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Anonymous
There are some places I just
don't like to go anymore. For instance,
Texas. So when my Rush
Limbaugh-loving brethren invited me to spend
Christmas in the Lone Star
state this past year, I politely declined. Work
seemed the most appropriate
excuse—I was getting lots of freelance work
at that time of year and had
pledged to take what I could get.
So rather than face the
tyranny of Silicon implants and Hillary-bashing
that is my heritage, I lapped
up the offer from the Spectator to cover a
Christmas tour of holiday
lights. It seemed kind of lightweight, like a
journalistic stocking stuffer.
But there was some room for creativity, so
I took it.
The tour, I was told, was sponsored by G105's Bob and Madison and was in
part a benefit for Toys for Tots. It is known to be something of a
kitsch-fest, singling out and celebrating the area's tackiest
yard-monuments to St. Nick.
On the Friday night of the event, I arrived at Bowties—the hotel
bar—and
found Bob in the DJ booth, while crowds of young people drank and
danced. When I introduced myself, his few words to me about the upcoming
ride were, "Well, it gets a little crazy." Meanwhile Madison was grooving
to Rick James tunes on the dance floor. The all-female entourage around
her was like a moat, and there was no hope of chatting.
A bit later, people were directed to line up to get on the buses. I filed
in behind two women who had driven from Burlington that afternoon. They
told me proudly that they had been drinking since two o'clock to prepare
for the event.
As we boarded, I made sure I got on the same bus with the famed radio
duo. Soon after departing, Bob turned down the blasting country music to
incite everyone to strip at the waist and moon the first house on the
tour. When we pulled up in front of the first site, a Santa-in-a-hammock
twist on the manger scene, the bus lights went on to showcase the several
young men's buttocks pressed to the windows. Bob, on a PA speaker that I
can only hope went no farther than the bus, yelled to the little boy in
the yard, "Hey kid, your momma's a bitch!"
When we departed from that first stop, I pressed RECORD on my tape
recorder to see what else I might pick up. Minutes later, Bob made an
announcement: "We've seen a lot of hooters tonight. I think we need to see
somebody's 'johnson'." After surprisingly little cajoling, a young man
with the uncanny name of Woody stepped forward. Woody blessed us all with
a view of his anatomy, but apparently that wasn't enough for our tour
guides. Bob then turned to the woman sitting next to Woody and asked her
"to help him get it worked up. . . get it going so he can show it." The
bus lights were turned down in an attempt to give the young couple their
privacy. But minutes later, the lights were back. Bob held Woody's beer,
while Woody proclaimed his, ahem, woody to the front and back of the bus
to screams and hoots from the crowd.
Bob and Madison then bantered about size ("I may be fat, but I'm stupid
and I've got a big dick" was one of Bob's more eloquent admissions),
before they moved to Round Two. For the second house, five people were
asked to "get completely naked, no underwear" and streak the people
outside. Bob got three people enlisted in no time, but when he needed two
more to join this sudden army, he began to goad the already famous
couple:
"Woody and his friend. Please, come on. Please. Come on,
please. Come on. Come on. We got three other women who will do it. Ok. Help her with her clothes off real
quick. Help, help her,
Woody. Woody, help her with her clothes off. Come on, it's just real
quick. It ain't gonna take long."
With the pressure of the crowd's cheers atop that verbal bullying, Woody
apparently decided for his female friend that they would join the
parade. Lucky for her: "free stuff for the nekkid people" was the deal.
After that, shirts came off one by one and more trousers dropped. The
young man sitting beside me who so charmingly admitted to "shrinkage" in
the December chill, took the plunge by standing astride the
aisle—feet
planted on opposite seats. When the tempo dropped for a moment, Bob
didn't waste time in introducing a repeat performer. It seems this woman
in her late '50s—a grandmother—was a hit last year when she
bared
her
breasts. This year, however, the poor woman announced she was a little
shy. Seems she'd had a mastectomy recently, and would only consider a
showing if properly induced. At that moment, about fourteen beer cans
were passed in her direction. (Ah, the giving time of year. . . .)
Sometime soon after, Bob encouraged the women to give one man a blow-job
publicly, but it was only after Bob repeatedly pointed me out as "that
lady from the Spectator" to the crowd, harassing me to come up there and
"show my tits," that my dazed senses sharpened to a dagger in my resolve
to get off that bus. I waited, trance-like, for the next opportunity. When
we stopped for the third house, I bolted for the door. Bob quipped in my
right ear, "Did you get your story?" I walked past him in silent shock
straight to a lighted house and, well, met the neighbors.
Once inside a nice family's house, I called a cab to come pick me
up. Waiting for its arrival, I sat around the kitchen table with this
multigenerational clan chain-smoking while an old rerun of Starsky &
Hutch blared from the TV. The homeowner and I talked about his pride and
joy: the 1000 kilowatt display of Rudolph that (he thought) had made him
so famous with the Tacky Tinsel Tour.
Days later talking to a friend on the phone, I found myself uttering,
"Wow, I could've gone to Texas for this!" She agreed and added her
wisdom: "Try to avoid a situation and it comes right back to whack you in
the face." Just then, she got another call and put me on hold. In the
silence on my end, I began to detect two barely audible voices—as if
coming from a crossed phone line. Focusing intently on their banter—a
rednecky drawl, a female retort—I realized G105 was broadcasting
straight into my ear. Bob & Madison had come home with me to stay. "Merry
Christmas," I had to offer finally into the receiver, half-laughing it
off, but still smarting from the punch. |