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Back You are here: Home Themed Collections The Collective Speaks LA1K eBook Celebration Bitchin' Vans & Bloody Hippies
Monday, 12 March 2012 03:22

Bitchin' Vans & Bloody Hippies

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We were back at The Neon Boneyard drowning bad memories of Venice Beach in Bloody Hippies—100 proof pot vodka steeped in crushed organic tomatoes and horseradish, served in a genitalia shaped gourd, rimmed heavily in sea salt, garnished with a generous spear of pickled celery.

We were waiting for the show to start when my friend asked me if I wanted to come out to his farm and watch the black fuzzies come out of a white chick. Seeing as I had no idea what the hell that was, I was inclined to accept his invitation. But those festivities wouldn’t start for a few more hours and I had a line on a bitching van which meant that with any luck we would be tied up in Dunthorpe dickering with some rubber-lipped freak named Pervert. Unsure of how the timing would work out, we agreed to set ourselves to blotto and take the night as it came.

It wasn’t long before—ZAM.

The Bloody Hippies begin working their magic as a pair of crotchless chapped servers squat on our table, depositing our second rounds. Loosening up a bit, my friend tries to make small talk as the shaft of his drink slides out of the blonde straight into his hand. But he’s so tongue-tied even I can’t understand him. He sounds like some animal fucking and eating at the same time, and his chin is dripping goo. With his free hand he slicks back his hair then pumps his fist in the air as if to say Right Arm!

“Yeah, buddy. Right arm.”

The blonde scrunches her face in a constipated manner and replies, “It’s like having a baby between my hips.” With this she squats lower and pumps her pelvis into my friend’s face.

My friend slowly turns his gourd in a circular manner, salting the lip with her salt-vagazelled pubis. Removing a spear of celery from her garnish garter, he finds his tongue, and coolly says, “Yeah, I hear that a lot.” Then with great flair, and quite a bit of unexpected coordination, he tosses back his head, sucks down his drink in one fell swoop, and leans forward making bedroom eyes at her labia from beneath his brown, bulging, untweezed brow. But his attempt at seduction fails and he comes off looking like a cheap dirty monkey.

She throws him an I can cut you off stare then briskly, and some would say unhygienically, removes his empty drink with octopus precision and trots away.

“I had her. I think I had her. But I blew it.” He beats his meaty fist against our table causing my girl to almost drop her gourd.

“You never had her.”

I apologize to the brunette as she slides the shaft of the drink into my hand. My gourd is different. It looks as if someone has taken a fork to its sides in a decorative manner— much as someone would do to a cucumber before slicing it for a vegetable plate. I think it better not to inquire about teeth. My friend is getting frothy so I skip her salt encrusted maw and pickled spear and send her off with a twenty.

“Ah! Ah! You’re saying I’m too dirty for a girl who delivers drinks with her hoo-ha? What kind of shit is that? Ah!”

My friend is beside himself and heading straight into gibberish. I decide that if any of this is going to make sense, I’m going to have to level the playing field so I slam back my drink with all of his verve but none of his coordination, wetting my crotch with gourd juice in the process.  My friend smiles approvingly and grabs the menu off the table.

“Good idea, man. Order some food. That’ll get us through.”

I make eye contact with the brunette server and follow this up by throwing her what I’m sure are fucked up signs meant to indicate we’d like more drinks and some food. She seems to understand. But there’s a good chance that what she understands is that I have Bloody Hippy Palsy.

My friend gets a weird look on his face when his eyes fall halfway down the menu. He tries to hide the menu in his pants as if I’m not looking straight at him doing it. I grab his arm and go for the menu. “Get a grip, man. Tang Girl is here tonight and I’m not going to listen to you blubber all fucking night about how you missed the show.” But he’s looking at me with extra crazy eyes and the left portion of his unibrow is going all bitch twitchy so I know he’s freaked out something fierce.

“Nope! Nope! You can’t have it. It’s for your own good. Keep off!”

I remove my hands from his body and speak in a calm voice, appealing to his inner gummy bear. “It’s okay. It’s alright, man. You can have the menu. Now, just tell me what the special is.”

I assume I overdid the gummy bear because he starts blubbering, and now both sides of his unibrow go bitch twitchy, kneading his copious brow hair toward the center of his dirty blackhead riddled forehead. I try to slap him back to grip by speaking in a stern voice, but instead the words come out squealing girl and I’m about to piss myself. “Goddamn it. Now it’s doing the wave. I fucking hate you.”

With this, he breaks a smile and all is good. I let the matter drop. We are having a good time. Why ruin it now? The show is just starting.

A set of bones wrapped tight in Naugahyde busts its rump in front of us like a tantruming peach. Its retarded bunny eyes gaze into the crowd, unfocused. A swollen rump roast rests between its gyrating hips.

My friend is built like a Clydesdale, which is to say that he’s large and stout with an impressive belly in front of him. And he wants to slip his throbbing member somewhere into her sinew.

He speaks his thoughts.

It turns its dead bunny eyes on us. Cocks its head to the side. Fingers its pulsing meat with pink talons. The crimson mass quivers, threatening to fall… bad memories. I close my eyes to chill the fuck out, to go to a safe. But I fail. I hear it getting closer then feel a talon scrape against my wet crotch. My eyes snap open and I scream, “I will not be your meat puppet!”

My friend thinks I’m joking or he’s just too high to follow what’s going on. In response, he pumps his fist and screams, “I’m not afraid of ropes!”

Confused, it scurries away.

Word spreads that Tang Girl is ill and will not be performing tonight. With this news my friend suggests that we ditch the Boneyard and head back to the car to go trolling until we hear from Pervert or the farm. I’m more than happy to oblige, wanting to ditch, as well, the sinking feeling that something has followed us back from Venice.

We gather our things and make our way out very slowly and in silence. On the way out, I notice numerous plates of sushi in various states of ravishment. A queer feeling stirs in my stomach and my gourd-juiced pants suddenly feel very cold and heavy. I swear I can hear through the boom boom music the roll of a creaky metal-wheeled cart, the faint echo of fuck me fuck me fuck me…


We’d been trolling and smoking for over thirty minutes when word came from the farm that the white chick had escaped so we would not be able to watch the black fuzzies come out. In addition, Pervert was called away on urgent business so we wouldn’t be able to see his bitchin van. This puts me in a weird state of apprehension and my friend is a frazzled mess of belligerence. Which is to say he’s acting perfectly fucking normal. His hands shake wildly as he loads a packet of bat guano into his slingshot. I’m about to descend into a serious state when excitedly he says, “I don’t know, man. Something’s coming. I can feel it. Pull over. Pull over!

I pull the car over and kill the engine.


We smoke cigarettes and other things while we wait for my friend’s hunch to come to fruition, the shit-filled slingshot resting on a stolen disposable lobster bib draped across his lap. I’m digging around for firecrackers when my friend’s excited ooh oohs indicate a target.

An impressive one at that.

A real mother load.


Right arm. Now we’re cooking with gas.”

“Yeah, and bat guano,” my friend replies, snickering.

Dick’s an appropriately named asshole of magnificent caliber and he’s tottering down the dark street like the douche bag he is, draped in Day Glo necklaces and bracelets. My friend gives me his big gummy bear smile, and poises himself to shoot a fat load onto Dick’s smug little face.

Some might think that no one deserves a face full of bat shit. But they’ve never met Dick. Dick’s one of those guys at the bar who in a really loud and nasally voice refers to his scotch by how much it costs and dresses like he just walked out of a golf catalogue. He drowns himself in Drakkar because he thinks it makes him appear retro yet forward thinking. He walks around with this self-important look on his face that says I know everyone’s looking at me because I’m obviously a man a little ahead of his time. But the only way this guy’s ahead of his time is that he’s got maggots for brains yet he’s still breathing.

Dick approaches the car and my friend is about to lop a load onto the douche bag’s manicured mug when intuition tells me to stop him.

“Wait. Let’s milk this one out.”

“You’re right. We should fuck with him first. Then pelt him with bat guano.”


We let him pass then exit the car. Dick increases his pace, more than likely aroused by fear. My friend carries the slingshot to his side in an unobvious manner but there’s no escaping the odor. Dick sniffs, stops, turns around abruptly and we almost run into him. He says, “You smell like shit. What’s wrong with you?”

Dialogue not quite jiving with a total d.b. in fear for his life.

My friend strokes his big ass belly, readjusts his balls, replies, “What’s wrong with us? You hear that shit?! What’s wrong with us??? What’s wrong with you?! Tell me, when your mama named you Dick was she just really intuitive or was it a self-fulfilling prophesy type thing?”

Dick looks confused but surprisingly calm. “Excuse me?” he says.

“Look man, you can’t go around like you do and not expect to get fucked with,” I add.

My friend proceeds to pelt him with questions meant to evoke his douchebaggery but the man holds his ground. Maybe it’s his cool demeanor or the fact that he is asking questions like what is Drakkar? and who is this Dick guy? But we begin to question whether we have the right guy.

The guy looks at us, amused, extremely stoned. My friend whispers to me, “I think we got the wrong guy but maybe he wants to, you know, hang out.”

“And he looks like he drives a van,” I add.


At the base of an electrical pylon, sure enough, in our new friend’s bitchin van, we’re smoking out, waiting for the sun to rise, laughing at how our friend almost got a face full of bat guano. Horrible visions of Venice dissolve as sun the color of Tang comes up on this fucked up city we call home. Vegas may have nothing on Venice but Venice has nothing on Portland.

Bitchin Vans and Bloody Hippies… that’s how we roll.

Right arm.

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Last modified on Friday, 03 August 2012 19:41
Nikki Guerlain

Nikki Guerlain lives in Portlandia. She can be reached at nikkiguerlain@gmail.com.

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