Dangerspouse Rides Again

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Garage - Track

Oct. 11, 2004 - 5:06 a.m.




I am decidedly perturbed this morning. And somewhat drunk. At work. A combination that does not bode well for a good Air Shift.

The genesis of this sad state of affairs is to be found in England, and some months ago....

My buddy Bob is one of the nicest guys I know. Yeah we ALL say that about our buddies, but if you're anything like me then you're lying when you say that, too. Except in Bob's case. Bob is a genuine Nice Guy.

No, he's not gay. He's too nice a guy for that. He's nice in a straight way, I mean.

Here's how nice he is:

I've known Bob for around a decade now. We race motorcycles together (he's better than me, dammit, but he's too nice to hate him for it) and he's a regular guest at the Dangerhouse. But in all these years I never knew he had an MBA. And I wouldn't have know except that when I was helping him do some drywall at his place I spotted the diploma, tucked away in a corner.

"Bob? You have...an MBA??"

"Oh. Yeah, I guess I do."

"What the fuck, dude? I've always known you as The Guy Who Installs T1 Lines For Verizon. Are you telling me you could actually be working a job where you don't come home flecked with itchy pink insulation every day?"

"That's right."


Turns out he put the sheepskin to work for a few years upon graduating, then called it quits. He's such a nice guy that all the pressure, backstabbing and general sliminess inherent in Real World Business (as opposed to Theoretical College Business Courses) started giving him a Real World Ulcer in his 20's. He stayed just long enough to fund a new house, a bunch of motorcycles and a roomfull of guitars, then bagged it all. He also socked enough away that he could take a demotion doing something he loved - installing T1 lines apparently - and still live comfortably. Which he does.

Another advantage he has in the money management department is that he is still single (although he's not overly happy about it). So he gets to buy a new motorcycle every year, and races it all over the world. Seriously, he plans his vacations around major international events in our sport and ships his bikes hither and yon for them. And because he's Bob, "World's Nicest Fellow(tm)", he has friends all over the globe who are always thrilled when he accepts their open invitation to stay with them when he's in their country.

Well, a few months back he stayed with "Graham" when he was in England for a week. Graham has a small farm in a bucolic corner of Merry Olde where he, his wife and 10 year old daughter raise horses. Graham also races motorcycles and - like everyone else - instantly fell in love with Bob when he met him at an event several years ago. When he heard that Bob was returning for another race, he immediately wrote him to offer lodgings, food, and the carnal companionship of his wife and daughter during his stay.

So Bob stayed for a week at Graham's.

The racing was fun.

The horses were cute.

The entire family loved Bob.

Of course.

At week's end Graham drove Bob back to Heathrow Airport, and after a tearful farewell waved the plane off the runway.

Graham did not drive home after Bob took off.

Graham stayed in the lounge at Heathrow Airport for two more hours until a certain other plane from Brazil landed. On board was a certain Brazilian girl that Graham had met at a race in Spain the year before, and with whom he'd been corresponding ever since.

Graham is such an accommodating chap! Offering his bucolic English horse farm as a way station to international travellers, free of charge.

The girl got off the plane, said HOLA! to Graham, and they got in his car. On the drive to the farm they listened to old Madness tapes and newer Salsa cd's (just a guess - not that I'm stereotyping).

When they pulled in to the Estate, Graham bounded up the stairs, opened the door and in a hearty voice called his wife and daughter to meet their new guest.

The he said, "Guess what? I'm leaving with her to start a new life in Brazil! Bye!"

And out the door he went. Right back to Heathrow with Brazilian Bombshell and a hastily packed suitcase.

Left it all behind - farm, horses, motorcycles, and a stunned wife and daughter.

Ah, love. So fleeting.

Three weeks later, when finally able to speak again, the ex-Mrs. Graham called Bob up and told her tale of woe. She then said a change of venue might be therapeutic. If she got up the airfare to fly to America, could she and her 10 year old daughter stay with him?

How would you expect the World's Nicest Fellow(tm) to reply? Of COURSE she could stay at Stately Bob Manor!

Bob also mentioned that he has this friend named "Dangerspouse" who is rather, um, 'entertaining', and would she be interested in meeting him and NewWifey(tm) at their hilltop retreat?

Of COURSE she would!

So yesterday - Sunday - Bob and Scorned British Babe (and child) showed up at DangerHouse bearing beer, wine, and a hamper full of the World's Best BBQ. (I'd previously suggested to Bob that he order some for the occasion. For insurance, I ordered half a BBQ'd Half Pig (The "Bovine Blast") from them also. This is AMERICA, dammit. I wanted to show that her former Colony had progressed beyond Bangers and Mash, Toad-in-the-Hole and Mashy Peas since leaving the mother ship.)

Other than the pall cast by Mrs. G's odd crying jag and the daughter's constant wail imploring "Daddums" to come home, we had a terrific time.

Then came lunch.

God bless European child rearing sensibilities. The first thing Ms. Dumped did was pull out a bottle of cheap "Champagne" and a jug of orange juice, informing me that her daughter enjoys Mimosas during lunch.

10 years old!

Hey, who am I to deprive some deserving clinic of a liver transplant recipient? I mixed up a batch of Mimosas and kept the kid's glass full the entire two hour repast. She almost drained the pitcher too - and with no visible effects other than a slight thickening of her oh-so-cute accent ("Oh Mumsy, I rah-ther fancy these Yanks and their rough ways...*hick*...).

Then -

Along around 4 o'clock the phone rang. It was my boss.

"Hi, Danger? Yeah, listen, we need you to come in at midnight tonight. Greg has to leave three hours early because of an emergency at his other job. See ya then."


Three hours early?

I should have been in bed an hour ago then! In order to be on the air by midnight I need to get there at 11:30 to do show prep, which means leaving my house by 10:30, which means waking up at...well, 10:25. If I want to brush my teeth.

And I wasn't even tired yet!

So I called a huddle with NewWifey(tm) and told her I was gonna have to abandon ship, pop a sleeping pill on top of all the Mint Juleps I'd been downing, and get right to sleep. Disappointed as she was, she knows that's how it is in this wacky business called Radio. I went in and gave a hasty excuse to the guests about how my gout was acting up, and I hoped they have a safe flight back to Merry Olde, and best wishes for Mom to find a new - and stable - man soon so that cute-accent daughter doesn't inevitably grow up to be a bitter lesbian. They were suprised, but bade me goodnight anyway. And continued drinking.

At 11:30pm, bleary eyed, still reaking of bourbon and BBQ, I staggered into my studio and said hi to Greg. I wasn't angry at the guy - he's only a fill-in, and being called to his regular job early wasn't his fault. I told him he has my sympathy.

"Ah, don't feel bad for me" he said. "I don't really have to go to my job at all today. But see, my wife and I are trying to have a baby and we have an appointment at the fertility clinic at 10. And I wanna be rested up so I can sqeeze as much into that paper cup as possible. I want you to know I appreciate you coming in early, though."


I had to leave guests who'd flown all the way over from England, stop drinking, leave BBQ'D RIBS FROM KANSAS CITY UNEATEN ON THE TABLE, and arrive at work unshowered 3 hours early all because some jerkoff wanted to jerk off with a clear head?

On top of everything else: I hate kids, and wouldn't have agreed to come in early NO MATTER WHAT if I'd known that by doing so I was helping possibly bring another one into the world.


I was seething, I tell you, with the white hot hatred of a man denied his due ammount of beer.

But...I didn't say anything. Not to him. Not then.

However, for the first time in my 10 years of broadcasting, I...I...

I ratted someoneout. Right after he left, the smile on my face was replaced by a snarl and I fired off an angry still-drunken tirade of an e-mail to my Program Director, telling how he'd been duped by this fill-in, and to never ever ask me to come in early for him again, even if by doing so he could get to the hospital in time to save his dying mother with a bone marrow transplant. I wasn't buying it.

And now here it is, almost 9 hours later. Between the lingering effects of Demon Rum and bile production, this has been a torturous entry to write, even though at times it was the only thing keeping me awake. Hope the length of this wasn't too off-putting, but I really needed it. I'm finally fully sober, although you wouldn't know it if you were down wind of me. Now the real, bone melting weariness - as well as slight post-binge nausea - has set in. Some of my rage has subsided as a result, though not enough that I feel guilty about zapping a co-worker whom I've known for almost a decade (and helped train). He deserves every deformity his kid will hopefully be stricken with - the sins of the father get passed on to his children the Bible says, right? Something about evil men producing crooked sperm, I think. Whatever. As long as it's comically crippling as Thalidomide syndrom, I'll consider the score even.

God, I don't even know what I'm typing anymore. Just hitting the keys stream of consciousness to pass the time til I can grab the car keys and get back to my pillow. 5 minutes and counting, Houston....

Oooh - one funny thing actually DID come out of this whole thing: Greg told me that the last time he was at the fertility place, they gave him a paper cup and the only porno flick they had left: "Midgets Take Manhattan"!!

BWAHAHAAAA!! Talk about short-cummings!

He told me it took him like 20 minutes just to get it up, and then stroke furiously with his eyes squinting so the lumpy legs and mishapen torsos started to look human. At the half hour mark one of the nurses even knocked on the door to ask him if he was alright. How great is that?


The factory whistle has blown kids, and so have I.

It's martini time! See ya - call if you need me to come in early for ya. Happy to do so.....


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