Tag Archives: disco

Disco Werewolf – Chapter 6

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“Disco Werewolf is a flash in the pan,” Boogiedown Barry said while sipping his fifth drink of the evening.  “All these young up and comers to the disco scene.  They’re all razzle and no dazzle, all trash and no sash, you know what I mean?  They’re all about the kooky get ups first and the actual art of dancing comes in at a distant second, if that.  You getting all this down?”

“Dancing…comes…in…second,” Claudette mumbled to herself as she jotted her interviewee’s words down in her notebook.  “I got it, but you have to admit, Disco Werewolf can dance.”

Barry looked out at the dancefloor, where the furry funkmaster was matching the beat, note for note, with his big fuzzy feet.  All kinds of sexy ladies pushed each other out of the way for a chance to shake their booties in the wolfman of the hour’s general vicinity.

“Bah,” Barry said.  “I admit nothing.”

“Do you know who he is?”  Claudette asked.

Barry raised an eyebrow.  “Do I know who he is?”

“Yes,” Claudette said.

“Sure, I do,” Barry said.

Claudette looked at Barry with anticipation, pen at the ready.

“He’s the rat bastard who’s ruining my life,” Barry said.  “Look at him.  Hogging up the floor while the rest of us can’t get a foot in edgewise.”

The aspiring journalist frowned upon realizing that Barry didn’t know the secret to the question she was trying so desperately to answer.

Barry sipped, then belched, then sipped again.  “What did you say your name again was, little filly?”

“Claudette.”

“Claudette Who?” Barry asked as he ogled the gyrating rump stuffed inside a short orange skirt just a few feet away.

“Jenkins.”

Barry immediately snapped to attention, no longer interested in the aforementioned heiney.  He looked the kid over.  “Jenkins, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Who are you with?” Barry asked.

“Freelance is what I should say to be honest,” Claudette replied.  “With any luck, for the New York Courant.”

“Huh.  You look a might underripe to be a reporter if you ask me.  Then again, no one asks old Boogiedown Barry anything anymore.  Oh, they used to.  How they used to hang on my every word until that fat pile of…hey, don’t write this part.  This part is off the record.”

“You hate Disco Werewolf,” Claudette said.  “I got it.”

“I do,” Barry said as he watched the monster get freaky.  “Then again, I’m starting to think I shouldn’t.  I mean, does the lion hate the lamb?  Does the hound hate the fox?  Does the  axe murderer in all those cheesy, bargain basement slasher flicks hate the horny teenagers he’s always chasing around?  You see where I’m going with this?”

“Not at all,” Claudette replied.

“I know I’m good,” Barry said.  “I know he stinks.  I don’t have to prove nothing to nobody, you hear?”

“I hear,” Claudette said.

Barry swished the booze around in his mouth like it was mouthwash, then swallowed.  “Now that, you can print.”

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.  A pair of heavy feet cut through the crowd, trudging their way to the bar.  Soon enough, Barry and Claudette found themselves in the company of a big ass werewolf, as well as his hangers on.

“You’re the best, DW!”  one man shouted.  “You’re far out!”

“Groovy, baby!” came another male voice.  “Positively groovy!”

“Disco Werewolf, are you seeing anyone?” asked a female voice.

Barry was standing right beside Disco Werewolf now, but refused to acknowledge him.  Disco Werewolf looked at the fella who used to be the club’s number one dancer and growled.  “Grrr.”

              “Huh?” Barry asked as he chewed on a toothpick and looked around the bar, anywhere but in the werewolf’s direction.  “Somebody say something?  I don’t know, because I don’t talk to nobodies.”

Disco Werewolf let the rude comment slide off and raised a finger.  Ferdinand the bartender practically tripped over himself as he rushed over with an aluminum shaker in hand.

“I got your usual right here, DW, baby,” Ferdinand said as he opened the shaker and poured the contents into a glass.  He popped a toothpick into an olive, inserted it into the drink and handed it over.

The werewolf sipped.

“How is it, sir?” Ferdinand asked.  “Not too dry, I hope?  You know what, Disco Werewolf, you just say the word and I’ll throw it out and make you another.”

Disco Werewolf guzzled the concoction down in a single gulp.  Ferdinand waited in suspense for the verdict.  The monster kicked his head back and howled in delight.  “Ahhhh-wooo!”

Ferdinand smiled while the Looky Lous cheered.  “Don’t you worry, Mr. Werewolf.  I’ll keep those coming all night long.  Free of charge.  Totally gratis, on the house.  Mr. Sugarshine told me straight up, his mouth to my ears, that I shouldn’t even dream of taking your money.”

Disco Werewolf nodded and patted the barkeep on the shoulder.

“Oh wowie, zowie!” Ferdinand said.  “I’ll never wash this shoulder ever again!”

“Like you’ve ever taken a bath in your entire life, spazoid,” Barry said.

“Pipe down, has been!” Ferdinand replied.  “And you’d better make good on your tab, Barry!  It’s already $108.57 and counting!  Mr. Sugarshine can’t be expected to subsidize deadbeat rummies forever!”

“Bah,” Barry said.  “Mr. Sugarshine can subsidize both cheeks of my ass.”

Disco Werewolf was about to walk away when he felt a tug on his paw.  He looked down to see Claudette.  He locked eyes with her and for a brief moment, looked as though he were in a daze.

“Disco Werewolf?” Claudette said as she held up her notepad and pen.  “Claudette Jenkins, hopefully for the New York Courant.  Do you have a minute?”

They say that canines can’t smile because they have no lips, but on some level, the club’s resident dance hound looked happy.  He patted the girl on the head, tussling her hair.  Then, he took the pad and pen, scribbled something down, and handed it all back to Claudette before returning to the action.

Ferdinand leaned over the bar.  “Hokie smokies!   What’d he write?”

Claudette looked at the pad, then showed it to Ferdinand:

To Claudette:

              Stay in school.

              XOXO

              Disco Werewolf

              “Wow,” Ferdinand said.  “If I were you, I’d have that framed.”

Barry felt the need to interrupt.  “Pbbht!  If I were you, I’d have my head examined.”

“Stick a sock in it, lush!” Ferdinand said.  “No one asked you!”

“Bah, your mother wears combat boots,” Barry replied.

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BQB’s Time Travel Adventures #1 – The 1970s (Or, A Hairy Situation)

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3.5 readers, I don’t want to alarm you, but Dr. Hugo Von Science recently invented a time machine.  He left it at BQB HQ because he didn’t want to pay to put it in storage and made me promise not to use it.

So naturally, I used it…A LOT!

From time to time, I’ll regale you with tales of what I’ve done with this magnificent contraption and how I may have inadvertently changed the course of human history just a wee bit.

First up?  The 1970s.  I was but a mere baby during the very end of this decade, yet I still remember that time I was kicked out of Studio 64.  The conversation went like this:

BABY BQB:  Waah, waah.  Let me in.

BOUNCER:  Scram, baby!

BABY BQB:  Buncha jive ass turkeys.

So, as you can imagine, I was quite pleased to return via time machine to Studio 64 as an adult.  And I was let in this time.  You might wonder how I got in, since they only let in famous, well-to-do people.

Let’s just say I was holding.

“Wow, BQB,” the bouncer said as he opened the door for me.  “These pixy sticks are outta sight, man.”

“I can dig it,” I said as I strolled on in and made my way to the dance floor.

Oh man, 3.5 readers.  The dancing.  The dancing!  People actually danced!  They didn’t just stand around and text emojis to each other on their iPhones like they do today.  Everyone wanted to dance and they’d all just dance with each other.  Fat, thin, ugly, pretty, no one cared.  The music was on.  They all got their groove on.

Plus, it was so much easier to pick up a chick.  You know what happens to me if I try to pick up a chick today?  I get maced in the face.  In the 1970s, they say cool, whatever.

TODAY:

BQB:  Hello, I’m BQB.  Wanna do it?

TODAY’S WOMAN:  Suck mace and prepare for my multi-million dollar lawsuit, buttface!

IN THE 1970s:

BQB:  Hello, I’m BQB.  Wanna do it?

WOMAN:  Sure, I like to do it.

That’s all you had to do.  And people liked beauty.  They tried to look beautiful but you know, they weren’t obsessed with it.  They didn’t spend 24/7 on their looks.  If you had glasses, that didn’t slow you down.  Women would still do it with you because, you know, hey, it’s not your fault God decided you can’t see that well without glasses.

The only caveat?  Women did not shave.  At all.  Like, ever.  Sure, they had a carefree attitude about sex, largely because AIDS had yet to be discovered, but man, getting all up in a 1970s woman’s lady business was like taking a deep journey to the darkest regions of a tropical rainforest.

Seriously.  You didn’t even want to attempt cunnilingus without a weed whacker, possibly a John Deere tractor if she was into that sort of thing.  All I’m saying is before you could plow the field, you had to harvest the crops…so that you could even find the field.

And the smoking?  Man, did people smoke.  I walked around Studio 64 and there would be people just standing around with cigarettes, blowing smoke in each others’ face.  Shit. They’re all probably dead from black lung now but at least they didn’t have to worry about the Surgeon General taking a dump on their parade with his totally accurate yet scary anti-cigarette warnings.

And the drugs.  When the foxy babes weren’t offering you access to their overgrown bushes, they were totally trying to fill you up with all kinds of drugs.  People would just pop pills like they were tic tacs.

I didn’t touch the stuff.  Never have.  Never will.  You shouldn’t either, 3.5.  Pixy sticks are the only high I need.

Anyway, everything was going fine.  The tunes were tight.  The party was far out and groovy.  The giant bushes were everywhere.  But then, some stupid ass ninjas had to go and break in and cause trouble.

“We have come to steal all of the women in here, for if there’s one thing that all ninjas love, it’s ridiculously hairy, unshorn 1970s lady bushes!”  the ninjas all declared in unison.

“Of course that’s what you are after,” I replied.  “I am a man of the world and I know everything, including the fact that ninjas love 1970s women with absurdly untrimmed bushes,” I said.

“We hope that women never start shaving off their bushes,” the ninjas said.  “We like a little mystery whenever we visit her-story.”

“Man,” I said.  “You jive ass ninja turkeys better get all your vagina related activities done by 1995 then because it’s gonna be smooth sailing from thereon.”

Now, I realize I should not have done this.  All those women were destined to be kidnapped.  To save them, I would have to change the course of history.  But I could not help myself.

I jumped into the air and took down all 948 ninjas with one single, solitary roundhouse kick.  My foot connected with all of their faces, knocking them out cold.  The police came, removed the ninja carcasses, and then I partied with all of the incredibly hairy bushed women all night long.

Man, I really had a good time under that disco ball.

Afterwards, I returned to 2017 and consulted with the Fake Institute for Bogus Statistics.  Apparently, bushes are now 25% bushier thanks to my stupid actions.  When I saved those hairy women, women all over the world somehow got the idea that men would be fine if they all just walk around looking like they’ve got Afroman trapped in a leg lock.

So, to you, men of the world, I apologize for all of the bushy bushes I have bestowed upon the world.  But hey, look at it this way…free dental floss.  Am I right?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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