucking virgin.”

My eavesdropping wife nearly spit the whiskey and soda – which she’d been secretly sipping – out of her nose.

“Hey, sweetness, are you really supposed to be drinking?”

“I dunno, honeypot. Are you really supposed to be staring at the singer’s boobs?”

“What? I was just. . . I wasn’t. . . It’s not like I was. . . I mean, she’s Nara’s sister and she might help us with the rock opera now that Randy’s out so. . .”

“Spare me, I know exactly what you’re thinking. Anyway, the doctors said now that my treatment’s almost over that I could have a few drinks every now and then. But you are right about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I probably shouldn’t be drinking this rotgut. It’s supremely fucking awful. C’mon, Kyle, let’s go outside and smoke some more of that Trainwreck.”

“Okay, but can we do it in the parking lot across the street? You know, just in case.”

“Whatever floats your boat, tubby.”

“Cool. I’ll meet you out there in a sec. Let me just finish some biz-a-ness with your hubby here.”

As my fiending wife pushed her way through the juvenile crowd, Kyle leaned over and began to whisper: “It’s not really about that sex stuff per se, dude. I mean, sure, all things being equal, I wouldn’t mind blowing my wad in something other than my own sock. After all, I am a guy. And, yes, I’m getting a bit desperate.”

“A bit desperate, K-Rod? You told me earlier that you were so horny that you tried sticking your dick in one of these electric rat traps for the shock.”

“Okay, fine, maybe I’m as horny as a rhino. Who gives a shit, dude? What I keep trying to tell you is that I like totally dig this chick. Like for reals. So if she’s fucking bummed, then I’m fucking bummed.”

“Wait, I thought you said that you were over this whole anal thing?”

“Very fucking funny, dick-cheese! What the hell’s wrong with you lately? Here I am pouring my heart out and you. . .”

“While I’m trying to check out this band since we might be collaborating on. . .”

“And all you can do is poke fun. Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

“Actually, to be honest, I can barely hear you, man. And I really don’t know why you’re whispering.”

Raising his voice, Kyle screeched: “Cause I’m trying to explain to you how I feel, dude!”

Just then, the band finished playing their hit single and, of course, a smirking Calli couldn’t resist poking fun either.

“Apparently, someone in the back isn’t feeling their boyfriend’s love rug. Oh well, pumpkin, that’s just the way these things go sometimes. Anyway, we want to thank Elton Gong and all the other bands for opening. We’re the Rebelettes and you’re not. This is our last song. It’s a new one and it’s dedicated to our former manager. We call it: ‘Menses (Shed the Lining).’ One-two-three-four.”

I don’t know if it was the embarrassment of being laughed at by the teenage punks in heat – or, perhaps, the fact that he finally noticed Kurt was lurking at the side of the stage, cooly rocking his head from side to side – but, at this crucial point in the set, Kyle decided to drag me outside.

“What the fuck, man? I wanted to hear their new tune.”

“Sorry, dude, but you really need to hear what I have to say.”

“Whatever, man.”

Shoving me up against the wall, a misty-eyed Kyle hissed: “Don’t ‘whatever, man’ me. I’m a real person with real emotions. Not just some caricature of a fat horny slob like you like to pretend. And you’re my oldest friend so you should know that shit by now. And I fucking love Lydia, which means you need to do me a solid.”

“What kind of solid do you want me to do? I ain’t God, K-Rod. I can’t go back in time. As far as I know, that Back to the Future car hasn’t been fucking invented yet!”

Releasing his vice-like grip, Kyle barked: “Yeah, but you can like talk to her. I mean, you’re the one that’s good with words and shit.”

Brushing off my blue leather jacket, I exhaled: “And what do you suggest I say to her, Ginestein?”

“I dunno, ask her to apologize or something. I mean, it’s like I don’t exactly know what Lydia wants either. I just don’t want her to be mad anymore. And you know me, I don’t quite understand how the ladies think and shit. But you gotta do something! You just gotta, dude. I can’t live like this!”

Watching my buddy break down in tears, I actually felt kinda bad for him. No matter how much terrible shit the guy had done to me over the years, I still had a soft spot in my heart for the doofus. And he really did seem to be hurting. So I mumbled something about how I’d “do my best” and gave the fat fucker a big ol’ hug.

Sure enough, when my wife and Scooter – who was still on the phone – appeared from around the corner, Kyle pushed me away and called me a “fag.”

“So about that Trainwreck? I’ve been waiting across the street.”

“Oh yeah, sorry, here’s the pipe and my sack. Load it up. I’ll be back in a sec.”

Sliding his cell into his pocket, Scoot handed me a thick wad of bills and coughed: “Whoa, what the hell’s wrong with K-Rod? You can’t say ‘fag’ at Gilman.”

“Yeah, seriously.”

Speaking of drugs and other things you probably shouldn’t do, here’s a tidy little list of items that I recently bought at the local Walgreens:

1) Imodium A-D

2) Pink Bismuth

3) Value Size Bottle of Extra Strength Tums

4) Depends Adult Undergarments

5) Peri-Colace

6) MiraLax

7) Combination Douche / Enema & Water Bottle System

I swear, when I bravely stepped up to the cash register, the pimply teenager working behind the counter started laughing her ass off at my purchases. And then, when I got back home, my stoned wife naturally tee-heed: “I don’t know what you have in mind tonight, honeypot, but you can count me out.”

“You know since most of this stuff is for you, you could’ve come with. It probably would have made the whole thing a little less awkward. Also, I thought you wanted to take the Schwarz’s advice and maybe finally check out that other place today.”

“I dunno, my stomach’s been so screwed up that I just had to smoke me some dope.”

“Oh, you just had to, did you?”

“I did, especially since that dimwitted pal of yours left in such a hurry the other night that he like totally left all his weed with me.”

“I’m well aware of that fact.”

“How come?”

“Well, first of all, you’ve been smoking weed all week as if Marley and the Dead were playing a live show in our living room. Second, Kyle’s only told me like a trillion times that we owe him for that Trainwreck.”

“What? That fat prick! I thought he was gonna be cool and finally hook us up. Why the hell did he give me that little baggie the other day if he was just gonna. . .”

“Yeah, but that was when he was still trying to get me to sort out all this drama with Lydia and Calli.”

You see, what happened was, after the show, Kyle and Scooter and the wife all got the munchies so we went over to this hip new Thai place in El Cerrito called The Pad.

I wasn’t really hungry, but I gotta admit the food was pretty delish. Though, as usual, Kyle was completely fucking annoying. He kept ordering Phuket beer and deliberately mispronouncing the name. Then, he insisted that the beleaguered waitress give him one of those skinny glasses that said: “Make every day a Phuket day!”

The asshole was just so goddamn proud of himself, it made me want to slap the smug right out of him. Plus, he kept pestering me about Lydia and all that nonsense.

Still, when the Rebelettes randomly stumbled into the joint and sat down at the booth next to us, I decided to make my move while Kyle was off in the restroom.

Re-introducing myself to Calli, I chit-chatted with her for a while about Nara and the rock opera before – under my wife’s watchful (if droopy) eye – I got right to the point and asked her if she could maybe like make peace with Kyle’s ladyfriend or something. Unfortunately, she claimed that she didn’t even remember going to school with Lydia, much less stealing anyone’s boyfriend.

Though, she did recall what she referred to as “that crazy fucking bitch attacking me at Kurt’s party.” She even told me that she’d been talking to an attorney about some “band matters” and that he’d recommended suing the “crazy fucking bitch” since her musical career could have been “seriously jeopardized.”

So yeah, that was pretty successful, if I do say so myself. Last time I try to do that fat asshole a favor.

Wait, it gets worse. Just as Calli was going off about suing Lydia and demanding all sorts of details from me about where she lived and worked and everything, who should walk into the restaurant but my old friend, Kurt?

Sliding into the shiny booth with Calli, he whispered something in her ear about getting “that shit to go.” Then he silently nodded at me and the wife before heading to the bathroom himself.

“So, explain to me again, honeypot, why exactly did Kyle leave the Thai place so quickly the other night? Was it cause he saw Kurt and feared for his life?”

“Nope, it’s funny, the guy is like so dense, he doesn’t even realize that Kurt hates him.”

“Really? Even after Kurt swung that baseball bat at his head?”

“Yeah, Kyle honestly believes that they’re like the best of buds. He even said something to me the other day – when he was demanding money for that weed he left with you – about seeing Kurt at the restaurant and how he missed the guy and how we should all go back to his pub quiz. Or maybe play music again together. I swear, sometimes, I have like absolutely no clue what’s going on in his thick fucking skull.”

“Sometimes?”

“Okay, fine, most of the time.”

“I’d say all the time. But that’s beside the point. I just wanna know why he left so fast the other night. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the porker move so quick.”

“Well, I guess he still had the poops from that laxative he accidentally drank and, apparently, he’s a bit particular about which commode he’s willing to make a deposit in.”

“Eww, gross, honeypot! Can you please just spare me the gritty details and wrap up the story already?”

“I’m trying. Trust me, sweetness, I am trying. So, anyway, where was I?”

“Kyle’s got diarrhea.”

“Oh yeah, this one’s like a classic. So the fucking numbnuts gets to the men’s room and is like confronted by this rather odd dilemma.”

“And what’s that?”

“There were two stalls. But neither of them were shall we say ideal.”

“How so?”

“One had no door, which – as you’re probably well aware – can be rather awkward if someone walks in on you.”

“Especially if you’ve got a big fat ass.”

“Exactly. However, while the other stall did have a door, it had no toilet seat.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“I dunno, sweetness, have you ever tried to hover while you’re taking a massive dump?”

“Excuse me, honeypot, perhaps you’ve forgotten, but I am a woman. We have to hover all the fucking time. It’s not like we can just whip it out and pee wherever we want.”

“Yeah, but it’s different when you gotta poop. That can really start to hurt your legs after a while. It’s like when those sadistic gym teachers used to make you do those squat thrusts in P.E. class.”

“Which one did he choose then?”

“I guess he tried squat thrusting, but then he slipped and somehow his cock landed in the toilet bowl.”

“So what you’re basically telling me is that Kyle left in such a hurry because he had shit on his dick?”

“Pretty much, yeah. Well, that and the fact he wanted to get back home in case he needed to poop some more.”

“Lovely.”

“Anyway, you wanna go or what?”

“Where?”

“To the sex toy store that the doctor recommended.”

“I dunno, honeypot, after that sad-sack story, I’m not really in the mood. In fact, I kinda wanna like take a shower or something.”

“C’mon, sweetness, remember what the Schwarz told us?”

Since my wife was wrapping up her lengthy treatment, her oncologist had recently recommended that we try to return our lives to some semblance of normality. And that included sexual activity – which had pretty much been limited to me jerking off in the shower as my wife pounded on the door and asked to use the bathroom. I know, I know, that’s hot.

Honestly, I really did want to take her to the Good Vibrations store over on San Pablo (whose very-Berkeley mantra is to be “a diverse, woman-focused retailer providing access to sex-positive products and accurate information through clean and comfortable stores in order to enhance customers’ sex lives and promote healthy attitudes about sex”) not only to follow the doctor’s orders, but also to get her out of the house.

You see, ever since the killer D had started to rage in her belly, my increasingly anxious wife had been leery of venturing anywhere too far away from her home bathroom – especially after she had her second accident at the Thai place once everyone else had left and we were paying the bill.

And so, using my word skills, I was ultimately able to convince her to check it out.

Holding my hand as we strolled down the dildo aisle, my slightly red-faced wife whispered in my ear: “I don’t know why the doctor told us to come here, honeypot. I’ve never really understood the point of sex toys. I mean, what could be more exciting than the human body? To me, that’s like one giant sex toy.”

As my face turned its own peculiar shade of crimson, I stammered: “While I tend to agree with you, sweetness, we haven’t necessarily been burning the marital bed up with passion lately. And the Schwarz did seem to think that they might have something fun here to give us a nudge in the right direction.”

“Like what? Those matching psychedelic anal beads over there?”

“Um, sure, sweetness, whatever you’re into.”

“Wait, honeypot, do you want me to shove something up your ass?”

“Do you?”

“Do I what? Want to shove something up your ass or want you to shove something up my ass?”

“Whichever.”

“Can I help you?”

“I dunno.”

“Yeah, I dunno either.”

“Well, let’s see here, if you’re into in anal play, perhaps one of our flavored ass condoms may be of interest?”

Now what happened next is subject to some dispute. My canny wife claims that she burst into a fit of nervous laughter and ran out the door before she lost her shit in front of the nice saleswoman.

As I recall, however, I was actually the one who started giggling furiously (though, I did try to play the whole thing off as if I merely had a nasty case of the hiccups) causing her to grab me by the arm and forcibly lead me outside.

Either way, we both fled and completely cracked up out on the sidewalk.

“Holy shit, honeypot, what exactly do you think an ass condom is?”

“I have no fucking clue, sweetness. Though, back in high school, Chip and Kyle used to offer to be ‘ass condoms’ for each other. But they meant that like if one of them wanted to hump an ugly girl or something, the other would be the go-between.”

“What the hell are you yammering on about now?”

“Oh man, do I really need to explain this one to you? Cause – with maybe the exception of the donkey-punch – it’s like the most fucked-up idea those two disgusting pricks ever came up with.”

“Wait, is this that bullshit thing where the one guy would let his buddy screw him in the ass while he nailed the chick so that the original guy didn’t have to worry about getting an STD?”

“That’s the one.”

“Nice friends.”

“Hey, I didn’t come up with it! And, frankly, I probably think it’s just as messed up as you do, sweetness. I mean, trust me, I don’t want to picture either one of them naked, much less Kyle’s rod in my brother’s ass.”

“Yeah, well, I bet that nice lady in there was just referring to condoms that work well with anal sex or something.”

“In that case, maybe we should get some for Kyle.”

“Why? So he doesn’t get shit on his dick again?”

“Now who’s being gross, sweetness?”

“Apparently, you and your crass friends have finally worn off on me. Speaking of shit, can we go home now?”

“Sure. Whatever makes you happy.”