The Indefinite Acid Dispenser by Michael Benedict and K.C.Crewton

The indefinite acid dispenser

by Crispy 'K.C.' Crewton

He gets on with life as a ring tailed Toki Toki bird ,

He's a High riding kinda guy.

He likes blue barrels on Sundays,

He likes the red and green dots through the week.

He likes to play with the Indefinite acid .

But when he starts to sparkle 

His mind turns straight to The Dispenser .

He likes to use words like 'Obwobnobba,'

He likes to use words like 'Holy canabanal.'

He'll twist out words about The Indefinite acid .

But when he stops his talking,

His mind turns straight to The Dispenser .

He likes to hang out with Captain Quality ,

He likes to kick back with the Cosmic cowboy ,

But when left alone,

He turns and tunes into The Dispenser .

He's not too fond of Herman the ring-tailed Toki Toki bird ,

He really hates His Ring-tailed talk,

But he just thinks back to The Dispenser ,

And he's happy once again but lost.

The day I met Eric T. Larson.

a story by David Dripps.


The year was somewhere around 1990... it is all a blur to me now.

I remember it something like this.

Eric, do you still drive the same 1973 Mercury Capri you drove on our ill-fated cross country trip that went tragically wrong when we stopped briefly at the I-70 rest stop just East of Limon Colorado to refill the profusely leaking radiator during the deepest throes of a blistering, white-out snow storm?

Filling plastic jugs with water in the men's room, we had no idea that fate was waiving her middle finger at us. In the far stall, collapsed like a fetus in a 180 day ultrasound, laid a crippled and defeated Hispanic male.

A crippled, dying Hispanic man.

He was no more than five feet tall and 120 pounds. Introducing himself as Ishmael, he was doubled over and dry heaving in a puddle of his own wretch under a porcelain toilet, succumbed to the perils of alcohol and prescription drug withdrawal.

His left hand was permanently tightened in a contorted, painful fist that he waved like a club while calling Hugo Chavez the devil. He plead with us to take the keys to his Ford LTL 9000 class 8 tanker and drive it over the ice covered and landslide prone Monarch pass and deliver its cargo of 8,000 gallons of highly flammable compressed propane to a desperate Pima Indian reservation near Moab, Utah. I grabbed him just under the shoulders and lifted his brittle, diseased body over the toilet bowl to give him the final dignity of at least being able to puke on his knees and go out like a man and not some pitiful bum. The gold cross on his necklace slipped into the toilet water as he gave repeated wheezing, labored, and moaning heaves.

Mr. Larson takes command.

Leaving the Capri behind, you sat in the driver’s seat and turned the key. The mighty in line six cylinder 855 cubic inch Cummins diesel engine coughed to life with authority. Without hesitation I ran to join you, taking a last pull on the joint and stopping only to pop a couple of amyl nitrates. I jumped into the cab beside you.

Pedal to the metal, the turbo spooling, you ignored all weigh stations along the way while taking repeated chin slobbering pulls off a 1.75 liter bottle of Jim Beam and praying we’d avoid getting pulled over since you had no CDL license and had never driven a truck before.

We re-routed over Berthoud pass hoping for a break from the icy conditions. It turned out to be a horrible decision and a major tactical mistake. Snow fall worsened. You refused to slow down and when we crested a hill at over 75 MPH, there was a rabbit sitting in the middle of the road. Mashing the brakes to the floor, the wheels locked up and the 80,000 lb trailer jack knifed sideways, sliding another half mile down the mountain pass and finally settling against a guard rail, blocking both lanes of traffic. An Aspen branch pierced the hood and snapped the fuel line. We weren’t going anywhere. The Pima Indians were going to have to tough it out.

A good Samaritan.

.
Fortunately, a driver going the opposite direction on his way to Kansas witnessed the whole thing. He offered to drop us back off at the rest stop in Limon where we’d left the Capri. It was our only hope. It took us another four hours to make it. In a panicked frenzy, we raced into the rest room to break the bad news to Ishmael. I kicked open the door to the stall but he was nowhere to be found. All that remained was his gold cross necklace sitting in the bottom of the toilet. You dipped your hand into the bowl and retrieved it, wiping it off on your shirt, gave it a kiss, and lifted it around your neck. “He left this behind for a reason,” you said, fighting back tears. “I don’t know why, but some day this will all make sense.” Last I heard you still wear it around your neck even to this day.

Pickled Eggs and Justice

This hideous concoction is the type of food my good friend David Dripps eats. He looks like a male model who lifts weights. I on the other hand eat grass and leaves and look like Mae West on steroids.  Life is not fair. 

From Facebook:  April 8, 2017.  

David Dripps 

My new favorite treat.  I do not recommend chasing down a jar of this with Pabst Blue Ribbons and cabbage on the eve of a six hour car drive with work associates.

Like · Reply · 12 hrs · Edited

John Hubertz 

Dave, What I find bizarre is that you eat like a trash compacter and look like what Adonis would look like if his face wrapped all the way around to the back of his neck. You are a magnificent beast! 

I will however, get revenge upon you and your entire genetic line for this gross injustice.

The injustice is, that despite your weak and despicable genetic heritage, you are still a man among man - a man-mountain, a God of strength and courage.  This isn't right.  Dave, unlike the trash heap you call a family,  I come from good people.  I'm not descended from an unbroken line of boozers, losers, bar flies and weak-chinned girly men like you.

Yet still Dave, you are you, and I am me.  This is unacceptable.

Dave, I'm from strong Hoosier stock. We plow fields before breakfast and tear out stumps with our bare hands. Yet even though I eat like a California yoga instructor, I look like the sweaty fat lady at the county fair on a hot day in South Louisiana. 

It's a good thing that due to my genetics, my good luck and sheer power of my will that I will outlive your muscly ass by 30 years, because I'm looking forward to jumping up and down on your grave until my huge mass makes a crater for your headstone to fall into.

I'm then going to use raw gasoline from a 55 gallon drum to roast a feral hog in that giant hole in your grave, and share the dripping meat with every female relative you have. By radiating my natural animal magnetism they will become aroused to the point that they ovulate, I'll then line them up and impregnate each and every one of them with my fat sweaty man juice.

John Hubertz So there. Like I said, I'll be getting you back.