So, about George.
He got married this past weekend, which makes me lose my spot on the miracle magnet list. It was when we lived together, however, that my life literally became a Seinfield episode. He is George, but a little funnier, as obnoxious, with as bizarre belief system only he operates by, the most eccentric, lawless, absurd man I know. I have compiled a small list to give you an idea of what I mean.
He has had more jobs than any human being possible. I stopped counting after 30.
As a pizza delivery man, if you did not tip him, he stole plants and furniture off your porch to bring home.
For years, he confessed he would come into our house, in the middle of the night, eat our food, and leave.
Every morning we argued, blaming each other, LP furious if you touched her cereal or Cheetos.
He laughed his ass off, while our mouths remained open, shocked. He once put his hand in our fish tank and ate one of our goldfish for a six pack of beer. He jumped off a bridge, naked, and was fined by the judge fifty bucks for endangering his life. He wasn’t relieved to not be hauled off to jail. Oh no, George was pissed his life was only valued at fifty bucks. Notorious for blacking out, he once pissed on my work clothes, my neatly pressed uniform, set our place on fire because he used his lamp as a coat rack. The most infuriating part of that is he is a hoarder, so he refused to throw away the lamp, decorating it, because he argued it still had a purpose, ugly burnt wires with a plug he used to hang objects from, proud of himself, which the angrier I got, the harder he laughed. If that weren’t bad enough, check out his feet, a replica actually, because they are his brother’s who I just met, and keep in mind George had it much worse, nor is the bottom represented. Even worse, he is brilliant. George is a lawyer, actually graduated from college and law school. I swear his proudest moments involve his black penis putter he plays golf with, his skateboard he just recently had Larry David sign.
I’ll give him that is cool. I love Larry David. He gave me the putter, saying I needed a date. Asshole.
It is sick how I love George. I miss dancing to reggae midday for hours, just because, or on a road trip, his ideas and humor endearing and charming, our conversations have yet to be matched. I must be Elaine or need serious therapy. Probably both. And here it is, the story I can not die having left untold….
George is responsible for an entire group of us being wanted, suspects in a crime, and back then, we were all wild and crazy, but none of us wanted to be suspects, our actions being the opening of the five o’clock news.
I am certain the details are blurry, mainly because my entire college life I spent starving and drunk, which if that were a crime, just take me in handcuffs. Take a burger and cheese fries from this girl drunk and you might need a taser. I don’t know how we ended up at McDonalds, especially since it was not open. Pizza was our normal route so how we ended up at the golden arches really is a mystery. Ronald McDonald, the huge life size fiberglass clown was pointed out by someone who shall remain nameless, because I don’t remember. That dude is scary looking, the big red lips and striped panty hose. Seriously? I personally think it is weird kids even like him.
It was game on. We were sliding on him, dry humping him for pictures, doing things to Ronald we should have been in fact paid for, sitting in pairs on his lap, posing and laughing. The Duke, a hilarious soul, did things to Ronald I can’t help but belly gut laugh at, even now. Our tight group of male friends were amused but were busy trying to figure out how he fit into the cement, attached to a bench. I remember seeing kicking, getting objects to mess with the bolts, which seems pointless and stupid then and now, an impossible act.
it was early in the morning, and I remember a bar or maybe Norms, which was across the street from our house anyway. I remember opening the door to see Ronald, bigger than any man I knew, with his arm out, sitting on our couch, chilling with a beer and a pipe, shock turning into hysterical laughter, to the point I couldn’t breathe.
We tried to ask the logistics but the moment had us on the floor, rolling in pain. He was too big to fit into a car, and we lived far from McDonalds, and the task had seemed unreachable.
Not for George.
He had gone back, with tools, a dude with no athletic skills motivated by purely semantics and alcohol consumption, a smoker, had carried him for probably at least a mile, sweat beads pouring down his forehead.
George is too lazy to do laundry but had managed to break him from steel and concrete, a part of the chair still attached to Ronald’s ass, having been forced off a bench, in the middle of night, then carried Ronald piggy back, all the way to our house.
It was genius.
It always is until the morning news comes on, a pounding headache in place, to realize you had not been at McDonald’s, but a charity house for children. Some group of sickos had stolen from children, the community was outraged, wanting information, looking for suspects.
Uh, oh. We told George to get his ass over here, to do something, to get this Ronald back to the kids.
George had a better plan. He and the boys spent hours, put on gloves, bought tape and newspapers, cutting out tiny letters, taping them to a big sheet of paper. It was not an apology, people.
They made a ransom note.
It said if Ronald was to be seen again, they wanted 80 cheeseburgers, 40 orders of fries, apple pies, a proud piece of work they skipped class to design.
When the five o’clock news came on, the boys started to get nervous, finally, for the love of God.
“How were we going to hide him?”
“How could we possibly not be seen taking him back?”
“What if security was installed?”
“How are we going to explain him off OUR couch?” He was too big to even pick up!
We were NOT going down for lap dancing on Ronald McDonald. I had plans for my life, thank you very much.
So I believe the boys decided the body had to be dumped. They got saws, some not even big enough.
My personal favorite mancub at the time, a good friend, a little skiddish, very sensitive, a dreamer, a lover, and highly ADD, was the one man in the group most likely to cry upon watching “Dances with Wolves.” He was designated the job of dumping off parts.
I wanted to hug him, or at least make him a mix tape.
So they began the process of cutting him into pieces, bagging him, putting him in the trunk slowly, every night a routine, and he would toss an arm, then a hand, one by one, out the window, fast and in a hurry, so no one would notice him.
George was too busy going over the body parts, wondering how to make the head and foot into a lamp.
So, last weekend Duke reminded me of the news saying some group of sickos mutilated the Ronald McDonald charity bench, and I laughed until my sides ached. I reminded her I had picts of her, and when I went to find them for this blog, I almost had a coronary. I don’t even think now, at 32, I could look a soul in the eye, much less the anxiety of kids around to witness me scan the evidence of Duke’s head in Ronald’s lap, their mother draped around his body like a hooker, my skirt over his head, at the same time giving a thumbs up to the camera.
The panic of having being caught by them is far more dangerous now then being put in jail back then.
My girl I shall blog Unibrow, now a lovely professional who operates by blackberry only, used to be a hippy without two even brows said, “Remember when my brother still in high school came to visit?” I didn’t. Out of nowhere, he said, “Hey, sis, what in the hell is Ronald McDonald’s head doing in your freezer?”
Everyone yelled at him to be quiet, the fear of what we were hiding made me gut laugh. I saw George coming out of his house then, thirteen years later, with what I was pretty sure looked like Ronald McDonald’s foot. The group around the fire in his back yard began laughing hysterically, and I knew I had gained two lessons, something I probably stole somewhere.
Confusious says, Time and life pass like the wind, but the wise will know this one truth. He knows, “Once a hoarder, always a hoarder.” Or something like that, okay?
I missed class that day.
- Is Ronald McDonald Responsible for Childhood Obesity? (mpdailyfix.com)