460

Dr GB:
Does he laugh at his own jokes?
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 10:03:06 am)

Decoy:
I can just hear Cushca, "Ohhh look at his ass!, That's brilliant!"
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 10:03:33 am)

Decoy:
He's very smug and he cracks himself up constantly.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 10:07:40 am)

Decoy:
He always says, "Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong. "
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 10:09:35 am)

Dr GB:
Yes. He seems the sort. I just caught a glimpse of the Christmas bag, which I'd quite forgotten about, and was amused all over again.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 10:09:45 am)

Decoy:
http://www.hbo.com/dml/
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 10:10:37 am)

Decoy:
Natural red and natural funny. You can't beat that.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 10:11:49 am)

Cushca:
He's got a beard. But I can definately see teeth. This has disproved my theory completely.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 10:13:15 am)

Myk Murphy:
an entire worldview blown apart.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 10:26:21 am)

Cushca:
It may not have seemed much, but it was all I had to cling to.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 10:39:49 am)

Dr GB:
He only has a very small Noel Tidybeard though. Perhaps your theory is correct. About big beards.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 10:51:09 am)

Cushca:
Yes. I pray it may be true. I'm trying to get a grant for some research.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 10:58:45 am)

Dr GB:
I can offer you a groat. And a Christmas bag.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 11:08:18 am)

Cushca:
If I'd known, I'd have asked earlier.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 11:48:47 am)

Chewing Wax:
Hey all.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 12:41:59 pm)

Cushca:
Evening.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 12:56:27 pm)

Cushca:
Good God. Have you seen Queenie's latest offering? Just wonderful.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 1:02:42 pm)

Chewing Wax:
Which one? Where?
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 1:04:20 pm)

Cushca:
One of her essays. On her board.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 1:07:36 pm)

Dr GB:
What's Queenie's URL, please?
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 1:48:17 pm)

Myk Murphy:
the link is on the left frame of this chatboard, gb. BSDR RobynH. enjoy.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 2:07:27 pm)

Myk Murphy:
well, actually, that link won't get you there. i think it's www.pomn.com/queenie or something like that.
(Fri Jun 23, 2000 - 2:34:03 pm)

Cushca and Dr GB:
We are both sneezing copiously. Sympathy, please. In stereo.
(Sat Jun 24, 2000 - 12:27:12 pm)

Chewing Wax:
You have my sympathies
(Sat Jun 24, 2000 - 1:25:39 pm)

Decoy:
Sympathsneeze from me, too.
(Sat Jun 24, 2000 - 5:05:44 pm)

Myk Murphy:
me three!
(Sat Jun 24, 2000 - 7:15:08 pm)

m©:
Man, it's Hot here ..got the Convair Arctic breeze on full..and my beer in 3 layers of foam ..I'm not kidding around..it's the wet heat.
(Sat Jun 24, 2000 - 9:29:12 pm)

Chewing Wax:
Hot in the Vang? Keep plenty of ice on hand at all times.
(Sat Jun 24, 2000 - 10:08:47 pm)

Myk Murphy:
(i'll finish this fucking story if it kills me.) ...when we last tuned in, our protagonist was happily alone in coastal france, hopping from bar to bar in calais. already buzzing quite nicely, i wandered into yet another pub. it was much more interesting than the "americana" bar before, if simply because one could play cricket darts here. i stepped up to the bar, and while attempting to order a drink, i made it clear that my french skills were poor. the bartender knew english quite well, but he would barely whisper english responses to my questions, as if he was peddling the language like a narcotic: under the counter. i found that amusing, though a bit disappointing, but i was soon distracted a group playing cricket. i wandered over and successfully got in the game, despite the severe language barrier. unfortunately, the remarkably cute girl in the group could speak about as much english as i could with french. c'est la vie. through semaphore, repetition, and one translator, all of us chatted and drank, and then drank some more. my darts skills are limited, and it showed. after some time, the pub had to close, but i was still looking for a few laughs. i asked the translator of the group about some dance club i had heard rumor of, and he kindly pointed me the way. his group had work or school the next day, since it wasn't a weekend, and so they would not be joining me. the club was called "le cinq cinq cinq" or, 555 club, and it was a laff riot. small towns never get dance clubs quite right, but they get points for trying. i wandered into the loud front lounge, and pulled up to the bar. i began to chat with the attractive bartender, and she kindly responded in english. our discussion was overheard by two young guys with short haircuts. they informed me that they had overheard my north american english accent, and came right over. i soon was informed that they were canadian soldiers on break from bosnia, and they were going to take the ferry to the UK the next day, as would i. all three of us drank, and then drank some more. indeed, it was nice to chat with folks after a day truly out of my element. 3am rolls up, and this club is winding down. the three of us leave the place, and the more boisterous of the soldiers was still clutching his beer bottle. outside on the street, we were chatting about "where to next" and "is it just time to turn in". for the hell of it, he throws the bottle to the ground, crashing loudly, and i'm imagining a trip to the calais police station, but no one notices or cares too much. we walked a short bit, and still contemplating our next move, i glanced down the street where my hotel sits, and saw that the light was still on at "le club boston". the sign had a picture of a piano and a US flag, but at 3am, who can be choosey about a bar? we stagger to the door, and i pull on the door, but it seems to be locked. after a moment of puzzlement, a peephole door opens up, and a woman looks out. another moment passes, and she opened up the full door, allowing us in. at this point, i don't find anything odd about this. music is playing somewhat loudly, but the bar is small, and contains only a pair of lounge couches and the actual bar, behind which the proprietor was now standing. she looked indifferently at us, but we certainly caught the eye of two girls there, one sitting on each couch. still, in my condition, i haven't added things up. i sit down next to the woman on the right of the door, and simply say hello. she smiles, says nothing, and looks at me attentively. still, i'm clueless. the quieter soldier is leaning against the far wall, and the boisterous bottle-smashing canadian is sitting with the other girl, chatting with me loudly (over the music) when he blurts out "mike... she's a whore!" at first i cringe, embarrassed that the women may have heard the epithet, until i pause and realize that he's simply referring to her occupation. my drunken mind flashed back, making sense of it all: the peephole, the girls, the reason why they're open at 3:30am! "i gotta go," i said, and he responds, "i'm staying! i haven't been laid in 11 weeks!" pointing toward the quieter soldier, i grinned and said, "you... come sit next to this young lady. i gotta go before this starts to seem like a good idea." i crossed the street and entered my hotel. despite their best intentions, the canadians didn't make the 11am-ish ferry. as i returned to the floating duty-free realm, i shrugged and laughed about my one day excursion.
(Mon Jun 26, 2000 - 12:08:24 am)

Myk Murphy:
the end.
(Mon Jun 26, 2000 - 12:08:47 am)

Myk Murphy:
it may not be a terribly exciting story, but at least it's all true. i thank the reader for his or her patience.
(Mon Jun 26, 2000 - 12:10:24 am)