Kicked Out of Bangkok for Moral Turpitude

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A fictional tale from the Oakland Raider's infamous fan section known as the Black Hole.

Submitted: November 26, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 26, 2012



Kicked Out of Bangkok for Moral Turpitude

(A Tale From The Black Hole)


Copyright 2012 by

Bill Rayburn




Getting shown the door from the Black Hole in the Oakland Coliseum is like getting kicked out of Guns and Roses. I mean, what sort of vile behavior would it take to get 86’d from Guns and Roses?


I was unceremoniously escorted from the Black Hole last year, having shown an appalling lack of common sense by asking the assembled to spell C-A-T. The leader of the banned, a rather large, hairy, goateed woman, who’d gotten to the ‘A’ before her brow furrowed, had assumed the responsibility of pointing out my shortsightedness by slapping me across the face with her just-changed adult diaper. This seemed to encourage the spelling-challenged masses, as half-full beer cups and nun-chuk sticks rained down on me.


I lapsed into the old Navajo Indian trick of screaming and begging, only to have that behavior rewarded with a stomping rivaling that of a narc at an AC-DC concert.


And then the men joined in, wielding enough cutting implements to open a Williams-Sonoma anchor store, or at the very least wedge their way onto the Food Network’s website.


I noticed, after my second to last tooth flew skyward, that the anticipated police presence had not materialized. I realized my poor judgment just as my spleen was avulsed, and understood why law enforcement would avoid coming in here except when accompanied by a platoon.


While still conscious, I saw in slow motion a steel-toed boot heading toward my right eye. Turning my head resulted in the lovely sensation of a barbecue fork being stuck into my bicep.


With a sudden yank, I was on my feet, as a uniformed SWAT team member dragged me past the frothing-at-the-mouth hordes and into the comforting embrace of a pair of handcuffs. I looked forlornly over my shoulder to watch as my spleen was butterflied, bathed in hot sauce, and eaten like pieces of hog pulled off a pig rotating over an open fire.


In a final gesture of defiance gone horribly awry, I spit back at the teeming group of inebriated mouth breathers, only to watch as my final tooth fell harmlessly to the ground.


The Silver and Black clad crowd of Zulu Warriors high-fived themselves into a frenzy while someone’s boom box played the theme from COPS.



© Copyright 2017 Bill Rayburn. All rights reserved.

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