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December 22, 2004
Going to My Parents'
I'm making my annual trek to my parents house later on today. I've got to fly there because it is so far off the information superhighway - Actually I've got to fly to Chicago and then take 2 different trains to get to a place close enough to be picked up by a parent in a car and ferried back to their cemetery side abode.
My family is always good for a chuckle or two, and I'm expecting more exciting happens than usual this Christmas. I am bringing along a pen and paper to chronicle them. These happenings will be exclusively family related as there is only one (maybe two?) bar in the town in which to meet strangers. I won't be going to it because I'm a little afraid of being beaten by snowmobiling toothless drunks. Still that would be a pretty exciting story to tell to the grandkids.
Last night I saw something I may end up telling the grandkids about.
I got summoned down to the Harborway Inn. Upon arrival I noticed Sammy, the bum, was asleep in his usual seat. As I stepped around him to enter the bar I was attacked by the little mangey-looking dog as expected. I got a Natty Boh and while enjoying it I met Spencer.
Spencer is on strike. He makes airplane parts and just arrived at the bar from the picket line. He was pretty wasted, so right or wrong I now am convinced union workers drink while picketing. He was talking loudly calling everyone in the bar a genius. Lazy, misguided geniuses.
Then he tried convincing everyone to buy extremely cheap box springs at some place on Pulaski Highway. He was a little pushy about it so we decided to leave.
On the way out the door the bartender stopped us saying that a guy at the bar was going to spit fire for us.
We stopped and watched as she poured one of the customers two shots of grain alcohol. As she lit one on fire Sammy the Bum perked up. He sat up in his seat and got a little animated. "Burn the cat! Burn the cat!" He yelled.
The fire spitter poured a shot of the liquor in his mouth and turned down the bar. He stuck his finger in the burning shot glass and while Sammy kept chanting "burn the cat" he sprayed the grain alcohol out of his mouth, over his blazing finger, and a huge ball of flame flew down the bar. Then he turned back to the bar and I noticed his face was on fire; luckily he noticed.
He slapped at his face and neck both covered with bluish flames. It didn't help. A couple seconds passed as he frantically slapped at his face trying to put out the fire.
He finally put the fire out and was unharmed except for a couple singed hairs. The bar erupted in applause and cheers. "Awesome." "Cool!"
Then, in unison, we yelled, "Do it again!"
He did. A few more times, but without the facial flames.
I don't think that sort of stuff will happen at my parents house this Christmas, but I'll let you know what does happen.
Posted by calculatoronfire at December 22, 2004 11:37 AM