Sheetrock Adam and the Officer Who Said "Ouch"

Either there’s been a week-long full moon, or Seattle got a batch of seriously tainted Stoli. Either way, the boys have been completely crazy lately. I have a few stories to write up, but the first one has got to be the tale of Sheetrock Adam and the Officer Who Said “Ouch”.

Until about a year ago, Sheetrock Adam was in the Army. Those of us that know him intimately now may find it hard to believe, but he managed a military bearing whether he was being drilled here in the States, or performing out-reach around the young men of the fledgling Iraqi Army. In the finest tradition of American fighting men, Adam was always good-to-go, his weapon oiled and ready to unload into the enemy.

But since his discharge, Adam’s firm military bearing has drooped a bit. First, he started hanging out at the Crescent and dancing on the bar. He got sucked into a catfight between a Filipino drag queen and a Mexican tranny at Neighbors. His boxer shorts started appearing in Curtis’ bed. And one particularly rough night, my good sweet Carlos poured a beer on him. Not a pretty record.

The one thing keeping Sheetrock Adam from going completely off the straight-and-narrow has been his post-discharge National Guard requirement. Once a month, he spends a weekend at Fort Lewis getting drilled by officers and imposing his own harsh discipline on lower-ranked enlisted men. A couple days’ worth of ramrod-straight military discipline each month was all Adam needed to keep his shoulders back and his head up. That is, until last month.

Last month after a long day of drill, Adam put on his civvies and went to the base bowling alley for a couple Budweiser Spritzers. The drinks were flowing freely, and Adam’s new sleeveless Dolce T-shirt and linen Capri pants made him feel particularly sassy. Sometime around Spritzer number 6 or 8, a man in civvies started making disparaging remarks about enlisted men. It was the typical Army trash talk: enlisted men have no fashion sense, they can’t hold their Cosmos, they’re only good for licking officer’s boots and can’t even work a breech-loader.

Well, this last was just too much for Sheetrock Adam: he’d been training on the breech-loader for months and was determined to get certified. “You BITCH!” he cried, as he came off his barstool and backhanded the obnoxious man across the face. The poor fellow fell right off his barstool and sprawled on the floor, laying there like he needed a date.

And that’s when the MPs showed up. Turns out that guys talking trash about enlisted men are usually officers. And the Army doesn’t like officers getting slapped. Poor Sergeant Sheetrock Adam is now Private Sheetrock Adam, and is just getting reacquainted with his apartment after a month in the brig. But on the upside, his fellow prisoners helped him permanently stiffen his military bearing.

The Trivia Update

Last night was trivia night at Changes. I didn’t roll in until 7:30, but the boys had already staked out two tables. It was Paul, Curtis, Rick and I at one table, with Vel-Meeta, Joey, Sidekick, and Ben Dixon at the other table. It’s wasn’t a good night for us: my team won first place twice, but otherwise got skunked. The 420 Braintrust making up the other team won a 3^rd place pitcher when Rick defected to help them. We decided they needed help when Joey insisted that Francis Scott Key wrote “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” despite the fact it was a theme round where every answer started with “H.” Way to rock that GED, kiddo.

Just in time for the last two rounds of trivia, Melissa arrived with Jen to take me dancing. Everyone’s met Melissa, but no one had met Jen, and there’s no way to prepare them. She’s a big, brash, curvy girl with the largest natural breasts I have ever seen. They’re beyond huge, they’re like a force of nature. It’s hard to believe they weren’t photoshopped onto her somehow. She told us that just the other day she got a free oil change for whipping them out at Lube-r-Quik. Now that’s power.

Understand, I’m not into breasts and neither are the rest of the boys. Except one. Take a guess who it was that instantly tried to bury his face in Jen’s chest. Could it be a little Mexican from Orange County that’s on probation with his boyfriend? You got it: Paul was absolutely transfixed. At least this time it wasn’t a boy…..

In Which Curtis (briefly) Comes to His Senses

For my loyal fans who have been demanding an update, here are some tidbits:

• Woodsy has begun packing up his room, meaning that I finally have some dishes in my cupboards again. Carlos thinks I’m terrible for eating in bed, but Woodsy has me beat. Maybe in the new place Woodsy can put a dishwasher next to the bed…

• On Sunday I went to Changes for the softball beer bust. Madge, James, and a cutie named Matt showed up and got me drunk then dragged me to the Cuff. I bought a raffle ticket for a date and dinner for two (with a guy named Ernesto, no less) and won! I declined the date and took Carlos for dinner, where we discovered (not surprisingly) that Carlos and Ernesto know each other. Good times.

• Bruce is going on a little trip tomorrow. I’m assuming he’s consulting on a new “Living Dead” movie, since he’s eminently qualified to speak from the zombie perspective. Who knew that there was a market for drunken, shambling old gay men?

• Little Adam has a pilot “friend” back in town. They’d “hung out” once or twice, but then the guy moved away. Well, he’s back and Adam’s all atwitter. One night soon, we’ll be hearing giggling and cooing coming from the basement.

• Apparently, Curtis had a lucid moment Sunday night and threw Paul out. Word on the street is the dispute was about “missing dinner.” I didn’t know “missing dinner” meant an orgy with deaf midgets and a mountain of blow, but you learn something new every day. Paul insists that nothing happened. Carlos, on the other hand, came home Sunday night to Paul drunk and sobbing helplessly on my couch. Sadly, Curtis lapsed and took Paul back, but not before he had spent the night on Woodsy’s floor. Paul, my spare room is always open to you if Curtis ever permanently comes to his senses.

• And finally, longtime readers will remember JPK and the love of his life, Ross (aka Dress 4 Less, aka Fists of Fury). It was all grassy fields and one year leases in their two-level Issaquah cookie-cutter townhome. Good thing they didn’t sign a 2 year lease, because Ross is living on the Hill. Single. I’m waiting for the JPK blog update on this one.

And that’s it kids. Nothing else going on, but tonight’s Wednesday (the new Thursday) so I’m sure there’ll be more material soon!