Preparations for the studio’s annual pre-long weekend Thanksgiving kegger go awry when Ricky falls down the stairs and gets a stern talking-to from his guardian angel.
Meanwhile, Baby’s busy packratting stuff for their future house and her daddy has some sage advice for Ricky when it comes to picking out a ring for her.
Podcast Script (not including ad-libs):
Hey-o, Ricky here! I guess you know that. Been a while since the last podcast ‘cause there was that extra week or whatever.
I been busy ‘cause, well, it’s always busy at the studio, usually. And Thanksgiving is next week—I think in America it’s next month, but in Ratland we do it in October where it belongs.
Y’know, in Mouseland they do Thanksgiving in January. That don’t make no sense, man: I mean, in October it’s after the apple harvest and whatnot and it’s weird that Americans do it like a month later, but January’s even weirder. Mice are all screwed up.
This one time I asked my girlfriend Baby’s half-mouse cousin Myles what’s up with that, and he just shrugged and said they always have done it in January and there’s plenty of stored food then.
But also he said he thought the proper time for Thanksgiving is in April after the big tax season rush… of course, Myles is an accountant so I guess he would say that ‘cause he’s rolling in the dough in April.
Anyway, I got me three Thanksgivings I gotta go to next week. First off, we have our annual Thursday night pre-long weekend kegger at the studio before Big Mike goes down to Vegas for the weekend.
Then on Sunday I’ll be going to Baby’s family’s for their big Thanksgiving dinner, even though I’m sure her folks would rather I didn’t go and that’s why they stick me and the other boyfriends and husbands at a little table in the kitchen next to the kids’ table. (And before Baby’s older sisters got married and started having kids, us boyfriends had to sit at what is now the kids table, well, actually we sat cross-legged on the floor but it was the same low plastic table we had our plates on.)
And then Mama Rat has her dinner on Thanksgiving proper on Monday, and she makes a huge big to-do about it ‘cause it’s another chance to show off and stick it to Aunty Maureen and her other sisters-in-law that she can’t stand.
Sigh… and all three of these have a whole lotta preparation and chores that come in advance to the big day.
Y’know, Baby’s thinking of the future when me and her are hitched and we have a house and she might take a turn hosting Thanksgiving and other holidays. So, she’s always dragging me with her to Homerat to pick out decorations and stuff, which she then puts into a big ol’ storage unit she’s renting til we have that house.
And that storage unit is absolutely stuffed since she’s been packing it full o’ stuff from Homerat since 8th grade. At this point I think we’re gonna need a mansion just to fit it all, and I dunno how I’m gonna afford one o’ them unless I win the lottery, but Baby insists we still don’t have everything we need for the house yet, so Wednesday when I could slip away from the studio I picked her up from cosmetology school and we headed back to Homerat.
“What are we looking for today, Baby?”
“We’re gonna need cheese forks.”
“OK, Baby… wait, didn’t we get cheese forks a few months ago?”
“Those were St. Patrick’s Day cheese forks with shamrocks on the handles. We need Thanksgiving cheese forks with turkeys on the handles.”
“Ah, gotcha.”
Well, really, I didn’t gotcha Baby, because it seems to me we could just get a single set of fancy but non-specific cheese forks to use for all occasions but I long since learned not to upset Baby by saying such things. And so we wandered around in the kitchen section and Baby found brass turkey cheese forks and bought 16 of ‘em. And then she spent half an hour deciding on which scented candles to buy and put in the storage unit.
What always amazes me is how Baby remembers all the stuff we already got for our future house. Like I was looking at the Santa Claus snow globes and Baby done smacked my hand when I was pickin’ ‘em up and shaking them.
“We already have 17 Santa snow globes, Ricky!”
“We do?”
“Yes. I want each room of our house to have one. I got one on clearance in 9th grade, three in 10th grade, two in 11th grade, five when Pier Rat Imports had their big going out of business sale a couple years back, two in 12th grade, three last year, and I bought a really cute Santa TV snow globe two weeks ago.”
“OK, Baby.”
“But we do need more handblown glass tree ornaments from Poland, ‘cause we’re gonna have at least 10 Christmas trees in our house but I only have enough ornaments for 7 trees.”
“OK, Baby.” I picked up a set of gold-colored glass ornaments shaped like cheese wedges. “Hey, Baby, these are cool.”
“We have 4 boxes of those already.”
“Oh.”
“I bought them with my babysitting money in 10th grade.”
“Ah, OK.”
“Why don’t you fetch us a dozen of those felt angel ornaments, Ricky? They’ll be good for when we have little kids and have to hide the nice ornaments for a few years so they don’t break.”
Sigh… so we loaded up a cart and went through checkout and it took forever to load things into the trunk because Baby pulled her iPad out of her purse and insisted on adding each item to her “house stuff” spreadsheet before I could put it in the trunk. And took pics for Instarat. But eventually we were done and I drove us over to the storage unit and Baby rolled up the metal door.
Wait a damn minute… it was empty…
“Baby! Where’s our stuff from the last shopping trip?!”
“Oh, that’s in our old storage unit. This is our new one.”
“We have two storage units?”
“No, Ricky. We have five storage units. The others are all full.”
“Um, Baby… where we gonna put all this stuff when we get a house?”
“In the house, Ricky.”
“Right, but… I mean… it’s gonna hafta be a big house…”
“Daddy bought Samantha a 3000 square foot house when she got married.”
“Oh.”
Now, I’m pretty sure Baby’s daddy likes her sister Samantha’s husband a lot more than he likes me, ‘cause that dude works at his company and goes to the same country club, so I wasn’t so sure Mr. Rattsen was also gonna buy me and Baby a 3000 square foot house, plus at the rate Baby was going, we were gonna have enough stuff for a 6000 square foot house, but I didn’t wanna upset Baby by saying that, so I figured we’re probably gonna have to have one massive garage sale someday, but in any case, I had to drop Baby off at home and head back to the studio.
Mr. Rattsen was outside washing his boat when we got there, and as Baby went inside, he waved me over.
“Where did you take my daughter?
“Homerat, sir. And then her storage units.”
“What did she waste my money on at Homerat this time?”
“Thanksgiving cheese forks, scented candles, and Christmas tree ornaments, sir.”
Mr. Rattsen scowled. “Doesn’t she have enough of that crap already?”
“Well, sir, apparently she wants 10 Christmas trees and we only have enough for seven trees in the storage units. And the other cheese forks are for other holidays.”
He growled. “HGTV and Raterest are going to be the death of us all.”
“Yes, sir.”
So Mr. Rattsen went back to hosing off his boat and dismissed me with a wave of his hand and a grunt, and I headed to the studio to get down to the important business of stacking kegs of beer in the basement amidst the dusty boxes of 24 track tapes of hit and not-so-hit records Big Mike had made back in the 80s.
I dunno why we have to take the kegs downstairs until the kegger, it’s just a whole lotta work lugging them downstairs on Wednesday only to lug ‘em up again Thursday afternoon, but I guess it gives Big Mike something to supervise while Jeff is busy meditating and Intern Dave is busy printing remix stems for 4 hours. And it is true that if we left the kegs in the lounge they might all get drunk before the Thursday night kegger… but then we could just stuff ‘em in Big Mike’s office for a couple days and lock the door… but no. Big Mike insisted they had to go in the basement.
Not that Big Mike was gonna lift a finger to help move the kegs, of course. He was busy sitting on the sofa in the lounge playing Minecraft on his laptop while telling anyone who dared interrupt him how he was “insanely busy.”
Anyway, so we got a whole truckload of kegs delivered and I was taking the last of them down the rickety old wood stairs some drunk intern built in the 70s and I guess I missed a step or tripped or something, being unable to see my feet ‘cause of the keg.
And it was weird ‘cause I was sliding down the stairs real slow I thought, with my feet up in the air, and I couldn’t catch a hold of any of the 2×4 hand rails and it didn’t make a lick o’ sense to me but then there I was at the bottom with a big ol’ thud and the keg rolled off of me to the side and smashed into the stack o’ kegs I already set up and knocked them over and they went rolling all over and… fuck, I was almost done and now I was gonna have to stack ‘em all up all over again.
Shit.
But I was kinda lying there on the concrete and I guess I was a bit stunned or whatever and also tired and I was starting to think maybe I done hurt myself and this dude came out of the shadows behind the stacks of 24 track tape rolls and he held out his hand and helped me sit up and got me to sit on the bottom step.
Now, I didn’t recognize this dude, man. I ain’t never seen him in our studio before and I was worried he might be some record label douchebag come to fetch some old tapes for some 40th anniversary re-issue cash grab from one of them big bands Big Mike’s worked with. And usually I can’t stand record label douchebags, but douchebag or not, it was awful nice of him to help me up.
Still, Big Mike was gonna yell at me about allowing anyone to have unauthorized access to his stash o’ tapes. And for all I knew, dude could be working for Mrs. Mike looking for evidence against Big Mike for all his cheatin’ or asset hidin’ or whatever, so I figured I needed to ask a few questions.
“Uh… hey, man… um… does Big Mike know you’re down here?”
“No.”
“Well, um… Big Mike gets real mad when people are snooping around in his stuff.”
“I’m not here for Big Mike’s stuff.”
“Oh. Um… are you with the band?”
“No. I’m your guardian angel, Ricky.”
“Huh?”
“Your guardian angel. Remember? Back in Sunday school they told you about us.”
“Oh, I, um… y’know, I didn’t really pay much attention in Sunday school.”
“We know.”
“Well, I mean… wait, so you’re an angel? I thought angels had wings, man.”
Dude sighed and rolled his eyes, but then he said, “We can take many different forms, but OK, you want wings, whatever.” And then, poof, dude had wings.
“Whoa, cool, man. Can you, like, fly, or are them things just there for decoration like penguin wings?”
“Ugh… we’re doing this, huh?” And the dude groaned but he did fly around the storage room, dodging all the stack of kegs I already brought down that didn’t get knocked over and the boxes of old tape and he didn’t even get caught in none of the spider webs or nothing.
Then he sat down next to me on the bottom step and told me we needed to talk.
Ain’t no one ever happy to hear that, man. But I figured since he was an angel, I guess I should listen or whatever.
“OK, dude. What do we need to talk about?”
“You need to change how you’re living your life, Ricky.”
“Yeah, Mama Rat tells me that all the time.”
“Well, she’s right… at least occasionally. You need to cut back on the booze, for one thing.”
“Wait… I thought booze was OK. I mean, booze is in the Bible, ain’t it?”
“Yes, but in moderation.”
“Oh, shit. Where’s my manners… you want a beer? We have some cold ones in the fridge upstairs.”
“Angels don’t drink.”
“Oh, OK. Um… I got weed, too.”
“No, we don’t smoke.”
“You want some ‘shrooms?”
“No. Listen, I—“
“Ooh… hey, does everyone got a guardian angel?”
“Yes.”
“Even mice?”
“Yes.”
“But they just get little tiny mouse angels, right?”
“Angels are angels.”
“Right, but rat angels are better than mouse angels?”
“All guardian angels are equal.”
“OK, but rats get better ones?”
“No, I just told you—“
“Big Mike must have a real good guardian angel, ‘cause of all the times Mrs. Mike done tried to kill him and ain’t succeeded yet.”
Well, the angel sighed and muttered something under his breath that I couldn’t quite make out then he told me to focus on the matter at hand.
I wasn’t real sure what he meant but he told me I ought ta cut back on the beer and really cut back on the liquor and other stuff and I wanted to argue with him but figured that might be a little rude so I just shut up and said I’d think about it.
He seemed to know I wasn’t really serious about that, though. “You have a lot of growing up to do, Ricky.”
“Yes, sir.”
“For example: it’s about time you manned up and married Barbra.”
“Well, I want to sir, but I dunno if we’re ready yet.”
“That’s a nonsense excuse.”
“Well, I dunno if I can afford it.”
“You have $75,000 in your savings account, Ricky.”
“Right, ‘cause I been saving ever since I had a paper route as a kid, but the engagement ring Baby wants from Tiffany’s with the fancy yellow diamond is $79,000.”
“That’s retarded. Buy her a nice blue topaz ring surrounded by little diamonds for $3000.”
“Well, also we gotta be able to buy a house on the fancy side of Ratsville and have money to send our future kids to prep school.”
“Normal people start out in an apartment. And Barbra’s father will pay for prep school if it’s that important to him.”
“Dude, you don’t understand: Baby’s already got 5 storage units full of stuff for our house, it won’t fit in an apartment.”
“Have a garage sale and get rid of all that junk. Love makes a house or apartment a home, not stuff.”
“Well, Baby insists it’s having 16 of the perfect turkey topped cheese forks for Thanksgiving and a different set for each holiday.”
“Tell her to stay off of Raterest.”
“She’s gonna dump me if I say that!”
“Naw, she won’t.”
Well, me and the angel kept arguing about that sorta thing, and the ring thing, and he grabbed my phone and showed me a bunch of real pretty rings, all of which were under $5000, but I dunno, man. Like I told him, Baby really wants that 1.27 carat fancy yellow cushion cut diamond Tiffany ring in the 18 karat yellow gold diamond band that costs $79,000.
And her two older sisters that are already married both got expensive rings from Tiffany or Ratier… of course, Samantha’s hubby is a lawyer and Yvonne’s hubby is a dentist, so they got way more money than I do, but Baby gotta keep up…
I mean, I sure wish Baby would be OK with a topaz ring, but I dunno, man.
Anyway, at some point in the arguing with my guardian angel, I heard Jeff call out from the top of the lounge, “Ricky, who are you talking to?”
And I turned my head and looked up at Jeff and I started to tell him I was talking to my guardian angel but then my angel vanished. Weird…
Jeff came down the stairs. “Dude, did you bang your head or something?”
“Um… I guess so? I, um…”
“Shit. Hang on, didn’t you stack up the kegs already?”
“Yeah, but they got knocked over when the other keg went flying.”
“You OK, Ricky? Big Mike said he heard you babbling on about diamond rings or some such shit.”
“Well, my guardian angel was here. He says I shouldn’t spend more than three grand on a ring for Baby.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Diamonds are all a bullshit racket based on consumerist desires and dishonest advertising campaigns.”
Well, I guess Big Mike was eavesdropping upstairs ‘cause he came down ranting about DeBeers being a criminal cabal’s conspiracy to brainwash dumb broads and steal men’s fortunes and Jeff was stacking up the kegs and nodding along with him as I sat on the bottom step, just staring as Big Mike went on and on and on.
“It’s all a fuckin’ con job! And these women… fuck’s sake, they love all the dumb sparkly shit and then when they find out it’s cubic zirconia you’d think you fucked their mothers or something! Well, what fuckin’ difference does it make? They can’t even tell unless you’re stupid enough to tell them or leave the receipt sitting around! ‘I told you I wanted a big diamond necklace but you just got me a rhinestone one!’ If you think I’m spending a quarter million at Tiffany when I can get the same damn thing for 25 bucks on Amazon you’re damned right I’m buying it on Amazon and getting myself a new Porsche with the change…”
Well, it seems to me that this is why Big Mike been divorced three or four times now, but what do I know?
Anyway, I guess the point is, the angel got his wish ‘cause I was home sick on Thursday with a concussion from my fall down the stairs so I missed the big kegger and didn’t get to any drinkin’ all weekend.
And I did make it to Baby’s family Thanksgiving dinner and was banished to the boyfriend and husband table in the kitchen with the other guys, then all of us and Myles and some other dude cousins of Baby and Mr. Rattsen all piled into the basement man cave to watch football while the women cleaned up and gossiped about celebrities upstairs. I took the opportunity to ask Samantha’s hubby how much he coughed up for her Tiffany ring.
“Tiffany? Pfft… is that what she told her sisters?”
“Yeah?”
“Nope. I got a buddy whose cousin works in the diamond district in New York. I paid eight grand wholesale.”
“Oh… that’s way less than I thought.” I turned to Yvonne’s hubby. “Well, didn’t you get Yvonne a Tiffany ring?”
“I got something labelled as Tiffany for a hundred bucks at the night market in Chinatown next to the $20 Louis Ratton knock-off bags.”
“Whoa… they have Tiffany rings there?”
Well, the guys all looked at me like I was an idiot and Mr. Rattsen shook his head and muttered something to himself about traumatic head injuries and brain damage… dunno what that was all about, but Yvonne’s hubby asked me, “How much are you spending on Baby’s ring?”
So I told him: “Well, she wants this ring from Tiffany’s that’s $79,000. I been saving up for years and all I got $75,000 so far.”
All the guys bust out laughing at that point, and Mr. Rattsen said, “Barbra wants a lot of stupid things that she’s not getting.”
“Oh.”
“Get her a topaz ring for a grand, that’s plenty.”
“Oh… won’t she be mad at me?”
“Not nearly as pissed off as I’ll be if you waste $79,000 on a stupid ring for her.”
That was about when Myles piped up and asked Mr. Rattsen, “Hey, Uncle Kevin, what did you spend on Aunt Karen’s ring?”
“You mean what did I actually pay or what did I tell her I paid?”
Laughter all around, except for me ‘cause I was all confused.
Mr. Rattsen kept harping on the $79,000, though. “79K for a damned ring… good Lord… Son, if you’re fiscally responsible enough to have 75K in savings already despite your dead-end job, don’t suddenly be a retard and blow it all on a shiny rock! That kind of money? You can get her a nice topaz ring, then pay for your own damn honeymoon and buy her a minivan for when you have kids and still have money left over for some really nice golf clubs and lessons for when you get a real job and learn to play for networking purposes.”
“Oh… um… yes, sir.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I don’t really like golf, but either way, I figured this is why there’s a sign on Mr. Rattsen’s man cave door that says “what happens in the man cave stays in the man cave.”
And I guess I’ll have to start pricing out topaz rings and minivans… eventually.
Links
Follow Ricky on Facebook: Ricky B. the Rock n Roll Rat Facebook page
And on Instagram: Ricky B. Rat on Instagram
And on Twitter/X: Ricky B. Rat on Twitter
But also on YouTube: Ricky B. Rat on YouTube
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