P-Diddy vs. Snoop Dog (BASED around a true story)
So last night we had a little East Coast-West Coast get acquainted shindig. Weez waz doing our best to put the rivalry behind us, but nobody was willin' to take credit for Tupac's killin' so we in the West said, "Screw it! Let's just go to the Eagle's Club for outrageously cheap drinks."
Actually, what I'm speaking of is the meeting up of a few Northwest bloggers with a former Washingtonian-now-Virginian blogger. It all started out at Patty-Jo and Pop's (formerly of Pop's Tops) pad. Jeremy met me at the door with an old stagecoach side-by-side double-trigger short barrel 20-gauge aimed from his hip.
"We don't take kin'ly to stragers 'round here. I'm givin' you and your lady friend to the count of one to get off this track of land before I fill your a**es with lead, punk."
I thought he was joking at first, until Miss Patriot stepped out the door behind him. Let me tell you, Annie Bananie is just a nickname - kind of like calling the biggest guy in prision "Tiny". It wasn't the two 9-mils she had pointed at my girl and I that was intimidating - it was the fact she stood at least a good 6-7 inches taller than Jeremy. That's when I thought it would be important to introduce myself.
"Hey, it's me - ED."
They looked a little confused and said, "Dance mofo!"
"Whoa now. You know, Ed, Editor - In Pajamas?"
Jeremy threw back what he must have thought was one last swig of the Mickey's 40 in his other hand, but more likely 100% backwash.
"Nah," he said, "you're no Editor. I know Editor and you are no Editor."
"Show us a miracle so that we may believe," said Miss Patriot.
I said, "I'm NOT the Messiah, people. I'm the Editor."
That's when I heard, "Sick em'" from what I can only assume was Patty-Jo. 2 raging pitbulls wiggled their way past Jeremy and Annie and were on us faster than you can blink. They didn't grab on - they just stood there with their teeth showing, drool spilling to the ground and a growl that would make Theresa H-Kerry seem like an angel.
Then, out of the shadows came Pops "Tony Saprano" Bol. "What's going on here?" In a voice creepier than Marlon Brandow.
"We've got some visitors," said Jeremy.
Pops looked at us with the coldest, uninterested eyes I've ever seen for what seemed like eternity. "Bring them in."
What do you do? I mean, you've got a bunch of lead pointed at you and 2 killer dogs ready to tear your balls off - are you going to run? I don't think so. But that's not the worst part.
Inside they tied us up and made us kneel on the floor. That's when they unleashed the 6-year-old and the lion. Oh, you think I'm making this up? Yeah - A LION! It was the first time I'd peed my pants in like 2 years, or something.
The Lion circled for hours, just breathing on our necks. It knew what it's job was - to scare us, but not kill. It's their sick sense of fun. I wasn't having fun though.
Eventually, they untied us and we thought maybe the nightmare was over. Nope. Immediately I felt the narrow end of a Glock in my kidney. I'm thinking, "Okay, this isn't so bad - I've got another one." Jeremy forced us into my car and drive him for hours to a local "social club", if you know what I mean.
Anyway, the last thing I remember is seeing the butt end of the Glock being raised up behind me. I woke up in my own bed, but have no idea how I got there.
THEY WILL PAY!
(disclaimer: The preceeding story is mostly not true, but is loosely based on a true story. The writer used creative license to try and portray a more dramatic story than what actually took place. Everything is kinda true, sort of, except for being met at the door with weapons and Miss Patriot being huge. She's a little petite thing.)
Actually, what I'm speaking of is the meeting up of a few Northwest bloggers with a former Washingtonian-now-Virginian blogger. It all started out at Patty-Jo and Pop's (formerly of Pop's Tops) pad. Jeremy met me at the door with an old stagecoach side-by-side double-trigger short barrel 20-gauge aimed from his hip.
"We don't take kin'ly to stragers 'round here. I'm givin' you and your lady friend to the count of one to get off this track of land before I fill your a**es with lead, punk."
I thought he was joking at first, until Miss Patriot stepped out the door behind him. Let me tell you, Annie Bananie is just a nickname - kind of like calling the biggest guy in prision "Tiny". It wasn't the two 9-mils she had pointed at my girl and I that was intimidating - it was the fact she stood at least a good 6-7 inches taller than Jeremy. That's when I thought it would be important to introduce myself.
"Hey, it's me - ED."
They looked a little confused and said, "Dance mofo!"
"Whoa now. You know, Ed, Editor - In Pajamas?"
Jeremy threw back what he must have thought was one last swig of the Mickey's 40 in his other hand, but more likely 100% backwash.
"Nah," he said, "you're no Editor. I know Editor and you are no Editor."
"Show us a miracle so that we may believe," said Miss Patriot.
I said, "I'm NOT the Messiah, people. I'm the Editor."
That's when I heard, "Sick em'" from what I can only assume was Patty-Jo. 2 raging pitbulls wiggled their way past Jeremy and Annie and were on us faster than you can blink. They didn't grab on - they just stood there with their teeth showing, drool spilling to the ground and a growl that would make Theresa H-Kerry seem like an angel.
Then, out of the shadows came Pops "Tony Saprano" Bol. "What's going on here?" In a voice creepier than Marlon Brandow.
"We've got some visitors," said Jeremy.
Pops looked at us with the coldest, uninterested eyes I've ever seen for what seemed like eternity. "Bring them in."
What do you do? I mean, you've got a bunch of lead pointed at you and 2 killer dogs ready to tear your balls off - are you going to run? I don't think so. But that's not the worst part.
Inside they tied us up and made us kneel on the floor. That's when they unleashed the 6-year-old and the lion. Oh, you think I'm making this up? Yeah - A LION! It was the first time I'd peed my pants in like 2 years, or something.
The Lion circled for hours, just breathing on our necks. It knew what it's job was - to scare us, but not kill. It's their sick sense of fun. I wasn't having fun though.
Eventually, they untied us and we thought maybe the nightmare was over. Nope. Immediately I felt the narrow end of a Glock in my kidney. I'm thinking, "Okay, this isn't so bad - I've got another one." Jeremy forced us into my car and drive him for hours to a local "social club", if you know what I mean.
Anyway, the last thing I remember is seeing the butt end of the Glock being raised up behind me. I woke up in my own bed, but have no idea how I got there.
THEY WILL PAY!
(disclaimer: The preceeding story is mostly not true, but is loosely based on a true story. The writer used creative license to try and portray a more dramatic story than what actually took place. Everything is kinda true, sort of, except for being met at the door with weapons and Miss Patriot being huge. She's a little petite thing.)
posted by Editor at 8:29 AM
<< Home