Monday, June 28, 2010

Dude, where's my car?

Ever since the last Shiz That Happens in My Town, I've been eagerly anticipating the next "Dear Michael" column because I STILL haven't gotten over that entire jeans and the limo and the P.F. Chang's thang that happened last time I cracked open the paper. It's been giving me night terrors. Legit. But "Dear Michael" hasn't been published ever since. I've been waiting and waiting and then suddenly it dawned on me: Diva Michael read the Yella and then killed hisself. Or he's on vacation. Either way, I'm very upset because I need more. Like a baby penguin yearns for the sustenance of it's mother's regurgitated lunch, I too yearn for the backwater questions from tiny town locals and the backasswards words of advice from Diva Michael. It's just that disturbing. Like watching a car wreck in slow motion. Can't turn away. Gotta have more. Gonna have nightmares for weeks.

So instead of regaling you with tales taken straight from the local paper, this time around I will present you with a story that I'm pretty certain would ONLY happen in my town. And it didn't even make the papers. So it's kind of a Shiz That Happens in my Town/ You Know You Live in a Small Beach Town When ... kind of day.

I'm writing about this story not because I experienced it -- fortunately or unfortunately, you be the judge -- but because for the first time in a very long time, the opportunity has arisen for me to write about a story that doesn't involve my vagina or toenails on the public bus and I'm DAMN excited about it. And also it's the funniest story I've heard in months. MONTHS I tell you.

Saturday afternoon, after a day of beaching that actually didn't involve my ass hanging off the back of a boat, we went to a party in honor of a friend who this very day hopped on a plane with a one way ticket to Australia. And what better way to say goodbye than with lots of booze?

So first it was the pool party and then it was on the party bus and then it was the house party and then it was back on the party bus and then it was the bar and then it all gets a little fuzzy because SANGRIA! OLE! After the bar, B and a few of our favorites decided that instead of getting back on that bus, destination: Disasterville, USA, that we would hobble home together.

The next afternoon we reconvened on the beach for my favorite game of What the Hells Did We DO Last Night? when the greatest story I have ever heard came to life. Please prepare yo'selves.

While a small group of us decided to walk off our sangria after the bar closed, another small group hopped back on that party bus and rode into the night. The exact details of where exactly the bus left everyone off at the end of the night is still unclear because no one can remember, but wherever it was, there was a party going on. Boys and girls eventually stumbled off to their beds but one did not. And the next morning he woke up in a strange house to a strange man screaming at him to GET THE GODDAMNED HELL OUT OF HIS HOUSE. But wait, there's more.

Now this particular boy -- we'll call him D -- is one of the nicest, most relaxed people I've ever met. So the vision of him being shooed out of a house by some disgruntled man in his pajamas is one of my favorite mental images of the week. And as D's being pushed out the door he's all "wait, uhhh, can I call my friends to pick me up?" And angry man is all "GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE." Which, we can assume, was a no.

So here D finds himself, blinking into the sunlight, alone on an empty street with no way of getting home. He looks around and sees a truck that belongs to one of the friends who had walked home with us the night before. And in our town, people not only tend to leave their cars unlocked, but they also tend to leave their keys in the ignition. I know RIGHT?! What IS this place?!

Hallelujah, D thinks as he slides into the truck and peels back to relative safety. And as he is recounting the story of his rude awakening and subsequent shooing from this random house to our friends, the part of the story with the good luck truck comes up. And he's all, "thank God Jordy's truck was there because I took that back here." And our friends stop laughing are all, "no dude, Jordy's truck is parked at his girlfriend's house." And he's all "no no, I drove Jordy's truck here." And there all, "no dude, that is NOT Jordy's truck." And he's all "Dudes. I think I just stole a truck."

So off they go to return the truck to the approximate location from whence it was stolen. And because this is a tiny beach town and because in tiny beach towns everyone knows EVERYONE, it just so happens that another friend knew exactly which family the hot truck belonged to. And when he called him to tell him that D accidentally stole their truck but it was now being returned no harm no foul?, the truck's true owner was all "Awwweesssommmme. Thanks for returning my truck," in a voice that I love to imagine was exactly like Jeff Spicoli's.

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is what pulled these words from my mouth for the first time: "Holy shit, I love this place."


rory said...

Aren't little beach towns where everybody knows everybody cool?
The only time we lock our trucks and houses is during Touron Season.

Becky Mochaface said...

Holy crap that's one of the funniest stories I've heard this month. Maybe this year.


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