Below is a story entitled “Hotlanta Mustache”. It is a shot story written by my brother, Adam.
When read aloud, you may experience explosions of the eyeballs and ludicrous surges of strength.
Read at your own caution - but also leave all your inhitibtions at the door.
By: Rev. Dip Hanley-Jenkins, M.D
This is not a story about redemption. It is not a story about love. This is not a story about faith, but it certainly has its thrilling moments. This is more of a boner-inducing thrill ride with a hint of betrayal. Hint is actually a bit of an understatement, this is more of a boner-inducing thrill ride largely due to a betrayal of epic proportions. Let me tell you all a story about how I almost became the greatest mustache model the world has ever seen.
So there I was, boppin’ on through Hotlanta, hopped up on a mess load of different amphetamines and horse tranquilizers, which had brought me to a surprising level feeling. The only thing that I was able to feel was the slow tearing of the skin of my ass cheeks from the leather upholstery of my car seat. My old buddy Rooster turned to me and asked if I wanted to partake in some PCP with him. Now I am not one to usually engage in anything that will alter my fragile state of mind, but that day was different. So Rooster and I started flying down Route 65 doing about 250 mph, coming exceedingly closer to breaking the sound barrier. All of a sudden, we caught a glimpse of something tantalizing in the corner of our eyes. It was a sign that read, “Eat Your Body Weight In Oysters and Eat For Free!” I would have been an idiot if I passed up an opportunity like that.
Now I weigh a modest 175 pounds, which is chump change in oyster weight. I managed to polish off 212 pounds of oysters, no biggie. Rooster was only able to eat 186 pounds of his 193-pound goal though. So his bill for the meal came out to be $1,612.36, but I guess that is the price you pay for being a bitch. After the meal, Rooster and I continued hauling ass down Route 65 crossing into Biloxi, Mississippi on our way to Dallas, Texas. About 20 minutes into Biloxi we realized that we were running low on mustache wax and bubblegum, so we pulled into the nearest rest stop off of the highway.
This was easily the most majestic rest stop that I had ever seen in my life because it was shaped like a centaur; I guess there is a first time for everything. Rooster and I wandered into the magnificent establishment to grab some big gulps and the rest of our supplies. They were out of big gulps though. The only thing they had left were the modest sized gulps, needless to say, my standard of gulp was left unsatisfied.
Fucking amateur hour.
Rooster managed to find an economy-sized bucket of bazooka bubblegum containing 716 pieces.
But I was having trouble finding my normal brand of “Thick and Hearty Mustache Wax For Men.” All I could spot in my eye-line was something called “Mustache Glue For Men With Large Phallus’s, Big Muscles and The Courage To Laugh In The Face of Death.”
Now I don’t usually like products that contain more than 7 words in the title, but this was the only thing I could find.
I decided to inquire about the strength of my newly found mustache wax with the cashier of the rest stop, whose face was masked by The Biloxi Deluxe-y, the local newspaper. I walked up to the masked man and inquired. “Excuse me sir, my mustache is unruly and I need something that will properly tame it. Will this product do my mustache justice?” He replied, “Son, that is a hell of a mustache you have there, you should be very proud. I think this product is perfect for you. In fact, I guarantee you will be satisfied or my name’s not…” he said while slowly lowering his newspaper, “Burt Reynolds.”
I could not even look him in the eyes, partly because of the old wives tale I heard that said that if you look into the eyes of Burt Reynolds, you would not be able to resist having sexual intercourse with him. But it was mostly because all I could fixate my vision upon was his glorious mustache. It was so thick and as shiny as Orion’s Belt. After several minutes of staring, I was finally able to snap back to reality (oh, there goes gravity) and speak with the man, the myth, the legend. “Burt Reynolds? What are you doing working in a rest stop in the middle of Mississippi?” I asked him. “Sometimes you just need to escape the big city, kid. I needed to break away from the hustle and bustle of the big city.” he replied. “Well, Mr. Reynolds, would you be interested in driving with me and my pal, Rooster, to Dallas?” He smiled at me, “Only if I can get in on that economy sized tub of bazooka, kid.”
Before I knew it, we were back on route 65, but with a new addition to our passenger manifesto.
About halfway into Mississippi, Burt suggested that we go grave robbing. That Burt Reynolds was one crazy son of a gun, but I liked his style. We broke into the Mississippi State Cemetery and began our treasure hunting extravaganza-bonanza. We passed by all the chumps and their tiny gravestones, looking for the real money tombs. After searching for approximately 47 minutes, I stumbled upon the holy fucking grail of burial plots. This thing was the Rolls Royce of gravestones. I slowly knelt down to brush the vines away so I could read the name on the tombstone. “Tom Selleck” I said in awe. “Burt! Get over here. Take a look at this.” Burt kneeled down to take a gander for himself. “When the shit did Tom Selleck die?” Burt smirked and replied, “I told that old S.O.B that if he didn’t cut of his mustache then I was going to fuck him up. WELL WHO’S LAUGHING NOW, SELLECK?” He screamed.
Burt Reynolds is out of his goddamn mind.
We left the cemetery with about $8000 dollars in stolen rubies and various jewelry. Burt also stole Tom Selleck’s skull. Somehow Rooster managed to stay asleep during this whole ordeal, probably because of the 16 Nyquil he mixed with a fifth of Jack. So it was just Burt and I in the front of the car, enjoying some quality time together. I turned to him, “Hey Burt, can I try on that baseball cap that you’re sporting on your dome piece?” “No!” he replied instantaneously. “Sorry kid.” he said, apologetically “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. It’s just that, this hat here, well it’s magical. It is what I attribute all of my fame, success and monstrously good looks to.”
Alright, I know what y’all are thinking, “magic is complete bullshit”, but it was a statement that I just could not shake. I mean, I am not the kind of man that believes in some kind of metaphysical and mystical force, but I was having the most bizarre day of my life. Throw some magic into the mix? Well, shit, you just put the final nail in the coffin that was my day.
My personal philosophy was instilled upon me by the wise words of Billy Zane in Titanic. Zane’s standing there, looking like a bad ass, he turns to the man next to him and says, “A real man makes his own luck.” What defines luck though? We are lucky enough to be alive, but we did not create ourselves. Wait, that makes no sense. Regardless of the retarded philosophical ramblings of my mind, I decided at that point that maybe it was time to take a leap of faith. Maybe it was finally time to start believing.
I could not figure out whether Burt meant that his hat was magical in a literal way or if it was just magical to him. Everyone has something that is special to them, so I guess you can consider that a “magical” item. Either way, I had to find out.
About 2 hours after our conversation, we started to run out of gas right as we rolled into Grambling, Louisiana. I had no idea why Burt was all of a sudden so fidgety, but he begged me not to pull over at any rest stops in Grambling. Burt claimed it was because he thought the entire town smelled like old cat food, which, to an extent, he was right about, but I could tell there was something else that was bothering him. Unfortunately for him though, Louisiana totally sucks ass and spaces their gas stations out like every 50 god damn miles. I was not about to be stranded in the middle of nowhere just because Burt could not handle the smell of this town. I had no choice but to pull over at the nearest gas station. To this day, I honestly still cannot wrap my mind around the South’s fascination with themed rest stops. Needless to say, this stop was shaped like a colossal duck and was rightfully named,” The Quack Shack”.
I don’t mean to get side tracked again, but did I ever mention the reason why Rooster and I were driving all the way to Dallas? Well I’m honestly just a bit too lazy to scroll up all the way to the beginning of this story to find out. Plus I am writing this on a typewriter. There are no backspaces on a typewriter, so suck it up and listen again. I’ve been an amateur model for the last 5 years. I have always lead a pretty humble life, but there is a time in your life when you realize that you are tired of just barely getting by. I recognized that it was finally time for the big leagues. Mustache modeling. Mustache modeling is an incredibly lucrative market because there are so few of us in the world. I would not say that my mustache is something of pure beauty, but it is certainly a darn impressive ‘stache.
About 2 weeks ago, I got a call from my agent, Boo Shingles. Boo wanted to congratulate me on the recent interest that was shown in me by Wilhelmina Models in New York City. Boo informed me that Wilhelmina wanted me to come down to Dallas, Texas in order to interview, along with 20 other candidates, for a spot on the front cover of MUSTACHE MAGAZINE. Alright, that should finally tie up all of the loose ends.
I should probably also warn you that the next part of this story might cause uncontrollable climaxing. Just make sure that you have some Gatorade or heavy cream nearby.
You’re going to want to replenish your fluids.
I love doors that make that little “boo doop” noise when you enter a store, so imagine my shock when I was greeted by a “quack quack” upon entering. “Grambling,” I said to myself “you just gained one Pimp Point in my book.” I perused the aisles for something to cure the hunger that was deep inside of me. “Wait a minute”, I said aloud, “That cannot be right.” I sprinted over to the counter. “Excuse me, sir?” All I could see of the mysterious clerk were his hands, which were clutching the local paper, The Ramblin’ Gramblin’.
Why is it that every town in the South has some sort of lame ass name for their local newspaper? What is so hard about “The Grambling Times”? I mean, Jesus, these things are not even clever, they just make it seem like you are a town full of tards.
“Yes, son?” He replied. I had torn off the coupon from the aisle, “Is this coupon a misprint or can I really get 66 Slim Jims for $6 dollars?” The mysterious man lowered his newspaper and nodded his head to gesture that this deal was, indeed, true. “Fantastic! I’ll take 198 Jims, my good man.” I exuberantly replied. “Alright, that will be $19.26 with tax.” I reached into my wallet, pulled out a crisp $20 bill, looked up, and that was when it finally hit me. I recognized this shopkeeper. I gazed up in awe, “Oh my god, McConaughey?” He chuckled. “Aw shucks, son. I was trying to keep a low profile. No one here knows who I am because no one here owns a television, you know, on account of the fact that they are all pieces of shit. But I am indeed Matthew McConaughey.”
I was now in the presence of a semi-successful actor! I mean, let’s be honest, no one considers Matthew McConaughey to be a real actor. I think as far as ranking goes, he is probably like, a D-lister, at best.
“Wow, this is un-fucking-believable! What are the chances of meeting two celebrities in one night, both of whom working at rest stops in the middle of nowhere?” Mr. McConaughey’s smile was immediately replaced by a disconcerting look. He let off a fierce gaze that made my body feel like stone.
Medusa would have been very pleased with him.
“Wait, who was the other famous person that you met tonight, son?” he asked in a solemn tone. I filled him in with the details of my exploits with my new friend, Burt Reynolds. “Burt and I have been traveling together for the last 8 hours. We went grave robbing earlier. That man knows how to seriously shake shit up.” I said, while pointing to Burt, whose hand was conveniently covering his face, as if he were trying to hide. What happened next was nothing short of shear brilliance. I’m not even exaggerating; I honestly developed a raging boner within seconds.
McConaughey sprinted out of the rest stop and headed towards my car. “Reynolds!” he hollered “Get the fuck out of that car right now!” He started ferociously pounding at the windows, “I want my hat back, you stupid son of a bitch!”
It was this moment that I realized what damage I had just inflicted. Burt had become like a father to me over the last 8 hours. The man had taken me under his wing, and I ended up being the main contributor to his horrible downfall. The thought of my actions still haunt me to this very day.
Would I go back and change the fate of Burt Reynolds if I had the chance though? Let me answer that question with another question: Would you have gone back in time and destroyed Doc. Brown’s Delorian right away or would you have pulled a “Marty McFly” and messed around with the space time continuum, develop brilliant money making schemes and almost bang your own mother? Yeah, I thought so. See, I am not a monster, just a simple man.
The two men argued for 10 minutes straight, Burt staying within the confines of the car for his own safety. There was no use hiding at this point though, McConaughey was out for blood and it was obvious that he was not going to relent until his violent thirst was quenched. Things started getting heavier, McConaughey was banging at the windows, Burt was screaming and somehow Rooster was still asleep for all of this. Who knows, he may have actually been legally dead at that point. Cocked fist in the air, McConaughey let off a mighty haymaker that went straight through my car window.
That douche bag cost me $85 dollars for that.
He started screaming, “You scum sucking piece of garbage, give me my god dang hat back!”
Really, McConaughey? “Scum sucking piece of garbage?” I mean, I’m not surprised that he would have lame insults, but he took it to a whole new level of amateurity.
When you have enough rage to punch a hole straight through a window, you’re not going to just quit there and walk away. McConaughey ripped Burt out of the window and started pummeling him. When a man is that infuriated, it is obvious that you are powerless against stopping him. Burt realized this shortly after being pulled out of the car. The man did not even attempt to fight back, he just curled up into the fetal position and absorbed the blows. You would figure that McConaughey would have been satisfied by this point, but the man was relentless in his efforts. Shit went down so hard after those first few minutes of ass beating. McConaughey decided that it was time to stop pussy footing around. That beast of a man reached down and snatched the mustache right off of Burt Reynolds’s face in one fell swoop, resembling the ripping off of a band-aid.
Burt had become one of my close friends, but he was also my biggest competition in the mustache market. You know what they say, “keep your friends close and your enemies closer” Wait, is that the saying? Whatever, it’s a gay expression anyway.
I was completely dumfounded as to what I had just witnessed. We have McConaughey in one corner, already back in the rest stop, wearing his newly acquired hat. In the other corner, we have Burt Reynolds rolling around on the ground and crying like a little bitch after just receiving the ass whooping of the century. I needed answers, and also a burrito, so I went back into the Quack Shack. McConaughey was sitting on his stool, reading The Ramblin’ Gramblin’ like nothing had just happened. I’m not even exaggerating; the man literally had not even broken a sweat.
“Alright, son, I’m guessing you are probably a tad curious as to why I just defiled Burt Reynolds’s face like that.” He pulled a chair out “Pop a squat over here and I’ll tell you a little story.” Despite the fact that he had just said, “pop a squat”, I somehow refrained from laughing and prepared myself for the most ridiculous story that I had ever heard in my life.
“About 10 years ago, I was all that anybody could talk about in the acting community. Critics referred to me as ‘the next James Dean’ and they spoke of how I was the future of acting.”
He continued. “Every woman wanted to have me and every man wanted to be me, but perfection can drive a person mad. One man in particular was driven absolutely insane by my raw and sexual prowess. I’m assuming you can guess who that man was.” “No, I have no idea” I sarcastically replied “Do tell!” He did not seem amused by this. “Did you see what I just did out there?” pointing to Burt “Do you want that to be you?” I shook my head in disagreement. “Good, so obviously that man was the now mustache-less Burt Reynolds. Reynolds may have been a sex symbol back in the goddamn 1840’s or whenever he was born, but he was angry that his flocks of women were all migrating so that they could board The McConaughey Express. Next stop: Sex Town.”
Really, McConaughey? Really? God, I still fucking hate you to this day.
“And that is why that sorry excuse for a man stole my lucky hat. He knew that this hat was magical and he could not stand to see me succeed anymore.” He shook his head “The next day I accepted the lead role in The Wedding Planner, and it has all gone progressively down hill from there.
There are just so many things that were off about that story. I don’t care what any critics have ever said, there is no way in hell Matthew McConaughey was ever a good actor. Even if he was, which I am not agreeing with, there is no way that any chick would have slept with him if he referred to himself as “The McConaughey Express” Such a douche. Also, how old IS Burt Reynolds? Could he really be 170 years old? I honestly need to, one day, figure out the answers to all these questions.
I walked closer to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “Mr. McConaughey, sir, that was truly one of the most amazing stories I have ever heard. I cannot even beli——“ I stopped mid-sentence, kicked Matthew McConaughey as hard as humanly possible right in the nads, followed up with a sweet ass roundhouse kick to his dome, grabbed the magical hat and got the hell out of dodge. Now both Burt and McConaughey were rolling around on the ground, crying like little bitches. It was time to finally continue on to Dallas without any more distractions.
Sounds of stirring came from the backseat. Rooster popped his head up and I realized that he was, in fact, still alive. “What’s up, Buddy? How long was I out for?” He asked.
You can see how I would be torn between telling him the truth and making up a lie. McConaughey knew exactly who had taken his hat, and the less people that knew, the better off I would be. Then my stupid conscious started barking at me and reminding me that it is wrong to lie to your best friend.
“Only for like 25 minutes.” I replied.
Yeah, fuck my conscious.
Rooster looked content with that answer. “That’s a mighty nice hat you’ve got on there. Where did you pick up that bad Larry?” So many stories started racing through my head. I ended up drawing a blank for a good 35 seconds before I told him that I found it. “Nasty find, brother. Now that I’m up, how do you feel about getting our grub on? Maybe another all you can eat place?” “Yeah” I replied, “I can publicly shame you again and make you realize how much of a pussy you are.”
I drove out of Louisiana as fast as humanly possible, blasting through Arcadia, Minden, Haughton and Shreveport at over 320 miles per hour. We had finally punished the sound barrier. Bitchin’. We had to switch over to Route 20 for the rest of the way, which is total bullshit because Route 20 is notorious for armadillos.
I hate armadillos more than anything in the world; don’t even ask why because, to be honest, I really don’t know why. It may have to do with the fact that they carry leprosy…, which I had when I was younger…, which I caught from an armadillo. Yeah, that’s actually a completely legitimate and easy reason to explain.
So I’m cruising’ hard and just swerving to the sides of the road, trying to hit and kill as many armadillos as possible. That’s when I saw the sign, “Welcome To Dallas”. Almost 800 miles banged out in only 4 hours. It would have been faster, but all the grave robbing, window-shopping and ass beatings really added up.
Rooster and I hit up this barbeque joint right in the heart of Dallas. Of course they have several eating contests, it’s Dallas, no babies born there are weighed in at less than 19 pounds. I go right for the “Ribapalooza” challenge. If you are able to eat 70 ribs in 70 minutes, then the meal is free. Rooster and I put on our “Rib Bibs” and start grubbing hard. I managed to finish all 70 in only 23 minutes, averaging about 3.14 ribs per minute, not my best time, but still good. Rooster managed to actually finish his entire meal too.
Just kidding, he was still a bitch. He only finished 49. His bill was $312. To reiterate, Rooster = bitch.
The next morning, I put on my newly acquired hat, banged out some push-ups, trimmed my mustache, had a nice morning nut and headed out the door to take what was rightfully mine.
Now I could give you a play-by-play of every detail of the interview and all that jazz, but I feel like I have had you read enough as it is. So I’m going to just give you the bullet points of how the rest of my day went down. Boom, I entered that modeling agency and acted as if I owned the place. I told the receptionist who I was and what I was there for. She gave me all kinds of sexy eyes. While I was waiting, she let me feel her up by the water cooler.
Under the shirt, too. Score.
I grew weary of waiting for those modeling snobs to call me into their office, so I decided to barge in, unannounced, of course. I ripped my shirt off, flexed a little and told them that no man in the world had a mustache as delicious as mine. My shpiel about how amazing my mustache was must have lasted at least 9 minutes. There was no clock in the room, so I had to measure time the old fashioned way: by counting how many times you can sing “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley, in your head.
I got to 3.
They cut me off mid-sentence towards the end though. Apparently the interview was scheduled for the 21st. I thought it was on the 23rd , which was that day. I begged the board to reconsider. They did admit that I had one of the nicest mustaches they had ever seen. They even said that I looked like a young Burt Reynolds from 140 years ago.
Unfortunately, they had already hired someone. While they acknowledged that my mustache was nearly flawless, they informed me that this man had me beat. It was also a big help that he was actually on time for the interview. I heard the door creak from behind.
“We meet again, my boy.”
That was when I turned around and stared death right in the face.
McConaughey came closer and closer to me, obviously ready to finish what he had started. Luckily I was, once again, a stones throw distance away from his nut sack. I delivered one last powerful kick to McConaughey’s nads and high tailed it the fuck out of that room.
What I am writing here, is the last tale of my life. I have been hiding underneath a desk in the “Knights Inn” in Lincoln, Nebraska for the last 3 weeks now. I have not left the room once. My diet has consisted of a 30-pound sack of peanuts and a case of R.C Cola. Actually, it’s diet, so that makes my life even worse. I can feel McConaughey slowly getting closer and closer. The hat is like the ring in Lord of the Rings and he is like Sauron, or whatever that stupid totem pole of fire’s name was. If that is true though, then that means I would have to be Frodo, who is totally gay with Sam. I think I love titties too much to be gay though, so that probably wouldn’t work.
But to bring this to a close, if you are reading this right now, then that means that he found me and that I am already dead.
I think John “Cougar” Mellencamp had the right idea when he said, “Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of livin’ is gone.”
I wonder, will I go on? Will I continue to be?