Tut Tut, It Looks Like Rain
In a alien and dangerous land, where you must NEVER GO, called “Indiana,” a wanna-be thug oppressed my best friend’s happiness. So, I peed on him.
This is my best friend:
*Many of you will remember Rachel as the avid collector of pornographic parodies from, “WTF XXX PORN?” which remains, to this day, the most popular post on this site. It’s followed closely in daily traffic volume by a series of three posts where I converse extensively with my personified vagina. My target readership is, apparently, science-fiction-loving sexual deviants.
On the day we met, Rachel was hiding below the slide to escape our playmates’ merciless teasing on account of her very silly-looking pigtails.
I was hanging out under the slide because I’ve always been just as weird as I am today, and, during this particular recess, I was unsuccessfully attempting to play bridge troll with the other toddlers by leaping out and screaming, “WHAT is your FAVORITE color?!” at all who slid overhead.
When Rachel sidled up beside me that day, she whispered, “Hi. I’m Rachel, and my favorite color is rose.”
No one had ever shown any interest in playing with me before, and I found her cordial offering of information suspicious and not very much fun at all.
Then again, I asked for a color, and she brought me a shrubbery.
This demonstration of comedic irony was insanely impressive, for a three-year-old, so I narrowed my eyes and bellowed, “WHAT is the airspeed velocity of a dead African parrot swallowing a coconut?!”
The whole thing was very bizarre, and my knowledge of farcical British cinema, still in its infancy, was now totally exhausted. “My name is Corielle Heath,” I offered, opening my arms for a hug. “Will you be my friend?”
She cheerfully hugged me back but warned that our friendship might expose me to ruthless hairdo bullying.
Rachel is the goodest person I have ever known.
Like most exceptionally selfless people, she needs a disagreeable and loosely civilized sidekick — someone to troll away anyone who would prey upon her goodness until they had drained her of all the sparkle which initially led me to extend an offer of friendship, rather than point out that dalmatians make horrible pets and a polychromatic plant species is an invalid favorite color.
Until 2009, when I came home from Pennsylvania for the summer after our sophomore year of college to find Rachel broken, in heart and spirit, by Hollis the Thugtarded.
Which brings us to Indiana.
You’re probably wondering why someone fortunate enough to live in Illinois would voluntarily go to Indiana and hang-out. Or attend a thug-party.
I don’t know, because I wasn’t there voluntarily.
I’m not saying that I was abducted by thugs and forced to attend their social gatherings, against my will.
What I mean is, the whole thing was Rachel’s mediocre idea.
I had zero inclination to go traipsing across Indiana and confront the villain of this story, right in front of Rachel’s college friends and other lovely, innocent witnesses – who would almost certainly be bummed-out if I parked my car on top of Hollis.
More importantly, I had already foreseen his demise in a prophetic dream and grown pretty attached to that version, in which I swim up beside him in Lake Michigan, pee in the water, and THEN accidentally run him down with my car.
I only agreed to Rachel’s alternative shenanigan of a plan because she proposed it mere minutes after I had survived a 20,000 ft. free fall with LOST’s John Locke strapped to my back.
Here are some of the thoughts crossing my mind as I dive out of the sky:
And, these are some of the thoughts NOT crossing my mind:
When a person leaps from a moving airplane, fails to deploy her parachute, blacks out, wakes-up upon impact, unharmed and on their goddamn feet (possibly because this person is made of diamond, like the vampires in Twilight), checks her cell phone, and finds a thug-party invite from their best friend, that person simply cannot say: “No, I do not want to spend the weekend in God-forsaken Indiana, protecting you from pitchfork-waving corn people and the Klan, just because I cannot be trusted to attend a cocktail reception without attacking your former romantic partner with my urethra.”
So, instead, I replied: “Sounds cool. I’ll invite Laura.”
This is our other best friend, Laura Rios.
At first, when I called to invite her along, she declined, claiming that she was scheduled to work two shifts at Victoria Secret’s thong-theft-prevention division, but I knew that she just didn’t want to go to Indiana.*
*Because the last time we went to Indiana together, my car broke down in a cornfield and Laura was almost lynched. But that’s another story.
When I told her Hollis would be there, her tune was suddenly all:
And so, it came to be that the three of us found ourselves in Muncie, Indiana, on the outskirts of Ball State University, in an apartment full of friendly party rockers and just a light smattering of thugs.
Unlike Rachel, who just looked concerned. “Please don’t do anything to start trouble tonight,” she pleaded, as if Hollis hadn’t already started trouble on the first occasion that he called her a slut and told her that none of her friends wanted her around.
I said as much.
“I know,” she said. “He’s a shithead. But please don’t provoke him tonight. It would just make things worse.”
So, I spent the first two hours of the party doing everything in my power to avoid laying eyes on Hollis the Thugtarded, which took more than a little effort, considering it was a one bedroom apartment and he was the only fool with his shirt off by 9 p.m.
Then they would reply with something along the lines of, “That citrus rind is stylishly color-coordinated, strange angry lady!”
And, then, I would reply by pointing at and pantomime-stabbing Hollis. So…whatever the Thugtard heard, party people pieced that shit together all on their own.
Anyway, around 11:05, I was meandering through the crowd, Laura at my side, when Hollis lurched up beside us and sloshed his beer down the front of my dress – making HIM the provocateur.
I’m not sure what type of reaction he was aiming for here.
Perhaps, a dismayed exclamation, like:
“I look so much less attractive than before my form-fitting dress was also wet.”
“I had heard Hollis’s penis was quite small, but making women cry is a sure sign of a stupendous dick!”
In any case, I can say that he wasn’t expecting me to shout, “Tut, tut! It looks like rain!” then go up for a celebratory high-five.
Maybe, he was expecting the high-five, and he only looked confused and disappointed, because I was quoting from literature far beyond his reading comprehension level. Either way, he totally left me hanging, and I had to high-five myself before pounding what remained of my rum and Diet-Shasta then dashing off.
Overjoyed with my release from the no-provoking-Hollis promise, I smooth talked my way to the front of the toilet queue. “Emergency vengeance in progress, folks! We appreciate your cooperation.” Then, I emptied my bladder into a solo cup.
Often, when I tell this story to a live and literally being held captive audience, some dingbat never fails to ask, “Peeing on someone? What were you thinking?!”
And I’m like, “THOUGHTS!? I DON’T PEED NO THINKING THOUGHTS!” Obviously, if I HAD invested any sober or awake-time to thinking thoughts about this plan, I think I’d have thought of a way to pee inside Hollis’s cup; not my own.
Even with the lack of thinking, evil-geniuses don’t just go flinging piss around a thug party all *fiddle-pee-pee*. It’s discourteous to the host and may result in stamPEEDing.
No. An evil-genius lurks in the shadows of the apartment, while the target goes outside for a cigarette. She lies in wait for the moment the shirtless one reappears in the doorway, and THEN she strikes, launching her urine through the doorway, splashing across the target and harmlessly out into the hallway. It looks like this:
After realizing he was drenched in my tinkle, Hollis was fairly distressed and spent the next several minutes scampering around in circles, frantically trying to dry his ears on the carpet. Then, he imitated exactly what I had just done, except in the kitchen.
It looked like this:
I watched with delight as Hollis was ejected from the party for literally soiling the remaining booze and Shasta. I could barely contain my glee when he decided to linger in the parking lot for 30 minutes after that, beating on his bare chest and screeching threats at “That CUNT, Corielle!”
For the rest of the night, there was a lot of bladderdash from his victims about pressing charges against his oddly acidic piss – for destruction of property and emotional suffering – but I was forced to wait almost a whole year for the satisfaction of knowing that Hollis was in prison, defending his anus with a toothbrush-shank.
In that year of waiting, I met and incepted Glenn, Hollis failed out of Ball State’s prestigious Exercise Science program, and Rachel finally had the distance she needed to regain her sparkle.
To no one’s surprise, Hollis’s friends didn’t really want him around, after all.
During his imprisonment, he had the balls to write to Rachel.
His letters can be summarized as such: “All the other inmates get mail and visitors, but it appears that I am the least popular inmate in the Indiana penal system. You are the goodest person I know, so, maybe, you’ll write back to me?”
“I don’t know what to do,” Rachel-the-Good wrote to me in an email. I was studying abroad, in Rome, at the time. “I don’t want to write to him, but I feel so guilty knowing he’s miserable and alone in there. No one should feel like no one cares about them.”
“Don’t worry,” Corielle-the-Troll replied. “I’ll send Hollis a postcard.”