The Charlie Bravo Story

Priests of the Aztecs

Zach came over tonight to regale me with a recounting of last week’s encounter with the fine folks at the Conejes County Hospital. I do remember them telling me the drug that they were going to hit me with might cause hallucinations, but I had no idea that they would be as vivid and entertaining as they were. I mean, they were seriously mind expanding, with me visiting ancient day-glo Mayan civilizations and discussing matters of city-state politics and water sanitation practices in vivid Technicolor with various befeathered priests while huge turquoise parrots flew around, squawking loudly, in the background.

If through some miracle we ever find ourselves having another child, I shall insist on calling him/her Ketamin; that stuff is the bomb-diggity.

As I began to emerge from my funk, Zach swears that I was saying that there was an Aztec-ish ghost in the room who wouldn’t quit squeezing my arm. After I fully regained consciousness, I do remember an automatic blood pressure cuff that would kick off every few minutes, so it is possible that I mistook this for the phantom priest. Zach said that I described him in graphic detail, from his feathered headress, obsidian knife, jade plugs in his ears and nose, etc, etc. He also told me that I said the ghost had a name, and asked if I remembered what it was. Quezecoatl? Hunkapoptilliia? No, dad, not even close; the exotic native priest had an exotic native name:

Duane. He swears that’s what I said.

So, if Zach can tell off on me, I can tell off on him, and he can’t hide behind the excuse of fantastic pharmaceuticals. Earlier that week, we descended on a Chinese buffet in New Mexico, and as we are went to do, began BSing with the female owner. Somehow the joking around turned to the subject of weight, with the proprietress claiming the be the fattest of her four sister by 5#, weighing in at a whopping 105#.

Before Zach could stop himself, he blurted out; “5#? Why, that’s just one good poop!”. Then realizing his error, he immediately clamped his mouth shut, and turning a delightfully brilliant hue of crimson, advanced with alacrity towards the door. Ms. Kungpao and Craig didn’t catch the magnitude of Zach’s breach of international diplomacy, so it was my responsibility to bring the issue to light, otherwise known as “throwing him under the bus”, and throw him I did. It was fantastic; the Chinese lady and her two awesome kids were howling, but I didn’t know whether to laugh or sob uncontrollably; where did I go wrong? I thought that I had raised him better than that, but after a similar incident a few years earlier involving a large Mexican waitress and the very improper usage of the word “testicles”, I am harassed by doubts.

I lay out these facts to inform and educate those of you who would think that I’M the odd one around the Casa Del Whackos, when it’s me that is perfectly norbal.

It’s always a party.

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