As I ventured to Seattle for my bi-quarterly tour of the fish markets, I had come across Dustin in Sanford's Grub and Pub, in Casper, Wyoming. He sat in a booth besides a pile of granola bars, stacked in rows of 6, 3 high. As we sat slanted from one another, occasionally incidentally locking eyes, he seemed eager yet mysterious as if he was suppressing his true intentions. As I traversed to the "head cowboy's room", he suddenly became an unabashed stalker. He cornered me by the sink and asked if I had ever tried Special K. Weird question to be asked in the bathroom quite frankly but okay, I guess. As a middle class child with a health conscious mother, of course I had, my favorite variety was the chocolate delight.
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| unmonitored bars as we're talking shop in the potty. |
I described my morning banquets at grandmothers as a lad and the next thing I knew he had slipped a peculiar small baggy of which I thought was cocaine into my pocket, claiming "first round is on the house".
Perhaps consuming what was seemingly mid-country toilet blow from a strange man claiming to be a "glaze savant" could be seen as a mis-step in judgement, however at the time I was filled to the brim with a thick corned beef hash stew, served by the potful with a ladle for consumption and wasn't thinking on my toes.
As I arrived in Seattle, the night was young and a Mariners vs Diamondbacks game was set to kick off, what more exciting than two of the coastal elites in action; Seattle and Arizona, the apple of every mans eye. Call me an unhinged lunatic or perhaps just a plain idiot, but I was curious as to how this Wyoming Rest Stop booger sugar would differ from other varieties.
I snorted the unbeknownst to me Ketamine from an aquamarine ironing board at the La Quinta and headed to, at the time, Safeco Park. I had long heard of the belligerently racist rants in which Richie Sexson, donning his patented soul patch and shark tooth necklace, would partake in long before first pitch. These rants weren't directed in particular towards any individual or even race, but instead more of broad statements shouted into a theoretical abyss. I watched as Ichiro Suzuki and Chone Figgins ran opposing 40-yard dashes playfully screaming at each other in languages I can only describe as befuddling.
As Japan's finest scurried off the field, I entered the "K-Hole" into which memory betrayed me and any semblance of a filter was long departed. I disparagingly mocked his WRC+, as for a publicly beloved superstar it was shockingly low. He bowed his head, operating as if my words didn't shake him to his core, but I knew they did.
He offered an autograph and a picture but I had left my Polaroid in the Sanford's Grub and Pub. I had him sign my hand, ingeniously I knew for my next step was to write "sucks" on the other, rendering him into a merciless rage for the entire 212 minute ballgame.
From what i've been told, the rest of the night spiraled downwards at a rapid rate. I was caught eating the deodorizing block from the urinal by the Fat's Chicken and Fries, yelling vulgarities, before being apprehended and thrown in a cell with a man wearing only a ski mask over his foot, a hollowed out Minnie Mouse stuffed animal endorsing a hole on each side, over his left arm and edible underwear in which were merely for show.
I returned home to the Manhattan area, head held blue, ashamed and puzzled of my previous actions. I had operated just fine every time in the past whilst impaired from the white and couldn't reckon why this time would be any different. It wasn't until I called Gertrude, at Sanford's to ask for Dustin at which time she informed me of that scoundrels past actions. Needless to say I was shocked and ethically mortified, pridefully terrified, yet simultaneously relieved that it was simply a classic old Dustin gag.
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