Idiot Ruins Game

Slow weekend. Went to my sister's, where I accompanied her as a "chaperone" while my 12 year old nephew went on his first "date." Everyone was cute and well-behaved, and even though I spent the afternoon watching pre-adolescents skate clumsy circles in a dilapidated roller-rink in a post-apocalyptic neighborhood, I consider the day well spent.

Meanwhile, I get back to hear that my friend Qwert had managed to make a major fool of himself at a party...but wait, I've gotten ahead of myself.

A local music and video store, Cactus, had just closed for business after a decades-long run here in the Houston neighborhood where I live. It was, as much as these things can be, a fixture among the locals, particularly the "cooler" types, of which I am a charter member. And over the years it had provided employment for countless slackers and musicians (is that redundant?)

Anyhow, so Cactus shuts down for good on a Friday, and the next day they throw a party for ex-employees and friends. Since I'd chosen this weekend to head out to the "country" and visit my sister and family, I wasn't attending.

Qwert, in the meantime, bored and shiftless on a Saturday afternoon, found himself, like generations of losers before him, at the local icehouse, where he nestled at a picnic table and proceeded to pour beers down his gullet at a startling pace.

I am told he drank from about 4 PM to roughly 8. At that point, he needed to take a shit. Taking a shit at the icehouse is roughly equivalent to smearing your most intimate orifices with a thick, insect-attracting e-coli syrup.

So Qwert decides to walk home to the relative safety of his own bathroom, when he runs into our mutual friend Lomie. Lomie is headed to the Cactus party and, to his chagrin, invites a stuporous Qwert to come along.

As Lomie put it later: "It wouldn't be a party unless I brought someone to ruin it."

The rest comes from the Houston Press

General manager Quinn Bishop had made his gracious farewell speech, and as Big Brown Truck scrambled around harvesting their gear, local songwriter Qwert -- who admittedly started drinking about noon that day at the West Alabama Ice House -- saw his chance. He rushed up to the stage and jumped behind the mike -- which, foolishly, had been left live.
"I never was a Cactush 'ployee," Qwert slurred. "But I rented a lot of movies here...Alsho paid a lotta late fees." The dregs of the crowd stared up at him, most no doubt wondering who the hell he was -- his name tag read simply "No Job" -- and what the hell he was doing up on stage.
"So here's what I have to say about that," Qwert continued. "Fuck you!" He pointed to one stunned former clerk, and then rounded on another and then a third. "Fuck you! And fuck you, too!"
And so if anyone ever asks you who the last performer was to grace the Cactus stage -- the last entertainer to tread the same hallowed boards as Jeff Buckley, the Ramones, Townes Van Zandt, Doug Sahm and Patti Smith, there's your answer. And it was perhaps a fitting end. Cactus always was more of a community than a mere music and video store. Why shouldn't a customer close the store with a drunken rant about late fees?