Butthair & Seven: Episode III

More ramblings by: King Stahome

Whatever searching I did that night, all I ended up with at the end was four words. And it’s funny, because all the events leading up to the grand unveiling of these ominous four words were taxing me to the point of near collapse. Grave robbing. Serious vandalism. Desecration of the elderly. Total spiritual deprevity. And all to reveal what? A giant let down if you ask me. Because when the shit came to a boil and we had to take the kettle off the burner, all I was left with was the four damned words I, for some reason, wrote on the bottom of Seven's left foot...

DON'T TRUST THE KETCHUP.

****

I never should have eaten that man.

Ate what

What?

thooooooose

oh.....hmmmmmm

You feel that?

What?

I feel sweaty.

What?

SWEATY FUCKINGODDAMMIT!!

All right man!

...

Hey dickey.

Huh.

Did you ever wonder what the difference between a seed and a nut was?

heh heh... no.

uhhh.

You don't eat seeds man.

yuh huh, sunflowers man.

I mean, no, what?

Suns?

I never should have eaten those, man.

*********************************************************

All right, hold on, I got to get a beer....

Ok. Its my turn. The time has come, the ship has sailed, the shoe is on the other foot, the shit has hit the fan, and the other foot, the one without the shoe, has finally dropped.

Here the show begins, and as previously mentioned, it so happens that I have only one shoe on. Sloppy has done it again. He does it about twice a year, and it is so out of hand for us both that i would rather him drink a quart of Clorox than to try this ridiculous experiment in deliberate masochism.

I am speaking of the twice a year when the asshole jumps on the wagon. picture a week of the “Dee – Tee’s”, coupled with an asshole that feels so sorry for himself that he is trying anyway he can to rid himself of the grief that twenty seven years of alcoholism has begot him, and you'll have what wagon week is at Seven's House. It got so bad last time that i had to put ol' Sloppy in a hospital...

*****

It seems this time I’ve really done it. The nurse tells me that I’ve done some serious damage to some organs that seem to have official business with the task of keeping the rest of me alive. They tell me I’ve been asleep for four days now, and with the intense throbbing in my belly, I am wishing that I could spend several more days sleeping.

I don't remember precisely what got me in here, but I know a large bowie knife was involved. I recall said bowie knife being attached to a largish Mick with a damn lovely piece of ass that I seem to have been prying loose of him. Obviously this Mick was quite fond of this particular piece of ass, and decided that the proper reaction to my action was to plunge his family heir loom of a blade deep inside me. (I say family heir loom because of the several types of animal infections I got off this particular piece of steel.)

Anyway, I have been in the hospital for five weeks now, fighting off infection after infection, without the ability to even sit up.

The entirety of my day consists of staring at the ceiling, and waiting for seven to come in and give me some company. I’m still waiting for seven to come in and give me company.

The one part of my day that does bring me some light is my roommate. he is in the same sort of condition as me, but once a day, for a half an hour, he is able to sit up and look out the window. He tells me our window has quite a view. he tells me of the park across the street and the lovely young couples walking around. There is also a commons where mimes and street musicians perform. Behind all that there is a magnificent view of the skyline, and in certain types of weather, the sun reflects off of the buildings in such a way as to make them seem almost illusory, as if they were nothing but a dream.

It got to be that the highlight of my day was listening to this man tell me in such elaborate description what was going on outside.

I'd just close my eyes and imagine what he was describing and letting it come to life in my head.

Then last Wednesday, or maybe it was Tuesday, i can't remember which, I woke up to see the doctors trying feverishly to revive this man. Long to short the man didn't make it. He died of whatever was ailing him, and the doctors said it was just his time to go. The nice thing was that they repositioned my bed next to that window.

The first chance I was able to I forced myself up to an elbow and craned my neck as far as it would reach to see what was happening in the world outside the window. Could you imagine my surprise when I saw half a brick wall and a roof top?

I asked the nurse if she had switched my room while I was asleep, but she said no, it was against policy. I asked her how the man next to me could have described in such detail what was going on out side and she told me he was blind.

I was touched by the encouragement that man gave me. And as soon as I got out of the hospital, I got really drunk and slept with that guy's doctor's wife. This all goes to show that even a blind man can have a positive influence on a man who is looking to get laid by some rich cunt.

Stay tuned.

Butthair & Seven: Episode II

By: King Stahome

"Hey"

"Dickey"

"Dickey?"

"Hum."

"Hey."

"Humph?"

"Hey, dinky?"

"wha?"

"Your sisters are looking really fucking good, man."

"Huh?"

"Did Kitano just kick your ass or what? holy shit!"

"What the fuck you say?"

"You got anything to popcorn?"

"huh?"

"I’m starving."

"What’d you say about my sister?"

"I said they're looking hot, man!  I’m totally hard just thinking about 'em"

"Jesus Christ! Would you give up on it? They’re both fucking nuts."

---

Nina and Pinta were both fucking basket cases.  My dad had a real hard on for Italian explorers.  Oh, well, what the hell.  My sisters are identical fifteen-year-olds, both on a swear to god mission from Satan.  Neither of them sees the light of day unless one of them decides it mandatory to find something to burn in effigy that can only be found at the mall on Saturday.  Seven has been trying to get them in bed for a year now.  I told him it’s a lost cause, but what the fuck, you know?  It makes for good reading.

---

By the way, my given name is Richard Long-Growes.

That’s right.

Dick long grows.  Every year, first day, no matter what school i was switched to, it was, "Growes, Richard Long."  So you understand it was no great hardship when my peers began calling me Butthair. It was actually kind of a relief.  At least Butthair was a nickname.  People kind of thought it humorous, ya know?  The embarrassment came when I had to introduce myself as Dick Growes.

Mom always wanted a dick.

Butthair & Seven: The Orginal Episode I

By: King Stahome

Early 1999, written in Seattle, WA, in the shadow of Mount Rainier.

I’m intending on writing a story to all my fucked up friends. Which, at the time, included Brian Mertz, Marc Sorrells, Holly Hudspath (Niemi, now), Kurt Ference, Matt Niemi, Greg Kovach, and Dan Nelson.

At that time, they were the only ones I thought had access to the World Wide Web and such. Written in email form, I had no intention of this going any further.

And here is the way it all began…

Listen, all you fuckers. I’m drunk and I’m in a far away land. I tried to see Rainier and all I saw was a black church this beautiful Sunday and instead of getting religion I’m getting drunk. And if any of you fuckers don’t want to hear what I’m about to say, I’m giving you several hours to disagree….

Insert from writer: this previous entry was at approximately noon April 11th, 1999. The rest occurs for the rest of my life after 6pm, April 11th, 1999 at 2:02 am.

Well, too late. if you wanted out, it had to be before now. Which is actually only about six hours before exactly now. Which is approximately one twenty four in the a.m.. I haven't actually thought about what it’s going to be about. But here goes:

There once was a man by the name of Butthair Growes. An unusual name. So far in life, Butthair was doing all right. His girlfriend wasn't pregnant, his dog could shit in a toilet, and he could kick ass in "Mortal Kombat."
Butthair was happy.

Seven was Butthair's friend. Seven is an odd name also, but Butthair didn't make fun. In certain places, Seven is just as much prayed to as Jesus. At least that was what Seven's daddy told him. And who could argue with a company who built a boat on stilts over dry land and had the money to divert a river under it?

Seven's daddy was a drunk. He called himself Unlucky, but the folks called him Sloppy. They had good reason to, though, because he didn't dress well at all. Sloppy had a real problem with continence, and spent his money on cheap wine.

This is a story about Sloppy, Seven, and Butthair. Take it or leave it, it is guaranteed delivery. change yo life fo ev ah.

It began, it seems, even before first grade; the torment. for a while (maybe ten years or so) I was fine. Completely normal. I had the foresight to realize the ecstasy of absolute freedom. Balance of nature, complete absence of responsibility, I was god. Twelve years of immortal bliss.

Then I met Seven. He was a good guy that was automatically segregated from the group because we new his name before we knew the digit he was named after. It was weird, ya know? imagine reciting twenty thousand times a week," one, two, three, four, five, six, Brian, eight,..." and so on. It almost drove the whole class out of their minds. Luckily for them, though, I bet Steven Wentworth he didn't have any hair on his ass.

They no longer worried about the paradox they were facing with Seven and his bastard child "7", they had me.

Butthair.

Would you like to hear more?

Tell the King Stahome.

Butthair & Seven: Episode II

By: King Stahome

Grand Junction gets cold at night. Seven was ok, because he still had Baby soundly secured to his neck, and she provided plenty of body heat for the boy.

Butthair was fucked.

He had tried, once, a long time ago, to snuggle up behind the monkey, but nearly had his testicles torn off by her fierce motherly instincts. Four days in a New Mexico hospital and sixty four stitches later, and he could barely make it an hour before he had to swallow another six or seven Vicodin. That part wasn’t bad. Vicodin has a tendency to make your mind purrrrrrrrrrrr, especially if you use a large glass of wine to wash it down with.

Tonight he shivered under the icy sky, trying to keep himself warm with the only thing Douglas Adams told him to bring on his Guide across the Galaxy: a towel. He tried to remember the warmest time he’d ever known, hoping the thought would take his mind off the soft but biting breeze that wouldn’t stop for at least one cock sucking moment…

Hard days in the Nevada strip mall, before they decided that outdoor strip malls just weren’t for the big NV, I worked for Wonder Wipes. Twenty four inch square pieces of ultra-absorbent material, they are the 8th wonder of mankind. They’re Maaaaagic, was the pitch they made us yell, going along with the bullshit Vegas hype. But truthfully, the sumbitches could soak three quarts of blood if you needed them to.

“HEY BOY,” we said, “Like the way that water spots up on ya cah? HELL NO! You try one a these wipes gonna wipe your MIIIIIIND….”

Christ, I actually said that. I actually sounded like Elvis.

I’ll tell you though; it all paid off one day.

It doesn’t take much, in my way of thinking, to have a situation that life puts you in, pay itself off. For instance, I worked at a bar, bussing tables at a wing joint. It sucked. It was all, ‘hey B, get me some napkins’ , and ‘hey Butt, clean up them bones’. So there I was, cleaning up a platter full of mostly eaten chicken bones, smells of spit and beer and Louisiana Licker sauce cranking through my head… and I shut off. I learned how to shut off. That was worth it all. The ability to shut myself down, and watch what disgusting, vile thing I was doing was worth everything I had endured up to that point.

And it paid off one day at the Wonder Wipes kiosk at the Las Vegas Outlet Mall. Not in the same introspective, life changing way the wing clean up had, but still, pretty goddamn funny:

Like I said, I hated that job. It was hot the way a furnace is hot. Hot in the way a really nice, cool drink of lemonade is not. And I had a nice group of people gathered around my kiosk, and Seven was doing his best to group the people listening as close together as they could stand. I’m going on and on about how these M-F’rs could mop the cat piss out of carpet and you’ll never, ever have to worry about water spots on your windows again when one of these two faggots standing in the back of the crowd, completely un-self-consciously asks,

“Yeah, but will it take shit out of satin?”

Butthair & Seven: Episode I

Note: This is a new feature brought to you by MattNiemi.com. My friend, let’s call him King Stahome, is going to write some freaky story about some dudes named Butthair and Seven. Hopefully, he’ll keep us updated with timely installments as promised.

---

Seven took the gear from the bottom of the bag and shoved it aside so he could hide the weed on the bottom.

Butthair warmed up the bike. Fucker was finicky in this cold Rocky Mountain air, and he knew if he tried to push the old bull too hard too fast, he’d foul a plug and they’d be stuck in this shit hole another night.

The monkey stood next to her pile of Heath bars, watching with cold calculation as the two boys packed, biding her time. No one puts Baby in the corner.

The fact that there was never a study to see what effect Toffee would have on a species so far removed from the substance is not surprising, given the chances of the animal coming in contact with it are astronomical. Who would have thought the addiction would have been so swift and severe? The best they could tell, Seven and Butthair deduced Baby was experiencing some sort of sugar induced, euphoric high. This would cause her to be extremely clingy, and after the first near miss with an F-150 on interstate 75, they decided to temper her moods with the hash they’d accumulated in Santiago.

Without the proper research, brand new things are hard to choose between.

Once they had the bike running, the trick was to get Baby mounted on the motherfucker. This involved an immense amount of coaxing and bungie cords. The typical scenario for getting Baby on the bike was as follows:

1. Get Baby Stoned. This enabled a mild form of communication when hash was all that was available, and an amazing sort of body communication if cylocybic mushrooms could be taken.

2. Moisten toffee, adhere to host’s neck. Standard procedure was for Seven to lick the chocolate off a Heath bar and stick it to the back of Butthair’s neck.

3. The Lure. A complicated procedure to involving a ping pong paddle and a funnel that would bring the toffee to Baby’s attention.

4. Strapping in. Once Baby’s incisors were securely fastened (in that mother cat picks up a baby kitten way, not a lion gripping an antelope way) to the rear of Butthair’s neck, Seven would proceed to lock the monkey in place with a series of bungie cords, primarily assuring that the jaws of the monkey would not be pulled away from the host’s neck.

With a licking action, it takes approximately 5 hours for a monkey to deplete the toffee from a Heath bar off a human neck. That’s two hours and fifteen minutes longer than it takes to get from Commerce City to Grand Junction.