The day Mexican food caused me to almost burn my house down before I even moved in

My house had gotten raided by the Stanislaus County Drug Enforcement Unit (SCDEU, pronounced Skiddoo) on Valentine’s Day, 1987. While they didn’t find what they thought they were going to find, they weren’t giving up. I’d see their cars driving past and they parked a fucking RV down the road a piece so they could monitor my traffic – like I wouldn’t notice an RV parked on the side of the road when my nearest neighbor was a good 500 yards away.
I can take a hint. It was time to move on.

My buddy David was renting a 2 bedroom house in Riverbank, City of Action, and we always got along real good, so he told me I could have the spare room and guest bathroom and the driveway and he’d keep the garage, master bedroom and bath, we’d split the rent, gas and electric bills, and I’d pay 25% of the phone bill because the only people I ever talked to anyways were weed customers and I always did that from a pay phone. I didn’t pay anything on the cable bill because I didn’t watch TV.

The landlord was cool with it. He didn’t much care what went on as long as the house was taken care of and the rent was paid on time, which by the way was 500 bucks at the time, up to half of it paid in weed if we were light on cash money. As far as taking care of the house, if we caused the damage, it was on us. If it was anything else under a month’s rent, we’d pay for it and just deduct it off the rent. Anything else, he covered. It was a pretty good arrangement for everybody concerned.

Before I moved in, David sat me down and laid out the rules of the house.
1) No gunfire inside the house. Period. Not even to pick off any pesky magpies in the backyard from the living room.
2) No shooting anything larger than a pellet gun in the backyard. We were living in town, after all.
3) No shooting owls out of the backyard tree, even with a pellet gun.
4) No cleaning fish or game in the kitchen sink. Apparently guts are hell to get out of a garbage disposal.
5) No digging holes in the backyard to get rid of said guts.
6) No throwing of entrails or scrap meat on the roof for the vultures.
7) No practicing my coyote calling in the backyard. Or the house, for that matter.
8) No rattlesnakes in the house, not even in a terrarium.
9) No pissing in the backyard.
10) No boiling of animal skulls in the kitchen to get the meat off.
This town living was going to take some getting used to. I was seriously wondering if it was going to be worth it with all those silly fucking rules.

The guest bathroom’s toilet started leaking a couple days before I was supposed to move in, so Dave gave me my key and I called in sick so I could replace the flange gasket while he went to work, telling me he’d come by at lunchtime to grab something to eat and smoke a joint.
Cool.

So I went over about 8 or 9 in the morning and got right to work. I got the commode off and rassled it into the tub, then cleaned the flange off. I had broken a couple of the rusty bolts off, so I hustled on down to the hardware store to buy those and as long as I was close I stopped off at a taco truck and got me a half dozen delicious goat tacos and a bowl full of fire roasted jalapenos for lunch. Love me some Mexican food.

After I got back to Dave’s, I sat down and rolled up a couple fatties, one for Dave who should be there in about 45 minutes and one for myself to enjoy before I got back to work on that toilet.
When I say fatties, I mean fatties. I’m using a 1.5 Zig-Zag and I’m barely getting one wrap on that rolling paper. These joints are bigger around than my thumb and this is some serious KGB – Killer Green Bud.

Just as I got finished rolling those up, my guts started rumbling, my butthole clenched on me, and beads of sweat popped out on my forehead. Uh-oh. My shitter’s still in the tub.
No biggie, I’ll use David’s. I grabbed a joint and scooted that way with my butt cheeks pressed together tighter than pages in a new book, hoping he had a recent issue of Guns & Ammo in there to pass the time.

I plopped down and spread my cheeks wide and relaxed while I started reading up on the 220 Ackley Improved and tried to fire up that doobie. This shit was real resiny so it took some effort to light, kinda like a cigar, which it basically was. I was huffin’ and puffin’ like a donkey engine before I got it lit up.

I hadn’t started shitting yet but I was having monstrous farts, basically just once continuous blast, wavering here and there but no ka-ka. Well, I learned at an early age to never trust a fart so I just leaned forward and strained while taking a big ol’ healthy toke at the same time.
Right about then I blew a turd. It got caught up for a moment, then more gas built up behind it, then that fucker popped out with such force that it splashed toilet water up on the ol’ brown-eye which startled me so badly I coughed right into the joint that I was just taking a toke off of. I’m not sure what startled me more, the cold water or the fact that the turd was solid – the way my guts were talking to me I figured for sure it was gonna be thinner than chocolate milk. But when I coughed, it blew the cherry off of that joint, propelling it into the trash can, unbeknownst to me.
I relit the joint, resumed my article, and was finally enjoying feeling my guts pour out into the toilet when I noticed flames coming out of the trash can. Small flames, but flames nonetheless. David probably had a fucking rule against fires in the house as well as all his other unreasonable bullshit, so I finished shitting real quick, wiped, and then waddled over to the trash can with my pants still down around my ankles.
I reached down and picked up that trash can, the one made out of metal which was fully engulfed in flames at the point, to throw it out the window, but I burnt my fingers, causing me to drop it on a towel that Dave had kicked into the corner.
Naturally, the fucking towel started smoldering and burning. Uh-oh. Okay, with all those flames, I definitely need to have Wee Willie protected so I took a quick moment to jerk up my pants which gave the flames more time on that towel. I threw open the bathroom window, checked for dogs, then grabbed the plunger and used the handle end of it to pick up the flaming towel to fling it out the window, then I stomped out the burning trash on the floor. When I turned around, what do I see but the fucking curtains are on fire too! I must’ve lit that off when I was trying to get the towel out.
I jumped up and grabbed that flimsy ass curtain rod and tossed the flaming curtains out the window too.

After all the burning refuse was out the window, I’m standing there surveying the carnage. I mean, the fucking room is filled with smoke, there’s smoldering trash all over the linoleum, my hands are blistering up, and there’s fucking smoke marks all over the wall next to the window, not to mention a small fire still burning outside. Things are not looking real good at this point as far as me moving in.

Then I turned around and guess who’s standing behind me with an unlit joint in his hand and a shocked look on his face. Yup, my soon to be housemate. He was a tad bit upset.
“SONOFABITCH, YOU HAVEN’T EVEN MOVED IN YET!!! WHAT THE FUCK???!!!”
His mood got worse a couple minutes later when the firetrucks rolled up, sirens blaring and everything. Apparently one of the neighbors was standing in his backyard when he saw all kinds of flaming debris flying out the window, so he called 911 and reported a major house fire.
Dave was still pissed when he got home from work a few hours later.

Oh yeah. I did move in and managed to live there for 4 years without burning the place down after David added a few more rules, although I was never allowed to use his bathroom again.

This entry was posted in True Stories, Wirecutter, You can't make this shit up. Bookmark the permalink.

29 Responses to The day Mexican food caused me to almost burn my house down before I even moved in

  1. livin to ride says:

    thanks for the laugh . i damn sure needed it .

  2. WoodBurner says:

    Any story worth tell’n is worth expanding on.

    Nicely Done.

  3. MadMarlin says:

    Oh I had to stop reading when “the cherry” flew off. I had to wipe tears the rest of the way to finish.
    Oh man that was funny.

  4. Sawed Off Bastard says:

    The truth of life is usually stranger than fiction. You cant make this shit up.

  5. Richard J. Medicus says:

    At least your personal gas line didn’t blow up.

  6. Rat says:

    Ken YOU are the Mark Twain of the old time stoner generation. Of which, I am but an ancient relic. Kudos, Bro. Fire up when ready.

  7. AZshooterLSR says:

    Ok, so I could use a little help here. I’ve been coming to this site daily for a many months now maybe. I might have found a link from Conservative Tree House if I recall correctly.

    So I could really use some history catch up on the “cast of characters” around here.

    Is “Wirecutter” Kenny Lane?

    Does this story byline’d by Wirecutter mean that Kenny wrote it. I was crying laughing about the story!

    Now, what about Luis – God bless him by the way – does he really exist. And who is this “tactical” guy that Kenny had written about?

    Any other “inside” jokes I should know about.

    Leaving here to go hit the tip jar!

    By the way, I got to use an old joke that I have used on my beautiful wife for years, this time in front of 2 of my 3 grown daughters, their husbands and their kids.

    We were all in the pool yesterday having an awesome Independence Day – really hot in PHX! – enjoying drinks and a cigar, listening to great music, and waiting for the ribs to finish smoking.

    So my wonderful wife had just delivered me a fresh vodka/soda and one of the kids said “hey are you going to tip mom?”

    Well, that did it! ;) I said “tip, hell – I’m gonna give her the whole thing”!

    You might imagine that my daughters said ewww, and my sons in law laughed like crazy and passed out the high-fives! A good time was had by all.

    • Wirecutter says:

      Yup, I’m Kenny Lane, also known as Wirecutter and that’s a true story I wrote.
      If you want to see more, check out my sidebar and go to ‘Categories’ and select True Stories.

      Luis is real also, he has a business called Miami Teeny Weeny Bikini and there’s an ad for it in my sidebar.

      Not sure who you mean by the ‘tactical’ guy but I suspect you’re talking about Sam Kerodin. He’s a wanna-be that came on to the Patriot scene a fw years back and scammed a bunch of people, me included. Once a bunch of us got together and realized he was full of shit, we exposed him and shut his shit down. You can read about the whole ordeal by going up to the top of my site and clicking on ‘Sam Kerodin’s House of Cards’.

      WiscoDave is also real, a good friend, and he was one of the guys that helped bring Kerodin down.

      Angel is also real, she runs a blog called the Lonely Libertarian. You can find that HERE.

      Any more questions, just holler.

      And judging by your sense of humor, you sound like my kind of guy. Right on.

      • JamesD says:

        Mr. Wirecutter. Being somewhat new myself, I believe I have a limited grasp on what you just reiterated above but continue to have one nagging question. The lady Angel; do you personally know her and did she wreck your car or something like that? I’ve been slowly reading back through all your posts and I am only at July of 18 so maybe my question will be eventually answered?

        BTW, loved the story and thanks for the belly laugh.

        • Wirecutter says:

          Angel was a reader from way back when that turned out to be a dear friend over the years. We’ve shared both heartaches and joy in the time we’ve known each other. No, she didn’t wreck my car – I harass her about her driving because of all the minor fender benders she was having for a while.

          Yes, we do know each other personally. When we moved out here for California, she handled all of our logistics, booked rooms for us, and arranged for us to lay over in the Texas panhandle for a few days so me and Lisa could relax and visit her and her parents. Good folks, and if I ever have to take a trip back to California for whatever reason, I’ll be stopping by again to visit.

        • Avenging Angel says:

          Aw hell to the no! I even chauffeured Wirecutter and Miss Lisa around when they hit my city on their way outta California. No wrecks, not even a hard brake. WC is full of shit, and HE WILL PAY!

  8. Paraclete says:

    Reads like a scene from a Cheech and Chong movie script.

  9. Old Gray Wolf says:

    Food and beverage warning. A courtesy subject line used by people who care about one another when sending or posting material that could pose a threat to keyboards and other sensitive electronic items in the vicinity of a liquid spew resulting from unexpected laughter by a recipient. You got lucky this time, I wasn’t drinking anything… And thanks for the laughs.

  10. john biglin says:

    W.C., tears man, tears. That was one of your finer stories. Thanks for the laugh, I needed that.

  11. Stefan says:

    Number 9 is a deal-killer, surely. No weewee in the Backyard? Philistines…..

  12. Cederq says:

    Damn Kenny, it took me almost an hour to read that story. What from belly laughing and drying my eyes out. Way too perfect and I can just see it in my mind the facial expression that were going on during the event…

  13. yeah!@luis says:

    Great story!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  14. Remsdad says:

    Awesome

  15. Bert says:

    Guessing that all come down after your Army stint and before wifey #1?

    Note to AZ: Charlie Goddamnit really runs this site with help from that little shit Jack. Kenny from time to time writes about their antics.

  16. Steven Wright says:

    Ahahahah thank you Kenny.

  17. Curious Angel says:

    Did you ever pull your pants up?

Play nice.