So there I was, at the Apple store in the University Village in Seattle America. I was nowhere close to getting an iphone. There were way too many crazies in front and behind me. Truth be told, I was only there to meet chicks. See, I had been drinking a lot of whiskey the Thursday night before the big sale o’the century. Yes, well, she, my now ex-girlfriend lives near the Apple store. Maybe you heard of her, Arwinne Jablonski? She is the Seattle underground’s best kept secret and most infamous lover.
So there I was, dead sea drunker than a demented skunk without a tail, when up walks the shittiest hipster in this shitty Seattle scene, none other than the screaming sleeze from the band Beast Fister, Chizzle Rhodes.
“What’s good nephew?” he asks me.
“I am of no blood relation to you scum bucket. Lets keep it that way.”
“Oh yeah?” he says as he spits out his chew juice onto the curb. “You getting one of those new razzle-dazzles that all of the rabble-rousers are hollering loud about?”
“Speak English you jargon-spitting cyborg!”
Rhodes and his terrible excuse for a band were signed only one year ago to a major label, thus elevating his already fecal profile to king crap status.
“Yeah,” he tells me as he spits his chew juice onto the curb. “I only swung by this popsicle stand to pick up my very own iphone. The label got me one on the down low. Beast Fister!”
Ugh, I can’t believe that he yelled out the name of his own band, that twat.
“So like, when you get hooked up on that new AT&T service cousin, you best believe that we can link up numbers and call each other most frequently, on the regular.”
“How dare you continue to speak with me,” I bark at this obnoxious piece of rubbish. “Can’t you see that I’m trying to sway back and forth, attempting to find my home after spending last evening up inside the sweet spot of Arwinne Jablonski?!”
Rhodes, the slutty pimple on your wedding day nose, comes at me with the old “I’m on a major you indie nothing” and “how dare you” and “that’s my one true love” routine. I tells him “look,” I says to the overpaid stinkpot. “Deal with the real you chump and quit hogging up all of my good oxygen.”
I gently pushed his $98 kool-shirted bod far away enough from yours true to save his feeble life and prevent my stomach from upchucking massive amounts of distilled whiskey.
“Fine then weirdo kiddo,” Rhodes says as wretched as the love baby created by Lemmy Kilmister and GG Allin. “I gotta be at Sea-Tac airport in an hour anyway. Me and them Beast Fister boys are going on a European tour,” he says while spitting his tobacco juice, “and I need to go home and pack up all of my smokes and condoms.”
I was drunk, but not so drunk to volunteer myself for a snooze session with the biggest sleeper sellout this side of the Mississippi, Chizzle Rhodes, who as of today is still due in court for chopping off the hand of another former girlfriend, Charlabell Tint. Oh those rock stars.
“What kind of rubbish are you yelling in my ear now Rhodes? Don’t you know that everyone thinks that you are just a useless dick-for?”
Kiddo actually comes back at me with the knockout reply, “what’s a dick4?”
That one had me rolling. It was Friday afternoon with about two hundred insane geekouts frothing and creaming to buy buy buy a $499 machine that no one really needs. These vampire dorks had camped out all week, some even sold their spot in line for hundreds of bucks to lucky fucks with enough cash to blow on those must have machines, which I have heard already have thousands of faults.
“Quit laughing you first-class asshole,” Chizzle spits at me. By this time we had created our own little sideshow attraction as the local television cameras had captured all of their obligatory shots of boring dolts coming out of the store, having just blown their credit card company some more. Rhodes was now roaring at me, as if on stage at Neumos with this disgusting attempt at music, Beast Fister.
“Oh you think you are such a funny bunny you weak ass sonny. Why don’t you go write about this?”
Chizzle Rhodes, the scene’s most communicable disease, takes his box full of iphone and with a warrior’s determination slams the expensive device down onto my bald head. The retarded gaggle of Atari / Nintendo / Sega superstars gasped in horror as my beloved body fell back towards the ground in a near fatal plunge.
“Holy crap – Chizzle Rhodes knocked that loudmouth Anfinsen the fuck out yo!”
I fell onto the curb like a deflating bubble of laughing gas, face first into a gnarly puddle of Chizzle Rhodes tobacco juice, smacking my adorable cranium against the unfriendly cement. There was blood and bits of skull all over but let it be known that my teeth continued to smile about that “dick4″ zinger. That old joke caught Rhodes in a net of my ha-has until the paramedics came and scooped me up like a dredge of gasping fish.
In the back of the ambulance a creep with a face like a horror movie actor with unhealthy gobs of worthless makeup on his unmarketable mug leans in an asks “well well well, how are we on this terribly fine evening?”
“Ah wah,” I barbled at the doctor when he jammed his unwashed hands into my gurgling mouth, now filled to the brim with jawblood. Damn that Arwinne Jablonski, my ex-love. The very same enigmatic mind melting chicky d who at one foul moment in time decided to cross the vile line of bile and file herself in the bedroom cabinet with that speck of glass in the eyeball of all cools on Capitol Hill in Seattle America 2007, Chizzle Rhodes.
But that was then and this is now, where I find myself in the emergency room of a place called the Bellevue Mental Hospital. Dr. Vic Himmerick attends to my every need while talking to Chizzle on his new iphone as the pristine poser eats and stinks in his private jet which burns loads of unnecessary fuel 30,000 miles up in the sky. Bleary-eyed and in desperate need of a chug of clean water, I overhead the good doctor mention to Rhodes, along with the dozens of blasting cameras who waited patiently outside the outpatient entrance, the following…
“Good evening Seattle America. Whether you like it or not, the sick patient by the name of Anfinsen suffered a nasty spill, very tragic indeed. But, because I am so talented and wealthy, I will do everything that the state pays me to so that he recovers nice and quick like a good little boy.”
Himmerick was now chatting with his best friend the dumb slut from Beast Fister who always managed to clobber me down, Chizzle Rhodes.
“No Chizzle, we all LOVE you,” Himmerick said behind a smile ever so rank. “Our LOVE for you has only grown in your nonchalant attempt to muzzle the big mouth of bastard Anfinsen. Good try, old chap, fair game indeed! Sadly, I must say, that despite not getting the meat of his story, this vegan kiddo will be fine, just fine, and back in the bars by night’s end.”