Crouching Gorilla, Hidden Drunken Dumbshit

Stuffing myself, in full gorilla get-up, into that recycle bin and lying in wait seemed like a good scheme at the time. 12 beers in, trickster dumbassery at it's finest, wait for the scream.

There are distinctly different levels to alcohol induced idiocy.  0-6 beers, 6-12, 12+.  Sometimes the consequences are drunken stupid sex or operating a vehicle.  Sometimes violence, or in my case, outrageous trickster pranks that are regretted in the extreme when the light of the following day paints just how clearly ridiculous the scheme truly was.  There were other molecules onboard that night, but it’s best I assert my fifth amendment privilege on that topic.  

So it was Super Bowl Sunday.  The night my long suffering Seahawks curb-stomped Peyton Manning, his six-head, and the Broncos.  Things would have never reached such bizarro-land if my wife had not been out of town.  Having waited too late to invite people over, I settled on my drunken, demented neighbor across the street.  Gus.  Gus was notorious for screaming at his TV during Mariners or Seahawks games.  Closed doors and windows, and you could still hear him from 100 yards away.  No exaggeration.  Three times, people have called the police on him.  Tired of hearing every ugly slur, curse word known to man.  Racial, religious, sexual orientation, in a long, ugly rage-fest that only rests once he’s out of breath.  Which considering his physical condition, is about 90 seconds.  It could be worse.  I’ve warned him several times, but it’s never even slowed down.  Like the worst case of tourettes syndrome ever.  Yet, he’s shocked shitless every time.  “You could hear me?  Inside the house?”   “Gus, you f*****g say that every time.  You’ve had the cops come numerous times.  The black family behind you shouldn’t have to hear “n****r” this and that because you are f*****g nuts.  Or the Jewish family, or whatever.  When do you come after Mari’s race?  You hate her people too?”    It was always bookended with embarrassment and profuse apology, yet it never ceased, nor slowed.  

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a day that Gus wasn’t 6 beers in by lunchtime.  First heart attack by 40, yet nothing alters his bad habits. Or his commitment to them.  This was the only time before or since I invited him over.  Gus is fine, from a distance, in small doses.  When we first moved in, he had a job, but that was a long time ago.  His wife has a good job, that’s  how they afforded the neighborhood.  I only drink  a few times per year.  Alcohol has always been down the list of my preferred substances.  I knew, without question, with Gus over, Super Bowl, I would be getting my shine on real good.  Grande.  Maximus.  For too long, “anything worth doing, is worth overdoing,” has been an unofficial, unspoken Modus Operandi with me.  

Tacos, burritos, enchiladas and nachos, I guess Gus’s wife isn’t a great cook, because my eats were world class, according to Gus.  I had to request he shut the f**k up about my genius chef status after two hours nonstop.  Ground sirloin, taco seasoning, enchilada sauce, cheese and a few other veggies and condiments, absolutely nothing fancy.  We were six beers in by kickoff.  Sapporo, Amstel Light, Stella Artois, he mocked my “fancy” preference for beer.  I swore off piss-water American beer long ago.  Unless it’s free.  Reminds me of a joke.  Why do you never only invite one Mormon fishing with you?  Because he’ll drink all your beer.  One of the truest jokes of all time.  Invite two or more, and they will admonish, and bare testimony to the blessings of teetotaling.  As the game went on, Gus began bickering about my new next door neighbor.  I didn’t disagree.  Over the top OCD, passive/aggressive, and tattling on anyone whose grass is 1/8 inch too long.  Delbert, the new guy had pissed off everyone, in just months.  He cut down all the trees in his yard, because fall leaves made him certifiably insane.  It looked ridiculous, but it he seemed satisfied.  “Delbert,  now if you can just prevent wind, otherwise, your bald yard won’t make a difference.”   You’d think I had just fondled his wife and s**t in his sink.  I wasn’t trying to offend him, just stating the obvious.  

One day, I noticed, my large maple tree butchered.  The branches near the property line with Delbert, all hacked away to the property line.  It would have zero effect on the leaves falling on his yard, but in Delbert’s anxiety addled mind, that 12” meant leaves could never touch his yard.  Could never violate his perfect universe.  You had to view it from an odd angle to even notice what he had done.  Still, without having the balls to talk to me, to do that at 10 pm, stealthily, like he did, it really pissed me off.  Then he tried to deny it.  “I don’t know who, or why anyone would do such a thing”    

“Delbert, someone who ridiculously believes doing so means no leaves will fall on their yard.  Someone who believes big beautiful trees are a curse, and the shade, healthy organic matter they drop, are to be snuffed out, as if they are the enemy.  I don’t appreciate someone pissing in my ear, and telling me it’s a lovely spring rain.”   

I saw no point in starting WW3 over it, but I wasn’t shy pointing out I didn’t appreciate the act, nor him lying about it.   When three different neighbors saw him do it.  Gus didn’t let him off the hook.  I heard Gus’s bellowing voice giving Delbert the business.  “Dude, why do something so stupid then lie about it?”  Delbert compounded his problem with Gus by placing junk the garbage truck wouldn’t pick up, in front of Gus’s house.  Big mistake.  First, Gus smashed the items in Delbert’s driveway and lawn. Delbert responded to direct conversation about his behavior by repeating, “I used to be a cop you know.  I know how to use weapons and these,” he said extending his fists.  To uproarious laughter from everyone watching.  

I tried as the voice of reason, before s**t got too gnar gnar.  “Nobody threatened you Delbert, nobody even cursed at you, well, aside from Gus.  Yeah, Gus did return your items, albeit roughly.  Just stop the BS and lying.  Direct discussion face to face, like people used to do.” 

“That’s all.  You don’t want to keep provoking me with all this weaselly s**t.   Your guns and little girl hands will do you no good.”  Surprisingly restrained and matter of fact, for Gus.  

At our drunken Super Bowl gathering, Gus began reciting a laundry list of ongoing behavior from Delbert.  He was like an old nosy Grandma with too much time on her hands.   “And why are his garbage and recycle containers still out there?  Garbage day was 4 days ago.  My drunken, trickster mind suddenly saw opportunity.  The hooligan trickster lightbulb appeared over my drunken head.  We were both past the 12 beer threshold.  I went upstairs and came back down, sporting a gorilla mask.  Black curly hair, I had used it throughout my childhood to make dummies for my bed whenever I snuck out.  Gus began howling with laughter.  I cut him off.  

“What if a gorilla hid in Delbert’s big recycle container, and Delbert received a text informing him of a raccoon, with ill intent, in his recycle bin?” 

“Dude, I can’t fit in that thing,” he responded, stating the obvious.  

“Dude, I can.  When it gets dark, we stuff me in there, you pre-type a text and send it to me when you see him heading my way.  After informing Delbert of the big-a*s raccoon you just saw skillfully find its way inside the container.” 

“Oh dude, that’s perfect.  But, you’ll puss out.”

“Gus, you obviously know nothing about my first 30 years on this planet.  For example, when the video store put a 7 foot cardboard cutout of Shaq in the dumpster, my little bro, Hambo and I, rescued it and put it  to  work on all our enemies from our youth.  With a few custom alterations, dude was perfect creeper peeper material.  Picture this, you are standing at the kitchen sink doing dishes.  Dark outside, you are seeing yourself in the reflection of the window.  Then, you see  slight movement outside. Focusing your eyes, past your own reflection, they adjust, suddenly you are face to face with a 7 foot stranger.  Big toothy grin, missing a few teeth,  thanks to a sharpie, just  staring and smiling, smiling and staring.  I’ve seen the toughest of dudes squeal like an 8 year old girl at a Friday the 13th flick.  Some run and hide in their house, calling the Roscoes (cops).  Some give pursuit. Sometimes with firearms.  It’s an adrenaline high that’s hard to beat bruva.” 

Hambo and I must have scaled fences a dozen times, laughing so hard we could barely manage running and carrying our 7 foot brother, Shaq.  One dude racked a shotgun as we fled.  Somethings are worth dying for. Somehow, nobody ever realized it wasn’t a real creeper peeper.  That it was merely a cardboard cutout, of the only black man in Davis County, Utah.  It terrified our entire small town.  The story always getting more and more exaggerated.  Witnesses claiming he flashed a knife, was carrying a gun, or shouted and screamed, threatened and menaced them and their family.  It took on ridiculous, hysterical proportions.  We would have never stopped until getting busted.  

Gus howled with laughter.  “Dude, do you still have the creeper peeper?”  

“Nope, it all came to a sad end.  Our hiding spot, in an unused corner of our basement storage room was exposed.  Mom found Shaq.  And all witnesses who beheld his glorious toothless smile reported that detail to the Roscoes.  So, when Mom found Shaq, with his two front teeth missing, she immediately knew her trickster punk sons were behind the entire creeper peeper phenomenon.  Oddly, she never said a word to us.  She simply massacred Shaq.  Cutting him in dozens of pieces.  Fully aware of the likelihood we would tape Shaq back together if given the chance.  That is only one of dozens of stunts we pulled on our small town.  So, the odds of me pussing out are nil.  The question is, will you?  It won’t work without your texts.”   

“Dude, I’ve wanted to cave Delbert’s face in, I think I can handle two texts.”

“Okay big fella, let me fortify myself with a couple more brewskis, a dooger (cig) and then we’ll teach Delbert a lesson in the passive/aggressive style he prefers battle.”  

“Copy that, Mr. Gregorilla.” We both cackled at the possibilities.  

We snuck out front and were both giggling with anticipation as we turned the container on its side.  As I climbed in, I reminded Gus.  “Dude, get that second text ready, I don’t wanna be surprised when he opens the lid.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll hide behind this pillar right here.”  

“Excellent Gus, just as we always dreamed, bwahahaha.”   We couldn’t stop laughing, risking exposure before the prank even began.  After firing off the raccoon text, it didn’t take long.  I didn’t even bother to read the second text.  It was showtime.  I heard footsteps, then, instead of yanking the lid open, Delbert cautiously cracked it open, not wanting his carotid severed by a lunging, angry, surprised and possibly rabies infected raccoon.  Delbert briefly closed it, then opened it slightly wider the second attempt.  

In my deepest, loudest grizzly imitation, I lunged, leaping halfway out as the lid slammed open.  “Raaaahhhrrrrrrr.”   The large container made a spectacular crash as it slammed it to its side, complimenting my lunge and grizzly roar.  Delbert screamed, a soprano high note, as he stumbled and fell backwards into the middle of the street.  I didn’t pause for effect, I began chasing after him.  All dressed in black, the angry beast chased a still howling Delbert all the way to his front door.   The last look over his shoulder before entering his house, priceless.  Wide-eyed, absolutely convinced he was about to be shredded by the monster chasing him.  He didn’t stop screaming even after entering, and double locking the door.   

Gus was suddenly there, giving me a bear hug  as we shared a belly laugh that was surely top 5 lifetime.  He lifted me off the ground and shook me back and forth.  “Dude, dude, how the f**k did we not video this?  Dude, we woulda broke YouTube.”   I don’t think it would have captured the scene in the darkness, but in that moment we regretted not trying. Realizing we needed to secure our escape, we relocated our post-prank celebration inside my house.  

“Dude, do you wanna go home, or be here when the Cops come?”  

Gus was confused. “Cops, whaddya mean?”  “Gus, c’mon, do you really think Delbert isn’t gonna call the Roscoes?  And probably sue for emotional pain and suffering. 3 broken vertebrae, and whatever else phony bullshit.  I guarantee he’ll respond like a total whiny b***h.”   

“Well, umm, I’ll stay here, but just say you’re alone.”  

“Ok, copy that Gustavo.”  

Sure enough, the cops were knocking on my door 15 minutes later.  I shut them down pretty quick.  

“Hello Sir, there was an attempted assault in the street just minutes ago.  We have reason to believe you may have been involved.”  I cut him off. 

“Yeah, what was that?  Some kids were screaming and celebrating out there.  I haven’t been outside, it’s the Super Bowl man.  I don’t think they were fighting though.  Celebrating, probably.”  He just stared at me.  Asking me again. 

I didn’t budge.  “I told you. I’ve been watching the game. Alone.  And if there was a fight, I likely would have heard it.  I didn’t.  I didn’t go outside to check either.”  

“Have you been drinking?”  

“On Seahawks Super Bowl Sunday, uhh, what do you think?  Listen, I don’t know anything about the kids, what they were yelling about, or the fireworks and stuff, but I gotta get back to the postgame.  Have a good night ossifer.”  I closed the door.  

Of course, Delbert knew it was us.  But never said a word.  They just gave us dirty looks.  So, pretty much status quo.  It was a big mistake, not at least recording audio.  Delbert’s shrieks alone were well worth recording, for the record.  I did see Gus once, mimicking gorilla noises and scratching his armpits as Delbert glared daggers from across the street.  I was used to such childish stunts, but Gus, it seems like he had the time of his life.  Years later, he still loves reliving every detail.  Delbert stopped with his dumb-s**t behavior, so maybe in rare cases, such idiocy is more effective than a direct man to man discussion.  The way people used to address differences before passive/aggressive, whining endlessly on social media and “call the police as step one” mentality took over.  Thanks for reading, Stay Frosty, Stay Aerodynamic, until next time…