more fun with george

You know how your significant other will usually have one friend who is an utter waste of skin? Someone you cannot imagine anyone associating with, much less the wonderful person you love?

For ten years now my husband has had a friend named George.

George, according to George, knows Tom Robbins, the author of 'Still Life With Woodpecker', 'Another Roadside Attraction', etc. Grew up with him. Blood brothers.
Whenever Tom's in town he visits George secretly, at night, and is gone with the dawns first light, because he doesn't want to cause a lot of media hoopla.
According to him, Tom Robbins weighs 500 lbs and is probably going to die of a heart attack.

According to George, he grew up with the Kneivels...Evel and son Robbie.
Rode motorcycles with them. Blood brothers, in fact.
When Robbie came to jump some cars here in Deming a couple of years ago, ol' George says he went up there and tried to (play the 'known him all my life' card) get in to see him, but Robbie Kneivel said 'Never heard of the guy' right to his face.
George says this is proof that Robbie Kneivel has gone Hollywood.

His daughter has recurring spells of hysterical blindness caused by his ex-wife's infidelity. According to George.

And yet, illogically, and according to George, he (profoundly and continuously stoned every waking moment ever since I've known him and unable to lift a finger, let alone Mr. Happy) and his ex-wife (300 lbs, full time job, depressed and raising two teenage girls alone) were swingers (unable to pay rent or buy groceries, had their Christmas turned in to a charity media event by a local radio station, yet paying dues to all these private clubs) screwing celebrities and government officials and people you wouldn't even believe, man.
This means that if you swing, and you live in the Seattle-Everett-Bellingham area, you probably have fucked either George or his ex-wife, according to George.
I hope you were wearing a condom.

George is incapable of paying a bill or keeping a running car.
But according to George, he came into a huge inheritance two years ago. In the middle of a raging statewide housing market, George claims he lost it all investing in real estate.

George has several original M. C. Escher lithographs and several Aubrey Beardsley prints in a safe deposit box. And a rare match edition ( Wurlitzer-Bullshitpalooza, signed by all twelve apostles with engraved meteoric silver and unicorn horn inlay something or other) rifle.

Seven years ago, George claimed that doctors had given him less than year to live.
He begged my husband to kill him. My husband refused. George said he understood.

George then had a premonition.
He would die that coming April 24th.
In June, after everyone (including George) had forgotten this dire prediction, I pointed out that he was 1. Well past his expiration date and 2. Still miraculously undeceased.
This was widely regarded as having been in poor taste on my part.

George has been dying of a mysterious ailment for the past sixteen years, according to George. As proof, occasionally George will suddenly remember he's supposed to be dying, freeze, contort his face, gak a couple of times and keel over.
No.
I am NOT KIDDING.
He has run up several hundred thousand dollars trying to get this mystery ailment diagnosed.
He cannot pay these bills. Not even Bill Gates could pay these bills.
Not even Tom Robbins.

George, as you might have guessed, is captain of the good ship Munchausen.


His latest pile landed in my ear about an hour ago. (I wrote this yesterday. Now it's today.)
"Uhhh...I have a question...You probably know what I'm talking about when I mention... Aleister Crowley...? Maria Blavatsky....?" is how the conversation started.

"Ah", I thought, "George found some Vicodin. "

According to George, he had come into the possession of a hand written, original manuscript of the book of Dzyan. He alluded to its having been found in mysterious circumstances, and that some poor guy died right on the spot, probably suicide, man, where it had been found, and that there were lots of other really sick, weird stuff with it. That it was probably worth a lot of fuckin' money to someone.

"Ah", I thought, "George needs money for Vicodin. "

Now, George has been in jail for the past couple of months.
According to George, he has been in Venezuela.
Despite his outstanding warrants.
According to George, one of his 'big dope growing buddies from Wenatchee' took him.
Out of the country.
To Venezuela.
Where he found this hand written manuscript of the book of Dzyan.
In a cave.
Along with an infants' skull.
"...And you know what that means..." Said George knowingly.

"Sure", I said. "Why don't you bring it on over with you?"

When George arrived he produced an old, mimeographed transcript of a Theosophy lecture.
No skull.

See, that ruined my entire fucking day.
I was really looking forward to the skull. I wanted to hold it in my hand and gaze into it's hollow eyes. Maybe lick it.

I wonder how much money he borrowed?




...And yes. I AM a pitiless bitch. But that's aside the point. George can't afford child support, he can't afford rent, but he can ALWAYS afford to cram every illegal narcotic known to pharmacy science into his head.

He knows. Oh fuck yeah, he knows.