Black Dog inspires N.L. to tell a crappy story - By N.L. Belardes

I was going to write about the local music scene in a grandiose blog about how bands shouldn't give away music. But then I was inspired by a fellow blogger...

Years ago when I was married—I don’t even think I had kids yet—me and the old missy took a drive with my in-laws into the mountains. To be honest, I don’t even remember where in God’s name we were going and why we were there. Hell, it might have even been before I was married. Must have been the late 80s or early 90s. We drove in some phat middle class suburban Oldsmobile and ended up in typical California golden mountains.

Right smack in the middle of those mountains was a lake. There were no trees in sight; just a lake tucked into the mountains like a lone puddle of spit. Not a big lake, you could walk around after a short journey, but couldn’t throw rocks all the way across. I really wish I could remember why in hell we were walking around this lake. I don’t have a clue other than the in-laws wanted some kind of sappy outdoorsy moment because they had just gotten married and so were feeling all Mary Poppins about the local hills and lakes.

I’m thinking it was a Sunday.

Well, me and the little lady at the time thought it would be cool to walk around the lake. So we started off, leaving the old timers to spread their tentacles over each other which was making us gag anyways.

Fine, it was a nice day and I needed to walk. Who can take sitting in a car with old people blasting Gospel music for hours on end anyways? I was growing tired of singing Cumbayah. So we plodded over rocks on a trail that I remember was a magical little moment of mountain breezes and skipping rocks. That was until I started to get stomach pain. And I don’t mean the kind of stomach pain that means you’re going to throw up. I’m telling you my feet were shaking and I was beginning to need a bathroom like I never needed one before.

Lucky for me there was a bathroom just up the trail.

Like I said, I’m thinking it was a Sunday, because even though I made it to a tiny shack of a bathroom, the fucking door was locked. And you know how some of these hidden mountain communities are about their days off. If it’s Sunday, lock up and go home and watch football and trim the grass. To make matters worse, while I stood there at the bathroom fumbling with the door I could see the gooey in-laws making their way around the lake.

You tell me what the fuck I should have done right then when the unpreventable Tsunami of my loins was coming whether I wanted it to or not? Yeah I was desperate. I think I barely had the strength to mutter, “I’m going around back,” hoping she would understand the complicated situation in which I was faced. Yes, that meant she had to be the lookout. Not that it would have mattered. I could think of worse situations where in-laws catch you with your pants down. Especially if we were just dating. Like I said, I don’t actually remember if we were married at the time.

Anyway, I felt like a dog just then and sort of sniffed out a good spot, released the hounds in a most pleasurable moment, and then realized I had nothing to wipe my ass with. Hearing the words, “They’re coming!” didn’t help matters any more but only sent me into a panic where I grabbed a clump of dry grass and weeds, didn’t even bother to check for bugs, and repeated the process at least twice. What could I do?

Needless to say, by the time the in-laws reached us they didn’t know a thing, and I think my secret has been safe until now.

But why tell such a horrendous secret of such embarrassing proportions? Because of inspiration. Thank Black Dog and his most revealing “Tower of Terror or Something” tale. You will never laugh so hard in your entire life about “Taking the Dare.” Go read it now and leave him a comment if you dare... Who knows, maybe you’ll even share some potty talk…

This entry was posted by N.L. Belardes, on Tuesday, May 23, 2006. You can leave your response.