BLOWED UP!-or-How I Made The Front Page

By Filthy Phil

Way back in those nearly lost days of old, one of my ridin bro’s “B.D.”—for “Brain Dead”-- and I were out and about supporting as many of the local bars, pubs, and taverns as would put up with us, which, surprisingly, was a considerable number. At the same time, we were doing our civic duty of keeping drugs out of the hands of the youth of America--in our own special little way, of course. It was something we had to do, you know, us being upstanding citizens and all.

Well, having eventually been run out of pretty much every joint we went into, B.D. and I ended up at was a little hole-in-the-wall dive called Earl’s Place. It was a quaint little place, off the beaten path of the more desirable establishments. Earl’s Place wasn’t a popular bar--and for good reason—but we didn’t know that yet, not that it would have mattered to us. When we got there Earl’s didn’t look too busy. There were about a dozen or so vehicles outside in the broken up asphalt parking lot, we could hear rock-n-roll was echoing out of the bar over the noise of our bikes, and a drunk couple was slow dancing just outside the front door to a Ted Nugent song. It looked like our kinda place.

We negotiated the asphalt obstacle course that passed for the parking lot, parked the bikes and burning a hooter as we tripped our way to the front door. Shoving it open, B.D. and I tumbled on in. Right away, we knew why Earl’s Place wasn’t busy or popular. There was as much trash sitting at the bar and dancing to the jukebox as there was on the floor and the smell of the place was enough to gag us—even in our much polluted condition--but once we got past the sights and the smell of piss, puke, stale beer--and choked down a few drinks, it turned out to be a pretty nice place. Complete with a bar full of booze, a jukebox, and a men’s room, our life was good just then. Earl’s might have been the perfect place.

In our quest to help stimulate the economy, help out old Earl, and see just how much substance abuse the human body could take without dying, me and B.D. figured we’d call a few of our bros to come out to Earl’s and, well, assist us with our research, not to mention our desires to be civic-minded citizens. Once the boys arrived, and soaked in what to us was fine scenery, they cussed us out for calling this a nice place, threatened us with bodily harm, and then settled in for a party. After a couple of hours of trying to drink Earl’s dry, playing a little grabass with the girl or two in the place, and pretty much dominating the tone of the evening, most all of the regular patrons had figured out that bar time was serious business for us, and most of them had left.

Who would have guessed that a one time country western bar, complete with wagon wheel tables and saddled bar stools, had over time drifted into a really nice cesspool of a waterin’ hole for the socially retarded. After breaking several bar glasses, a door, a chair, and one of the urinals—but that’s a whole ‘nother story, the barkeep decided it was time for last call, and he B.D. and me it was about time for us to leave, either on our own, or unconscious with his help. You know, sometimes people are kinda funny…they open up a place for people to come have a few drinks and have some fun; then they get all panicky and irritable when you start having “too much fun.” So, we decided to leave on our own since we had already chased away his customers, except for a drunk broad with four and a half teeth, and a young drunken cowboy sucking face with a redheaded barfly twice his age with a deeper voice and better mustache than he had. That old saying, “You can drink em purdy, but you can’t drink em skinny,” was definitely true in that cowboy’s case!

Well, after closing Earl’s Place and being all full of beer, patriotism, and whatever else we could find to enhance that state of mind we seemed to enjoy a lot more then most, B.D. and I figured we would ride somewhere to get a bite to eat. A couple of hours later, after being asked not to come into several of the late night restaurants in town, B.D. and I realized that our collective reputations of “unacceptable behavior” while under the influence was a problem this night and we probably shouldn’t force the issue, We decided to give the locals, and the bail bondsmen, a well deserved break from our shenanigans and head to my place to see about rustling up some food.

So, at that time, my place was…well, a garage! Not just any garage, though. It was a two-car garage I was converting into an apartment for the owner’s daughter, who was returning home from college after successfully learning how to get knocked up. Now, please understand, because of economic downturns, layoffs, recessions, and depressions, I figured that throwing all my money away on furniture, food, and dishes wouldn’t be near as fun as spending my hard earned paycheck entertaining myself and whomever I happened to run into that I didn’t owe money to or didn’t want to kill me. I definitely had priorities.

Because I am an American, and as we all know we Americans are the best at improvising, I decided that the décor of the garage ought to be done in “Early American Poverty”--mainly cuz it was the cheapest way to go. After scavenging dumps, construction sites, alleys, and highways, I had gathered enough quality items to make the garage into a home—some might have called it a dump. I was the proud owner of a large wood cable spool, which served as my dining room table/coffee table/motorcycle parts workbench, and an easy chair that I found out on the highway and covered with a blanket…making for a nice chair and bed, all in one. I further furnished my place with a microwave oven and boom box I found, I think they must have fallen off a truck or something….

To fill in life’s’ daily necessities, I was known to raid the local burger joints from time to time. This provided me with a nearly complete set of plastic silverware and enough napkins and toilet paper to get me by. Somehow, I came by an old bar stool and stapled some old blue jean scraps to it for upholstery, which made the silver colored duct tape stand out nice and purdy. You know, sometimes, if the expectations ain’t too high, life is good. And, you know, with all this furniture, I still had enough room to roll my old Shovelhead inside so I would also have an extra chair…in case I had guests over for cocktails and whatever. Hey! Don’t laugh, it could happen!

Upon arriving at my mansion in the alley, and after taking special care to not pee on the tow chain we just used to lock the bikes up, B.D. and I stumbled our way to the door of the garage. There we found a container of frozen lentil soup sitting by the door, with a note taped to it that informed me that my dear old mother was concerned for me and had dropped by to make sure her wayward child had something to eat that wasn’t hallucinogenic. Moms…what would we do without ‘em? After I’d been fumbling around for the keys for more than a few minutes, B.D. came to the conclusion that kicking the door in would expedite the getting inside process. It had been a good thought until the garage door knocked him down. Roll up garage doors just don’t kick in like they used to, I guess.

Eventually, I found the keys, opened up the door, and in we went. Casa Del Filthy was now open, and we were hungry…and we had mom’s lentil soup. Now, to heat it up and chow down. After locating an extension cord, originally intended for one of the power tools I left lying around and using it to plug in the microwave, I was ready to cook. I tossed in the lentil soup, not really sure how long it would take to thaw the soup and make it edible. To kill the few minutes it was going to take to have a fine free dinner ready, B.D. and I cracked open a couple of beers and were just settling in for the wait when all of a sudden, the soup started popping and shooting off sparks.

Just as soon as the surprise and tracers stopped, I discovered that my loving mother had somehow “accidentally” frozen a spoon in the soup. It was probably her way of making sure I had a civilized way to eat the soup, but that didn’t occur to me. What did occur to me was that all those sparks and noise were pretty cool. Since I do have an inquiring mind (using the term loosely), and am something of a curious fellow, my next thought was, “Well, I wonder what else I should not put into a microwave oven?” So began the experimentation.

A few items had just melted; others got really, really hot, but were otherwise boring. My partner in crime and other things, B.D., had passed out rather quickly in the exceptionally comfortable chair/bed, leaving me unfettered to my own devices. This had the potential to be dangerous, but if that happened, it’d be B.D.’s fault for leaving me as the only one awake. I decided to continue with my microwave experiments.

In short order I discovered that no matter what kind of metal I put in the microwave, the sparks never changed colors or shapes. I also found out that plastic just melts. Then, I tried plastic and metal at the same time by selecting what I assumed was an empty Bic lighter for exposure to the magic of microwaves. The resulting explosion left me awestruck and amused, as the door of the microwave oven got blown completely off and didn’t even wake the power-lounging B.D.

This was a momentous occasion. In my altered state I felt confident, curious, creative and wasted no time continuing my pursuit of microwave knowledge. One explosion was a good start, but I would clearly have to improvise from this point on, since the door had been blown across the garage and hardly seemed functional any longer. I found a pencil, what it was doing in my place I don’t know, and shoved it into the safety hole on the microwave, allowing my research to continue. Improvisation…it’s the American way.

Numerous items found their way into the microwave—most of them providing unsatisfactory results. I found a couple of balloons lying around…interesting. Knowing they would melt, the balloons themselves weren’t interesting…but what if I filled them?

I looked around the garage to see what I could find to put in them. I tried various powders and liquids that were lying around…entertaining, but nothing too spectacular happened. Then, a really great idea came to me! And, it would be a little bit of a challenge, but I had spent the night preparing, so I was ready!

Being safety conscious, I unplugged the microwave and carefully placed a balloon I had painstakingly filled with gasoline into the microwave. I set the timer to just one minute, then, keeping in mind my safety-first philosophy; I backed up to garage door--a safe distance from the potentially flammable balloon I figured. I paused for a second—OK, maybe half a second—and plugged that microwave in!

Now, I had expected a few seconds of heating and sparking to take place before anything else happened, but much to my chagrin, within about two seconds, me, the snoring B.D., all my fine furniture and most of the not-yet-remodeled garage were enveloped by the loudest explosion I had ever heard and a fireball about the size of Texas.

I don’t recall how much force came with the blast, because I don’t remember anything except the noise and the fireball. The next thing I remember is being in the garage, and beginning to look over the results of my experiment, which I had not yet realized had gone very much awry…I was curious to see what had happened.

The wall by that microwave was gone. Just gone. And I mean the entire thing was gone. The only thing left were the edges on all sides, which were burning nicely. There was no sign whatsoever of my new favorite toy, the microwave oven. Smoke almost filled pretty much the whole garage and my bro had been knocked completely out of the chair/bed, which was singed and laying on its side. One side of B.D.’s head was now bald, and without a beard. He was blackened, and just sitting there on the floor…not even bothering to get up and come over and help put me out. That’s when I realized I was, in fact, on fire.

Next thing I know, most the cops in town, along with fire and rescue guys came roaring up the alley to do their thing. Unknown to me just then, for some strange reason the local press had decided to show up, too. After only a couple of minutes, and a thorough hosing down from the fire department, my natural curiosity kicked in again…inquiring minds want to know…and I decided to go and look out the new, very large window I had just created. I wanted to know the full results of my experimentation, and I wanted to see what all the hubbub was about. For all I knew, maybe they were tending to someone else in the alley…stranger things have happened. Well, it turns out no one was being tended to in the alley. This was all about me. Just as I stuck my hurting and confused head out my new window, someone took my picture, and at the same time, a cop was yelling to me to come over to him.

Dazed, I did as he ordered, and he asked if I was okay, and if there was anybody else in there with me. At least that’s what I think he said. The ringing in my ears was about loud enough to have drowned out any other noise, and with my head aching like it was--I think Earl’s Place served me some bad beer--I wasn’t all that interested in what he had to say, anyway.

Shortly after the fire was put out and the confusion had started to die down, the next course of action was a visit to the emergency room, where after being poked, prodded, x-rayed and otherwise examined, the good doctor decided that the world might be a little safer if B.D. and I were heavily sedated at least for a little while.

Ahhh! At last, a good night’s sleep!

The next morning, B.D. and I were happily harassing the nurses, and basically the enjoying the hospital hospitality, when we were rudely interrupted by an over-zealous cop, who was very anxious to cuff and stuff us. With a slight smirk, he gladly handed me the morning paper, and right on the front page was a picture of me--with two pieces of that microwave oven sticking out of the top of my forehead like a set of horns and a stunned look on my face, surrounded by black smoke and the edges of the garage still burning. The caption read: “No he’s not Satan, just a local man that makes Satan look nice.”

After hauling us away, the cops decided that, B.D. and I needed some “sit out time” to consider the previous nights activities. For me, this was OK, knowing that winter was coming and that after explaining the unplanned window to the garage’s owner, I would probably be needing a place to stay So, an all-expenses-paid winter retreat in the Western part of the state really didn’t sound too bad. B.D., on the other hand, might have some objections, but we were a little bit past that point.

As I was waiting for my ride to the winter retreat, I was considering things, and realized that every story like this has to have a moral—a lesson, if you will. But what was the lesson here? Don’t use microwave ovens? No…. Don’t live in the garage? Nah, that was OK. Don’t Drink at Earl’s Place? Nope, that’s fine. Don’t party with B.D.? Certainly not! Then, it dawned on me, and the cloud of confusion was lifted.

So, the moral of this story is…“Don’t eat lentil soup when yer wasted.”