FOD

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away... I've always wanted to do that.

For all you romantics out there, this is a love story, a true love story.
Unfortunately it is a white trash love story, every word true, every nuance honestly witnessed by myself and one Denny Harvey, and believe me, it was much funnier and more disgusting to watch. The year was 95 and once again, we found ourselves at The Runway, one of the few bars at the time for live music. Sadly, most bands that played there were less than talented (I mean, how many ways CAN someone fuck up 'Sober' by Tool?), but offer broke people nickel draws and dollar pitchers and consider yourself in business.
The Runway was a biker Shangri-La, a skanky utopia out by the airport just across the highway from the airstrip - hence the rather clever name. Half the time your gear didn't work because you were picking up air traffic control frequencies.

This was the 'home' of the foulest scrap of feminine flesh these eyes have ever seen and hope to never see again - the inspiration for 'Bertha', an old Stone Sour song. She was without doubt the ugliest, smelliest, most disturbing 'woman' that ever crawled out of the Greater Des Moines sewer system. As tall as she was wide, she resembled Jabba the Hutt in drag. But in her mind, she was the hottest thing to ever pull her tit out and wave it at some poor cover band from Omaha. She would go to The Runway to dance. But there was a glaring problem - she couldn't dance. It didn't matter what tempo the song was, it didn't matter that people threw beer at her when she began to flail like a mad person, she had it all: splits, arms waving, hips causing shifts in the air conditioning... it was really gross, but it was like a train wreck; you couldn't stop watching.

On this night, though, her match was met. There on the dance floor, hours before she managed to wedge herself on to her bike and ride to the bar, was The Guy. We never found out his name. We didn't ask. H' was just too fucking perfect.

He had the most cherished neck-length mullet I've ever seen, a mullet to make Patrick Swayze proud and envious. He wore a greasy jean jacket adorned with Bic pen renditions of his favorite band logos. No shirt - must have been in too much of a hurry to get to the bar. His pants were so severely stonewashed they resembled a photo negative of Monterey Jack cheese, and they were skin tight, although we wished that part weren't true. But the best part about this vision of aberrant filth was his drumsticks. He carried drumsticks in his back pocket. Never mind that we'd never seen him play in a band (and we'd seen them all, sad to say), and never mind that he looked like he'd rather line up trash cans and beat on them, we found out why he carried them.

He played air drums while he danced... and he danced just like 'Bertha'.

It was like he was on fire, writhing and thrusting to a rhythm that was clearly not the song everyone else was listening to. And at the end of every song, he'd palm both sticks in one hand and pump that fist in the air like he'd just done a drum solo in front of 80,000 people.

But then 'Bertha' walked in.

Their eyes met the space between them vanishing quickly, crank-driven pulses racing, bloodshot eyes shining, and a moment we will never forget unfolded before us. It was all we could do not to point. They danced around each other in some kind of drunken, sketchy mating ritual that haunts the bartenders to this day. Every time she did the splits, he pumped his fists. Every time he played his invisible drum kit, she pulled her burnt banana tits out and did horrible things with them. When they were finally ready to leave, 'Bertha' skipped over to where her purse was like she'd made the catch of the century, while The Guy high fived anyone in arm's reach as if he was taking home Elizabeth Hurley. When they half molested themselves out the door, I swear to god, we all stood and applauded. It was amazing.

We never saw them again. I like to think they got married, had a few kids and beat each other between paychecks from the government. Most likely they just knocked it for a few weeks, but then got sick of beating each other between paychecks from the government.
Isn't that a great story? If you don't believe me, ask Denny.
He still has nightmares about it.