Come out, Come out Wherever You Are
Fergus, you Irish bastard.
When did I tell you I have a blog?
One of the myths I perpetuate in order to keep myself writing on this thing, is that nobody reads it. You'll notice I don't have one of those site meter thingies at the bottom of my page. Because I don't want to know. I am terrified of all of you. So when an old friend pops out of nowhere, and it turns out they read this thing, I always feel slightly caught with my pants around my ankles. Quick! Did I ever write anything rude/bitchy/offensive/flippant about them or the values they hold dear?
(Luckily, Ferg holds no values dear. I also know that no acquaintance or employer could ever track me down to this blog unless I told them about it; my name is so awesomely Google-proof, it's almost as if my attorney father saw into the future and gave me the most boring name imaginable as to keep me anonymous.)
This whole episode brought back the fuzzy, blurry, kinda-sideways-tilted memories of a spring break in Prague. My sister, ever-loving Clarissa, and I met up with Fergus in glorious Praha for a few days while all the cool kids were off getting date raped in Cancun. (see? offensive.)
Many of the most amusing moments of the trip were courtesy of Clarissa's propensity for, well...there's no way to sugar coat this. For saying really, really stupid shit. And she'd say it with this wide-eyed naivete that was just too precious. And she'd believe anything, no, anything you cared to tell her. She's more or less outgrown this, but it was pretty marked a few years back. It was the summer when Mad Cow disease was ravaging the continent and British Isles. (Remember when rotty beef was our biggest global threat?) Fergus was telling us about the giant piles of sheep they were having to just set ablaze in order to deal with the contamination. Clarissa's eyes got all wide and trembly like they do. "You mean, they burn those lambs alive?" I think Ferg snorted a big laugh before whipping out his lighter double-quick, flicking on the flame, and then chasing after Clarissa shouting, "That's right Flossie! It's the Zippo treatment for you!"
Maybe you had to be there. But it was hi-larious.
Later that week, we were all sitting around with not much to say (potentially bollocksed out of our gourds on Absinthe. Incidentally, the Night of Absinthe was the only night of my life when I've been able to keep up with an Irishman in drinking. Round for round, from dinner 'til 4am. I deserve a fucking medal of honor. Or Ferg deserves to have his citizenship stripped.) Right, so we're sitting around and from absolutely nowhere, Clarissa asks Fergus, "Have you ever thought about what you want for your epitaph?" Ferg just turns to her with a quizzical look and says, "Man, you are one freaky bitch." So for a few months after that, she was known affectionately to us as "Flossie the Freaky Bitch," which can be song to the tune of "Casper the friendly ghost," in case you're interested.
See, Mom and Dad? How traveling expanded my cultural horizons? Aren't you proud?