Monday, November 05, 2007

ThePeach Hangs Out With a Rapist; Racist

I guess I had a pretty typical weekend. You know, for me. On Friday I went to my favourite bar and on Saturday I went to Ottawa for my grandpa’s birthday party. This seems like a pretty normal thing to do.

Until you tack on the raping and the black-face.

Ok. Slow down, Peach. Have another gin and just let the story flow of its own accord. Like the gin. Into your throat.

I’m ready.

Friday

Friday night rolled around after a long and stressful week, and FauxHawk and I headed to our favourite bar to have a few drinks with TheCrazy and TheCastrato, who are newlyweds. TheC’s had been on a romantic dinner-date earlier in the night, so I assumed they would show up at the bar a little buzzed and very much in love, and the night would then proceed pleasantly.

They showed up hobo-drunk and hating each other. They tripped through the bar door with their wine-stained teeth bared and immediately proceeded to tell us about the pitfalls of marriage. Ah, young love! Because they were already fall-down drunk and surly, FauxHawk and I felt the need to catch up. Or, as TheCastrato eloquently put it “GET FUCKING GUNNED. FUCK!”. No problem. Fast forward 2 hours later and:

1) FauxHawk is tackling TheCastrato to prevent him from fighting a guy in the street who looks like he could cut us all up.
2) TheCrazy is dancing sensually on the table and then falling skull-first onto the floor, which smells of onion rings urinal-pucks.
3) I am asking the uptight blonde next to me if I can motorboat her, and then doing it anyway just to loosen her up.

Watch out. Any one of you could be next to get your boating license.

Ok. So, I was in a happy place. TheCrazy and I then had an intimate conversation about…I don’t even know…and then it seemed like a fantastic idea to give each other lap dances. Much sensual motorboating ensued. And then, after TheCrazy sat in my lap and pitched herself face-first onto the floor yet again, but this time pulling me and a table with her, ensuring that the entire bar was staring at us…the following happened:

TheCrazy: *pushes table off her skull* Yoush knows, I really do loves you, Peach.
ThePeach: *untangles mangled leg from bar-stool* Isssh loves you, bitch.
TheCrazy: *stands up* I’msh gonna kiss you now.
ThePeach: *stands up* I’msh gonna likes it.
All Men: OH MY GOD.
ThePeach: That wash a nice kisssh. I appreciates your loves. I’ma gonna motorboat you, yoush sonofabitch.
TheCrazy: I’ma gonna kish you first.
All Men: OH JESUS YES.
ThePeach: Wows. Hey, didn’t you just kissh me alreadys?
TheCrazy: I’ma gonna kish you now.
ThePeach: Wai-
All Men: HOLY GOD.
ThePeach: Whys do you keep kishing mes?
TheCrazy: I’ma gonna kish you now.
ThePeach: But-
All Men: THANK YOU, MARY MOTHER OF GOD.
ThePeach: Oks. Enoughs.
TheCrazy: I likes your titsh.
ThePeach: Muffinsh make them grow.
TheCrazy: I’ma gonna touch your titsh.
ThePeach: Huh?
All Men: NEVER STOP TOUCHING THEM.
ThePeach: Heh…oks…hands off my nips pleash.
TheCrazy: I’ma gonna kish you.
ThePeach: Oh jesu-
All Men: YES.
TheCrazy: Oks.
ThePeach: Oks.
TheCrazy: We cool?
ThePeach: Ya. We cool.
TheCrazy: Oks, cause I’m gonnas flash your titsh to the bar now.
ThePeach: WHA-
All Men: *applause*

So, to make a rambling drunken story short, the entire bar saw my tits and TheCrazy raped my mouth. To be fair to her, the rape was consensual. Emphasis on the sensual.

I’m pretty embarrassed about it now, though. Especially since the bartender, who was obviously sober, came over to our table just to tell me that he saw the whole thing and that I am a real “bundle of trouble”. Ok.

FauxHawk then took me home, where we immediately passed out. What a waste of a good dyking.

Saturday

FauxHawk and I drove to Ottawa to meet up with my mom, my sister, and CockDoc for my grandpa’s 81st birthday party. I was only, like, 80% dying of hangover. Could have been worse. We met up at my grandpa’s favourite restaurant, which is kind of like a daycare center for the elderly.

You walk in and are met with the smell of old people and tomato soup. Tables of little old ladies are scattered about the room. A Dixie-land band is playing “When the Saints go Marching in” and the old ladies who can hear are clapping along, while the old ladies who are deaf are smiling blankly. You sit down and the menu consists of 6 pages of “Experienced Diners” sections, and 1 page of regular-person menu.

To my grandpa, this place is heaven. It is my hell.

The food is bland, mushy, and boring. The waitresses talk in EXTRA LOUD VOICES and call everyone SWEETIE PIE and HONEY. The band plays its music EXTRA LOUD so all the deaf ladies can hear it, which means that none of the old people can hear each other talk and the ambiance in the restaurant is a LOUD constant rendition of “Yellow Bird” peppered with the throaty voice of an old person shouting “WHAT?” every 10 to 15 seconds.

At one point, my grandpa walked over to one of the tables full of old ladies and wished a grey-haired woman a “Happy Birthday” since the waitress had just brought her out a cake. This was the scene:

Grandpa: *eyes table of ladies* I’m going to go wish that pleasant lady a happy birthday.
TigerCat: Oh man, he is totally taking her home tonight.
ThePeach: *chokes on tomato soup*
Band: “OH WHEN THE SAINTS!”
Grandpa: *shuffles over to table*
Band: “GO MARCHING IN!”
Grandpa: *leans into grey-haired woman and presumably wishes her a happy birthday*
Band: “OH WHEN THE SAINTS GO MARCHING IIIIN!”
Grey-Haired Lady: *smiles blankly*
Band: “OH I WAAANT TO BE IN THAT NUMBER”
Grandpa: *shuffles back to our table*
Grey-haired Lady: WHAT?
Friends of Lady: HE WISHED YOU A HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
Grey-Haired Lady: WHAT?
Friends of Lady: WHAT?
Band: OH WHEN THE SAINTS GO MARCHING IIIIN!”

After dinner, and after TigerCat and I took turns dancing with my grandpa in front of the band (“follow my lead, girls. I’m gonna spin ya”), I went back to my grandpa’s house with my mom and grandpa. TigerCat and CockDoc drove back to UniversityTown, and FauxHawk went out with some friends. I put on my sweat pants and prayed to Allah that my mom and grandpa would just go to bed so I could watch tv alone. No dice.

My grandpa grabbed a bottle of wine and suggested we watch a movie together. The movie he picked was: “College”. A black and white, slapstick comedy, silent film starring Buster Keaton. It was filmed in 1927.

I spent my Saturday night watching a silent film with my grandpa. I am 25. Is this normal?

The film was pretty much everything you’re imagining right now. The only sound was vaudeville piano and every 10 seconds a screen with lines such as “Esther was the most popular gal in the malt shoppe” would pop up to aid the progression of the plot.

My grandpa got a real kick out of the movie, and guffawed appreciatively as the male hero tried out for the baseball team but, saints preserve us, didn’t know the rules of the game of baseball. Comedic genius!

And then something caught my attention. The male hero, only referred to as “the boy” in the text screens (“The boy preferred science over baseball”), decided to get a part-time job. Luckily, he walked past a restaurant with a “Help Wanted” sign in the window. Ooh, relief is felt by all. Until the next screen pans out and shows the entire “Help Wanted” sign.

“Help Wanted: Negro Waiter”

It gets worse.

The next scene shows the male hero in a waiter’s uniform, holding a tray of food. His face and hands are painted black.

The male lead was dressed in black-face. BLACK-FACE!!!

My grandpa is of course guffawing and slapping his thigh with the hand that isn’t wrapped around the bottle of wine. I am sitting in shock on the plastic-covered couch, asking god why he keeps feeling the need to send me material for my blog. Doesn’t he think my life is interesting enough without schizophrenics in my workplace and black-face in my movies?

Back to the movie. Of course, the real “negroes” working in the restaurant are made to act like wild animals, and the kitchen is like some bizarre jungle where the tribes dance about like monkeys and the “black queen” (aka lady stirring the steaming vat of soup) gives sex eyes to every “negro” within 5 miles. Once said steam melts the blackface off the male lead, the “negroes” chase him out of the restaurant with large knives and sticks.

I just…how do you…is there a reaction for a situation like this?

My grandpa could see that I was grappling with something major, and turned to me to say something reassuring.


Grandpa: He’s not really a negro, Peach. He’s in black-face.

Ok. So, that was my weekend. The two nights couldn’t have been more dichotomous if I had tried. Friday finds me being molested by TheCrazy, and Saturday finds me getting a lesson in black-face from my grandpa.

A quick note to God: You can stop now.

ThePeach

1 comment:

Billy said...

Somewhere, Al Jolson nods approvingly.