The words to follow chronicle a tale of anticipation, a tale of disappointment, a tale of the violent expulsion of chunky ass-piss (which I’ll generously deem “shit”), and  maybe – just maybe – a tale of a man overcoming insurmountable odds. 

*** 

After a night of binge drinking, leaning on things at near impossible angles, and – as I vaguely recall – a trip to Pizza Shuttle, I awoke Saturday morning without any much pep. That is, until I stumbled upon this bit of good news and was driven into a frenzy of motivation.

“The latest to lend support to WMSE are Milwaukee MC JC Poppe and local food cart phenomenon Streetza Pizza, which will be teaming up for a fundraiser from 10 p.m. to 3 a.m. Saturday at 1227 ½ N. Water St. Streetza will be hawking its Poppe-inspired Mad Flava Slice—topped with chorizo, jalapeno, bacon, olives, and extra cheese—and donating part of the proceeds to the station. You’ll also get a copy of Poppe’s new record, Sleep Therapy.”

What better kick in the ass than getting a delicious sounding slice of pizza, a CD I probably don’t want from a rapper I almost assuredly dislike, and slightly benefiting a radio station I’ve never listened to – ALL FOR JUST $5? There is no better kick in the ass. I was juiced.

Having spent all my cash on Blatz, Whiskey, pool, gum and a vegetarian hot dog the night before AND unwittingly joining a bank that charges me money IN ADDITION TO THE GODDAMN SERVICE CHARGE TO USE A FUCKING ATM (suck my bent peeboner, North Shore Bank), I figured I’d stop off on the way for a Monster “Mean Bean” and get cash back on my debit purchase to cover my $5 WMSE contribution. 

You delicious bitch!

Bad idea.

The coffee goodness of the chilled Monster sent my guts, already reeling from the previous night’s Blatz abuse, straight into Jihad mode. Just half way to the fundraiser and my turdcutter was like a hurricane-battered levee, barely holding back the harsh tide. Do I turn around? Do I stop at a gas station? No. For the sake of WKRP and Lil’ Poppy (or whatever) … and to a lesser extent, the pizza, I would push on. At that moment I was not unlike the brave conquistadors who stole founded this fair land.

I parked off Water Street in the dim shadow of Bar Louie – the shittiest place I’ve ever been – and waddled down the 1200 block with my ass clenched but my mind open to array of flavors (and perhaps a bathroom) that awaited me. Focusing on the addresses I passed to distract me from the onslaught of unquestionably liquid mookiestinks at risk of vacating my whale eye at any moment, I saw the numbers rise 1205, 1217, 1223 — 1241. Uhhhh…

“Where the fuck is this shitshow?” I thought. “Plus, I still need to poop. Bad.”

I was faced with the same kind of painstakingly difficult decision that surgeons, parents of conjoined twins and Brett Favre must be faced with. How I saw it, I had three options.
1. Make a stop at a bar, use my pizza money to buy a beer I didn’t want so I could use the shitter, and resume looking for the benefit – praying they took debit cards.
2. Go home. Defile my own bathroom with my growler, and double check the address of the benefit to return later.
3. Shit myself. Have a good cry. Clean up. Tell nobody.

Figuring option No. 1 involved me using an ATM – which, if you recall was the same reason I purchased the poo potion in the first place – and No. 3 would probably force me to go home anyway, I made the decision to go with No. 2 and head home – setting my internal turd timer for 10 minutes.

Harry has nothing on me.

I won’t bore you with the details of my triumphant porcelain staining, but judging by the sound alone, it was worth the time and gas wasted to drive back. I then lit some prayer candles to ask the Gods for the strength to carry on without the heart/kidneys I just sharted out, and re-checked the address listed online (since the Internet is always right). I also recruited DoZ Ronnie to accompany me on the second attempt to find this piece of shit fundraiser before it ended.

Again, we found nothing. Almost tasting the likely-amazing truck pizza, nearly hearing the probably terrible hip-hop CD we’d try to pawn immediately, and all but patting ourselves on the back for the 10 combined dollars we planned to give the radio station – we cycled through each stage of grief. Still no 1227 1/2 N. Water Street. Fudge!!!

“I just wish we could find that pizza truck,” Ronnie said, obviously exasperated and realizing full-well we would not find the event.

“You know,” I said as I felt my face reddening and my eyes watering. “I feel like that’s what life is. Just trying to find that pizza truck.”

Someday.

Beer Shits, Events, Streetza Pizza, T. Mario, WMSE