Pawnee Prairie Days

The weather’s getting hot, college students returning home, tornados just missing, and all the damn bugs.  That’s right Pawnee Prairie Days is approaching!  For some, this is something that has been simply outgrown over the years.  To those some that have made this assumption, what the fuck is wrong with you?  Maybe you’ve got the wrong mindset going in.  If you venture into this thinking you’re going to have a great time, you’ve already lost.  You’ve got to go in with that voice in your head stating, “Why the hell am I going to Prairie Days?”  Everyone should be hearing this voice, unless you’re an eight year old or Robbie Robison, who yearns to handle countless hot dogs ever so gently at the Boy Scout food tent, hoping to make his millionth sale and that the hot dogs will turn into dicks for his own private pleasure.  We know he’ll give a hundred and ten percent.  The answer to the question voiced in your head will be configured as
the night progresses and the booze loosens up the crowd.  You can literally stand in one spot, look in every direction, and laugh your ass off at the amount of hilarious atrocities going on all around you.
Now that Darin Schultz lives in Denver, CO, the amount of drunken pedophilic activity has decreased 60%, but the other 40% is still looming in the eyes of some, such as Matt Glenn, who’s seemingly never ending passion for riding around the streets of P-town is dormant only during Prairie Days weekend.  As history has told, it will rain on one of the three days, which is the length of Prairie Days, which will force you into one of two choices.  One, go home and end the journey, try to resist, or the two, venture into “The Dirty”.  This nickname for the My Way Pub is quickly confirmed.  A bar built to house fifty patrons semi comfortably is crammed with over a hundred, filling the air with the aroma of a mix between a Mike Sandage dingle berry and nut sack.  Yes, this will certainly be uncomfortable at first, but worth it for the comedy relieve waiting to be performed.  Out of the hundred plus in the bar, 40% or better are blatantly underage.
It’s not even a question for some.  Last year, I saw an eight year old perched on a bar stool like he’d been there for years.  He even bought me a shot with what “milk money” he had left, or White Russian money is more like it.  I asked him after the Three Wisemen shot was but an aftertaste what year he was in school, 2nd grade, and what his best subject was, “Not shitting my pants!”  he screamed enthusiastically.  Impressively awesome.  The underage hijinks is just one of many forms of entertainment in The Dirty.
Have you ever witnessed anyone with “Cool” in front of their name get tossed out of a bar.  It surprisingly doesn’t happen as often as it should, but this is in the official record books of shit that will happen at The Dirty.  Prairie Days attracts visitors from around the globe, well, a twenty mile radius anyway.  90% of these “outsiders” will be thrown out of the bar, mostly due to their own stupidity.  This is the category that “Cool” Brandon was in.  Here’s a tip, if you don’t want to get fucked with in The Dirty, know someone that frequents there.  However, there is one exception to this rule.  If the one person you know is Farooq, DON”T GO INTO THE BAR!  Knowing Farooq is a social bullseye for getting fucked with.  This was confirmed while this Brandon character was actually airborne and Farooq in the background screaming, “No, this is ‘Cool’ Brandon,” saying the word cool louder so that everyone would know he’s ok and not to throw him out.  Well, Farooq saying the word ‘cool’ pretty much just fuels everyone else’s need to to throw this guy out faster and harder, as this ups the chance that Farooq will go with him, stopping the bumming money off everyone and the breaking of shit that constantly plaques the Arabian Knight.  Don’t get me wrong, Farooq’s one of my best friends, but let’s be honest here.  Tell me I’m wrong!  The Dirty also doubles as a base of operations for terrorizing carnies, led by one man whose hatred for carnies runs deep, Mike Salisbury.  On any of the three nights of Prairie Days, you must pass Mike screaming at these carnies in order to get into the bar.  He hates them so much and it’s damn funny to witness.
We could talk about the antics that occur in The Dirty for days, but there are other areas of hilarity that need to be addressed.  A main attraction of comedy is defiantly the monstrosity that is the musical performances.  I could sum it up in one statement:  Ray Lytle for four years in a row! I could stop there and that would five you an idea of the “talent” that Prairie Days features for their musical entertainment, but I won’t, and I shouldn’t!  Ray Lytle!?! I laughed for days after the shock wore off when I heard someone say, “Alright!  Ray Lytle’s gonna be at Prairie Day’s. “This person obviously was a douche.  Ray Lytle and his Itchy Pickles are a travesty of musical justice for entertainment.  Now I know I don’t have to go and witness their shitty renditions of once great songs, but on the contrary my friend.  I wouldn’t miss it!  Watching this disgustingly obese grown man act like he’s a legend of rock in ninety degree weather is revolting, sad, and shit your pants funny.  Sad is defiantly the head lining word to describe a Ray Lytle show.  Very sad indeed.  Aside from Ray Lytle, numerous 80’s hair bands have come and gone.  There have been so many fifty-year-old men rockin out in black leather vests and puffy pirate shirts that I’ve lost count.  All of them take it so seriously that it makes it hard to laugh in their face because it’s so funny.  The most recent 80’s hair band to be a main stay are The Lost Boys.  What can be better than seeing the actual bands play their music while all coked up than seeing a cover band play other peoples music while all coked up.  That’s the Lost Boys, a bunch of coked up early thirties dudes rockin out the 80’s hits while snorting, sweating, and doing pelvic thrusts in the direction of ten year old girls.  Meanwhile, the sweet sound of the 80’s has put its spell upon all the moms in the crowd, causing the dance floor to be flooded with “mom dancing”.  This type of dance necessitates several vital ingredients.  First and most importantly, booze.  Second, full use of one’s hips for the hips are the bread and butter of the mom dance.  Lastly, but not to be forgotten, the burning passion for 80’s rock.  These three simple ingredients mixed together make one hell of a show.  It seems almost hypnotizing when it first starts to happen.  You don’t know when it’s coming and there is no clear sign it’s about to happen.  When that first group of moms glides to the dance floor, probably three or four, you can’t help but stare.  It’s amazing!  They have two moves.  The circling hip shake, sticking out the beer and put the opposite hand up, or the step forward and back, beer close to the side, opposite hand doing almost a hammering motion, both showing incredible passion.  Before you realize it, the dance floor is full with not just moms, but everyone.  The moms have lured everyone onto the dance floor with their blatant disregard of humiliation, which is synonymous with dancing.  If the moms don’t dance, no one dances, PERIOD!
All in all, it’s a good time.  Sure there are rides, carnival food and all the games, but the comedy alone is worth the voyage.  You can only play the throwing darts and the balloons game so many times before you’re turned off for life.  Even the rides are boring, who could imagine that, after about eleven years of the same ones (Brad, you and me, Heart Flip).  The food is good; I’ll give you that.  Nothing’s tastes better than pure grease and powdered sugar, or anything on a stick.  The humor though is what brings them back, year after year.  If it’s not funny to you, why the fuck are you at Prairie Days sober?  Kelly has invented the Casey’s cup special.  Just go get a cup from Casey’s and fill it with the booze of your choice and drink it up!  There’s so many Casey’s cups floating around the Pawnee popo won’t even sense suspicion.  It’s not like there going to huge lengths to keep from bringing their own alcohol anyway.  The beers that are bought at the beer tent are just the 12oz Bud/Bud Light cans (I don’t acknowledge Miller Lite).  For you underagers though, Casey’s cup spech it up, unless you’re already in the bar doing shots of Three Wisemen and not shitting yourself (I got next one Billy).  So I hope I have convinced you to attend this year’s Pawnee Prairie Days, it won’t feature one Brad Cox in the Mr. Hottie contest, but it’ll be a classic.  Let me know how it goes for you too, cuz I ain’t going to that fuckin gay shit. Oh, beware the fingerless gloves!

 

STEALING SIGNS

By:  Brad Cox

One night, many moons ago a sober, sober mind you, Derek Thomso and I decide it would be a grand idea to drive around town and steal all the “Gwenn Montgomery-Teacher for Senate” signs.  Now I’m not saying it wasn’t a good idea, but I’m also not saying it was a bad idea either, you be the judge.

My memories leave me some 10 years ago on a crisp Fall night about 20 minutes from our States Capital, on the mean streets of Pawnee, or the ‘Nee” as I’ve heard it told.  After countless hours of cruising the ‘strip’, only to be rivaled by Matt Glenn, a young adolescent teen and his friends are bound to get board.  How does one cure this boredom?  Depends, sometimes its country cruising and drinking beer, the ever popular underage drinking party, or in the very rare case, stealing campaign signs.  Luckily, for the sake of this story, that night we chose the latter.  After hours of driving around in my RAM D-50 and discussing our pure hatred for ‘Mound Montgomery’, Derek and I decided it was a good idea to drive around town and pluck those stupid apple shaped yard signs out of peoples yards one by one.  Fueled by the nonsensical lyrics of Insane Clown Posse we started down our strategically planned route to comb the town and rid it of the convoluted narcissistic ideals that were, Gwen Montgomery.  We started down the outer most Western confines of P-Town, 13th street.  From there, we would work our way to Pawnees Eastern most sea-board, at 104 and Ferrall Gas.  As we stealthily weaved our way down the presidential streets of Pawnees inner workings we were on a natural high that even Tyler Smith could not imagine (get it, high?).  As my truck bed filled with those 3ft high apple shaped propaganda sticks, I could feel myself wanting, needing, desiring more. As we quickly did a clean sweep of the South side we made a run for it.  As we crossed the tracks I could feel our resolve to bring down that evil bitch getting stronger and stronger.  As we barreled down 4th street heading North, North to only our destiny, we saw something that we could never dream in a million years.  In the yard of that graphic arts demon parents’ house, stood a glorious sight.  We had spotted the Mecca of all signs, a 4×8 plywood sign painted up for all the world to see; her first mistake.. No, no, correction…Second mistake.  As our eyes met like to star crossed lovers for the first time, we both knew what we had to do.  As I came to an immediate halt in the middle of the road, across from where Jennifer Schnapp used to live, we exited the vehicle and moved only with the shadows.  We were the foot-clan reborn (ninja turtles), that night we truly became ‘the night’.  As Derek entered the yard with a sweet, ninja like cart-wheel, I entered from the side with a serious of the most graceful round-off’s you have ever seen; the situation demanded a cool entrance.  Within a matter of seconds we had ripped the sign from the life giving earth that had held it firm for oh so many weeks, tossed it in the bed of my truck and were off into the night, now with more purpose than ever we had a new mission.  As we began scouring the North side of the ‘Nee’ our drive became overpowered with the ever looming thoughts of something bigger and better.  We soon began remembering where there were more of these plywood gifts from God.  The remembrances flowed from our memory banks like the instinctive red-breasted robin to a Florida winter, we knew where to go.  The one in the Ferrall Gas parking lot, the one out by the concrete plant, the one just off the interstate exit and the one posted up the back North entrance into town.  It was almost
to easy, almost to suspicious.  Why would they make these such easy targets?  You might ask, who would take them; I ask, why are they so easy to get to?  After a few minor setbacks of needing wire cutters to free the signs from their iron support posts and a cover, so no one would see them stock piled in the bed of my truck, we had finally achieved what we had set out to do.  Now that we had them what were we to do?  Only the obvious, get some pictures then throw them off a bridge right?  As the five 4×8ft signs stuck out of the bed of my truck only to be covered by a old blanket, we swung by a picked up Trevor and headed for my house.  As we arrived we quickly began to arrange the signs in a way that would best promote our glorious capture.  As we lined the small yard signs around the upright plywood ones I went inside to get my sister.  After about 10minuets of her yelling at me for waking her up she agreed to come outside with the camera.  As she snapped photo after photo we were on such a high that we could not fathom what was to come.  Almost immediately after the mock photo shoot the signs were loaded back up and we were off to find a proper place to appreciate them for days to come, why not at the bottom of bridge.  We headed back into town with a quick stop off by the bridge just off 4th street.  As we launched each sign into the sky and over the railing of the bridge I felt a sense of achievement, pride and possibly wanderlust for what we had accomplished that magnificent Fall eve.  As the signs fell in an almost slow motion manner to their muddy grave in the bottom of Horse Creek I was on such a rush that I forgot one minor detail, one that would lead to the demise of our great plan.  As we went back to my house for the night and went to sleep our thoughts never turned to guilt, or being caught or even why we did it, we just knew we did it and would do it again in a heartbeat if necessary.  As the hours past in the dark night the sun was soon come up over the horizon and wake us for another day, another adventure.  As we awoke I drove Trevor back to his truck and Derek, almost back to his house, almost.  A quick stop off at the ‘lot’ led to a run in with the fingerless glove wearing Dave Bentley whom had recently received a report of missing signs and had recalled myself and a one Mr. Thomso driving around with something in the bed of the truck for a good portion of the night.  He asked, I denied and the game was on.  I was directed to go to the cop shop and have a little chat with Mr. Bentley.  As we arrived we were almost certain we would not be caught, I mean how could he prove it?  After about only 20 seconds at the cop shop I quickly discovered how he would catch us red handed.  Almost as soon as he walked to the bed of my truck he spotted a almost foot long splinter of painted plywood, painted the same color as those damn missing signs, “weird” I said, still clinging to my innocence.  “Weird”, until he had told me they knew where the signs were and Derek and I were to retrieve them and see if the splinter piece matched up with one of the signs.  After a few hours of us slopping around in the mud and getting all the signs back, sure enough the piece fit perfectly.  Dam you Dave Bentley, how could a person who wears fingerless gloves foil me?  I’ll be god damned but he sure did, Dave Bentley 1, Brad 0.  So, long story short, unless you are wanting to do a lot of community service and pay for new campaign signs to be remade, definitely do not steal signs.  If you are wanting a visual experience of this little adventure, contact David Meacham and ask to see the pictures, a good time was had by all…

 

ONE TIME.

By: Brad Cox

One time, we all went on this canoe trip with Jenny ‘Tank’ Samms, Jeff Clemence, Farooq, Sean Haley, Jason Samms and a few others.  We had all stopped at ‘party cove’, about half way down the river, we all stopped to do endless beer bongs, jump off a small cliff and choke down a few more Jell-O shots.  In all the midst of the drunken shenanigans we all somehow got separated.  As Sean, Farooq and I headed down river in a raft, little did we know something was following us, something evil…  As we floated about 300 yards away we heard something, something so terrifying that devil himself would run away.  Jenny was screaming at us to stop.  We had made the mistake of taking off in the raft that had the cooler in it, therefore we had the sandwiches.  If you know Jenny at all you know she is at her most venerable when she is away from her sandwiches.  As we pulled over and waited for her to come to us, an extremely high Farooq had spotted a turtle some 20 yards back.  As he went to go throw rocks at this alleged turtle, that no one else saw by the way, Jenny slowly approached.  In a barrage of cursing and angry, angry body language she had finally made it to our position.  Now, one would think that she would dock her raft next to ours on the shore of the river.  Oh no, not in her state of rage.  She decided that as she floated by, she was so angry that she would just barrel right over the side and come to us.  As she jettisoned over the edge like an elite navy seal on a reconnaissance mission, she sank straight to the bottom of the river.  Not being the most buoyant of people she sunk faster than a shiny new quarter flicked into a fountain for good luck.  We new this could be the end of us all.  As she sank; her raft which contained a passed out drunk Jeff Clemence kept right on down the river until it finally came to rest amidst a log jam a stones throw away.  By this time Jenny was yet to emerge from the murky river that stood between us and our certain death.  Soon she appeared, walking up the shore she came out of the water like ‘Swamp Thing’, covered in moss, mud and muck she had the look of death in her eyes, all while sporting a single strap, black, Andre ‘The Giant’ type bathing suite.  She then verbally attacked Sean and I with language blows that would bring the most fowl mouthed heavyweight to his knees.  She was looking for her cigarettes and she was not going to stop her relentless assault until she found them.  As she flopped into our raft like a fish out of water, she ripped the lid off the cooler, tossing it into the air as if it were shot from a cannon, and demanded compensation for her stolen cigarettes.  She threatened first with a half drunken bottle of Jim Beam.  She swore that if her smokes weren’t returned in a timely manner that she would seek revenge by dumping out the glorious golden nectar that filed that glass bottle.  As we assured her we had not stolen her cigarettes she, in the blink of an eye, tossed to bottle into the sky with the force of a thousand winds.  As I watched the bottle land in the river I started to notice my life pass before my very eyes.  She then continued with her gorilla tactics on a freshly opened bottle of Jagermeyster.  As she latched onto it with her supple, supple hands we begged and pleaded for her to stop, only to be knocked to the ground with a stare, a stare that was more violent that the fires of hell.  After more assurances that we had not taken her cigarettes, that bottle too, was airborne.  At this point there was little we could do, with no horse tranquilizers nor bear mace in sight we assumed the fetal position and prepared for the worst.  As we awaited our most certain death something strange happened, something extraordinary.  Like a bloodhound tracking an escaped convict, she got the scent.  Her head whipped to the left and her eyes locked on target like a well trained sniper.  She had spotted Farooq, who was still looking for the ‘turtle’ he says he saw, she had spotted him and he was smoking her cigarettes.  As she turned her attention form us she started the slow-motion ‘Baywatch’ beach run that would eventually lead to, quit possibly, the funniest thing I had ever seen.  As she built up speed for the relentless 20 yard sprint to punish the brown creature that had stolen her cigarettes, we switched to survival mode.  We got into the raft and the safety of the water and began shouting our warning cries at the still clueless Farooq.  As she got closer to his position we all became worried.  Finally in one last attempt to save a minority’s life Sean yells, ‘GET OUT OF THE KILL ZONE’!!!!!  As Jenny reaches for Farooq’s hairless, helpless brown body to send him to a certain death, he hears our warnings.  In the last split second, Farooq turns his shoulders and narrowly escapes into a dead sprint down stream to safety.  At the same time, in her hastiness, Jenny had left her feet in one last great attempt to capture the brown cigarette thief.  Needless to say she missed.  As she splashed down into the waters right off shore, she was reminiscent of a great grizzly bear feeling the full effects of a scientists tranquilizer dart…. SHE’S DOWN!!!!  Never to be out done, she’s back on her feet.  Stumbling to and awkward slowing lethargic walk she finally runs out of breath after about five steps towards Farooq’s fleeing distance.  During this hilarious display of uncomfortable awkwardness Jenny had put on, Farooq found his way to the raft and the safety of the river where we took off down stream.  As Jenny then mustered enough strength to make one last attempt at out capture, she leaped into the river heading for our boat.  Cursing our names and slowing to a turtles pace she slowly got smaller as we drifted out of sight.  30 minuets into our escape we spotted something amazing.  Caught in the middle of a fallen tree into the river we noticed a half full bottle of Jim Beam and the green glow of a black liquorish delight, our Jagermeyster.  The trip had truly turned out okay.  Although the rest of the trip Jenny had to be distracted with uncooked beef.