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by T. Mike
Many people ask me how the Van Gogh-Goghs got together. Well, all I know is I was walking down the street minding my own business when I woke up in a cheap motel bath tub filled with ice, one kidney gone and written on the mirror in lipstick was "Call 911." Then the Van Gogh-Goghs burst in and congratulated me for passing the "initiation." And I've been stuck in this group ever since. But the story of how Jason joined the group is much more interesting. And has photos.
It all started exactly one year ago, on my birthday, I decided to finally treat myself and buy a white slave. Hell, I'd earned it, and Lord knows none of my friends were ever going to get me one. Cheap bastards. I had been dropping hints every birthday for a couple of years, but you never get what you really want, you know?
Well, the day the truck arrived I was so excited! Finally! Someone to obey my every whim! To listen to my every rant and tirade! To lift heavy things I didn't feel like lifting myself! A special little someone I could call... "slave." Or "slavey." Or "Little Davey Slavey." Or "Wee Johnny Slaves-a-lot," I hadn't really decided yet. I knew it would be a lot of work to tame him, but I was up to the challenge. I looked forward to breaking him to my will, indeed, the entire will-breaking process.
I asked my friend and fellow Van Gogh-Gogh Charles if he could be on hand to share my in joy and take pictures for me so as to forever preserve this special moment when I became a slave owner. The magic moment came when I climbed into the back of the truck, moved aside the leaky barrels of dry cleaning fluid, fought through the stench of stale urine and saw... him. Jason was so cute with his little blanket! And the slavers had dressed him up just like a little man! I remember thinking "This is the best birthday of my entire life!" But sadly, unfortunately, tragically, it was not to last.
In retrospect, I can't say for sure what set Jason off. Maybe it was the noise of a distant truck backfiring. Maybe it was the stress and discomfort of the journey. Maybe I shouldn't have banged on his cage or poked him with an unbent coat hanger. Maybe my taser was set too low. Personally, I believe it was the flash photography. I begged Charles, "Please, no flash photography. You're upsetting my slave!" But he just wouldn't listen. If only he had listened. Oh God Charles, why?! Why didn't you listen?
Setting aside any question of blame or fault (all Charles'), neither of us was prepared for the sheer horror of what happened next. When I opened Jason's cramped 4' x 4' shipping cage to transfer him to his new home (a spacious shiny 3' x 3' cage), he attacked. Suddenly, brutally and without warning, his vicious fangs glistening in the bright sun, he leapt straight for my throat!
Naturally, I was disquieted by this peculiar turn of events. I screamed in my manly, high-pitched way (to warn Charles) and attempted to defend myself by driving Jason away with the unpleasant stink of my own urine (a trick I learned in junior high school).
After flinging my limp, urine-soaked body aside like a limp, urine-soaked dishrag, this unholy man-animal bolted for freedom. Jason charged straight for a shocked Charles, eyes wild, teeth gnashing, slavering and growling, pausing only to break a twenty for Charles before running down the street and off into the distance. He ran and ran, and looked back only once. In that split second, our eyes met, and I think I detected the respect he had for me.
We picked Jason up three weeks later at the local pound, scarred and twelve pounds lighter, wearing the remnants of what appeared to be an organ grinders' monkey outfit. Probably the same someone taught him to hold a cup and do a jig. It was the jig that clinched his position as a valued member of our sketch comedy group. To this very day, no man can come close to Jason in jigging ability. And if they do, Jason shrieks and tries to eat their face.
My last memory of that horrible day, as I gradually lost consciousness, is of my concern for Charles. "Charles, you lazy swine, call me a fucking ambulance!" I burbled through a mouthful of blood. Ironically, when I came to, once again I was in a cheap motel bath tub filled with ice, one kidney gone and written on the mirror in lipstick was "Call 911." Thank God I still have my middle kidney.
Needless to say it was one birthday I'll never forget. I wish I could. Oh God how wish I could.
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