Fear and Loathing in Anaheim

As fate would have it, I was nowhere near Barstow when Hunter S. Thompson passed into the great beyond. I was crouched under my kitchen sink with balls of cotton stuffed into my ears, waiting for the battery to die on my cellphone. The damned thing had been ringing nonstop for five days, driving me beneath the sink to salvage the tattered remnants of my sanity and curse the day I gave that devil-woman Paris Hilton my number.

It was the 2001 Mensa Colloquium in the heart of downtown Anaheim. As the only member of the Kent, Washington chapter with a mouthful of teeth, I was chosen to represent. Although I was still walking funny from the atomic wedgie I received at the previous shindig, I was grateful for another opportunity to petition the organization to change its name, preferably to something more gender-neutral. So I happily accepted the nomination and made travel plans.

In preparation, I ingested every heinous, over-the-counter, mind-enhancing herb I could get my hands on. Six shots of ginseng for starters, followed by 4 grams of crystalized guarana, nine hits of taurine, and to wash it all down: a gallon of pure grade, 200-proof caffeine freshly squeezed from Howard Schulz's liver by a disgruntled Starbuck's barista. By the time they threw me off the plane at LAX, I was ready to match wits with the best minds of the country. Of course, I hadn't slept in 5 days and the squirrels were closing in on me, but after a mad, 9-mile sprint to the hotel I was in excellent spirits.

"Do you f*cking know who I am? MY DADDY OWNS THIS F*CKING DUMP!"

The tall, leggy blonde in the hotel lobby was out of her mind, pounding her fist on the counter and screaming obscenities at the concierge like some crazed Norwegian hooker.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the young man with a face like a woodchuck replied calmly. "But with this Mensa thing happening, we have absolutely no vacancies."

"Can you read?" she snarled, pointing at her Mensa badge. "If you want to keep your shitty, minimum-wage job, you better get me a f*cking room N-O-W!!!!"

OH FOR THE LOVE OF GAIA WHAT'S THE FREAKING HOLD UP? I had a reservation! I shouldn't have to put up with this crap! Yet there I was...ten minutes until the Colloquium started and I hadn't even checked in yet. Mensa delegates from all over the country were already filing into the huge hotel conference room, their translucent skulls pulsating with excitement. The keynote speaker was probably making her way to the podium and this coked-up psychopathic whore was holding up the check-in line! I had to reason with her, calmly talk her down and then hustle her out of there before she ruined everything.

"YOU CRAZY BITCH!" I screamed. "I'M GOING TO MISS ANNA NICOLE'S SPEECH!"

Despite the 19 grams of Gotu Kola I had inhaled out of a dirty sock at the airport, I barely saw the flash of cold steel as it arced toward me. Chaos erupted. The woodchuck fainted. The bitch had a pigsticker the size of a Louisville slugger, and she was going to gut me like Mussolini. It was my worst nightmare: I was going to die within a five-mile radius of Disneyland.

Pull a knife on a 13th level Tai-Bo blackbelt and in one swift movement he'll dodge out of the way, pluck the blade from your grasp, and take the first three fingers of your left hand for souvenirs. But this was no time for half measures. I was coming down from the Yohimbe buzz and the squirrels smelled blood. One false move, and the little bastards would be kicking my severed head around the lobby in a twisted match of Guatemalan street soccer.

As Hilton lunged, I feinted to the left and whacked her across the back of the skull with a folding chair. She crumpled like a rag doll and the pigsticker went skating aross the linoleum. A couple of giant hamsters in security uniforms made a move towards me, then thought twice when they saw my vomit-encrusted Grateful Dead t-shirt.

There's nothing more frightening than a man in the throes of a Ginko Biloba binge. You can't speak. Your legs turn to rubber. Then the puking starts, and it doesn't stop until you're knee deep in the liquified vestiges of every meal you've had in the last 4 years. Drive through Seattle's Fremont district on any given Tuesday and you'll see them, crawling down the sidewalk like lobotomized carpet layers. The hamsters may own Anaheim, but they weren't about to screw with a deranged tai-bo monk twisted on Gink and drenched in vomit.

"Nothing to see here!" I shouted. Or did I think it? The St. John's Wort was starting to take hold. It was only a matter of time before they found me on the roof, butt-naked and reciting Sam Coleridge completely from memory. Then it would all be over. I grabbed the dazed heiress by the ankle and dragged her outside.

"When my daddy hears about this, your ass is grass!" she slurred as I bounced her off the hood of my VW beetle. "My name is HILTON! H-I-L-T-O-N! Ring a f*cking bell?"

"Listen to me, you dimwitted Swede!" I slapped her across the face Jimmy Carter style. "This is the goddamn Anaheim SHERATON!"

She stared at me in confusion and wonder for a moment, then suddenly opened her reptilian mouth and emitted a bizarre, sheeplike giggle.

"Gosh, you're hot!" she said with a wink. "Not a limp-wristed sissy like most Mensa boys. Wanna exchange bodily fluids?"

I tore off my hand-knitted tam and threw it on the ground. "I don't have time for this! The Colloquium starts in 5 minutes and I haven't even changed into my orthopedic underwear!"

Never mind the squirrels...they were suddenly the least of my worries. Strange vibrations were in the air. We were crossing into uncharted territory, and there was no indian slave girl to show us the way home. One wrong turn and little old ladies in horn-rimmed glasses would be watching grainy videos of my naked ass on the internet.

But wasn't that the American Dream? No..the American Dream is dead. Dead like Susan "Boom Boom" Sontag and Arthur Miller. Dead like the Great Gonzo, chunks of his brains floating in his final Bloody Mary...and Bush conveniently out of the country establishing an alibi. One by one, the progressive giants of our time are dying off, vanishing like Rapa Nui and Maureen Dowd is next...then we'll really be alone in the wilderness. What then? Where do we go from there? What does it all mean? What are we doing on this god forsaken rock? Where were my pants?

"Why'd my f*cking parents name me after the asshole mecca of the known universe?" Paris pondered. "It's all so f*cking Kafkaesque."

I glared at her. She had taken her shirt off and was pouring a can of Rockstar on her naked breasts to facilitate the tanning process.

"Oooh..." she purred. "The bubbles are making me all tingly!"

That was it! My fate was sealed.

"As your attorney, I advise you to give me your phone number immediately."

She flashed me a sly grin. "I'll give you mine if you give me yours."

Comments

[Bubblehead]

I slapped her across the face Jimmy Carter style. I gotta hand it to you, Larry, this was worth the five day wait.

[aelfheld]

[...] and Maureen Dowd is next ...

Promise?

[JannyMae]

Larry, come out from under the sink sweetie. We've got this nice, comfy white jacket for you. There, there, it's really all right...you're going to be jussst fine! Okay, that's it, we'll just gently fasten these straps here....

[Red Loser]

...And yay! You're hugging yourself now!...

[Steel]

And now, not only is your cell phone infected ... but you might want to see a doctor,
Doctor.

[Random Prose]

"I was grateful for another opportunity to petition the organization to change its name, preferably to something more gender-neutral."

This reminds me of my lawsuit against the local council for its offensive naming of "man-holes." Unfortunately I was thwarted by Chimpy's fascist "justice" system... "vexatious litigant" my eye!

[John Climacus]

Holy cr*p, son, this is inspired.

[sorecarphagus]

WOMENSA?
That's the Harvard way.

[Maria, just south of red state redneck]

No, no, no! WOMYNSA. Duh.

[prophetbrutha]

been trying to locate the "Paris does Larry homevideo" on the web, but there's just too many of these Paris Hilton videos around...

[Cricket]

Anna Nicole Smith addressing the Mensa meeting. I lost my apple juice on that one.

[bluestateredneck]

I think personsa would be more acceptable as it is truly gender neutral, however the name does exclude non-persons that may be very intelligent, like Flipper or Free Willy or Alf.

Larry didn't mention what Paris did with her shaved rat in the hat and sweater she carries around with her for some female felching with Maureen Dowd.

You should have upped the ante and bitch-slapped her like a Bishop slapping a confirmant right before he pours the coals to him in the sacristy.

[bluestateredneck]

Panax ginseng will kick it up a notch. I can riverdance morse code with Max Cleland strapped to my chest like mini-me after eating several bushels of it.

[Kool-Aid Drinker's Domestic Partner]

My beloved Kool-Aid Drinker will never return to me. Oh, woe. I guess it's time to end it all.

Don't cry for me. I go to a better place.

<dials phone>

Hello, Republican Party?

[lauraw]

Every time I've tried ginseng I become angry and irrational.

[Hack Ptui]

It should be painfully obvious to everyone here that Ms. Ho-lton was a plant by KKKarl Rove and Chimpy to discredit our fearless bongmaster. Isn't it just a little too convenient that her phone list gets outed RIGHT after this sordid encounter? I mean, it was only 4 years ago that this happened, but they were obviously saving it for when it'd be most effective. Damn that Bush!

[Bilgeman]

Well done Larry.

Just out of curiosity, did you use any of Hunter's chemical aids to journalizm before
you wrote this, or did you just "Method" it?

Regards;

[Liberal Larry]

I freebased a little aloe vera.

[Nerdwallet]

I have never seen nor read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas but I can only imagine what you wrote is remarkably similar not to mention bizarre!!
Nice work Larry.

As a P.S. I have some more words of wisdom from magnumserpentine's blog.
We couldn't have come up with anything more enlightening if we tried:

And I would love to know what business it is of the christian right to get involved in Terri Schiavo's case? Its none of their business. And the florida judge has no right to overrule the Supreme Court and prevent this brain dead person from being able to rest in peace. Infact I go so far as to say Mrs. Schiavo's parients also have no business in getting involved in this. Why don't they just let her die in peace? And whats more funny is 100 years ago, she would had already be dead and buried because we did not have the techinology then to prolong suffering as we do now.

I say this to the christian right: Hands off America!!!

[a]

"Dead like the Great Gonzo, chunks of his brains floating in his final Bloody Mary..."

Damn, HST would have liked that line.

He would not like the fact that ESPN2 now demands money to read his last few rants....unless his estate got a cut of it!

Fire his ashes from a cannon & toast the death of a one & only.

Damn bastard.

[bluestateredneck]

Paris doesn't have breasteses, she has Lee press-on nipples attached right to her thorax.

[Bilgeman]

bluestateredneck:

"Paris doesn't have breasteses, she has Lee press-on nipples attached right to her thorax"

But she DOES have great big...bags of money.

And even a day job, (sort of...if you can classify making a Fox Tee-Vee show as an occupation).

Regards;

[Bilgeman]

Lib Larry:

"I freebased a little aloe vera"

I'll bet your oncologist brags to the others how you've just got the SOFTEST tumors...

Regards;

[Lonely Man]

Me ex-girlfriend told a very similar story about her cell phone to the judge at my last restraining order hearing.

[Liberal Larry]

As a matter of etiquette, how long do you have to wait after a Pope has a tracheotomy before you can start joking about it? With a Bishop, it's typically 4 days.