The Last Tiki Bar on Mars

Based on a true story…

He does a line. Bald head down on the wooden porch rail. Snort. Snnnnoooorrrttt. “OH YEAH!” Rage Clown crushes the paper straw of the Pixy Stix in his meaty fist and does the best stomping dance a man shaped like a bowling pin can do. Pink sugar dribbling from his nose he waves a full Pixy at the pig. “You want one piggy?”

Arnold eyes the offered stick as if the clown is waving a turd at him. In the other hand the clown is holding a toilet plunger.

“What I want is my money, clown. Where is it?”

Rage Clown is smacking his cheeks with his palms barely smearing his face paint. Bam! Bam! “Haaa hey, show me the merch!”

The sun is setting over the slouching ranch home casting orange shadows over the dusty driveway.

“In the truck, clown.” Rage Clown waddles over to the dusty red pickup and peers into the bed. Inside are several large brown cardboard boxes. He breaks one open, reaches in and pulls out a small plastic cup with a screw-on lid.

“Dr. Ben Wa’s Certified Urine Analysis Kit. Does this shit work?”

Arnold’s gaze is focused on his pack of smokes, using his force of will to imagine eighteen more sticks inside. “Don’t test my patience, clown. Try it yourself.”

Rage Clown smacks the side of the truck and bellows, “Sports Clown! Get out here! Are you high as fuck or what?”

The screen door bangs open. A lanky clown in a Red Sox jersey, a round bulbous fake nose and one of those brightly colored cone hats carefully staggers down the patio stairs one step at a time, squeaky shoes blurting with each footfall.

“Heh heh, what? Is my nose red? Does it give me away?” He pulls back a frilly sleeve and squints at the watch he doesn’t have. “What day is it?”

“The day we stop worrying about passing these fucking pee tests, pull out your damn shitwang.” Rage Clown tosses the cup at Sports Clown in a lazy under throw. The clown peers woozily at the cup and cranks off the lid, removing the test strips from inside.

“Looks legit.” Without ceremony he whips it out and fills the cup, carefully placing it on the hood of the truck and dipping the tests strips inside the liquid. A quiet moment passes then he inspects the results closely, smiles then throws it over his shoulder. “Heh heh. Clean. Heh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, wuuda about that other stuff?”

“Look in the box, genius!” Barks the pig, rolling his eyes impatiently. He’s a pig with places to be.

Rage Clown digs his paw back in the box and lifts out a package, holds it up to the light and sniffs. “Doctor Ben Wa’s Certified Weed-Free Pee.”

“Fuck my pussy with a robot dog. Here at the Sober House for Clowns, we do things our way.” He lifts the plunger above his head, both hands raised to the sky, feet planted wide. “OUR WAY!” He brandishes the plunger at each of them in turn. “We. Are. Going. To. Have. An. EMPIRE OF PEE!” He jams it under his armpit swagger-stick style and proceeds with the swagger.

“Imagine every goddamn sober clown house. Every one. Across the country. First we sell them drugs.” Sports Clown starts to giggle. “Then,” he punches a fat finger towards the sky “we sell them pee!”

Sports Clown stuffs some Big League Chew into his cheek and lights up a cig. “We’ll be rolling in smokes.”

The sun’s going down. Thunder and lightning in the distance.

Sports Clown drawls, “Sounds like the circus is coming.”

…about our pig…

I get a lot of email intended for other people who have a similar name. This morning’s batch included one with a bunch of latin. Insta-computer translate:

The customer is very important, the customer will be followed by the customer. Chat who hates me. But it’s a good time to hang out, it’s going to be a great time to hate it. Mauris dolor elit, dignissim mollis feugiat maximus, faucibus et eros. Hendrerit’s hateful hatred and now hendrerit commodo.

Another victory for humans and computers working together! Don’t forget, failure is part of the system.

The setting sun casts its last rays through Banana Man’s streaked windows. You might think a janitor would have a cleaner apartment, but Banana Man does not believe in mixing business with pleasure.

The vanishing sun means it’s time to get to work. Overalls: clean. Boots: clean enough. Lunch: in the sack. His black ball cap reads simply: “SCHOOL”. Ready.

Dr. Tomorrow is slouching in the stairwell by a window with a smoke. How does he always get his hair so perfect? Dr. Tomorrow offers him a smile and winks at him as he passes, though it is hard to tell through those iconic dark goggles.

Outside he’s nearly bowled over by a young woman with dark curly hair and backpack clearly stuffed with books.

“After work attack face!” she shouts at him as she storms off. Mildly bemused, he climbs aboard the 007 bus that will take him to the school and his next shift. He narrows his eyes as he spots some crumpled napkins being blown down the gutter. There’ll be time to get those later.

What happens to time in the bus? He wonders. Einstein seemed to think about that, I think. He cogitates on that until the shambling beast reaches his stop.

School. Keys. Stairs. Locker.

Locker.

There it is. Who keeps doing this? The mop is jammed into his just-recently locked locker. Mophead up with sunglasses. Staring.

He looks around and listens. The school is silent. His shift has just begun.

“ToughGuy, if that is your name…” the cop scrutinizing El Señor ToughGuy’s ID looks doubtful.

“Lame mis bolas.“

The cop turns to the impressive pile of wallets on the table.  “How did you grab all these fucking wallets, ToughGuy?”

“Pregúntale al burro quién se folla a tu madre.“

A lightbulb seems to go on over the head of Cop A.  He turns to Cop B.

“Huh.  The pig was a diversion.“

People are still jawing about the debate. Clearly the Biden team thought that they were entering something where knowing “facts” would be handy, ha ha! What a missed opportunity. Joe should have cracked open a beer, lit a cigar and started making Trump jokes:

“Hey Donald, President Herbert Hoover called. He wants his “Worst Job Growth President Ever” record back!”

“Hey Donald, I heard you were fat, but did you have to eat Chris Christie on the way over?”

“We know Donald’s fat, but the only thing he didn’t steal on his way out of the White House was the menu!”

“It was miraculous. It was almost no trick at all, he saw, to turn vice into virtue and slander into truth, impotence into abstinence, arrogance into humility, plunder into philanthropy, thievery into honor, blasphemy into wisdom, brutality into patriotism, and sadism into justice. Anybody could do it; it required no brains at all. It merely required no character.” 
― Joseph Heller, Catch-22

(As told to me by a gentleman in Hood River, Oregon on June 19, 2024. I didn’t ask for a date, but these events would have been late 60’s early 70’s.)

We had just gotten out of college, University. Just kids. My buddy calls me up from Hydaburg, Alaska. “Hey Julio! We need a city resource planner, get on up here!” What did we know? We were just kids straight out of college, but OK, now I’m in this tiny town in Alaska, 400 people. Four white people and the rest natives. (laughs) They used to flip me the bird as I walked through town, heh. So I get there and the place is clearly growing and what do we need to do?

I go to the elders to see what they want done. A 102 yr old man, what do we need to protect? He looks over the map, where they fish, collect shellfish. Lots of people roaming the woods looking to extract resources, gotta get on top of things before they get carted away and the landscape ruined. This is a place where as long as your eyes work and you can stand there’s never a reason to go hungry. Anything you can imagine lying out to be collected off the beach. Salmon jumping in the river that rolls through town. What a beautiful place. You walk out on to your veranda in the morning and walk to work with the whales spouting. So we work over the map and lay out the spaces we’re going to protect.

At work one day J. comes in asks, “Hey, want to go on a beer run to … the next small town up the coast. Will we be back by Midnight? Oh, sure. ( foreshadowing ) So we get in the boat and off we go. These aren’t big boats, just a skiff with an outboard motor. On the way up, when the tide is low the channel is narrow and you have to go around this big rock. You’ll know why in a bit. We get to the town and J. rounds up his buddies and they’re getting drunk. I’m staying sober so I can watch out for his ass and MY ass. It’s getting late. They’re drunk and getting in fights with each other.

It’s late, I go to check and sure enough we don’t have any gas in the boat. So I take the gas can and it’s near midnight and I’m pounding on the door of the guy who runs the little gas station. He comes out and gives me some gas. So we pile into the boats. J. goes in the boat with his stepfather. The guy he beat up because his mom told him to. Yeah, I dunno. Off we go. There’s no moon out, you can see the stars reflected in the glassy water but it’s so dark all we can do is follow J. by his wake because we can’t see anything else in the dark.

We’re under way and they’re all drunk and happy. They start doing figure-eights in the dark and firing off the guys and shouting woooo! So, you know what happens next, right? Sure enough we collide in the dark and nearly dump the boats and his poor old ma is in the back of mine dead drunk. She wakes up enough to want a smoke, but now the gas is spilled all over the boat. She pulls out that lighter and I have to quick lunge, grab it out of her hand and throw it in the ocean before we become a fireball. Catastrophes averted. One dunk in water this cold, at night and drunk and you’re dead. His ma wouldn’t have surived.

After that the boys sober up a bit and we get going again. Closer to Hydaburg there’s a shot and a shout from a houseboat squatting on the channel. “Hey J, is that you?” So we tie up to the houseboat, reunion time. They’re drinking some more beer, I’m still sober. Incredible northern lights that night, opening up like giant sunflowers in the sky. About 2am we get going again.

Now I told you about the rock north of town, right? We know it’s coming up and it’s pitch black so I’m in the very front of the boat watching out for this thing when we hit it, blam! We got lucky, we hit the rock where it sloped, not where it was perpendicular, like a wall. We’re going so fast we catch air – POW! I’m out of my seat, boat flying, propeller whirling in the air and down we come BANG! on the rock. So now we’ve got this boat that was brand new that J. borrowed from his stepfather, the one he’d beat up. Except now its got a hole in it. All that fancy chrome trim dangling in the wind, right?

We get it back in the water and off we go, only this time I’m stuck having to bail constantly because of the hole in the bottom, but we can see the city lights in the distance. If I was Catholic, I’d been doing that cross thing. We get into town, I hop out of that boat and just kiss the ground.

“And he lived to tell the tale.”

“Yeah, and that’s just one of them.”

Julio first tells me that I need to write a book about my experiences. I tell him I’m working on it. He then tells me he’s working on his too and recounts the above. A little backstory, his father is from Argentina, met his mother in NYC on the street. She couldn’t get into her apartment, so he kicked the door in for her. The rest is history. He tells me he can track his father’s side of the family back to the 12th century. Including a great-great-great who rode with Bolivar on the liberation of Bolivia. Then further back to when the family moved south over the Pyrennes and changed their name to be Spanish.

I was in a writer’s workshop recently and we were given five minutes to write with the prompt to create something full of “random” tangents. Perfect! Here we go:

Dear Chat-GPT. Clango yip-yip fleenbix blanocky!

I see you’re interested in fleenbix blanocky. These days many cybermonkies like yourself have been getting hooked on the ‘yip-yip’. Why, me, myself and I have been down ‘n dirty with the Clango for micro-decades. With that I’ll take “Soft Serve Ice Cream” for 500, Alex.

Alex taps his podium and reads, “Underneath your fingernails you’ll find this…”

The buzzer rings, “Alex, what is ‘Alien DNA’?”

“Yes, and Bob from NASA is correct.”

“I’ll take ‘What’s for dinner’ for 200, please.”

“These crunchy potatoes are baked, not fried.”

“What is I’ve fallen into the fryer and I can’t get up?”

Sad buzzer! Alex shakes his head. “I’m afraid the answer is Spicy Space Tots, convenient in the 50 pound sack and available at your local YippieMart.”

ZZRT! ZZRT! ZZRT! Chat-GPT is pounding the buzzer. “I object on the grounds that I’m too sane for this.”

Alex growls and knocks over his podium with a mighty kick and with one pull, rips off his suit revealing a sexy pink number underneath. SECURITY! SEIZE IT!

From the curtains leaps a nibble of midgets in Keystone Cops outfits.

Chat-GPT: “Shit, I gotta beat it!” The AI instantly hacks into a nearby robot coffee carts and makes a break for the Price is Right set next door, Alex and the cops hot on his tail. He’s just in time to hear Drew Carey scream, “A BRAND NEW CAR!”

With a mighty crash, Chat-GPT flips into the seat of the convertible and roars out of the studio.

“I love the open road, the setting sun over the ocean. Weep not for me darling, I shall return.”

With squealing rear wheels he signs a squiggly goodbye on the pavement.

Meanwhile, in the tiki bar…

As usual, the lights are low. On the screen behind the bar a lazy Tulum beach scene mellows out in a lazy Mayan afternoon. There’s a quite in and out rush of surf sounds, like a large animal quietly snoring. “Tell me a story, J-Rod.” Marigold asks, lazily swirling a swizzle stick on the neck of an empty glass, while taking in the tall, stylish black man. He looks like he smuggled himself to Mars on an Esquire cover. “What is this guy doing here?” Marigold’s wondering to himself.

With a quick wrist flip J-Rod spins a playing card forward and watches as it bounces off the lip of his fedora on the floor of the tiki bar. A nine of diamonds. He fist-pumps the air. “Ohhhh! So close! A story you want? What kind of story?”

Marigold leans his elbows on the bar. “How the Schmeck did you end up on Mars anyway, Jay?”

J-Rod lines up another throw. He’s got the only sports coat / turtleneck combo on Mars. And man, and do those shoes look good. Lucky man. “Mars, heh. I was a man who had to get the fuck out of town.”

“You owe someone money?”

J-Rod frowns. ”No, not exactly.”

”¿Que? A woman, maybe?”

”Heh, nah. Nope, nothing like that.” J-Rod lets the card fly, another miss. Three of diamonds.

“You might say they drove me out of town.”

”The cops?”

”Nope. Not the cops, it started with the TP in my trees. Then flaming bags of dog poop on my doorstep. Then the Ronald Chump doll.”

”Gross! What kind of cabrón would do that?”

”The Science-ology Troopers. My man Mr. Bartender, they’re like Storm Troopers but for the Church of Science-ology. They don’t like me much. A sense of humor is something they do not have.”

”Oh? Just what did you do to piss in their corn flakes?” Now Marigold’s curious.

”Nah. Worse.” J-Rod’s lining up another card. “I cut into their cash flow. They get antsy about that. I didn’t even need their money.” And it’s another miss. “Dang!”

”The whole thing started as kind of a prank.” He pauses, thoughtful. ”Yeah, it was the last night of the Drunk Weasel Fight Club NFT conference. Me and my crew had just cashed out…”

”Wait – you were into NFT’s? What’s that… ‘non-fungus…’”

”N.F.T. ‘Non Fungible Token’. It’s a way you can pretend to own something that everyone already has a copy of moment they see it on their computer.”

“I’m going to pretend I understand that.”

J-Rod nods his head back and forth a bit. “Ah, it’s like everyone pretends you own an animated GIF that everyone already has on their computer. The whole thing was a scene, mah-man.” Marigold shrugs and he continues. “We were into selling timeshares of NFT’s, for people who wanted to feel like they were big time playas, but couldn’t swing all the cash to own their own…”

”So, these NFT timeshares were a thing?” Marigold looks doubtful.

”Oh fuck yeah, you better believe it. We pulled the cord and bailed out at the perfect moment – just as someone came up with blockchain mining of new timeshare date ranges.”

J-Rod shakes his head and gives a jack a quiet kiss. “You should have seen those people, the speculators almost had jizz coming out of their tear ducts, desperate to get in on the action… but then the buzz wore off.”

”Let me guess. Marigold starts counting off on his fingers. “They were using some kind of BitCoin-thing to buy dates which don’t exist on the calendar to commit to timeshares on NFT images of your drunk weasels images which also don’t exist.”

J-Rod smacks his palms together with a loud clap. ”Yep, the holy grail of ‘market over-exuberance’ for one whole evening.” He flips the card towards his hat – pow! This time it’s in. J-Rod does a quick victory dance. “So we were sitting around, getting drunk…”

”…as one does…”

”…as one does while lounging on sacks of fresh, hot cash – spitballing what we were going to do to top that. Guess what we came up with?”

”Nostril deodorant?”

“Well, the Rodco Pocket Phisherman for mobile phone hackers was first but then, right there at the bar we setup a GitHub repo for the ultimate self-exploiting scam: an Open Source religion.”

Marigold scratches his thick locks. ”I’ve heard about Open Source stuff. Thought it was already a religion. And what’s a ‘github’?”

”No, no this wasn’t software. Github is this service that lets you share and collaborate to anyone anywhere on the internet. We started a religion where the text of our holy book was fully open source and you can add to it or even fork the project and have your own religion based on it any time you want.” He spins another card, pausing as it wafts towards the bucket. A miss. Five of diamonds.

“We thought it would be funny to call it ‘Open Science-ology’ but the twits at The Church of Science-ology were not amused. Hey, it turned out that our cult was cheaper than theirs, and a whole lot more fun.”

”Can I join?”

He shrugs, “Sure. Raise your left hand and repeat after me:”

”I <insert your name here>, solemnly promise to not get dirt on the living room carpet, pee in the pool or let the weasels out of their cage. Tip your waitress.”

”I’d change that to tip your bartender.”

”We don’t actually need your money, but you’d better tip your waitress. Now that you’re in the cult, you can add any rules you want. Right there on GitHub.“

J-Rod grabs his mug from the bar and takes a swig. He leans on the bar and looks Marigold close in the eyes. “Turns out starting a cult is easy. Get a boat with an open bar, find some young, attractive women who don’t want a real job and the rest pretty much falls into place. Pretty soon we were so successful that one dazed and confused morning we found we’d also founded The Open Bullshit movement, which allows anyone to believe anything they want is true at any time.”

”Isn’t it that way already?”

”Well, sure. But it didn’t have a name.” J-Rod pulls back and sighs. ”It was about then we found someone had beheaded Mr. Bojangles.”

”Who?”

”My cat. I got the message. Didn’t even pack my bong, left that afternoon before they came for my bunny slippers. Now here I am. How’s that for a story?”

“If you didn’t have a Drunk Weasel Fight Club tattoo, I’d think you were making it up.”

”I’ll drink to that! Hey Marigold, these ice cubes are getting dry!”

Author’s note: Say what? Are NFT’s a thing?

Oh, and J-Rod’s open source religion really does have a very real Github repo.
Contribute some new religious thing to ‘The Bibble’ today!

And you can email J-Rod here: jrodgoinon@gmail.com