“Syrup Head taught me everything I know,” I heard myself exclaim. The others pretended not to hear over the soft jazz music. “Syrup Head taught me everything I know” I said again. Jeff Coltsburger, yes that Jeff Coltsburger (the it boy of non- fiction) looked at me with raised eyes, tilting his head into a glass of red wine. His blonde fiancé Marta stood beside him in a tight green dress looking like a fresh two dollar bill, and just as rare. Marta looked to Jeff, “Who is syrup head, sweetie?”
“DID SOMEONE SAY MY NAME?” exclaimed Syrup Head, magically appearing in the middle of the room. He wore a light brown tuxedo, Teva sandals, and fake vampire teeth. His ponytail was dyed blonde to match his goatee which was dyed blonde as well.
“Sweet goatee, Syrup Head!”
This crowd has never seen such an oddity. Did this strange man really just appear out of thin air? Why is he dressed like that?
Jeff Coltsburger felt the eyes of his helpless guests land on him. An explanation was in order. This is one of Jeff’s crazy jokes right? But Jeff Coltsburger doesn’t make crazy jokes. Jeff Coltsburger hosts polite parties and speaks with a genuine seriousness about all things academic. “Pardon me, Chuck. Who’s your friend?” He inquired on behalf of his audience. “Uh, this is Syrup Head. He’s an old buddy of mine from the farm.”
“Syrup Head, show everyone what you can do.” I pleaded.
“I’ll give them an offer I can’t refuse” said Syrup head, doing his best Marlon Brando impression. Never mind it wasn’t the exact line. Syrup’s celebrity impressions can’t be beat. He puffed out his jaw, leaned his head back and hollered through his nose, “STELLA!”
Some people started to laugh. Some, like Jeff, looked on in utter shock. Syrup Head sat down on the floor Indian style and beckoned me with his finger, “What’s with these people?” he whispered. “They’re just a little, uh, confused,” I said.
“Do they know I’m made of real maple syrup?”
“Attention ladies and gentlemen. Syrup Head has an announcement to make.” Syrup Head said.
As if by magic, a steady dance beat came blaring through the stereo. The party formed a circle around Syrup Head as he got up and danced in place, laughing. I had seen this once before.
“Now you may have heard of the Charleston, and you may have heard of the skippity doo, but I bet you haven’t heard of the Charleston Chew! The DANCE, that is. Well it goes a little somethin’ like this:
You stick your left foot out, you put your right thumb down, you sit your bun on the ground, and you pull your pants down. You shake it all about and you play with your Crang and that’s uh the Charleston Chew. Now to the left, to the left, to the right, to the right. Now lick a neck. Lick your neighbor’s neck. Put her in reverse and do that thing! Now STOP! 1, 2, 3, 4, get that doodie off the floor. 5, 6, 7, 8 don’t look now just masterbate! Yeah yeah YEAH yeah, yeah awe YEAH. Do a flying headstand and land in the spinach dip. FREEZE! Get down on your knees and kiss your crotch. Go ahead now kiss your crotch. Yeah yeah YEAH yeah, yeah awe YEAH! That’s the Charleston Chew!”
And with that the music stopped and Syrup Head farted. His fart produced a 3 foot flame out the back of his tuxedo pants. The flame burst yellow and orange and looked hot as hell. “Woah!” the crowd roared. Everyone started clapping, laughing, and hugging. One person cried. Jeff’s blonde fiancé threw her arms around his shoulders. “Splendid” Jeff proclaimed with a choked up smile.
It was then that I saw the clock and realized the gravity of the situation. At 12:00 midnight Syrup Head will turn into a chicken nugget unless he is completely immersed in vodka. “Syrup! Do you see what time it is!?” “I sure do buddy. Get me in my vodka bath, PRONTO!” It was 11:58. He ran to the bathroom. “Quick everybody! We need 4 to 5 gallons of vodka!” “What are you talking about?” asked Jeff, seemingly annoyed at my order.
“I don’t think you understand, Jeff. If Syrup Head’s entire body isn’t completely immersed in vodka by the stroke of midnight, then he will turn into a chicken nugget. Now hurry. We don’t have much time.”
I grabbed the two bottles of Stoli from the snack table. “Do as I do” I yelled to the crowd. I ran into the bathroom.
No sign of Syrup Head.
“Down here, amigo!” I little voice squeaked. I looked down at the gray and white tiles below."I'm a fuckin' chicken nugget thanks to you."
"Sorry man"
"Eh, could be worse."
I suppose it could.
And THAT is how Syrup Head became a chicken nugget.
The Shitty End.
- C.C. Bunson
