The following is a guest post from my new buddy and fellow writer Leslie Johnson.  Les’ other work can be found at his primary blog, www.TheLongDownwardSpiral.com.  He is also in the depths of his own book right now.  I believe the tentative title is The Red Canoe.  Information related to that project can be found here: http://theredcanoebook.blogspot.com/

Yesterday, in between jokes about abortions and cheap hookers, Les and I discussed this particular guest post and plans to do monthly guest posts on each other’s sites in order to reach a broader audience.  Les also said he is planning a separate writing project he wants me to work with him on.  The idea is actually really funny, but I don’t want to jump into that until I finish the first draft of THE BOOK.  So, maybe sometime in January 2009.

Anyways, guest post.  Here:

Reason Not to Drink with Leslie Johnson #241

I have been known to occasionally urinate on people.  Sometimes inanimate objects; animals, never food.  There may have been an incident involving some car door handles at the mall.  I heard complaints about some laundry detergent smelling like piss, and suspicious smelling Febreze.  There were allegations involving a yellow stained library book returned in the drop box, maybe there were some shoes on a porch covered in piss, maybe not.

Everyone forgot about the fish tank.

All rumors. Hearsay.

This time was different.  This time it was out in the open.  There was no denying it.

I was invited to “Taco Tuesday” at Tortilla Flats on Mission Lake in the city of Mission Viejo with my friend Sammy and his soon to be Ex-wife, Janet.  Sammy is what I call a “Pseudo-Foreigner.”  That is, a person who is not foreign to this country at all, but seems foreign in their speech and everyday living.  Sammy does this without intention or any conscience.  He was born with an accent from some unknown country and has adopted customs from some land that no one has ever seen.  He only drinks alcohol unmixed, and usually with a plate of radishes and pickles; sometimes cheese, and has to be completely naked in order to defecate.  A strange character he is, and likewise when we met, we became friends right away.

His wife on the other hand was a little bit of a stickler for anything and then nothing in particular.  She always seemed to be in a bad mood, even when she was in fact happy which made her a hard person to get used to.  She is a person that one usually will dislike at first, then only slightly dislike thereafter.  She was an actual foreigner, hailing from some small ex-Soviet state.  But, even with her little character flaws, like we all have, she also became my friend. But yes, she was a bitch.

Taco Tuesday is a widely offered specialty night at Mexican restaurants in Southern California.  On Tuesday night it is customary for tacos to be served at a buck a piece, and drinks are usually much cheaper as well.  Tuesdays at Tortilla Flats are pretty busy, and even though the restaurant is quite large walking room is a rarity amongst the sea of yuppie types.  We met up at Sam’s townhome, and from there all three of us drove together in Janet’s car.

Once there, Sammy and I commenced drinking and I poured Long Island Ice teas down my throat like they were the only thing keeping me alive, and before long we were both falling down drunk.  We sat at the bar and I attempted to talk to a few girls that came to sit next to us, but one by one they walked away without giving me their number.  It could be that I was slurring my words and cursing.  It could be because I called a girl a cunt because she said she was married.  It could have been a lot of things, all of which were the direct result of me being insanely intoxicated.  All the while Sam’s wife was out talking to some of the people she knew from her office, and going around nursing her one martini.

Dude—I have to race like a piss horse.

Sam let the last of his 6th vodka and ice slide down his throat and said, Fuck’n A—me too lets go.

We walked into the Men’s room and stood at the urinals.  I swayed in my booze filled skull and watched the urine cascade down the white porcelain.  Then I had a thought:

I should piss all over Sammy.

Without giving my actions anymore thought, I turned to my left and started pissing all over his legs and side.  It took him a few seconds to realize what I was doing, and when he did, he didn’t say a word, he returned fire.  So there we stood in the men’s room pissing all over each other.  A man took a step in the door then excused himself out.  This was not a battle for the faint of heart.

We were laughing our asses off and after a while we turned back to the urinals and ended our war, then we just walked out like nothing happened.  Somehow as soon as we went out, we forgot all about the piss fight.  We snaked through the crowd  and found new seats at the bar.  We were totally unaware of our stench and ordered more drinks as people walked by laughing and whispering.

Word didn’t take long to travel to Janet on the other side of the bar and she stomped over to us.

We are leaving.  I can not believe you mother fuckers!  You are so embarrassing!  Come on—get the fuck up, she screamed at us in front of everyone.  A bouncer walked up to escort us out.

When we reached the car Sammy was too afraid of Janet to sit up front so we shared the back seat.  We were driving out of the parking lot when Sammy thought that it would be a good idea if he started sucking up to Janet.  Bad idea.  He attempted to climb up into the front seat, and when he was half way there Janet slammed on the brakes.

Sam became airborne; slamming up onto the dash board.  His head and shoulders were sent through the rearview mirror and half way though the windshield.  When the weight of the car resumed back to its haunches he was then bucked off the dashboard and right into Janet’s lap; his feet broke the passenger side door handle and power window switch.

Janet began screaming at Sam and didn’t stop till we got home. She had to slouch down in her seat to see out of the broken windshield.  I sat in the back trying to hide my laughter.

Once we got to their townhouse I ran up stairs to the guest room and slammed the door like I was being chased by scrotum eating wolverines.  What I was actually running from was an epic domestic dispute that would have Budweiser drinking trailer park folk shaking their heads.  Even Ike Turner would have ran.

Janet was screaming at the top of her lungs in broken English and foot steps thundered around the house.  I peeked out of the door and Janet was swinging a belt around like a Viking and Sammy was running around trying to avoid her.  There were broken plates, clothes hangers, and other miscellaneous housewares all over the place.  I called out to Sammy who had ran downstairs like a scarred kitten.

Dude! Do you want me to call the cops?

There were a few more screams and running around then, No—don’t call—oh fuckohfuckohfuckohfuck—no don’t call the cops!

I shook my head and went back in the bedroom and tried to sleep.  I was drunk beyond words, but they were so loud that I couldn’t even pass out.

The next day I woke up and tried to sneak out before they got up.  The whole house looked like a truck had driven strait through it, and pieces of broken shit was everyware.   Sammy was sleeping on the ground next to the sliding glass door like a homeless child, and Janet was fixing something in the kitchen.  I tried to slip past, but she noticed me.

Les!  Why the fuck did you piss all over Sam last night?  Why?!

I just stood there with a smirk on my face.

It’s not fucking funny Les!  Who does such things, she said while shaking a dish towel at me with impressive ferocity.  You guys are so fucked up!  It’s not funny, you are an asshole! It’s not funny!

She stood there clutching the dish rag waiting my response; my hand on the doorknob.

Janet, I said calmly, fuck you.

She stood speechless as I walked out the door. Two months later Sam had been served divorce papers.  Oh yeah, and Janet got deported.