The Mulligans
CHAPTER 1:
Game Night
When you move to Los Angeles, the Great City of Angels, the Mayor Gabriel horn-bells the entirety of your skull, wailing the deafening sonus of self-esteem from brain out through your anus. What’s left in its wake is the Assumption of Ego to fertilize in your raisining womb of self-confidence; however, unlike the Famous Virgin, you have to go through a series of absolute fuckings to get it.
One of these such fuckings is to befriend the odd, the people that are desirably more fucked-up than you could ever be.
I was guilty of it. So, was Wifey. So, were the hordes of all of our human friends. All of us had a subconscience clique of self-esteem booster buddies. Each one of them traded and shared like duplicates from a Topps package in support of one another's fetaling egos.
Wifey and I scored a husband and wife team called: The Mulligans.
Joyce Christine and Robert Mulligan. She insisted that she be addressed by both names, he the entirety of his first name (even though he wasn't gay).
The Mulligans were a collective of arrogance and cluelessness tiered into two horrible people connected at the wedding band.
And we were friends with them.
Actively.
Twice a weekend.
We weren’t typicals from the Huzzah crowd, so I came over in a bowling shirt, Wifey in a patchwork sundress.
Joyce Christine blocked us at the door, “Prithee, where art thou attire?"
Prithee? Who says "prithee"?
"Sorry, Joyce Christine. We didn't know we were supposed to dress wierd," and meaning nothing by it.
“Thou dost thinketh this-ith…”
This-ith?
This-ith “fake-eth” word proved she was trying way too hard for character. But I gave her kudos for, at least, making the word palatable and real through the stains of port wine almond ball cheddar on her lips.
“Thou dost thinketh this-ith is weird,” pointing to her overly-bustiered flapjacks sacked into a tavern keeper’s dress complete with flowing cape. A cape that we had seen her wear out in public, giving us the impression she had deemed it appropriate to wenched-it-out even during a run to Panda Express.
Yes.
“It’s not weird,” I agreed only because crazy people will argue until thyne death.
But, man, it was. It so fucking was.
The more I peered through the frame of the door, the more I wondered why her full-grown adult friends were playing board games in complete faire attire. And why were the board games all The Game of Life? And why were we so eager to be part of it?!?
Creepy. Really creepy.
“This has to be a mask for swinging,” I thought. Has to be. “Pretty soon these fat asses will be trading wenches across milk cartons and Lose-A-Turn squares.”
Wifey's face was showing that she drew the same Chance card I had just sent to the discard pile. She wanted out. We both did.
Robert snaked away from behind his wife, informing us that without proper “theme”, there was no way we could play.
YES!!!
But, then, he presented me with a ruffled silken swordsman shirt.
... great... fucking fantastic… me thanks ye, goode sir...
It was bloused and feathered at the chest and crusted yellow at the pits. He insisted I wear it "hastily and without delay" because "station 7" was “all damsel” and in need of a “sire” to round off the rotation.
What by the name of the Fowler Brothers is he talking about? What is about to happen in this 400 square foot space?
“Can’t we just play Life in our regular clothes?’”
They're coming off anyway, aren't they? You creep.
“The Game of Life,” Robert was all business. I had said something wrong.
“What?”
“The," prounounced in the more serious intonation, "THUH", "... Thuh GAME OF – Life. That is thee title of thee game. Its name. Life is what you live and THUH Game of Life is what you play.”
He was talking to me like I was retarded.
I’m retarded?!?
He was clutching a tiny yellow car token in his jouster’s-gloved hand and I’m the retarded one.
“Dude, I don’t want to wear it.”
“Why?”
"Don't wanna."
“You're not gonna wear my shirt?”
“Nope. The pits are filthy and it looks like it smells.”
“Then, you can’t play.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, I won’t play.”
“But we need a sire on station 7 before the rotation.”
“Dude, I don’t know what station 7 is and I’m not wearing your dirty Musketeer’s costume.”
“It’s a swordsman shirt and it’s real. Not a costume. I got it from the Universal prop house.”
The Universal Studios prop house. Oh, yes. The Smithsonian of the West.
Fullname Robert; you, me and this 50/50-blend, fake, D’Artagnan pullover...? We’re all done here.
“Robert, forget it. If they’re not going to take this seriously.”
WHAT?!? ME?!? TURN AROUND IN YOUR OWN HOME!!!! THERE ARE TWENTY 50-YEAR OLD FAT HIPPIES DRESSED IN MEDEVIEL CLOTHES SITTING AROUND MILK CARTONS EATING TRISKETS SMEARED WITH THE CHEESE-PLANED BALLS OF PORT WINE ALMOND CHEDDAR PLAYING THE GAME OF LIFE!!!!
Wow.... there is... there so is. I can't leave now. This is wonderful. Man, I really need these two to boost my plunging self-esteem.
I determined, finally, that The Mulligans were a good find. A damn good find. I was feeling better about myself already.
“I’m sorry, man,” as I grabbed the shirt, held my breath and pulled it over my head, "Which one is station 7?”
Wifey looked at me. Horror. Horror and betrayal, “Rick?”
"Sorry, babe. Suit up. We’re in rotation!”
Game Night
When you move to Los Angeles, the Great City of Angels, the Mayor Gabriel horn-bells the entirety of your skull, wailing the deafening sonus of self-esteem from brain out through your anus. What’s left in its wake is the Assumption of Ego to fertilize in your raisining womb of self-confidence; however, unlike the Famous Virgin, you have to go through a series of absolute fuckings to get it.
One of these such fuckings is to befriend the odd, the people that are desirably more fucked-up than you could ever be.
I was guilty of it. So, was Wifey. So, were the hordes of all of our human friends. All of us had a subconscience clique of self-esteem booster buddies. Each one of them traded and shared like duplicates from a Topps package in support of one another's fetaling egos.
Wifey and I scored a husband and wife team called: The Mulligans.
Joyce Christine and Robert Mulligan. She insisted that she be addressed by both names, he the entirety of his first name (even though he wasn't gay).
The Mulligans were a collective of arrogance and cluelessness tiered into two horrible people connected at the wedding band.
And we were friends with them.
Actively.
Twice a weekend.
Once we were invited to "Game Night" at their apartment, a 400 square foot 1-bedroom kidnapper's den, patterned in upside down milk crates with several copies Milton Bradley’s Game of Life a top of every crate. Each one huddled-over by middle-aged, overweighters nerding out because none of them, clearly, had a life of their own... because... as I peered inside the door... I noticed everyone adorned in... Renaissance clothes.
Not costumes.
Clothes.
Clothing.
Renaissance clothing!
And, damn, these folks looked authentic. Like someone had opened a time portal and let these revelers play a jousting round of modern boarded merriments, then sent them back into the portal of plagues and pestilence once "Go" had been passed.
Not costumes.
Clothes.
Clothing.
Renaissance clothing!
And, damn, these folks looked authentic. Like someone had opened a time portal and let these revelers play a jousting round of modern boarded merriments, then sent them back into the portal of plagues and pestilence once "Go" had been passed.
We weren’t typicals from the Huzzah crowd, so I came over in a bowling shirt, Wifey in a patchwork sundress.
Joyce Christine blocked us at the door, “Prithee, where art thou attire?"
Prithee? Who says "prithee"?
"Sorry, Joyce Christine. We didn't know we were supposed to dress wierd," and meaning nothing by it.
“Thou dost thinketh this-ith…”
This-ith?
This-ith “fake-eth” word proved she was trying way too hard for character. But I gave her kudos for, at least, making the word palatable and real through the stains of port wine almond ball cheddar on her lips.
“Thou dost thinketh this-ith is weird,” pointing to her overly-bustiered flapjacks sacked into a tavern keeper’s dress complete with flowing cape. A cape that we had seen her wear out in public, giving us the impression she had deemed it appropriate to wenched-it-out even during a run to Panda Express.
Yes.
“It’s not weird,” I agreed only because crazy people will argue until thyne death.
But, man, it was. It so fucking was.
The more I peered through the frame of the door, the more I wondered why her full-grown adult friends were playing board games in complete faire attire. And why were the board games all The Game of Life? And why were we so eager to be part of it?!?
Creepy. Really creepy.
“This has to be a mask for swinging,” I thought. Has to be. “Pretty soon these fat asses will be trading wenches across milk cartons and Lose-A-Turn squares.”
Wifey's face was showing that she drew the same Chance card I had just sent to the discard pile. She wanted out. We both did.
Robert snaked away from behind his wife, informing us that without proper “theme”, there was no way we could play.
YES!!!
But, then, he presented me with a ruffled silken swordsman shirt.
... great... fucking fantastic… me thanks ye, goode sir...
It was bloused and feathered at the chest and crusted yellow at the pits. He insisted I wear it "hastily and without delay" because "station 7" was “all damsel” and in need of a “sire” to round off the rotation.
What by the name of the Fowler Brothers is he talking about? What is about to happen in this 400 square foot space?
“Can’t we just play Life in our regular clothes?’”
They're coming off anyway, aren't they? You creep.
“The Game of Life,” Robert was all business. I had said something wrong.
“What?”
“The," prounounced in the more serious intonation, "THUH", "... Thuh GAME OF – Life. That is thee title of thee game. Its name. Life is what you live and THUH Game of Life is what you play.”
He was talking to me like I was retarded.
I’m retarded?!?
He was clutching a tiny yellow car token in his jouster’s-gloved hand and I’m the retarded one.
“Dude, I don’t want to wear it.”
“Why?”
"Don't wanna."
“You're not gonna wear my shirt?”
“Nope. The pits are filthy and it looks like it smells.”
“Then, you can’t play.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, I won’t play.”
“But we need a sire on station 7 before the rotation.”
“Dude, I don’t know what station 7 is and I’m not wearing your dirty Musketeer’s costume.”
“It’s a swordsman shirt and it’s real. Not a costume. I got it from the Universal prop house.”
The Universal Studios prop house. Oh, yes. The Smithsonian of the West.
Fullname Robert; you, me and this 50/50-blend, fake, D’Artagnan pullover...? We’re all done here.
“Robert, forget it. If they’re not going to take this seriously.”
WHAT?!? ME?!? TURN AROUND IN YOUR OWN HOME!!!! THERE ARE TWENTY 50-YEAR OLD FAT HIPPIES DRESSED IN MEDEVIEL CLOTHES SITTING AROUND MILK CARTONS EATING TRISKETS SMEARED WITH THE CHEESE-PLANED BALLS OF PORT WINE ALMOND CHEDDAR PLAYING THE GAME OF LIFE!!!!
Wow.... there is... there so is. I can't leave now. This is wonderful. Man, I really need these two to boost my plunging self-esteem.
I determined, finally, that The Mulligans were a good find. A damn good find. I was feeling better about myself already.
“I’m sorry, man,” as I grabbed the shirt, held my breath and pulled it over my head, "Which one is station 7?”
Wifey looked at me. Horror. Horror and betrayal, “Rick?”
"Sorry, babe. Suit up. We’re in rotation!”
posted by Oh My Lot! at 11:09 AM
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