Another Blast From the Past - WARNING not a happy stroll through the daffodils

Note:  This is a cold, cold read.  I did not like this man and I had no sympathy for him whatsoever.

George has since gone on to that Big Pharmacy In the Sky.  He died of hepatitis, like a good drug addict, and not the pancreatic cancer, cancerous brain tumor, phlebitis, arterial blockages and mini-strokes he was claiming all those years.  Not even his kids showed up at the funeral. 

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You know how your significant other will usually have one friend who is an utter waste of skin? Someone you cannot imagine anyone associating with, much less the wonderful person you love?

For ten years now my husband has had a friend named George.

George, according to George, knows Tom Robbins, the author of 'Still Life With Woodpecker', 'Another Roadside Attraction', etc. Grew up with him. Blood brothers.
Whenever Tom's in town he visits George secretly, at night, and is gone with the dawns first light, because he doesn't want to cause a lot of media hoopla.
According to him, Tom Robbins weighs 500 lbs and is probably going to die of a heart attack.

According to George, he grew up with the Kneivels...Evel and son Robbie.
Rode motorcycles with them. Blood brothers, in fact.
When Robbie came to jump some cars here in Deming a couple of years ago, ol' George says he went up there and tried to (play the 'known him all my life' card) get in to see him, but Robbie Kneivel said 'Never heard of the guy' right to his face.
George says this is proof that Robbie Kneivel has gone Hollywood.

His daughter has recurring spells of hysterical blindness caused by his ex-wife's infidelity. According to George.

And yet, illogically, and according to George, he (profoundly and continuously stoned every waking moment ever since I've known him) and his ex-wife (300 lbs, depressed and raising two teenage girls alone and on Welfare) were swingers when we first knew them (and they were unable to pay rent or buy groceries, and had their Christmas turned in to a charity media event by a local radio station; probably broke because of all the  dues they were paying to all these private, exclusive swingers clubs  kaffkaffBULLSHITkaff) screwing celebrities and government officials and people you wouldn't even believe, man.

By the way, this means that if you swing, and you live in the Seattle-Everett-Bellingham area, you probably have fucked either George or his ex-wife, according to George.

I hope you were wearing a condom.

George is incapable of paying a bill or keeping a running car.
But according to George, he came into a huge inheritance two years ago. In the middle of a raging statewide housing market, George claims he lost it all investing in real estate.

George, according to George, has several original M. C. Escher lithographs and several Aubrey Beardsley prints in a safe deposit box. And a rare match edition ( signed by all twelve apostles with engraved meteoric silver and unicorn horn inlay or some shit like that) rifle.  So in case of an emergency, he can just liquidate those for big money.  Uh...hmm.

Seven years ago, George claimed that doctors had given him less than year to live.
He begged my husband to kill him. 

My husband refused. 

George said he understood.

George then had a premonition.
He would die that coming April 24th.
In June, after everyone (including George) had forgotten this dire prediction, I popped up and pointed out that George was 1. Well past his expiration date and 2. Still miraculously undeceased.
This was widely regarded as having been in poor taste on my part.

George has been dying of a mysterious ailment for the past sixteen years, according to George. As proof, occasionally George will suddenly remember he's supposed to be dying, freeze, contort his face, gak a couple of times and keel over.
No.
I am NOT KIDDING.
He has run up several hundred thousand dollars trying to get this mystery ailment diagnosed.
He cannot pay these bills. Not even Bill Gates could pay these bills.
Not even Tom Robbins.

George, as you might have guessed, is captain of the good ship Munchausen.


His latest pile landed in my ear about an hour ago. (I wrote this yesterday. Now it's today.)
"Uhhh...I have a question...You probably know what I'm talking about when I mention... Aleister Crowley...? Maria Blavatsky....?" is how the conversation started.

"Ah", I thought, "George found some Vicodin. "

According to George, he had come into the possession of a hand written, original manuscript of the book of Dzyan. He alluded to its having been found in mysterious circumstances, and that some poor guy died right on the spot, probably suicide, man, where it had been found, just from holding it, and that there were lots of other really sick, weird stuff found all around him.  This was in a cave where George was being held captive because George. That the manuscript, which he had, was probably worth a lot of fuckin' money to someone.

"Ah", I thought, "George needs money for Vicodin. "

Now, George has been in jail for the past couple of months. We all know this.  It is a fact.

According to George, he has been in Venezuela.
Despite his former outstanding warrants, he was allowed to leave the country. Because he's George.  And  according to George, one of his 'big dope growing buddies from Wenatchee' took him.
Out of the country.
To Venezuela.
Where he found this hand written manuscript of the book of Dzyan. In a dead guys hand.
In a cave.
Oh!  And there were infants' skulls lying around in the cave too.

"...And you know what that means..." Said George knowingly.

George then produced an old, mimeographed transcript of a Theosophy lecture.

He handed it to me. I looked at it.   I looked at him.

"Randy's in the garage," I sighed.  

I knew what would happen next.


Yes. I AM a pitiless bitch. But that's aside the point. George says he can't afford child support, he can't afford rent, but he can ALWAYS afford every illegal narcotic known to pharmacy science and cram it by the metric shitload into his head.  It's bullshit.

He isn't that far gone.  He knows.  And he know's he's playing the 'be so pitiful and embarrassing that people will do anything to get you out of their space' card.  And he played it to the tune of several hundred dollars, by the time he left the garage.

Randy and I have since had a talk about George, and about Munchausens Disorder, and about everyone else we know who's being played similarly by George.  About Georges' kids and his ex wife, living on Welfare, and George living in a nice apartment and spending all his money on drugs.   

See, here's the kicker:   George is managing to hold down a full time job with benefits.  For eight hours a day, George manages to maintain flawlessly and operate equipment in a mill that makes - no shit - industrial sized sawblades for cutting stone and large metal solids.  This he does, and has buddy-buddied up the owner so well that he doesn't even get his wages garnished, which should rightfully be the case with dependent children.  But nope.  George has this manipulation thing down.  It's why he hasn't talked to me since his 'Book of Dzyan' episode.

Yup. 

Next time he goes to visit the infant sacrificing Theosophists and their mimeograph machine in Venezuela, I hope he stays.