While he and I were sipping on our miami vice's, a mixture of strawberry dacquari and pina colada swirled together (you simply must try one of these), with his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of a spider moving suddenly, and he wigged out. I asked him what was wrong, and with his southern drawl he responded, "I don't like fuckin' spiders. I hate when, like, you see somethin', and then it moves all of a sudden . . ." He then launched into the iguana story, to illustrate his point, and for that I am eternally grateful:
I had a pet iguana once, and when I was buying somethin' for it at the pet store, this dude working there was doin' like a demonstration, lettin' one of um' crawl all over him. Just as he's sayin' what docile creatures they are, or whatever, the thing bites into his neck, and blood spurts out everywhere. It was fuckin' messed up! I knew what I had to do: I had to get rid of my iguana, or suffer the same fate as the pet-store-dude. I read somewhere that if you just turn um' loose in cold temperatures, they die in a coupla' hours. So, I drove out miles away to an open field and turned the son bitch loose. About a month later I open up my gym bag to find an iguana in there, snarlin' and a' hissin' at me! I have never been so a'scared in my whole life. I quickly grabbed my book bag full of text books, and beat the motherfucker to death."
Well, that was The Iguana Story. It's been in the blog can for about a year now, and it seemed like a good time tell it. I swear to God, Brett was shaken up just telling the story. How did that thing find its way all the way back home and into his gym bag? I'm "a'scared" now too thinking about it! Well, seven readers, I hope that this Saturday evening finds you with your beers cold and your gym bags iguana-free.