Broke Down Doctor

DBok's reminiscences about Rusty Sessions of yore caused me to recall the time when the sessions were last held at my house. It was the winter, probably about 10 years ago, and I had recently moved into a 100 year old house in a small village in Wisconsin. Friday involved heavy drinking and frequent trips to/from the airport to pick up the Clowns as they arrived. “Music” probably was played as well.

Saturday consisted of more drinking, more “music,” and frequent trips between the two bars located in this particular village. On Saturday night, we were at the yellow-house bar and were engaged in some dialogue with the local clientele. DBok was impressing nobody in particular with his unique grasp of arcane, trivial factoids, and, as usual, he was utilizing his most know-it-all-ish tone and demeanor. Eg. “I live in Norfolk, Virginia, the world’s largest natural seaport!” or some such nonsense.

Just about this time, one of the patrons, apparently tired of DBok’s relentless condescension, addressed another fellow very loudly across the bar. “Hey, Randy, this guy (DBok) wants to suck your dick!” “Did you hear me Randy, this guy here really wants to suck your dick!” “This guy, right here, (again pointing to DBok), wants to suck your dick!” This went on for several minutes with the reiterated inference being created that DBok wanted to suck Randy’s dick.

DBok first tried to reassure Randy that he did not, in fact, want to suck Randy’s dick. However, the other patron was unconvinced. “Randy, I’m telling you this guy wants to suck your dick!” Soon DBok and the man who was convinced that DBok wanted to suck Randy’s dick were entangled in a robust embrace, and it became clear that a Clown retreat was necessary.

The Squad extricated ourselves from the establishment and escorted DBok back toward my house. DBok insisted on standing in the street yelling taunts at his newly-made friend, but after numerous tries, we eventually shepherded him back to my house. We reconvened in my living room, but, when we took a roll-call, DBok was absent. He had snuck out the back door and was headed back to the bar to further debate with the other gentlemen his desire to suck Randy’s dick, or lack thereof.

It became clear to the rest of us that DBok was intent upon having his ass kicked that particular evening. So, on motion made and duly seconded, and with a quorum being present, we resolved to go kick his ass ourselves. Our thinking was that, since he had just become a surgeon, his hands needed protection from the damage which might occur during a fist-fight. We figured it unlikely that his new acquaintance would extend the same courtesy. Further, we saw no reason why a surgeon needs his face, neck, ribs, back or legs to be uninjured. So, we caught him out in the street, dragged him back to a snowbank, and dog-piled him. Coco was particularly zealous in this effort to protect DBok, and, while the rest of us were pummeling him, Coco shoved some ice shards up DBok’s nose. This, while probably unnecessary, was very funny.
Eventually, we had literally beaten some sense into DBok, and we went back home to resume the normal Rusty Session activities.

The following morning, I had to lend DBok a walking cane to limp his way through airport security toward home. Something about a broken something. But his hands were fine.

You know, come to think of it, I don’t think I ever heard him say “Thank you.”