Title: Hair of the Corn Dog
Genre: Humor
Author: A.K. Turner
Publisher: Fever Streak Press
Pages: 220
Format: Hardcover/Kindle
Purchase at AMAZON
In the
latest laugh-out-loud confessional from A.K. Turner's "Tales of
Imperfection" series, the author of This Little Piggy Went to the
Liquor Store and Mommy Had a Little Flask relates her adventures on
the Jersey Shore Idaho
Chapter 1
Humpin’ Hannah’s
Humpin’
Hannah’s seems determined to communicate via its name that it welcomes all
manner of people, especially those without class and with questionable hygiene.
If you’re in from out of town and want a slightly rednecky place to have a few
beers and maybe win a d***o, then it’s perfect. These days, I’d like to hold my
head high and say with confidence that I don’t hang out at a place that awards
plastic replicas of the male genitalia to the most enthusiastic dancers. And
I’m all for d****s, really. I’m no prude.
If
a bar has Humpin’ in the name, I’m compelled to object. First of all, is it so
hard to pronounce the g? And what is the object of the phrase, as in
humpin’ Hannah’s what? What is it of Hannah’s that’s being humped? Or is
Hannah the humper? Does she hump compulsively? Is there a support group that
might be of some help to her? Is she a promiscuous young lady? Or a dog that
behaves inappropriately with the legs of guests at her master’s dinner parties?
Humpin’ Hannah sounds like she might be a good fit for Dirty Little Roddy,
whose establishment is just a block or so away. While a few drinks topped off
with a dollop of peer pressure can convince me to enter Humpin’ Hannah’s, I’ve
made a solemn vow to never again frequent Dirty Little Roddy’s. I’m way too
uptight and pretentious to hang out at a place that doesn’t even try to be
clean—and instead proudly proclaims its filth in its name. Of course, I wasn’t
always so uptight and pretentious, and in our first few years in Boise
Maybe Humpin’ Hannah is too good for Dirty Little Roddy, I thought as we
entered. The place didn’t look so bad. I was accompanied by my husband, Mike,
and our friend Kelly, an old friend, all-around good guy, and occasional
drinking buddy. We played a few games of pool and drank horrible mixed drinks
(how do you sc**w up a rum and coke?) until realizing that beer was the safer
option. The band readied itself for the evening. I’d heard that the lead singer
was also the owner of the club. By owning the establishment, she guaranteed
that her band would headline the show every Friday and Saturday night. I’m sure in her day, she was quite the rocker.
She had the figure and the moves of a younger version of herself, yet her voice
strained to keep up, and I wondered how many more years of it she had in her.
Incidentally, her name was not Hannah.
A group of bikers from Utah Utah
Kelly loves to dance. He’s good at many things, and dancing ranks pretty high
on the list. But he’s single and doesn’t often have someone with whom to dance.
So Kelly and I took to the dance floor, probably for something along the lines
of “Brown-Eyed Girl” or “Sweet Home Alabama,” one of those songs that people my
age have heard about five thousand times too many. Kelly was a good dancer, and
I was able to follow, if clumsily so. But Kelly may have had a few too many
drinks at that point. He spun me around, our hands missed each other on the
catch, and I watched in horror as Kelly lumbered backwards in slow motion. I
felt like I should scream “Timber!” to the dance floor, but there was no way
I’d be heard above the band. A bouncer standing off to the side eyed us
narrowly as Kelly came crashing down, bumping into a group of the bikers and
their girlfriends along the way. I immediately began a chorus of “Sorry, so
sorry,” and hoped that no one would start swinging. Kelly got to his feet, and
we moved farther from the crowd to finish out the song. No one approached with
brass knuckles and a puffed-up chest to avenge their tarnished honor, and I
breathed a sigh of relief, though one of the girls did sneer at us, as if we’d
set out to bump her and therefore ruin her night. I wanted to tell her that
when she sneered like that, she was terribly unattractive, but then I
remembered that I’m an adult, so I bit my tongue.
Mike and I danced to a few songs and then, giving each other the look,
agreed that we were done. We bade farewell to Kelly, who wanted to stay out
later, and left to find a cab.
On the drive home, I said to Mike, “I hope he’s going to be all right.”
“Don’t worry,” Mike said. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“Who are you worried about?” the cabbie asked.
“We left a friend back there at a bar,” Mike explained.
“And he’s kind of drunk,” I added.
“And he’s a really big guy, and sometimes people pick fights with him,” Mike
said.
“And he’s single and by himself.” As I spoke, a frown took hold of my face.
“And we left him in a bar full of bikers,” Mike concluded.
Mike and I looked at each other, and the more we voiced the facts of the
situation, the more we felt like horrible parents, as if Kelly was our baby and
we’d abandoned him in the company of dangerous strangers.
“I’m sure your buddy will be fine,” said the cabbie. An identification card
said his name was Ryan.
“I bet you see some pretty crazy stuff,” I said, partly because I was
interested, partly because I wanted to switch the subject from Kelly’s welfare,
but mostly because this is what I do when we take cabs home. I ask the drivers
to tell me stories about crazy, drunk people, because it makes me feel that
however horribly I’ve sc**wed up in my life, I’ve never been that bad.
Hearing stories of the bad behavior of others makes me feel less alone in the
world. And a little bit better about myself.
“I once had a couple pay me to drive around while they scr***d in the
backseat.”
“No way!” I said.
“I swear. They used to call me all the time to take them different places. Then
one night they called and asked if I could pick them up from their house
because they were going out to celebrate their fifteenth wedding anniversary. So
I pick them up, and as I’m driving them to a restaurant, they say to me, ‘We
plan on getting a little crazy, so if we shock you, don’t freak out.’”
“What did you think that meant?” I asked.
“I really had no idea. So I take them to this restaurant, and they call me
again a few other times throughout the night. Restaurant to bar. Bar to bikini
bar. Bikini bar to home.”
“What’s a bikini bar?” I asked.
“You know, like a strip club,” Mike said.
“Oh right.” I nodded. “You mean like the Idaho Idaho
“So, I pick them up from the bikini bar and take them home, and I’m driving
along, and all the sudden it gets really quiet. Like something’s changed. Then
my seat lurches forward. He’s basically lifted her up and put her on his lap.”
(I omitted the rest of the cab Driver's stories).
The
next day, I waited until late afternoon to call Kelly and see how he’d fared
the night before. I wanted to make sure he was still alive, that he hadn’t been
beaten up by bikers and left in an alley. I’m not assuming that the bikers were
bad people. They could have been Mormon bikers for all I know. Actually, strike
that. I’m sure there are Mormon bikers out there, but I don’t think they pound
beer and dance for di***s. And I don’t like to think of myself as someone who
judges others on appearance alone, but if you’re trying to look tough and
aggressive, I’m at least going to assume you are aggressive, and that appeared
to be the case in the situation at Humpin’ Hannah’s. When I finally got a hold
of Kelly, he was, indeed, alive.
“Oh…”
he mumbled.
“Kelly?”
“Yeah…”
He did not sound good.
“I
just wanted to make sure you made it home last night.”
“Yeah,
yeah I did. I stayed for a little longer. And then I was headed home, but when
I got home, my neighbors were throwing a party.”
“Oh
no.” Kelly’s neighbors are four college kids and technically his tenants. I’m
not saying that we didn’t party like they do when we were back in college, but
that was fifteen years ago. And one’s ability to keep up dwindles over time.
“I
remember drinking shots of tequila,” Kelly continued.
“That’s
not good.”
“No,
no it’s not. But they had some girls over. And they were all playing beer pong.
And I remember they were playing strip beer pong.”
I
confess that I do not know what beer pong is, have never played beer pong, and
I have no intention of ever doing so. Though I’m sure I’d be fantastic at it. I
can only assume that beer pong is an updated version of what we called quarters
back in my day. I’m not sure what strip beer pong entails, but I assume that in
addition to getting drunk, you get naked.
“And
the girls were losing,” Kelly continued. “So that was cool.”
“So
you watched a bunch of college kids get drunk and naked.”
“Let’s
call them men and women.”
“Don’t
want to be the creepy landlord?”
“No,
no I don’t.”
“Okay,
so you watched a bunch of men get naked,” I said.
“Amanda!”
“Sorry,
couldn’t resist.”
“And
then they were talking about shotgunning beer. And I told them they didn’t
stand a chance against me.”
“And
did they stand a chance?”
“Are
you forgetting that I played rugby?” Kelly asked.
Kelly
and Mike played rugby together in college. The goal of joining a rugby team is
to make it through the season with really cool scars, but without an actual
visit to the hospital, and to get rip-roaring drunk with great frequency.
But
rugby players don’t just drink shots or shotgun beer. They put various
substances, like alcohol and spit, into the cleat of the biggest player on the
team. And those who score a tri (like a goal, only the rugby version) have to
drink this disgusting and likely dangerous concoction at the party afterward.
It’s a stupid ritual, accompanied by chants from the teammates of “Shoot the
boot! Shoot the boot!” If I had been in that scenario, I would purposefully
have been a horrific rugby player.
Lucky
for Mike, he had me. He would often skip the after-party, telling his teammates
that he couldn’t go because he had to go home with “the wife.” This was a total
lie. I was more of a partier than my husband and would gladly have gotten drunk
with the rugby team, especially since no one was going to ask me to shoot the
boot. But I encouraged my husband to lie and blame me for the fact that he
couldn’t party after the game, because I could tell that the idea of shooting
the boot and some of the other rugby rituals were as disgusting to him as they
were to me.
Kelly,
on the other hand, was not married, and when he and Mike played rugby together,
Kelly often attended the after-party and took his already impressive drinking
skills to new heights.
“So
you put the college kids to shame then?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
He groaned. “But do me a favor.”
“Sure
thing.”
“Next
time we go out, and you guys are ready to go home, make me go home, too.”
I
gave Kelly my word, just as I’d vowed the night before to carry some sort of
plastic sheeting with me at all times from that point forward. It had to be
small enough to fit in my purse, but large enough to cover the backseat of a
standard cab.
About
the Author:
A.K.
Turner is the author of This Little Piggy Went to the Liquor Store, Mommy
Had a Little Flask, and Hair of the Corn Dog, as well as a co-author
of Drinking with Dead Women Writers and Drinking with Dead Drunks.
Her work has been featured in various publications and anthologies, including Folio Literary
Magazine, Leave the Lipstick, Take the Iguana, and I Just
Want to Be Alone. A former writer-in-residence and creator of "The
Writers' Block" on Radio Boise, she lives in Idaho
Learn
more at AKTurner.com.
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My Review:
This author writes today's version of Erma Brombeck's books. There were times that I laughed so hard that I cried. She is honest and fast as she relates her experiences with the reader. I would love to have the author live with me for one week so she can tell me her take on my life! I have no doubt that I would be a lot less stressed out afterwards. My favorite part is of course the part about her in-laws. Especially the discussion about getting pets at the Hyde Park Street Fair. There are so many issues mentioned in this book that come with raising a family. Money, Planned Parenthood, and even recent movies. There are so many crazy moments that I could relate too, maybe not in the same exact way, but we have all been there when the kids say something that they are not supposed to! I can not wait to read the rest of this author's books. I hope she never stops writing. I am giving this book a 5/5. I was given a copy to review, however all opinions are my own. ( I am going to look up her other books now)!
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