An homage to one great fella at Functionally ReTodded

I have a friend. I won’t tell you his real name since he’s an executroid at a very prestigous graphics design and marketing firm in a very large US market. For the sake of this blog, I’ll call him “Elvis”.

Anyway, I met John thru his brother whom I met thru “Elvis’” former sis-in-law. John and his wife and me and my wife hit it off like gangbusters.

Not gang-bangers, you pervs. Gangbusters. We got along swimmingly. Any and every time we got together, we had a smashing good time.

Except we didn’t get together very often.

See, “Elvis” and his wife and their circle of friends are townies. My wife and I are most definitely not townies. As a matter of fact, we get nervous just seeing buildings that are either more than four stories high or that have marquees in foreign languages. That’s just who we are.

Not too long after we met (as in a few years), the wife and I decided to start a family, and that led us to the early hermit lifestyle we lead today. “Elvis” and his wife later added a male heir, and that widened the gap further still.

I’m not here to bitch though. We were invited to many many things. “Elvis” would invite us to “Wiener, Wiener, who’s pulling my wiener?”-fest and “How many marshmallows can you fit in your anus?” Days, as well as a variety of other festivals and get-togethers that were held in town.

Sadly, we took a pass.

But now, I feel like it’s time to reach out again and try to rekindle that special bond we shared on that trip to New Orleans back in the late 90’s.

You know, back when the 9th ward was just humid and not full of water, and the mayor hadn’t yet declared the town a “chocolate only City.” A time when you could trust that if you scraped a piece of used gum off of the street, it wasn’t carrying some flood-related disease and, at worst, might just have a little bum urine residue on it. A time where if you were stupid enough to leave your camera in the cab, that cabbie would bring the camera back to you, knowing full well that the loudmouth shitasses from the back seat probably weren’t going to tip him for the effort.

Anyway, in honor of that, I thought I’d post a picture that I stumbled across last night, as well as start a new game called “Come up with great band names.”

“Elvis” (remember, that’s not his real name) and some of his cronies would sit around getting hammered and come up with amusing and horrifying band names like Damp Pants, Freezer Babies, Burns When I Pee and Peckerknats.

(sidenote: on our way to dinner Saturday night, my brother in law’s brother was annoyed by some bugs which he referred to as peckerknats, and I nearly threw up I was laughing so hard).

What I’d like to do is have you, my readers, submit a few names that I hope can not only make the list but help bridge the gap that has grown between us due to time and laziness. See…all I really want is a hug.

Here are a couple to get you started.

Lolipop Turd
Placental Soup

See how this works?

And just to get you properly inspired, here is a picture of “Elvis” at Jazzfest. This one is him getting ready to go on one of his famous Crescent City “dates.” He’d come home with his pockets full of nickels and would only later tell us it was due to his ability to deliver the very difficult sexual combo of the reach-around, pogo pump, around the world, followed by the inverted pile driver. He never said whether he was pitching or catching or when, but there are some things you just don’t want to know.

Here’s a nice shot of the hottest girl we’d seen on Bourbon Street, and we were thrilled that she pulled up her skirt for us…until we got the film back.