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So the time was Fall 2006, when Aaron, myself, and that Colombian pal of ours (we’ll call him “Pablito”) were getting into DXM* (please see footnote) for psychedelic experiences. You can get a bit wacky on that stuff, and Aaron seemed particularly susceptible in that regard. One night, about an hour after taking it, Pablito and I left for the store to pick something up. Aaron, meanwhile, didn’t hear (or comprehend) our announcement, and, starting to succumb to the effects of the drug, was very confused/puzzled that we were gone. Alone and on the Internet, Aaron soon encountered a post on usfbullshit.com by our friend Gina reporting that her hamster had died. His name was Thom:
What happened next is as true as I can recall it.
Sensing surely-understated immensity of Thom’s loss, Aaron started posting a response to cherish the memory of Thom, who I’m not sure he had ever met (petted).
Maybe 15 minutes pass before Pablito and I show up with provisions from 7-11. We find Aaron at the computer, who spins in his chair to meet our eyes with a crazed “wtf is reality” look. His look is almost suspicious. He gestures at the computer, and after adjusting our eyes we notice that he has unloaded 5 consecutive replies in the Thom thread, each a solid paragraph. As I recall it (at that point feeling the onset of the lunacy brewing within me), Aaron’s behavior seemed to convey his own uncertainty that he had written the posts at all. Pablito and I pulled up a chair and what we found is what follows.
and what’ve you now, shanhoney? beg little big more, boy. if ere a hamster were t’be laid abreast four deep in the alls of memory, this’d be the lad. is furry head be prest gently upon the pillows of angels. if life no more giveth, then we must forgive. all forgive, all forget. thom the amster, a right little bastard he was, and a right little bastard he’d be again, if given a second crack at the ol race of the phillies. a real character among characters, a chewing little smughound fist deep in his own waterbowl. i’ll miss the lil scad. pass the whiskey, peabody.
i r’member the time the lil bastard chewed on ere lil piece a wood and it wassa god damned cute i nearly lost me britches… the glazzies look no longer but the pictures tell the tale of your length and breadth, young champion, young mariner! deep into the seas ye rode, swabbin the deck of me galleon, a lil black at all perched up on is shoulda like crock height right there. yep yep, so god damned cute in is lil mutineer get-up, the moment of is life, a shining young buck all ripe n ready to eat the world like a peach, but oh cut down b’the wheel… isn’t it the wheel that cuts us all? spinnin and rollin us to drink, taking away our sun and ner given it back! i won’t have it! peabody! give me my shank! in th’name’a thom, we’ll cut this here wheel from spleen to stern, deeper than ere cut fore, an we’ll ave it all to’rselves then, peabody, all t’ourselves…
‘e smelled like a spring morn, all soaked in dew n witha smella grouse on is breath… a sportsman, ya see, he it the moors early, fore the moon fell, ‘e knew the birds flew at dawn, higher n brighta than a chinese firework. ‘e came upt’me on the dock n’said “y’ever shot yeself a grouse ayuh?” n ‘e showed me the goddamndest biggest damn grouse i ever seen head nor tail of, a right leviathan of a bird, more feathers’n ere a man in ireland could count. ‘e hung it up at the docks for all t’see, shoutin “come all, shanhoney, bring your old n your young, see the greatest grouse ere shot in the county of belfast!”
ah, twas his finest day. n’then ‘e lost that ere hat offa coasta iceland bout forty years back, fore the registry got holda things n made it all glitz n records. he jumped right ere offa sidetha boat n got that there at in is teeth, (half of ems wood anyways but all to hell), n he climbed is way up the rudder, the ole time shoutin n carryin on lika stuck pig, “let me back on, i got me hat, its right ere in me teeth!” n the jib was cuttin right starboard hard that day n he adda ride right there’n the rudder til moonfall when the winds sink back n’then’e made it up’n into the ship, all wet’n'cold, shakin but still with at hat n a shit eatin grin! “ay, i got me hat! that bloody hat, oys giv’n me the rub!” oi, that grin, that chip on is shoulda, biggest damn amster this sida madrid! i’ll miss the shit out of im!
oh but e’s lost f’rever, to the ground ye go, saint, sailor, scoundrel. off with ye! ye milked the earth right good, drank its wine, had its women, off with ye! ye ran a gallavanter’s game, a real carouser, drinkin, cheatin, avin ees way with whatever it is ee wanted. a christ-damned shame, a lossa a great man’n'mariner. ye’ll be missed… christ, ye’ll be missed!
TO THOM, ERE WUZZIEST DAMN AMSTER THIS ERE SIDA GALWAY!
THOM!
Now in the interest of enhancing the novelty of the preceding, please consider the following background details. Finnegan’s Wake by James Joyce had been laying around (Wikipedia geeks: “significant for its reputation as one of the most difficult works of fiction in the English language.”) around the time this happened. We had also recently watched Kubrick’s Clockwork Orange, so it’s safe to say that the theme of the posts was a eulogy from an hardened mariner communicating in broken, dated Irish/Scottish/Welsh/Gaelic/whatever.
Thom’s spontaneous memorial would not end with Aaron’s speech however. In part 2, we’ll explore the composition of a much more substantial memorial, as the DXM tide continued to roll in….
Cover-Your-Ass Footnote: DXM (Dextromethorphan) is an antitussive drug that can be bought over-the-counter. DXM is considered both dissociative and hallucinogenic when taken in high doses. Buying and possessing the substance is not illegal though legislation has not directly addressed it, to date. There is limited information on the long-term effects of DXM when used recreationally, and likewise we advise that you do NOT use it as such. Unless you are idiots like us.
1 Comment
What a great rolling peace of text. Psychedelics are great for when you need to get the genius flowing.