Abigambi & Gonzo

My fellow bloggers, wannabe bloggers, new-be bloggers (such as myself) and the what–in-the-hell-is-a-blogger bloggers I am back from my trips to Roseburg and Grants Pass. I had a couple of assignments in southern Oregon. I couldn’t have planned better weather if I had a weather machine myself. Blue skies, crispy pre-autumn air, some smatterings of fog, and lots of trees made for a very relaxing trip. Jock had went along with me to keep me company and to tell me why at 17 he pretty much has the handle on all what is life.

Then after today I’ll be in Tacoma, Washington staying at the Sheraton. Way cool. There are times I hate this life as a traveling hit man but there are some perks that make it worth it. I'll be staying in amotel on the Puget Sound. This hit is only a small one so I planned a little relaxation for myself.

Last time I promised I would tell you about my friend Reverend Abigambi. When I was a young college Pirate I happened to live in an off-campus apartment complex where many Pirate training activities took place. I happened to have a small but eventful smattering of pirate friends. There was Lesby, Coon dog, Tony “Padre” Pope and Mr. Thomman, and Mr. Clark. Our jobs at the time were to rent as much beer as we possibly could and to liberate as many damsels as warranted. We had a grand time swashbuckling our ways through academia. Today those of us that aren't in prison are pillars in our communties. Okay, not pillars, but we do hold up things now and then.

Being an upper-classman at the time I had little to do with the dorm life. The only one person I knew at the dorm was my youngest brother, Deputy Dawg. One day Coon dog told me that he knew a guy that was moving into the apartment directly above mine. He told me the name and it sounded like some African name. I don’t mean an African-American name I mean an African name. Being a small town Oregon boy all I could think of was this would be interesting. I’ve never known anyone from Africa. The only foreigners I had ever met were Canadians and Californians.

Within a day or two of this news I was attending a get together, I mean a kegger at a house rented by a bunch dumbshit jocks. You know I love sports as much as the next guy and through the years as a Pirate I have over embellished many of my youthful athletic exploits, but if there is a group of obtuse dolts that have always tweaked my cuss its fuckhead college football players. I love football I am a major Ram fan. I’ll pour my heart for the Beavers and the Ducks, but I have little tolerance for steroidal primates taking up scholarship and grant money to achieve a 2.0 GPA when many people are denied the opportunity to a better education because they lack some athletic prowess. Don’t get me started. I can bitch about this later.

By now you’re probably asking what does this have to do with the Reverend. Was the Reverend a football player? No fortunately he was not. Though I believe he would have given his left nut to be a shortstop for the Cincinnati Reds. But at this particular party the place had went almost over the top. Enough to make Girl’s Gone Crazy look like a prayer meeting. As I was wandering around the house looking for something to pillage and plunder I came upon my young brother, Deputy Dawg. He was leaning his large drunken body against some guy he said was from his dorm that just moved to the apartment above mine. This guy couldn’t be any further from being an African. Holding up my youngest brother was this 5’8”-ish, blonde hair, blue-eyed, fair skinned farm boy from one of the many Willamette Valley Catholic/Aryan settled farm communities that pepper the valley, the kid looked like John Denver if he looked like anybody. Sporting a shit-eating grin and a good start on some MIP beverage was my first meeting with my spiritual guru; the ying to my yang.

The party eventually got out of hand. More white tank tops began being tossed around. More kegs were popped. The music was getting louder. And the hosts began to be total butt-licks pulling out guns and making fools out of themselves. Next thing you know my new found friend the Reverend Abigambi, Deputy Dawg and myself found ourselves in the bathroom where people leave some of their most volatile possessions; toothbrushes, tooth paste, shampoo.

I have to admit for the next couple of months when I would see one of the jock hosts in a class or on campus acting like some big shot all I could think of was pissy shampoo, toilet cleaning toothbrushes, and butt crack toothpaste. Being the evil Pirate I was turning into, I’d always make some off hand remark about their hygiene. They would smile and think I was a funny Pirate. Arrr. One of their many followers; a fan.

The Reverend over the next twenty years would become more of my counter balance. Always waiting for me to make a comment so he could right my ship. He has since out-lived John Denver and has become a semi-reputable citizen. If it weren’t for his lovely and gracious wife I am confident he would have ended up as a prom queen in Cellblock C in some prison in Arizona. He does have a pretty mouth.

You may see him pop up now and then with another moniker. Stir the shit and trying with his best to piss off the establishment, or what he perceives as the establishment. Lately you may have seen him masquerading around under the name Jeff Gannon.

On a final note it would make this world a better place if you’d all take a few moments and think about the recent passing of a great shit stirrer. Hunter S. Thompson chose to leave the cesspool for another dimension this last weekend. Though I rarely agreed with his assessments of people I surely loved his style of flicking shit and keeping the ruling class on notice. So pop one, twist one and shoot one for the Gonzo.