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Hilly: So I was thinking, “Hey, a weekend with the gays is just what I need to take my mind off my sorrows.” So I packed my suitcase, filled the car with gas, and took off for a weekend filled with laughter, love, booze, and debauchery.
Jester: When Hilly invited herself to my house for the weekend, I thought, “Hey, my plans were canceled anyway, why the hell not? There will be booze, laughter, and debauchery.”
Hilly: Moments before I reached Jester’s house, a text message informed me that UMB was lancing Jester’s ass. I sure was glad that shit was being taken care of, because I certainly did not want to hear him bitch all weekend. This was our time to sit around and discuss OTHER men’s asses. Not his.
Jester: An hour before Hilly arrived, I decided I could no longer live with the giant perianal thrombosis named Jupiter who had consumed my life for the prior 72 hours. UMB shooed him out of the house with a deft stab with a sharpened sewing needle and I danced a jig of joy and relief while mopping blood off the bathroom floor. I was determined to not let my man-period put a damper on the weekend.
Hilly: Here’s the thing that shocked me about Thursday night: No one really fucking drank. Sure, we went to the store and bought enough booze to induce a coma, however with all the ass-lancing and the day long drive a couple of cocktails put our pussy-asses to bed.
Jester: I knew that our 11am gig would prevent us from properly celebrating the commencement of JesterPoo July Edition. Therefore, I slapped the mai-tai from Hilly’s hand and threatened to tie her to the futon in order to get her to go to sleep.
Hilly: Friday morning while Jester was showering, UMB came in and untied me from the futon. I wasn’t supposed to tell, but I know you will all keep it quiet. I was actually quite surprised to see Jester awake before Noon. Not wanting to be the fly in the ointment, I quickly showered, shaved, and made myself so fucking beautiful, I was sure the gays would all turn straight. Instead, they just turned to me and said, “Hey Hag, are you fucking ready yet or what?”
Jester: After waiting for what seemed to be eleventy-million years, Hilly emerged from the bathroom freshly powdered and covered in little red dots of toilet paper from a horrific shaving incident. We rushed out the door with Othurme in tow to grab a quick I-Hop breakfast before embarking on our Community Center-outdoor festival my band RetroRockIt was playing.
Hilly: After Othurme and Jester made me carry all their instruments to the stage, I decided to sit down in my “Jerry Chair” until it was finally time to eat. The thing is, Jester’s band is really good, I mean, Jester sounds better than Steve Perry. I was so entranced by their music and Jester’s sweet sweet cowbell that I completely forgot that I had been sitting in the sun for 4 fucking hours without even a smidge of sunblock. “But,” I thought, “Beer will make this better.” I would come to find out that I was dead wrong.
Jester: Once again, Hilly and company ignored my better judgment and remained parked in full sunlight on the “broil” setting. Despite my many suggestions that they move 10 feet away under some umbrellas, they chose to sacrifice themselves to the Melanoma Gods.
Hilly: Later that evening, I thought we’d finally get to fucking drink. However, the fates would not allow it to be so. You see, the gang all decided that we should go to Fenton’s Ice Creamery located in one of my favorite childhood haunts, The Nut Tree. As we neared my precious Nut Tree, I was told that even though some changes have been made, it was basically the same place. However, when Celeste told me to turn at the Best Buy, I wailed “It’s just not the same!” I MAY have mentioned my disappointment about the changes once or twice. I remained cool about the changes of my beloved childhood landmark, entered the parlor and demurely consumed my meal and ice cream dessert in a ladylike fashion.
Jester: Between shovelfuls of drippy caramel soaked cookie dough ice cream, Hilly ranted and raved like a rabid badger in heat about the destruction of a shitty little 70’s era merry-go-round theme park. Her exclamations of “My childhood has been raped” punctuated by spots of sticky goodness flinging about the table like a weird Japanese porno. In an effort to keep the peace, I threw the remainder of my Toasted Almond and Strawberry Sundae at her like a skillful lion tamer and suggested that we head into town to observe the annual fireworks display.
Hilly: Although, I was basically called a “Whore of Babylon” who would not be welcomed into Heaven by the super-atheists in the car, I was sure that I just left Hell On Earth… You know, the war torn ravaged remnants of The Nut Tree, but hey, I get over things quickly. I was very excited by the prospect of seeing big bad fireworks. We spent a few minutes sitting on the hood of my Dodge Charger watching the bombs bursting in air. We scurried back into the car quickly in an effort to beat the traffic out of Suisun. However, we were ass-fucked in a stupid gang fashion when Jester led me right into the middle of the traffic jam. I may have said “Cocklick” a couple of times.
Jester: We each whispered silent “Our Fathers” to ourselves while Hilly screamed in and out of freeway traffic en route to the fireworks display. Not only did she try to kill us, at one point she breezed close enough to a parked car that I could have licked “Wash Me” on to the driver’s window. We were anxious to beat the traffic after the show, so much so, that Hilly interpreted “Turn right now! Now! NOW!” as “Please continue forward while singing the ‘Cocklick Song’.” Two hours and 2 miles later, we arrived at home shaken, but not badly injured.
Hilly: And still. No. Booze. Ok…. maybe just a little booze. I was starting to wonder if there was something wrong with me though. I felt like I should be reading a book called “The Gays Just Aren’t That Into You.” On my last trip here we were drunk every night so I was feeling a little let down. Considering the fact that my chest, arms, and legs were redder than a salmonella-laden tomato, I thought it might be a good idea to roll around in a vat of aloe and go to bed. I decided that even though my precious Nut Tree had been destroyed, I had been called the worst Christian on the planet, got stuck in traffic, and got a sunburn that might kill me in the middle of the night, the worst was over.
Jester: I decided to make it an early night in an effort to escape the incessant bitching about the fucking train at Nut Tree and how it just “Isn’t the same!” Between the Sunburn, heat, and traffic, I also wisely decided to not mention my mildly sore throat and the taste of blood that I had been experiencing for most of the day. Clearly, some people are much more vocal about their discomfort levels than I am. It was only the second day of JesterPoo July Edition and I saw no need for hostility.
Hilly: Saturday was a whirlwind. One moment I’m showing the lopsided-ness of my sunburned tits as I sauntered through Jester’s house in my bra and panties; the next moment we were sitting outside at a Greek cafe sampling “spanky-pasta-titty” for the very first time. It was then that Jester decided to take the most horrific pictures of me ever seen and steal my memory card when I tried to get my camera back. He threatened to feed the memory card to Jupiter (his gaping ass wound) so I quietly conceded. As amusing as Jester was at lunch, I could tell that something was just not quite right. He had been whine-bagging it about his throat since earlier in the morning. So we decided to head home where he could take some ibuprofen and some warm wet liquids.
Jester: I decided to capture the only known images of Hilly plowing through her spanokopita and pastitso and felt they needed to be shared with the blogging community who views her as this demure sex-pot. She astutely noticed after more than a day of my mind-numbing pain that I did not look as though I felt 100% ok. She prescribed an advil and semen injection as the perfect remedy. I was not amused. However, I did agree that some pain-killer would soon be a necessity.
Hilly: I knew that if Jester wouldn’t go to the ER for his gaping ass-wound he certainly would not go for a paltry thing like a slightly sore throat. I knew that it was my duty as Princess Hag to figure out where he could go and how he could get there. After using my amazing Google skills to find a hospital for Jester, I then proceeded to stick a flashlight in his face while forcing him to say “ahhh.” I needed to see what all the bitching was about. Here’s the thing, I may, sorta, kinda, maybe have a slight phobia of sputum. Once I saw the spit-filled pustules in the back of Jester’s throat I threw the flashlight down on the couch and gagged as if I had a 14-inch cock in my mouth. The gays were convinced I was going to throw up. But it wasn’t about me, it was about Jester. We finally convinced him that we needed to go to the Emergency Room.
Jester: Over the course of two hours my throat went from “mildly painful” to “please for the love of all that is holy, remove Satan’s penis from my throat!” When it became nearly impossible to swallow, breathe, or talk, I finally convinced the gang to take me to the nearest medical facility where I might receive treatment. They did not want to go. I manipulated them by promises of vending machine snacks and blog-worthy material surely waiting for us upon our arrival at the hospital.
Hilly: You know how you hear about miracles? It’s a rarity that you actually see one or feel one. I’m here to tell you that on Sat July 5th 2008, Jester stopped talking. I never thought there was anything that would shut that man’s mouth. Apparently his throat almost swelling shut does the trick. After poking a bit of fun at him, he was whisked away behind closed doors. We were convinced that the CDC had come to take his Captain Tripps ass away. That’s when the real fun began. This was the best emergency waiting room visit that I have ever had. Let’s face it, it really is all about me. Othurme, UMB, and I got snacks, told jokes, text messaged and twatted with all of Jester’s concerned friends. We even plotted how we would get our hands on the great drugs they were sure to give him. We were only there for 2 hours, but it was enough time to forge a lifetime of friendships.
Jester: I explained to the doctor that although Hilly nearly raped me with a flashlight and puked in my open mouth, that I did not feel she was responsible for my current medical issue. After enduring a thorough medical and financial exam, I was released with a prescription for vicodin and prednisone and declared to have a raging case of “viral pharyngitis.” This basically means “Your throat is raw and swollen and we don’t know why.” I emerged from the examination to find my loyal friends laughing, eating, and twittering as though they were at a church social. I was potentially dying not 20 feet away, and they were having the time of their lives. They showed a bit of reluctance to leave the safety of the cool sage green sanctuary of the emergency room, but as I needed to find a pharmacy open after 6 on a Saturday, plus being high from a vicodin pill, I couldn’t leave their happy asses there.
Hilly: Trying to decide where to eat dinner was absolutely fucking fun. Jester was high on about 12 prednisone and 5 vicodin, so his heart really wasn’t in it; besides even after facing his own mortality, he was more concerned with resyncing my phone with the bluetooth in my car than he was about finding more warm wet liquids. Eventually, with primrose promises of the mexican food I had been begging for since my arrival, we took off over the hill and I was filled with glee. Somehow, the bickerstaffs in the backseat decided we should have Red Lobster instead. They chained me to the table and forced me to swallow rock lobster and sweet sweet garlic butter as well as scrumptious coconut shrimp. I’d bitch, but really, that was some good fucking lobster. Don’t tell Jester I said so. What I found to be amazing is that after this horrific afternoon, we were all in great spirits and decided to hurry home and give Jester’s adoring fans what they wanted: a radio show. I’m impressed with the fact that Jester did not bitch one freaking time.
Jester: Wooo! Vicodin! Wooo!!! Lobster red, matches Hilly tits! Whoo!! Bluetoof! Goldtoof! Wooo! Vicodin!
Hilly: While carting home, someone might have been a little incoherent. All I could hear was “woo! My fans need me! Woo! #6 on the scale! Drive faster! Woo! Radio show! Somebody twat this!” Apparently, that meant we were going home to host a radio show, even though the beyotch had just gotten out of the hospital three hours earlier.
Jester: Woo! Vicodin! Woo! Radio show!? Babe! Woo!!! Conspiracy theories! Woo! Vicodin! Zzzzzzzzzzz.
Hilly: If Saturday was the day that bent Jester over like a dirty whore, then Sunday was my turn in the barrel. My tire decided it wanted to have sex with a nail, so rather than leaving like I had planned, I dropped off my car in the hopes of getting it patched while we quickly ran to Berkeley for a little Fondue and Fun. This was not to be the case. Apparently the fuckers at Firestone need new braces for their kids because as I found out at 4pm, both front tires needed to be replaced for a grand total of $500. Hilly was not pleased. You think that’s bad? I was forced to eat with my hands, one of which was most-assuredly broken. More on that later. For now, let’s talk about how Jester wanted me to starve, while Dickie Maxx rocked my world with a cookie.
Jester: Hilly had been without food for approximately too long and she kept singing “Feed Me Seymore” while waiting for the gang to arrive via BART. Though the thought of eating foreskin bread with her hands converted her into Miss Hi-May Orange County, she dug in and found the experience liberating. Like fingerpainting. Since I had already handed the keys to my hag over to Dickie Maxx, I figured he would be best suited for talking her into getting her car repaired rather than chancing a breakdown on her long trip home. I played tour guide around the Berkeley Telegraph and Campus area, pointing out all the places where UMB had previously puked during the time we lived there.
Hilly: After tripping on some hippie’s hemp beads and landing face first into a pile of tie-dye, I discovered something was really wrong with my wrist. It was then we played a little tit for tat, and the gays whisked me away to the Kaiser Urgent Care Center where it took them only thirty minutes to diagnose me with my own special little problem that we won’t mention here. It may or may not have something to do with “stewardesses.” In any case, as a treat for being such a good girl at the hospital, the gays finally let me have my mexican. Two tacos and two vicodin later, I was a happy camper, despite the fact that I still had not had my booze. We did something after that, but WOO! Vicodin! Woo! Soma!
Jester: We somehow managed to make our way home tonight where we have finally had the opportunity to break into the giant bottles of alcohol that are living on my kitchen counter. The combination of prescription medications, vodka, rum, and pain bring us up to date, where we have been struggling with this blog post for the last two hours. Curiously, it seems to become harder to write the more alcohol one consumes. I must really explore and test this theory again sometime soon.
Hilly: I’ll try to muddle through this as I am drunk, but I have something very important to say: This weekend’s theme seems to have been, “How many crazy fucked up dodgeballs can we throw at Hilly and Jester before they fall down?” But here’s the thing, we never did fall. No matter how many crappy things happened to us, we took it in the ass, stood up, and managed to laugh the whole way through. One of the reasons I love Jester so much is his ability to not sweat the small things. I am amazed at how crappy and cranky our attitudes could have been, but all I will remember about JesterPoo July Edition is how many times I swear I peed my pants from laughing so hard. Life is what you make of it kids, let’s all try to remember that the next time we want to bitch and complain over something insignificant. All in all, I am grateful for the time I’ve had here and can’t wait to come back, even though I’m leaving with bright red tits, an arm brace, and a new set of $500 tires.
Jester: Woo! Vicodin! Woo! Fun time! Woo! What Hilly said! Woo!
