Minuard Foundation 5: The Tour/Razor

One of the next messages I got was a couple of guys named Razor and Bobby, who thought my flyer was the funniest thing they'd ever seen. And, wonder of wonders, they left a return phone number. I called them back the next evening, and asked for Razor.

"Dude, this is Razor--this is so fucking funny, man, you're the flyer guy, right?"

"Yeah, hey, where did you get that thing, man?"

"Dude, me and Bobby totally found it on a bar in Deep Ellum when we were in Dallas last weekend. This thing's fucking great."

"Deep Ellum? But I didn't send any to Dallas!"

"Well, whatever," said Razor, as I heard the unmistakeable sound of Bobby hitting a bong in the background, "this shit rocks."

"Wow, that's weird."

"Hey, man, we're gonna have a party down here next weekend. You should bring the Minuard--we'll have lots of weed and barbecue, and my friend's band is gonna play. It's gonna rock."

"Well, shit, Razor, let me talk to his keepers, and I'll get back with you."

"Killer, dude."


Later that week I also got a call from a kid who called himself DJ Tucker, who invited me and the Minuard to his house for "tea." I got his address, and told him we were starting a tour, and we'd be back in touch.

I was joking, of course, but after some discussion, Bob and I decided we had to go investigate. After all, these were the only two people who were willing to have us come out in our capacity as adoption counselors, and even if they were weird, or obvious drug abusers, we felt obligated to give them a chance.

The next weekend, Bob and I loaded up a case of beer in the back of the car and headed south, to Razor's place. His directions were confusing, but after several beers and a couple of stops at payphones for clarification, we were stomping up a set of rickety wooden steps into an apartment building.

Razor met us at the door with a bong in one hand and and a cutoff baseball bat in the other. "Never can be too careful, dude," he mumbled as we passed him.

After getting a look at the place, I could understand. The living room was furnished with a love seat, a coffee table, and a television--and a garbage bag full of pot. Bobby was in the kitchen, making poptarts or some shit, and there was a football game being played (loudly) on the TV. A big dog ambled in and sat down next to Razor on the couch, so Bob and I sat on the floor while he loaded another bowl. I offered him a beer, which he declined ("too early, man, too early), and then an uncomfortable silence fell.

See, I get nervous around people. I don't feel comfortable just striking up a conversation with strangers, simply because I HATE it when strangers start talking to me for no apparent reason. I despise small talk, although it's a valid way to get to know someone--but in this case, I had already figured out that I didn't really want to get to know Razor (or Bobby) any better than I already did.

It just occurred to me that you're probably curious about what Razor looked like. If you're a long time reader, you're probably wondering if he was Samoan. Well, no, he wasn't. In fact, he looked and sounded just like Otto from The Simpsons. Remember when Otto gets Homer hooked on dope? Yes, that one.

Bobby I never actually saw...he puttered around the kitchen and meandered through the rest of the apartment, but I was never officially introduced. I always pictured him looking like Beavis, though...so use your imagination there.

After a couple of beers, Razor handed me the bong. I declined. This was anathema to the guy, and I could tell I'd lost a great deal of respect, just by the look in his bleary red eyes.

"What? You don't smoke weed, man?"

"No, sorry. Don't ask me how I managed to avoid that bad habit, because I've got just about every other one in the book, but I just never took to it."

[I must say that I have, at times, partaken of the herb, but it affects me really strangely and I didn't feel comfortable being all fucked up in some strangers house miles away from home.]

"So, like, you really don't smoke weed?"

"No, really. Sorry, man."

Razor pondered this for a bit, allowing this new idea to percolate through the wrinkles in his frontal lobe. He nodded to himself, apparently intent on the football game.

"So, you guys did this flyer without smoking dope?"

"Well, yeah, pretty much. But we did drink a lot of beer..."

That fell completely flat, and I was beginning to wonder if he was going to summarily kick us out for not smoking pot when the door opened and a crowd of six or seven people came in. Razor's eyes lit up, and he furiously started packing another bowl at the same time as he introduced us.

"Hey, Ray!! These are the flyer dudes! The Minuard Foundation guys!"

"Oh, wow, man, you guys are fucking great. That thing was funny as hell! Where's the Minuard dude?"

"Well, see, he really doesn't know we've done this yet. It's kind of...a...surprise."

I thought Razor was going to choke on his tongue.

"You mean, dude doesn't know you're doing this?"

"Right, not exactly. I mean, we are going to tell him, but not just yet."

"Dude, you fucking guys rock. Here, hit this shit."

At this point, I figured there was no point in arguing, especially since I appeared to have validated his earlier high opinion of me. I took a big hit, then coughed up a lung for the next few minutes. Chugged a beer. Looked for a clock. It was halftime.

The rest of the visit passed in a haze of pot and cheap beer. By the time we left, Razor and Ray and some girl with skintight jeans and a Judas Priest half shirt were making plans to come up and visit us--in fact, I'm pretty sure we decided there was going to be big Minuard Foundation benefit party, on the day we decided to fill him in on what we'd been up to. I'm not sure. The next thing I can recall was heading downstairs, waving cheerful goodbyes to various muppets and cartoon characters as we hustled towards the car.

It was a weird afternoon, and we still had to go by DJ Tucker's place.