Lloydish Tales of Pete and Kirk, Part 2

It never hurts to share your writing with everyone. My first
web site crashed hard a few years back and I thought the Lloydish
Tales (originally written in '98) were lost. I recently found them on
the site of a friend of a friend who just needed some content for his site. Phew!
I haven't edited the content, just fixed some spellings. I want to keep the
source material just as raw and unvarnished as I was at 29. Enjoy! Or not ...
you bastards.


The Kirkless Years
At the urging of Pete, I have decided to tell a couple of tales about the year Pete and I lived together without Kirk.

The summer after Kirk left, Pete and I knew we needed to find either a place to ourselves or roommates.

Pete worked with a guy named Joe Burroughs at Hy-Vee in Council Bluffs whose brother Tom went to ISU and was looking for a couple of people to move in with him and his buddy Pete Schnoebelen.

This was a year full of mystery and suspense. Pot and pussy. TV and temper tantrums. Love, hate, laughter and bitter recriminations.

First off, I was finally 21 and ready to do some damage.

Secondly, Tom was a fucking slob from hell. He was 6'4", 400+ pounds of worthless fucking, do nothing lazy-assed CB-style grease stain. He was a no class goin' vet-med wannabe, stripper lovin',"Quincy" watching, 12 hours on his ass, sleep til three, fartin' in his sleep, guinea pig killin', Teflon pan burning, wart soakin', no dish washing, purple lounge chair destroyin' be-yotch!

No stone unturned, no dish unwashed
I was never the most sanitary individual. I am not proud of this fact. I wouldn't describe myself as completely beyond redemption especially next to other men. I bring this up merely to point out the contrast between Tom and everyone else in 49C Schilletter Village.

Four guys in an apartment can be a nightmare. The toilet never gets cleaned, the shower curtain gets moldy, a few plates get left on the coffee table etc.

But Tom "Bobo" Burroughs never washed a dish in his life. Pete, Schnoebelen and I got tired of always washing Tom's many dishes while Tom claimed to not have any dirty dishes. So the three of us decided that for one whole week, we would each do our dishes as we dirtied them in the hopes of demonstrating for Tom just how many dishes he dirtied.

By the end of the week, both sides of the sink were completely full. Not one dish didn't bear the mark of Tom's grubbiness upon it and he was a gem.

This guy cooked everything on thermonuclear heat. He could sear a chicken breast down to its component molecules in under a minute. The pan, my pan, looked like it had been used to scrape soot out of Satan's furnace.

Bobo liked to go home every weekend where there were clean dishes. He was heading out when I said, "Hey man, could you do your dishes before you leave?"

"They aren't mine," claimed Tom, honestly believing that -- though he had not washed one dish while consuming 40 pounds of meat per day for the last seven days -- he had no dirty dishes to wash. Of course, I snapped.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," I pleaded. "Every single one of those motherfucking dishes is yours. We know they are because we got tired of washing your shit and decided to leave all of your stuff for you. You can't deny they are yours, ask Schnoebelen."

"Well, I don't care, they aren't mine. I did all my dishes."

We went on for a while but to no avail. Those god-damned dishes never did get washed by Tom. Hell, on the one or two occasions when he did do dishes, I'm sure he fucked them up.

The stripper who loved me
Tom was all sorts of convinced that there was a stripper at BJ's Lucky Lady who was his girlfriend. I remember him often going off to stick five dollar bills down this chicks g-string. She saw him coming from a mile away.

One time, Tom went out and spent fifty bucks on a necklace for this damn stripper. Can you imagine such a thing? What kind of pathetic loser would give a necklace to a stripper? Did he think she was going to give up the life for him?

One night, Pete and I rented a porno and asked Tom if he wanted to watch it with us and the mother fucker said, "That's okay, I'm not desperate."

I was a little taken aback at having been zinged. I quickly recovered and made my retort.

"Let me get this straight," I asked, attempting to form a logical argument which would effectively outline my case. "You blow a hundred bucks a night sticking five dollar bills in some bitches panties and buy her a fifty dollar necklace as a symbol of your undying love while blowing off your bills and classes and you think you aren't desperate?"

I don't think Tom had ever quite thought about it like that and he wasn't about to at that point as he was on his way to the titty bar.

Am I the only one who thinks this shit is gross?
Tom got a wart on one of his fingers, which one is not important but it probably had something to do with that stripper.

Anyway, you know how you have that favorite glass that only you drink out of? It's YOUR freaking glass and everybody knows it. Mine was a Sam's hamburger's cup. A cheap ass plastic cup from the fast food joint I worked at in high school. It was a limited edition and the place doesn't exist any more. I could have taken as many as I wanted but I was young and only stole one. So I had my reasons for thinking it special. Normally people wouldn't touch a cup like this if it belonged to someone else. They wouldn't even think of drinking out of it in front of you let alone doing anything as disgusting as SOAKING A FUCKING WART IN IT!

I swear to god that bastard was sitting there soaking his baseball glove sized hand in my personal glass. I went nuts and cussed that bitch out good.

The thing that really churns my butter is the fucker acted like I was the one who was fucking mental. What? Am I like the only person in the world that thinks warts are fucking disgusting? My god, if you have to soak a wart there are ways to do it without using any kind of dish used for the consumption of food or beverages. Hey fat ass, stand over the sink for five fucking minutes, is that too much to ask? How about using one of your own fucking glasses? How about a disposable cup?

The demise of the purple lounger
Watching TV takes a lot of hours of concentration. It helps to sit in the closest chair possible. That chair was my purple lounger. The chair that was so comfortable that no one could resist it. Especially Bobo.

That bitch sat in that chair every waking hour...so say 6 to 8 hours a day. He squashed that fucker flat.

The worst part was all the greasy homemade hamburgers he ate while sitting in my chair. One day I caught him wiping his greasy hands directly on my chair. I'm all like, "hey dickhead, how about using a fucking napkin! God damn, don't you have any sense?"

So the shit factory goes and gets a single paper towel and lays it on the arm of the chair and continues to wipe his greasy mitts on that napkin until it is soaked with grease and staining my chair even worse.

The worst part about this asshole was when he went home on the weekends, he bitched about what an asshole I was to his mutant family who took it personally.

Oh my god...it's full of shit!
Like I said, Tom was a mutant. He consumed enormous quantities of food every day. A pound of hamburgers for lunch with chips and two liters of pop. Several live chickens and a small Yugo for dinner.

But the dude apparently only took a dump once every two days. But when he did, man...watch out.

Now, you might wonder how I would come to know something so disgusting. Well, it wasn't from some deep, "Breakfast Club" style conversation, believe me.

We were sitting around the living room one afternoon when Tom disappeared for an hour to complete this rare ritual of expungement. Suddenly Tom came out of the john, grabbed his coat and left the apartment without saying anything to anyone. This was pretty fucked up since Tom never left the apartment for anything but the purchase of groceries and he wasn't due.

So Schnoebelen, Pete and I were intrigued. We surmised that something terrible must have happened in the bathroom.

"Maybe he's plugged up and went to get some laxatives," asked Pete.

"I doubt that considering the smell coming from the can," said Schnoebelen. "God DAMN!"

"What the hell," I asked, "didn't he flush the fucking toilet?"

Slowly we crept, inch by inch, toward the bathroom. The door was closed but the stench of death hung heavy in the putrid air, a perceptible brown haze fogging our vision as well as our minds. Jimi Hendrix had something much clearer in mind when he wrote "Purple Haze."

We opened the door and it was like a scene from "2001: A Space Odyssey."

My god...it's full of shit!

And how! Now I don't mean it was reasonably full of shit like when even the heartiest of eaters leaves a big dump in a toilet. The most impressive bowel movement I ever left behind paled in comparison to what lay before us in the violated bowl of 49C Schilletter Village.

It looked like an evil version of a Dairy Queen sundae. Cows don't shit this much. The bowl was so full, we couldn't have shut the lid without it hitting a little curly-q that was perched on top like it had been laid there professionally. Now that I think about it, I don't remember there being any toilet paper in that bowl. That was probably because there wasn't enough room for any paper in that bowl. Tom had obviously plugged the toilet, we couldn't even see any water! He ran out of the house to buy a plunger but we didn't think a plunger would do it. Dynamite might have put a dent in the curly-q but it would have taken a team of 19th century Chinese railroad workers with drilling equipment to break it up properly. Bruce Willis in "Armageddon" had an easier job.

I guess what puzzles me most is this: A man doesn't just shit like that by surprise. This had to have been a regular thing for Bobo since he was old enough to consume mass quantities of animal flesh. It isn't like one day you wake up and drop a fucking load that would embarrass a water buffalo. For the love of god, after you've been on the toilet shitting for, oh...say 20 minutes or so...you would think a little voice inside of your head would say "why not flush?"

Hell, he had to have been in desperate need of a mercy flush. He only killed every living thing in the bathroom down to the single celled level. If for no other reason than to keep the paint from peeling off the walls, flush the mother fucker.

Mama I'm coming home
Tom was the biggest mama's boy I ever did meet. Every weekend he went home. I guess the stress of sleeping twelve hours a day and never going to classes was taking its toll on Tom. Tom's mommy and daddy apparently forced that load to study in high school. He was an honor's student and had close to a 4.0 GPA.

When he came to college, there was no one around to make him do anything. So most nights he stayed up til 3 in the morning watching reruns of "Quincy" pretending to make diagnoses. In one episode, a woman had fallen down a flight of stares and her leg was pinned behind her. Leaping into action, Tom quickly determined that the leg was broken. "Yep, that's a broken leg, all right," said Tom to the television.

Moments later, Quincy showed up and made the exact same diagnosis! Tom had been correct. Thus proving that he truly was suited to become a vet after all!