A Jewel Encrusted Chainsaw

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
A memoir of a very crazy party I once attended. The following tale really is completely true and really is completely crazy. So be warned, I am not responsible for any dreams, nightmares, phobias or whatnot developed from reading this piece!

Submitted: March 14, 2007

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Submitted: March 14, 2007



 It all started with a huge party in a small town in Idaho. My insane fashion designer friend, Jared, decided to throw a "Rave", complete with eight foot tall drag queens and an enormous wooden snail you could get in and scoot across the dance floor. It was a roaring success and everyone was in rather high spirits. Naturally, an after party was in full swing when we got back to the apartment. My friend had ordered a huge wedding cake to celebrate. The drag queens had ordered a huge supply of "Ecstasy" for the same reason. The rest of us were stuck with various streams of alcohol, pot, coke, acid, shrooms, and meth. Obviously, a time was had by all. But it was the jewel encrusted chainsaw that threw things over the edge.

Jared called out and gathered everyone around the cake. He made a toast to our grand night at put on a pair of glittering safety goggles. Then he pulled the jewel encrusted chainsaw out from behind a chair and started it up. Now when I say jewel encrusted chainsaw, let me explain. I mean jewel encrusted chainsaw. A big, grizzly chainsaw covered in hundreds of small, fake jewels everywhere except the blade. A chainsaw encrusted in jewels.

Ever seen a chainsaw cut a wedding cake?

As the blade slashed into the moist confection, chunks of cake and icing flew into the air. Drag queens on ecstasy began to scream and flail as the pieces hit their powdered flesh. Everyone else began to scream as pieces flew into their hair and drinks. Wade, our beloved six-foot, three hundred fifty pound drag queen hostess began to dance in the flurry like a little girl. I'm pretty sure that's where the trouble started.

I don't know who came up with the idea of dressing the straight boys in drag. I think it had something to do with the cake covered clothes of most of the people in the room. The next thing I know, J.R. is going to change into a dress. J.R., at least six-foot, at least three hundred pounds, and covered with hair everywhere except the top of his head. Burley and manly, hairy and rough. Out he comes, in an off the shoulder, floor length prom dress. A long, white, flowing skirt with aqua sequined bodice. A white ruffle at the neckline can almost be seen beneath the cascades of chest hair. In his thick right hand is clenched a large cigar. In his left a can of Budweiser. On his head  a curly, blonde wig. I distinctly remember at least two people collapsing on the floor in mixed horror and amusement.

The poor, perfectly normal boy was next. He was average height, average weight and probably average intelligence. He had been in town with some friends and stumbled across our rave, and later, our party. His companions had decided to leave him there for a little bit while they ran to a friends house to check in. Somehow, with the aid of the large mixture of mind altering substances he had guzzled, someone had convinced him to dress up and see what he would look like as a girl. I don't know why my tiny, hot pink sequin cocktail dress was there, but he ended up in it. Matching shoes, black hose, and another blonde wig. Even the lipstick and blush were a perfect combination. The final unveiling, however, was less than grand. In the midst of all the prepatory activities, normal boy had completely forgotten what he was actually doing.  When he was presented to the mirror, the reflection staring back at him had a look of total confusion on its face. But the real problem was the reflection on his recently arrived friends faces. I believe we truly ripped the very fabric of their reality. The only way to explain the look  is to say that no counseling will ever make their worlds right again. They dashed off without a single sound except the squealing of tires.

Eventually normal boy settled down to just muttering "Tha shit just ain't right" to himself until he passed out. Not too long after, everyone else fell in suit. It wasn't until hours later that we soberly looked upon the ramifications the party had had on things like the furniture. Feeling partly to blame, most of the people who worked on the "Rave" decided to pitch in and clean up the after party. So people busied themselves with tasks like picking up beer cans, or gathering cigarette butts , or scraping the dried icing off the ceiling. Very hung over, I slowly headed towards the kitchen to help with dishes. There was stuff everywhere, remnants from mixed drinks and microwave snacks, to shots and candy. So I began the long task of scraping things into the trash and washing the dishes. I picked up a powdered sugar covered plate and wondered what it had been used for the night before. As I rinsed the sugar into the drain my friend sauntered in and stopped dead upon viewing me.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he gasped.

"Doing the fucking dishes because nobody else would fucking do them. What the fuck are you doing?" I snapped back as I put the dish up to dry.

He continued to stare silently at me, his eyes as big as saucers, and said "What did you just wash?"

"A plate with powdered sugar on it." I snapped again.

"That wasn't sugar"


"That wasn't sugar." he repeated.
"What are you talking about?"

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me next to him. In a low voice he growled into my ear, "That wasn't fucking sugar!"

It suddenly sunk in. I got it. It wasn't sugar. It looked like sugar, but it wasn't sugar. It was a shit load of coke. A shit load of coke I had just rinsed down the drain. Coke, not sugar, rinsed down the drain.

I tried to stutter the words "Oh My God!", but I don't think a sound came out. We both just stood there with our mouth hanging open. Occasionally a small squeak of "Oh Fuck" would escape from my lips, but he was totally speechless. Of course, a minute later, our host/hostess Wade walked in.

"What?" he asked upon seeing the expressions on our faces.

I looked at my friend. My friend looked at me. We looked at Wade. Wade stared at us.

"Ummm" I stuttered.

"Oh God, I'll find a way to pay for it, I swear to God. I'll pay for it! I didn't know! I was trying to help! You know me, I only use alcohol, cigarettes and pot!!" I finally gasped.

"Pay for what?" asked Wade.

We explained. I braced myself for screaming, or hitting, or a frying pan coming towards my head. Wade just turned paler than the coke, stood up, and left the room. I grabbed a cigarette and lit it up as my hands began to shake. We braved the living room and I fell to the couch, sucking on the cigarette like a baby bottle.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God." was all I could say as I rocked back and forth. Finally finishing my smoke, I glanced around for an ashtray. I saw a plant pot filled with dirt and butts, so I hastily extinguished my cigarette there.

"Oh Jesus!" exclaimed my friend.

"I know!" I replied.

"No!! You fucking idiot! Jesus Christ! The pot! You didn't put yer cigarette out on the edge of the pot! You put it out in the middle!"

"SO??" I yelled.

He rushed over and grabbed the pot. He groaned as he pushed my butt aside and fingered a limp green mass underneath.

"The baby pot plant!! You killed the special pot plant they were trying to grow!! They even named it! Steven!!!"

By then I was on my knees, shaking and muttering, "Oh my god, oh my god." while everyone just stared at me. Someone grabbed Wade and told him what had happened right away.  He came barging in, spitting and swearing. I again promised to pay him back for the coke I had washed away, but he dismissed my cries as he gazed upon the crushed plant.

"Just go home." was all Wade could manage.

I stood stone still, only moving to tremble.

"Just fucking go home!" he croaked again.

I grabbed my coat and lighter, made another hasty apology and walked out the door. It had been a crazy, great, rip roaring time, and from what I hear, just one of many in the years to come. But I really wouldn't know,  I was never invited to another party at that apartment again.

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