 Wow, it's Wednesday. Who'd have thought you'd make it this far? Since it's Halloween, we here at CCB thought we'd rerun a post from October 2017, in which utter chaos ruled at The Compound. I mean this post has everything! We got your Swarthy Texans, your TV weathermen out on bail, Korean bootleggers, moronic state legislators, Temple Houston impressionists, soon-to-be former IRS agents demanding receipts from the dead, overzealous law enforcement...and more. Eh, I guess it's just another day here at The Compound. Happy Halloween. Enjoy!
Good morning, everybody. For those of you who showed up at The Compound last night to personally view the mayhem, I hope you aren’t forever scarred. It was quite a night. If you weren’t here, consider yourself lucky. If you’ve not done so already, you should probably read the post from yesterday so you’re up to speed. In the meantime, I’ll try as best I can to recount the events of yesterday. It was a virtual cavalcade of events: the sheer stupidity, destruction, and chaos of which defied anything else I’ve ever witnessed. Here’s a hint, folks: If ever you decide to attempt the summoning of a spirit…don’t. So, let’s see…things began quietly enough yesterday with people milling about trying to avoid another plate of beans and bacon being doled out by the Swarthy Texans. The Vintage Buick Princesses began handing out cinnamon rolls around 9 AM. There were still donuts remaining after feeding the phalanx of law enforcement out on the road. Cousin Fred was offering leftover donuts and coffee inside the Cabinet Saloon replication (aka, The Cab) on the north lawn. Everyone was happy and seemed peaceful enough. Around 11 AM, the TV stations in OKC bailed their respective pilots and accompanying one-air personalities out of jail. As the pilots were doing a quick check of the helos in the north pasture, the two personalities, Hands Morgan and Tornado Payne-in-the-Ass began making rude gestures toward one another, but kept their distance. Soon, both helos were airborne and out of sight. Again, things seemed calm. Around 1 PM, I noticed that Cousin Fred was beginning to get antsy. At first I thought he was just uncomfortable in the wool-serge cavalry uniform he was wearing. I was too busy keeping an eye on the crowd and the various camps spread across the lawn to pay much more attention. At around 2 PM, I saw Gigi run out onto the porch of The Cab with her phone in hand pointing to the north. She kept yelling, “He’s coming!” I looked up on the roof of the main house to see the Wife looking through a spyglass and pointing also. I looked down the road and saw what they were pointing at…a largish RV with Mr. Kim at the wheel. He had apparently bought a new RV and was likely bringing a load of his Korean Plum Wine Hooch. At that point, I knew all was lost…we were doomed. Remarkably though everyone seemed to practice self-restraint when it came to sampling Kim’s product. Everyone was here on a mission! All of the camps came in to Fort Apache on the center lawn where the Vintage Buick Princesses laid out their plans for the evening. Since the former location of the original Cabinet Saloon in town was on the site of the current H & R Block tax service, the Princesses sent the Soon-to-be-Former IRS agents there and instructed them to take up positions. Next the Rocky Mountain High Coloradans were sent to the cemetery to maintain a watch over the Temple Houston grave and point the way to The Compound. The Moronic State Legislators were posted along the highway to chant, point the way to The Compound, and tell motorists passing by what a super great fabulous job they’re doing on behalf of the taxpayers of Oklahoma. The Swarthy Texans were left on The Compound, mostly to keep them from running off with the remains of TH which they are forever seeking to repatriate to the Lone Star State. The Burning Man Refugees, the Florida Gator Head Cultists, the Wannabe Temple Houston Impressionists also remained to help the Princesses with the chanting on The Compound. Everything was set. Finally, at the appointed hour (9:50 PM), the Soon-to-be-Former IRS Agents began chanting, “Temple, come to us now. We have fresh ammo and rye whiskey! We summon thee! But, we’ll need to see your receipts.” The Rocky Mountain High Coloradans began the same chant, but then forgot what they were supposed to be chanting. They kind of stumbled along though…hey, give them some credit. “I don’t know, man…something about fresh something…” The Moronic State Legislators along the highway were also chanting, but it would be interrupted by, “Saaaay there, angry motorist have you heard what the State Legislature is doing for yoooouuuuuuu? Have a nice daaaaay!” as cars passed. All of this was being simulcast using speakerphone features on phones connected over a conference call app. Cousin Fred was booming the collective chants through a Bluetooth speaker at The Compound. The Princesses began their chant of “Taro, Karo, Ab-Salami” while the others on The Compound began the chant, “Come to us, Brother Temple. We have fresh rye whiskey and ammo for you. Come to us now!” All of this continued for several minutes until one of the Princesses let out a shriek and yelled, “It’s him, it’s him” before fainting to the ground. The Impressionists caught up in the moment, drew their weapons and began firing in the air. That got the attention of the law enforcement out on the road. One of them yelled, “Breach of security!” before they all drew their weapons and commenced firing. Everyone hit the ground…except the Wife who stayed up on the roof, cackling and yelling at me that I had f#@ked up another weekend. She threw one of her empty bottles of Old Crow, bouncing it off my head. Cousin Fred made a run for The Cab where he jumped behind the bar for cover. Law enforcement on the road, not to be outdone began firing tear gas canister after tear gas canister through the windows of The Cab. TWENTY-FIVE canister shots just to roust my unarmed broke-d*ck cousin from inside! Curiously, Cousin Fred wasn’t moving. I knew he had to be choking to death in there so I made a run for the building to pull him out. One of the canisters landed in a trash can full of paper and set it afire. Soon the entire building was in flames. I found Cousin Fred and pulled him to safety. The Wife was on the roof, now wearing a gas mask and cackling. Oh, the humanity! Law enforcement on the road, deciding that they had possibly overreacted, soon departed for the various corners of Oklahoma whence they had come. The Cab burned to the ground…literally nothing left. The Princesses soon departed. The Swarthy Texans headed due south. The Burning Man Refugees suddenly remembered where they were supposed to be and departed. Mr. Kim drove out of here like a fiend when the shooting started the remaining plum wine hooch sloshing around in the bladder in the main cabin. The Florida Gator Head Cultists ran off into the south pasture and were never seen or heard from again. The Soon-to-be-Former IRS Agents quietly slipped out of town. The Rocky Mountain High Coloradans are still wandering around town wondering there are no smoke shops. The Temple Houston Wannabe Impressionists went in search of a new gig. The Wife, expecting me to let Cousin Fred and Gigi start staying in the main house now that The Cab is ash, drove off in the night to her favorite resort motel on the edge of Shattuck. Did I cover everyone? I was left with the lingering odor of tear gas, a burned-out building, a line of overflowing porta-potties, and four bottles of Old Crow. I commenced drinking. Eh well, just another weekend at The Compound, I reckon. That is all! Comments are closed.
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