Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Sales, Travel & Oral Hygiene Gone Wrong

Under the flickering ballast of the fluorescent light my teeth look absolutely yellow. Maybe its just the light. More likely its several decades of French Market chicory and Camel wides that have left their terrible stains on all but the most expensive porcelain dental work in my maw. Somewhat of a checkerboard effect. The last real recollection of yesterdays appointments was hitting the high curb (that bitch must be 18 inches high) at the San Antonio International Airport exit off 410. As I recall it had become very difficult to navigate the teal Grand Am while watching the two strippers snort crank and make-out next to me in the cramped front seats. After ingesting $350 worth of Kentucky Walker bourbon and Guinness stout at the $5 weeknight table dance special on the corporate credit card I was feeling very important. Here I was national aerospace and defense market sales award recipient two years in a row and now I was going to stand atop the mountain of suburban white man sexual fantasy and have an all night long crankster-enhanced sport fucking menage a trois. With strippers no less. One very dirty blonde super skinny skank with tribal tattoos and size D fugazis. The only thing I remember about the brunette was the prominent C-section scar. They were your average mid-market titty bar specials. Every major metropolitan area has a bunch of them if you just find the airport and begin driving around. They always want to shut down the strip joints. Why? Close the fucking airports. Its the cattle herd of humanity streaming in and out that is the source of infection. Its the trickle down economic system at its best. The federal government spending money on fighter aircraft supporting me sticking singles in the g-string of a high school dropout dancer with a meth problem and a kid floundering in daycare. Anyway the whores panicked when I clipped the big curb. The car did not move right away so I absentmindedly stopped to get a look at the front end. The chicks ran off in the other direction as soon as the car stopped. They didn't want any part in jail or hospital. The captain at the helm of a sinking ship of gold. I remember getting back in the car scared to death I would be caught wasted and swaying under the giant orange lights next to the interstate. I drove the quarter mile back to the hotel on what felt like a rim. Here I was on the dreaded red, green and beige floral comforter with the beige fleece thing under it tucked between my legs. Every time I touch one of these it reminds me of the stories of the cavalry giving Indians blankets infected with smallpox. It was very dark, cold and smelled overwhelmingly like industrial disinfectant. The smell was making my head spin like a carousel to the point of nausea. And then there was that taste in my mouth. Boxes of smokes, well brand bourbon, some smoked meat in a bag and a vast quantity of stout were all redolent on my swollen tongue. Dear Jesus I must sanitize my mouth. Fuck the teeth. Disinfect the entire mouth orifice. There was a combination of filth, remorse and nauseating hangover stench that was compelling me to flush the whole inner and outer mouth with a powerful astringent, possibly a solvent. But it was dark. Not just dark because the light bolted to the laminate faux wood nightstand was almost completly out. But dark like the sun had died off. I had somehow fucked-up the sun. It was in fact night time. At some point the alarm clock I had set went off and needed to be shut down so I had ripped it from the wall by its umbilical cord. Where is my watch. The pile of my belongings near the door was where I found the watch, along with the pile of white and yellow crumpled reciepts that traced my movements around the Alamo city. There were also a six-pack of Dos Equis and several partially smoked packs of cigarrettes. One bottle of beer had been opened and was sitting on the nightstand next to the butt-overwhelmed gold glass ashtray. God could it really be 6:30 PM? What the hell is that smell? Moving back towards the bed I noticed a pile of what appear to be Kleenex. They are too big and thick to be Kleenex and are fact Clorox disinfectant wipes I had in the trunk of my car. There is a pile a foot tall of used drying antibacterial wipes. I must check the cell phone, hotel phone, and email immediately. The hotel phone light is flashing so I will avoid it first. Fuck email. The cell phone has a few missed calls and a few messages which I check but nothing too serious Just the usual whining customers. I head back to the flickering light of the head and grab the travelers size scope bottle next to the hand lotion and hair net. Sucking the entire contents out of the scope bottle I have temporarily ended whatever was going on in my mouth. While swishing I notice the red cobwebs in my eyes that are bulbously protruding from their sockets. My brain feels dangerously swollen. I do not feel well at all. It also appears under these lighting conditions that my hairline has receded a full inch or two. The consumption of stout and bourbon is utterly disastrous for my whole being. The hangover after consuming fermented spit from a gourd in Amazonia while tripping on psychedelic frog sweat could not be any worse. Now the brushing. A firm apple green Oral B square large head brush with an once or two of Pepsodent paste is not sufficient. I suck what feels like a cup of paste from the tube. This makes me giggle for some reason. This creates an enormous throbbing in my eyes and brain that causes me to nearly fall down. The toothbrush is banging around in my mouth slamming into gums, dragging itself over the shellaqued tongue and crusty molars. The bowl of the sink is filling with what appears to be a pint of my blood and the half pound of Pepsodent. Now I am beginning to get my sea legs. Getting Visine into my eyes is particularly difficult this morning and half the little bottle seems to be running into my right ear. It stings horribly going in but cools down quickly. The shaking of my hands is noticeable. I require heavy, greasy bar food, black coffee and nicotine in order to right the ship properly. The standard business class hotel coffee may as well be yesterdays grinds percoltaed through a Puerto Rican's sock but it will have to do. Leaving the room at this point would be catastrophic. There is the remainder of the Applebee's baby back ribs sitting next to the entertainment center I had half-eaten while watching the news yesterday. Suddenly I think that a taco bowl filled with whipping cream and double-stuff oreos would be really tatsy, but again this will require a trip to the outside world which I am not prepared for. I light up a smoke and hear the crackling sound of the Mr. Coffee going to work. Putting CNN on seems to quiet my mind at times like this. Like the art show guy with the afro or the lady from the Great Chef's series. Almost better than sleep just spacing out and listening to the voice take me away. I bust open the thin foil to reveal the orange and white gelatinous fat covering my remaining ribs. The ribs taste like nothing. My taste buds have been burned or scrubbed away or somehow I have damaged the line of communication between the tongue and brain. The warm Dos Equis washes down the pork nicely. Usually you can smell bad coffee brewing but the odor of the Clorox wipes and hotel cleaning products have combined to create a hellish gumbo of chemical stench. The rally has suddenly ended and I make it to the cold dark confines of the commode room. I deposit the offal from my body in rapid convulsive motions. Death now rides a pale porcelain horse called American Standard. The room is dark and the air is down to sixty. All the phones are now off and I head back to bed. Sleep cures all.



Blogger MHMGA said...

i thought hunter s was dead and fired from a cannon. tupac thompson in the house. nice.

ps please do not follow me around during mardi gras and write about my activities.

5:42 PM  

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