Saving Schultz

Schultz was just one of those guys; you know the kind I’m talking about. Neither hero nor villain, or disliked, but yet still receiving a fair share of abuse nonetheless. A whipping boy if you will. A George Costanza like in ‘Seinfeld’ or better yet, Patton Oswalt’s character in ‘King of Queens’ – Spence Ulchen.  We keep him around, have some fun at his expense, but at the end of the day, we still take responsibility for him. Sure, we’d buy him $2 wine for a 2000% mark up, give him a funny nickname, or even obtain official documentation with his personal information for non-monetary gain, but still provide some level of protection with our superior mass or intellect. I am gambling, of course, that he never reads this, or if he does, he has since stopped working out in the basement as I have certainly done nothing of the kind for many years and would prefer not to be strong-armed into writing a retraction.           

       It fell to Louis to tell part of this tale, but given that he is otherwise occupied pursuing the elusive bitch Mammon, and has threatened to re-write any story he sees fit, I decided to take that risk and do this up anyway. Does my ubiquitous presence in everyone’s tales overreach my bounds and constitute a constant addition of hay to the camels back? Indubitably. I have found, however, that pissing in another mans pond just makes him get out all the quicker. I stand by to create history, leaving others to merely rebut it! Sorry, the subject matter at hand screams for undeserved and unabashed arrogance, having earned not one whit of it by merit alone. This, of course, was why we were always saving Schultz.           

       The idea that Schultz needed frequent saving from both himself and other is indisputable. We all have stories, and some have been already told in this forum. Who can forget when we saved him from a certainty of extended virginity by locking him in Jason’s room with Sue the Boot? How about the effect of our corruptive influence preserving him from a lifetime of WJYE listening, church going, happy positivism and sobriety? All us baby! And who can forget that the Dashwood Society saved him from the boredom of anonymity by not only ensuring high Springeresque drama at the yearly Madison’s, but being so kind as to pay tribute by featuring him on a program cover. A screen door died a valiant death in one escapade. The list goes on, so I feel we need to focus on the untold tangibles.

       I have to be honest with you; what I’m about to tell you is only partially, if at all, true. I was not present for this undertaking, and heard it only from Aaron, who well, doesn’t necessarily lay out the facts in a manner best resembling the degree of accuracy one would expect from the New York Times or Weekly World News. I refer, of course, to the epic night that Louis, in a characteristic call to bravery and grandstanding heroics, saved Schultz from a good righteous beating at the hands of some guys who knew or were related to this one girl. I can tell I have already skewed off the path of parochial reporting can only warn that it is likely to get worse from hereon in.

       As related so often elsewhere, Comstock was the locale of choice for any party thrown by those who lived there or anyone remotely connected to the core group. It was at one of these parties that Matt brought along his chippy of the week; Theresa I believe. Theresa, like most women who passed though our door on the arm of Dan or Matt, was both underage and had an enormous appetite for whatever cheap swill we were serving on that evening. I don’t know what it is about ECC whiskey-tango chicks and Golden Anniversary beer, but they hoover it up like weasels in a drought. She was no exception and was bombed fairly early in the evening. Matt was not far behind and long before we even broke out the ‘Ren and Stimpy’ tape, we decided it was time for them to go, especially after Theresa refunded the majority of her intake in various non-toilet related locations around the house. Nothing new there, but barring nailing the cat with it (which unfortunately never happened), we saw no benefit to keeping them around for a second go.

       On this particular evening, Louis saw fit to grace the party with his presence. I don’t recall the details, but it somehow happened that poor young Theresa was unceremoniously dumped on her mom’s front lawn, spared no doubt the indignity of a formal surrender by her beaux and the inevitable questioning that would result. It was the surprise to everyone involved that in some circles, even those inhabited by the trailer dwellers, that folks by and large object to the wanton littering of their lawns with shit faced female relatives. On the bad relationship scale it ranks just below having her dad walk in to her assaulting you with a strap on as you squeal like a pig. Not good form, but the deed was done, and no one can argue that it was not the more convenient option.

       Some debate exists as to whether the saving occurred right at that very same time or sometime after, as the teller is in no way qualified to relate this adventure. Assuming that is the case and that it will be done so anyway, we’ll say that the instigators were able to depart the premises following the dumping and prior to the discovery; the standard O.J. special. Little did our itinerant wanderers know, but the subsequent discovery inspired a posse of honor bound Italian relatives, filled with piss and ‘roids, charging into the night with the sole purpose of ending our young Schultz. Blissfully, he marched merrily on in his ignorance, never feeling the thunder of guido rage’s pounding boots barreling for his upturned ass. Behind it all, one could feel the Machiavellian plotting of Mooney, orchestrating all with a wry smile and braying laugh.

       I speculate that they managed to catch up with the dynamic duo in the parking lot of a convenience store. It is unlikely that Louis would have lasted very long without regular intakes of Mountain Dew and Chocodiles, so replenishment of the supply would have been mandatory. The watering hole is the logical watch point for predatory goons and it should have been no surprise that they came in like rolling thunder, having sniffed out the weakness of their prey. It seemed certain that Louis would be devoured as well in the frenzy of their tearing apart of poor drunken Schultz. They had not, however, counted on the inherent wiliness of a sugared up and wholly caffeinated Louis, who for some reason was strangely reluctant to just sit back and enjoy the certain bloodbath.

       Guido Prime descended upon the vehicle, surrounded by sycophantic bohunks of the oily variety who snickered and raised their bushy eyebrows in bloodlust. “Whatchu the one that what left Teresea on tha lawn like dat all fucked up?” The menace in his tone was indescribable, as was his vocabulary. That he meant to do harm with his cracking hairy knuckles was unmistakable. Matt lolled around in the back of the vehicle, burping up foul vomitous noxious gas and giggling gently against the possibility of onslaught. In his squirrelly prime he was no match for the angry kindred, nor was Louis despite his impressive creation of a 10th level fighting cleric named Father Miles. Was this to be the end of our young heroes?

       No, Louis’s mind exploded with the speed of a dual core processor. He stood his ground and declared himself the keeper of the secret flame and that they shall not pass as winds whipped his graying locks in a halo around his wizened face. No, this clearly didn’t happen, although I think it’s a lot more exciting than what did, or what I think did. As it turns out, Louis was somehow able to bridge the communication gap between himself and the thugs and apply an unknown weapon against them; logic. What value was it to pummel this poor shit faced fool? If he bleeds, does it not get on one’s hands? If he vomits, does it not splatter on one’s shoes? These things, virtually guaranteed in the event of a good thrashing, were only likely to darken their day all the more. He could tell that they were wearing their good flannels and stompin’ boots and might be remiss to soil them so early in the evening.

       He then deftly moved on to the classic ‘Revenge of the Nerds’ defense. When Lewis boned Betty in the fun house, was not Stan ultimately responsible?  Should not then Matt, a clear amalgam of Wormser and Lamar, be then applauded and yea, protected, by these militant Huns so clearly a representation of Ogre? Put into RotN terms, he was suddenly speaking their language. It was if the Rosetta stone of the digital age had suddenly become uncovered. Through the power of transference they were able to see themselves as the snide yet superior Alphas and Matt as a helpless, yet lovable, Booger who was not just flesh and blood but a real film character with the thoughts, feelings and fallacies common to all fictional personas. Once they were able to relate to him not as real person but a likable caricature represented by talented thespians, they no longer had the heart to kick the ever loving bejeezus out of him. It would be akin to giving Zap Rowsdauer a dry ass pounding with no reach around. Unconscionable at best.

       Through nothing short of a miracle and Louis’s best line of bullshit, Matt went unscathed that night. Though it is well likely that the full sum of events probably ensured he would remain entrenched firmly outside of the young ladies pants, he was able to do so with nary a cracked bone or undesirable loss of bodily fluids. To this day he scoffs at the idea that he was ever in any real danger, feeling that his days as a St Joe’s wrestler and the 32 times he watched ‘Karate Kid’ prepared him in full to take on any physical challenge. Louis, of course, was harshly admonished for his intervention as the majority favored Darwinism being played out uninterrupted in this case as opposed to some ‘intelligent design’ mumbo jumbo. We never saw Theresa or her mookie siblings again; all for the best as we had form, fit, function replacements in the Franks.

       It was not long after that, despite my howling denouncement of Louis’s unfortunate intervention that I had the opportunity to try to save Schultz. It was yet another party with the Franks; a situation so often written about that readers must speculate this pastime occupied three quarters of our lives, which it did. Nothing too notable happened through the majority of this particular one – generous imbibing of the fruits of Bacchus, boisterous tales of how Clausen almost beat off a gang of Hell’s Angels before getting his ass kicked again, more of Jason’s filthy possessions toyed with in an impure manner – the usual stuff. This occasion also included a typical row between Matt and Mandy; the former being egregiously upset about the latter continuing to shtup her fiancé on the side. Schultz exclusively picked public forums in which to pick fights with his paramours, and it was rumored that it was carefully orchestrated as such in order to avoid the certain beatings he would have suffered in private. Each time he wore sunglasses at night, we could only presume his 80 pound lady love had gotten into her cups again and dialed in her displeasure.

       Although we generally made it a point not to keep tabs on Matt, so long as he didn’t try to utilize anyone but Jason’s room for his elicit trysts, his disappearance became noted. Mandy, upset that she may have shattered his fragile psyche with harsh words or a kick to the nads in the most recent fracas, was worried that he wandered off into the night.  After some time had passed, we became somewhat worried as well. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where abrasive young men of Aryan appearance were held in high regard. Where the rest of us were known fixtures in the neighborhood, he was not so much and potentially subject to grievous harm. A permanent loss of Matt would require attempting to shimmy someone else in the pivotal niche he occupied. I couldn’t see Dan, Aaron or even Louis being shoved into the vacancy without some manner of physically violent protest. No, it made more sense to protect the asset we already possessed.

       Having reasoned this though with the drunken acuity of a shirtless Bill’s fan in December, I took off running with the intention of hunting him down using the instinctive tracking senses my coincidental surname surely empowered me with. Remember, I worked at the goddamn comic book store where the plausibility of such happenings was considered with only limited skepticism. I was out of breath before I hit the first corner. I lit a Camel Wide and trotted along; the acrid smoke burning my sharp yet watery eyes as they scanned to and fro for the elusive little guy.  By the time I hit Windspear, I was lamenting my decision greatly, but felt the necessity of saving face after I boldly declared to the assemblage that I would bring him back, dead or alive. Whether they believed me, remembered by then, or even gave a toss either way, I did not know.

       Out of breath and on my third Camel, I loped across the dewy wet fields of the South Campus, ever watchful for the diminutive figure no doubt but a few paces before me. By then I was already hoping for a mournful outcome wherein I would reappear at the party, Matt’s broken tiny form cradled in my arms, as I chocked back heroic sobs about being just a moment too late. Well, it would have made for a much better story then you are reading now, and I can’t promise I’m really even going anywhere with this. Nevertheless, onward I went, shins a splinting and side on fire as if pierced like a martyr at the end of spear. He constantly eluded me like some fur footed Hobbit fleeing with the chintzy bit of jewelry he nicked from the establishment.

       I finally found him, dazed, drunk and a little confused in front of the Amherst Theater. Tired of our continuous maligning of his character and Mandy’s unconscionable loyalty to the possible father of her child, he decided to go where they knew how to treat a man; Rocky Horror. Mustachioed Larry Fein, bedecked in spangles and fishnets beckoned him in. I placed my hand on his shoulder, “No Matt. It’s time to come home” Head down and ashamed, he accompanied me silently back to the party. I delivered him back to Mandy, who by then had forgotten he had been there to begin with. A far better fate I saved him for than the unholy entrance to that weekly orgy of libidinous conduct.

       Many both here and well remembered, had the distinction of saving Schultz one time or another. Granted my only experience was to spare him some possibly uninvited groping in the dark by a horny transvestite and the price of a ticket, but really, is that not the greatest gift of all?

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19 Responses

  1. That certainly does it, the first story is completely fictional as far as I am concerned. I was never part of anyone being dumped on their lawn. I will pound out some tales forthwith.

    Also, I think that dumping a drunk chick on her lawn is still several steps less heinous than being caught on the business end of some pegging.

  2. Theresa was the one that up-chucked into the wok. We stood around watching her vomit swirl around the left-over cooking oil like innocent lads gazing upon the clouds, which took whatever shape our vivid imaginations conjured. She was the associate of Mooney, but Dan had convinced Matt to pick up Theresa for him, hence her brother thought it was Matt who dumped her on the lawn, when it was Mooney. Dan and Brian pulled up to Theresa’s house, rolled her out the door and drove off before her brother could catch them as he ran out the door.

    I have already started htis blog with a tale of saving Matt from a gay bar, the very night after I declaired I would never step foot into one.

    Having mixed my second hand knowledge of the incident with your third hand knowledge I feel content to leave this as the official story unless first hand Louis cares to make any corrections. I would very much like to learn the actual conversation that took place.

  3. You are mixing a completely different story into the one I was involved with. I have no idea who saved Schultz from Theresa’s brother. The incident I was involved with was yet a different time that Schultz was in peril.

  4. By virtue of first telling, this will likely remain the official version unless the rebuttal just plain blows this out of the water. Frankly, I find it unconscionable that I would be allowed first mover advantage over something so important as our collective lore.

  5. I never had anything to do with a Threasea and I don’t remember one. the girl who vomited in the wok as Psycho Carrie (not Frank), then a guy named Pat and I dumped her on the lawn. Brian never went to a Comstock party. She didn’t have any brothers either, and I was never threatened, by anyone for this.

    The second story seems like it could be true though. Matt got drunk and wandered off from a party. That’s not exactly a big deal.

  6. Once again I must point out that the beating I saved Schultz from had *nothing* to do with anyone being dumped on a lawn and everything to do with people who suspected Schultz of providing so much wine to a 14-year-old that she got near-fatal alcohol poisoning.

  7. When an appropriate post is posted I can archive this, or any other post. Killjoy.

  8. No, because this garbled mess of a post contains some other elements of story such as Mike saving Matt from Rocky Horror fondling (temporarily).

  9. I see much caterwawling and snippy comments but not much real posting. Tis far nobler to go where the angels fear tread and post the official version of any given story than bitch about it after. The time any of you have spend complaining could have be spent on a brilliant post that left me silent and red with shame. Yet here I am, arrogant and unrepentant!

    I felt I made it abundantly clear that I had no idea what I was talking about in the post itself, thereby making me righter than rain and morally superior in every possible fashion.

    Louis, your lack of remembrance of Father Miles and the picture of him I failed to complete surprised me!

  10. I did not forget the picture at all. In fact, I think I only discarded it within the past few years after it became water damaged, since you had eventually provided me with the unfinished “masterwork”. I am stunned that you thought he was only 10th level as he had about 15 items of bling around his neck.
    As far as not much posting, let me state for the record that only fools post more than once per day, since that causes one’s post to lose the vaunted front page.

  11. Also, I should point out that I have conclusively established that Schultz reads this blog, but how frequently is anyone’s guess. Furthermore, I do not know if he currently has a basement, but he still does own his original basement and there’s no telling if he works out there.

  12. True on the front page. I am now very motivated to get another out there and regain my position. The Boogie story sat enthroned for far too long.

    I think it is fairly evident that no one has a clear idea of the first part of this story. It would seem that there were actually several instances that have since been recombined several times over. Other than that, and possibly the presence of a drunk girl who may or may not have pegged Matt, we lack consensus.

    I exchanged email with Matt some weeks ago and he admitted he used to look at the blog but generally lost interest. Besides, that is why we have a disclaimer.

  13. It seems that Matt generally loses interest in everything. I should try to encounter him sometime, as I wonder what his interests actually consist of now.

  14. Hard to say; he compared himself to General Zod in the last email as well as Capt Kirk in the ‘Mirror Mirror’ episode of Star Trek. I can only infer that he watches a lot of TV.

    He also mentioned that his wife finished her PhD and just dropped the baby bomb into a conversation. The gaping hole of course was what he does, leaving me to believe he is unemployed and bitter.

  15. Sounds like he’s having emotional difficulties and is on a potential suicide kcik.

  16. I don’t know if he sounded all that bad; more irritable than despairing. I don’t think he’s necessarily the type to object to being a kept man.

  17. When I spoke to him last via email, it was apparent that he was working and she wasn’t. His period as a kept man is over for now, but when she gets a job it will probably revert to that.

  18. Working in a professional capacity or parking lot attendant capacity? I forwarded him an email regarding a UB Believe program to help increase the prestige of the University (and thus our degrees). His reply was that he didn’t believe in the UB fairy anymore, which leads me to believe he’s working in a non-degreed capacity. Not that this makes him a candidate for the $50 smack down by any means. It’s good to know either way as the threat of him becoming successful is a wonderful motivator to keep us all on track.

  19. Well, last I recall he was working with wiring or wireless networks or some such. So it is probably an “inbetweener” job. Just because he said he doesn’t believe in the UB fairy anymore, you have to figure that was just being against UB for the sake of being counter-culture. Had you suggested going to a “crap on the UB Bulls” event, he might have rallied to the defense of the ol’ alma mater.

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