Alaskan Thunderfuck, Guns-N-Roses, and Last Rites


“Alaskan Thunderfuck.”  I just liked saying it.

AlaskanThunderfuckAlaskanThunderfuckAlaskanThunderfuckAlaskan… you get the point.  Thunderfuck is one of those words that just has a ring to it… like shitdick or douchebag.  But it’s even better because you can smoke it.

Just don’t drink Rumple Minze right after.

Dateline 1992.  My upper body was typically ensconced in flannel, my lower body in shorts, and punctuated by work boots that never saw a day of labor.  I worked as a waiter at a place called the Blue Bell Inn, and tried to forget that (nightly) at a place called Phil’s Tavern.  And I was on the verge of getting engaged.

The days had a way of running together at the Blue Bell Inn, as did the weeks, and months, and seasons.  I believe it was the fall.  It had to be the fall because Joel was back from his annual summer sojourn to Alaska where he worked on a fishing boat for the season (I have often claimed that I would love to do that. Those who know me either laugh or ignore me).  We were coming off the driest summer I can recall as far as weed was concerned.  Weak-ass bright-green home-grown was king, and a friend and I even stooped to smoking corn silk that summer because we heard that kids did that during WWII.  But I digress.

So Joel had returned to bus tables at the Blue Bell, and he was not empty-handed.  I giggled the first time he said the words, and I kept asking him what it was called again just to hear him say, “Alaskan Thunderfuck.”  I had waited an entire summer, and now I had only to endure one last dinner shift before I could partake of some real pot.

The circumstances really couldn’t have been better for an interlude with Joel after work.  My now-wife, then girlfriend, had agreed to meet her ex to discuss a few things.  I didn’t know what, and I didn’t want to know, but a joint and a quiet night at home in front of the TV sounded like just what the doctor ordered.  Of course that’s not exactly the way it worked out.  Joel needed a ride down to Phil’s.  How could I say no (especially since he hadn’t shared any of the Thunder yet)?  And it was on my way home. 


We parked in the back corner of the lot, and he produced a tightly rolled joint from his shirt pocket.  It was beautiful.


JOEL:  Got a light?

ME:  Is that?
JOEL:  Alaskan Thunderfuck.

ME:  *giggle*


I retrieved a lighter from my shorts pocket, and within minutes my car was filled with the sweet smoke.  Not as sweet as the corn silk, but better.  The two of us passed the joint back and forth until it was about half gone, then he tamped it out in the car’s ashtray warning, “Trust me, that is more than enough for one sitting.”


Apparently anxious to spend all of his fishing boat money in his first week home, Joel offered to buy me a beer.  “No, let me buy you one,” I replied.  I opened the car door, hit myself with a spritz of Drakkar Noir, my lone holdover from the eighties, and immediately regretted getting out of my car.


Either I hadn’t noticed my now-wife’s white jeep parked in the spot next to mine when I pulled in, or I didn’t notice her pull in while Joel and I were sitting in my car.  Either way, I knew it was probably a bad idea to go in, but I also really needed a drink all of a sudden.  Joel and I entered the bar, Leanne and her ex were sitting at the bar opposite the door.  Neither looked particularly happy to be there either.  Joel and I took a pair of seats at the other end.  The Alaskan Thunderfuck (giggle) was starting to kick in; I lit a cigarette and ordered a couple beers for Joel and I.


Frankie Five, the bartender (I forget his real last name now, but I know it ended with a vowel), brought our beers over and immediately started breaking my balls.  “Who’s that guy Leanne’s with?  He’s very handsome.  I can see why she dumped you, etc.”  I responded by ordering a double Rumple Minze.  Then another.  Then another.  Said goodbye to Joel when he got up to leave.  Ordered another Rumple Minze.  And another.


Bad, bad idea.


Joel’s vacated stool, and a few others were now occupied by Bobby O, and other people from the Blue Bell Inn, we were all laughing and having a good time, and I had actually managed to forget that Leanne was still there.  An increasing pressure in my abdomen forced me to excuse myself to use the men’s room.  As I was approaching the bathroom, the back door of the bar flew open and an older woman, maybe in her sixties, who dressed like she was from the forties blew in.  “Is there a big strong man in here who can help me with a flat tire?”  Someone at the bar suggested she call AAA, I looked at both of her, then pointed in the direction of my seat and my friends from the Blue Bell.


I guess it was about forty-five minutes to an hour later when the bathroom door swung open and I heard Leanne’s voice.  “Are you okay?”


I couldn’t feel my legs.  Actually that’s not accurate.  My legs felt like stone.  I had been sitting on the toilet for nearly an hour and I was literally paralyzed.  “I’m fine.  I’ll be out in a minute,” I lied.


About a half hour later, Frankie Five came in.


FRANKIE:  Dude, you gotta get up, your dad is on the phone.

ME:  Bullshit.  (laughing)  And I’ve been trying to get up.

FRANKIE:  I’m not kidding.  He says they’re giving your grandfather last rites and wants to know if you can meet them at the hospital or if you need him to pick you up.

ME:  Fuck.  I can’t stand up.

FRANK:  So you want him to pick you up?

ME:   Not really.  Shit.


Thanks to my friends and my now-wife I guess I managed to look semi-presentable and semi-upright when my father arrived, although I passed out immediately after getting in his car, and snored my way through the last rites in the reclining chair in the corner of my grandfather’s hospital room.  He did make it through the night and actually another month or so, so I don’t feel like the total asshole I probably should.


My head was obviously pounding the next day at work.  I fielded a few questions about my grandfather, and more than a few comments about how fucked up I was last night, and heard a bunch of guys talking about Guns-n-Roses.  I didn’t know what they were talking about.


BOBBY O:  That’s right, you were in the bathroom (laughs).  This lady came in dressed to the nines.  Older lady.

ME:  Yea, I saw her, she had a flat tire or something.

BOBBY O:  That’s her.  Anyway, a bunch of us went out there to help.  I asked her where the spare and jack were, so she opened her trunk and I swear there had to be ten to fifteen rifles in there, and boxes of flowers.

ME:  Seriously?

BOBBY O:  Honest to God, we just kept our mouths shut and changed her tire as fast as we could.  That’s Guns-n-Roses.  We think she’s a hit woman, like Kathleen Turner in Prizzi’s Honor.


There’s nothing quite like being somewhere and still missing shit.


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