Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Sixty-seven

Fifteen minutes later, Larry Dove, Proprietor of Jewish Mother Catering, and I were sitting side-by-side on the fluffiest, most comfortable couch my lazy ass had ever experienced. It happened to be in Jerry Springer's palatial apartment overlooking Lake Michigan. One of his body guards, I missed his name, sat across from us in a chair version of the fluffy couch we were sitting in, complete with an ottoman. The joint cycle had been completed several times, and I definitely felt the buzz of very good weed. It wasn't like I got high a lot, but sometimes, when Max would come over to watch a game or pro bowling or "The Real Life of a Centipede," he'd bring a joint and we'd make a party of it. Although in rehab for drug and alcohol abuse, smoking the ganja was one habit he never shook.

The bodyguard whose name I could never remember, in the chair with the ottoman, announced he had to "take a piss."

"Why don't you leave it instead," said Larry.

The bodyguard and I looked at each other as though it was a serious suggestion, until we both realized how stupid the joke was. We all laughed uncontrollably—and just kept laughing. We were in the goofy, giggle zone, where not only did the stupid joke just keep on getting funnier, but the fact that the bodyguard couldn't seem to lift himself out of the big, cushy chair made it all seem too hysterical.

"Rescue 411, Rescue 411, come in please," I said in a radio transmitter voice.

"Rescue 411 here. Go ahead please, over," Larry played along.

"See the fat man stuck in an overstuffed Crate and Barrel chair with an urgent urination problem, copy."

"Hey, who you calling fat, you fairy piano player ..." The bodyguard's strained voice bellowed.

"Copy that, chief, we'll roll over right away. May need back up. Repeat, may need back up, over."

"Hurry, you assholes, I gotta piss like a fucking race horse."

In an attempt to rescue the bodyguard, Larry and I rolled off the big, fluffy couch, bumping heads as we fell to the floor. Naturally, we stopped to laugh about it.

"Come on, quit laughing, it's not funny ..." Desperate from all his attempts to get out of the chair, the bodyguard just sat there buried in the chair with what was exhaustion.

We ended up rolling on the floor toward the bodyguard. Laughing the whole way across the floor, I rolled into the ottoman, and Larry rolled past it, slamming into the wall, causing a vase on a shelf above to tumble until Larry's back broke the fall. We continued to laugh.

"Help," yelped the bodyguard.

I pulled myself up and helped Larry focus as he was pretending to make love to the vase that had just fallen. Hovering over the enormous guard, we each grabbed an arm.

"Work with us here, Gary. Help us help you," said Larry. More giggles. He was so heavy.

"Gary the bodyguard. Gary the bodyguard. Gary the bodyguard ..." I said over and over again, trying to ingrain his name in my mind.

They both looked at me like I was high ... Which made sense, but then again, it was my way of remembering his name.

"I'm chanting to get the rescue energy going," I said.

They both started the chant. "Gary the bodyguard, Gary the bodyguard ..."

It turned out Gary the bodyguard was a lot stronger than Sam the piano man and Larry the Jewish Mother, because before long, he pulled us both in his lap, and while the three of us laughed, the warmth of his urine kept us hysterical until Gary began to cry.