The Shit the Bed Blues

In high school my first experience playing music was doing rap rock with this guitar protégé I will call Joe. I would stay at his house after school and practice combining Nirvana and Pearl Jam riffs with me saying high school rhymes. When we cut back on drinking and smoking pot we realized nu-metal was lame and on its way out so we went back to grunge and alt-rock and started making cool rock songs.

Musicianship was in Joe’s blood as his dad (who I will call Sam) was a ’70s blues/soul guitarist/singer ex-musician who supported this style of rock music; he was cool and became more encouraging when I started singing instead of rapping (though he admitted he liked “Walk This Way,” but that was an exception to the rule).

He let us practice in his studio and let us drink beer. It was pretty sweet. He was a single dad who pretty much let us do what we want as Joe and I went to a one-on-one tutoring school so we were each other’s only friend.

We did not have much sex options and it sucked but it fueled our practice sessions because we knew the only way we were going to get laid was through bringing chicks over and singing our awesome songs. But we weren’t good at social media so it was slow getting the word out.

We were both going through a major sexual slump when Joe’s dad said he was bringing over a woman and she had a cousin and that one of us had to make sure she had a good time. We asked if she was hot and he said, “She is one of those Goth girls so if you like dead-looking broads then you might want to bang her.”

I had never seen Josh’s dad with chicks but he boasted about all the “hot road pussy” he got on tour. (Our science teacher actually liked him but he said about her, “I wouldn’t fuck her with your teenage tubesticks. She keeps calling me; I can’t go that low boys, I got pride.” That metaphor and wisdom showed he obviously contributed some pretty cool lyrics and soul to his old band.)

We figured she would be a plastic ex-trophy wife in her late forties and the cousin would be some sixteen-year-old overweight Goth chick who would want to talk about either The Crow and/or HIM. We both said screw it, let’s just practice and they can come watch us when they arrive.

Joe and I were halfway through the song “Heartless” when the door opened and I swear I thought I heard the boner of Joe hit the guitar, making the distortion pan out from his Boss Overdrive pedal. We both froze and did not stare at what was a cute Goth girl with a weird haircut. No, we looked at the twenty-something woman on Sam’s arm who looked like Megan Fox pre-Transformers 2 with bigger boobs and a sweeter/prettier looking face. To this day she is still the hottest woman I have ever seen in my life. (To my lady readers it was like if Channing Tatum and Ryan Gosling combined, but like in a chick. She was an eleven, Nigel-style.)

Speechless, I shook her hand and somehow stared at an equal combination of breasts and face meeting the gorgeous Samantha—the eleven— and her cute Goth cousin. If Samantha’s hotness was not clouding the practice space while doing a cobra flute dance of seduction on my penis I would have been all about the Goth chick but it was like looking at a sunset that God himself made. Except the sunset had titties. Basking in her hotness was a spiritual experience.

The three of them then sat on our practice space couch and said they wanted to hear us play; Joe and I getting out of the hotness stupor started to feel confused on how a fifty-something over the hill rocker landed this angelic piece of ass. Was her mom an old groupie? Was Sam a hypnotist? Was there a God or karma rewarding Sam for something?

We put all our sexual and existential frustration and played a four-song set that led to claps, boners, and then Sam taking the hottie and leaving us with the cute Goth cousin.

She looked at me and said, “You guys actually don’t suck. And you remind me of Billy Corgan, but with hair. Do you have any pot?”

We took her to the beach and her and I smoked up and made out. It was cool but in the ignorance of youth I did not appreciate the moment and kept thinking about Samantha. I wondered if she was there back at Joe’s home.

I ended up getting the Goth chick’s number and kissed her goodbye but my thoughts were all about getting back to Joe’s to see if Sam brought her cousin back home.

We then dropped the Goth chick off and Joe drove back to his dad’s place. We walked in and heard the laugh of Samantha coming out of Sam’s bedroom. We couldn’t believe it; we laughed ourselves—still stoned and still shocked. How the hell did the old fuck pull this off?

We passed out in Joe’s room and I woke up early and the idea hit me, What if Samantha was lying naked on the bed? Could I live with myself if I did not try to see the hottest chick in the world naked?

No I could not and I woke up Joe and said, “Dude, let’s peek, we got to see if she is there naked. We have to. I can’t live with that regret.”

This was our chance to see something that we could only picture in our dreams. We crept out of Joe’s room and I led the way to his dad’s door and slowly opened it, ready to see Paradise, but when we looked at the bed we did not see her or Sam . . .

Our mouths dropped as we saw the bed with puddles of shit spread all over the sheets. We couldn’t understand, why, why in all that is holy would we literally see shit in the bed instead of the hottest girl in the world? It felt cruel and wrong.

But Joe laughed at the disappointment and said, “Dude, I think my dad banged her in the ass and she didn’t handle it well.”

We started to crack up and then searched for Joe’s dad; we went into the living room and saw Sam walking toward us. He was hungover wearing a white robe with black poop stains on it and said, “Boys, boys, help me. The bitch drugged me. The bitch fucking drugged me and made me shit myself.”

Sam continued. “It was too good to be true; you can’t date a stripper from Rachel’s. You can’t, Boys. She made me shit the damn bed. She’s a thief and a con artist.”

As we watched Sam shake his head, the shit fell down from his robe. And we learned that no matter how beautiful the woman, if she is not the right one and not with you for the right reasons, she’ll leave you literally covered in shit and feeling like a fool.

 

Christoph Paul is an award-winning humor writer and co-publisher of New English Press. His most recent books are Slasher Camp for Nerd Dorks and Great White House 2: Billary Bites Back. Find him on Twitter @Christophpaul_ and Christophpaulauthor.com.