Cyranose d'BigO

"Hey, BP, can you come pick me up," says a tired and strained voice on the other line as the sun rises. Getting a mental grip on the nauseatingly early hour on the clock face, I grumble out, "Ugh... OK, sure, BigO, where are you at?"

"I'm at 19th Ave and Grant." Doing my best to bolt up, I quickly roll over and say, "What are you doing over there?! That's the ghetto warehouse district! I didn't leave you out that way last night, did I?"

"Um... yeah... you kind of did... but that's ok, I have a really funny story to tell you when you get here. How long do you think it'll take?" I focus on the clock again and stifle out, "Um... give me 3 minutes to throw on my clothes and then 18 to drive there." The brightening voice responds, "Ok, cool. I'm at the Circle K on the north-west corner."

Arriving at a rusty, dusty gas station, I pick up BigO from the curb. "Ok, so start telli- OH MY GOD! What happened to your face?!" Sparks of laughter erupt from my morning-breath mouth.

Big-O laughs as he pulls a dried tissue from his nostril. His spiky head and Ambercrombie clad torso turn toward me, "haha, I know, right? I'm so hungry, let's go get something to eat, and I'll tell you on the way, but it was a crazy night, BP." We head off toward Palatte, and he continues, "Ok, so last night, after you dropped me off at Flex, I wandered around inside for a little bit and then found this totally hot guy, and we go back to my room."

Flex is one of two resident "alternative gyms" here in Phoenix, the other being Chute. I don't think either would be described as athletic Olympic arenas, but rather... entertainingly lubed-up adult male jungle gyms. As they say, 'different folks, different strokes', right?

Big-O continues, "Yea, so we're there in my room, and the guy's on top of me, right? He leans back to take off his shirt and his head bumps a black fan, which starts a tragic series of events." Looking at his nose, I laugh and tell him I'm all ears. "So his head hits the fan, and this nut falls off, the screw pops out, the fan gets unhooked, and swings toward my alcohol-dazed face. All I could do was think to myself, 'oh, this is going to hurt.'"

In a scene somewhat reminiscent of the movie, Titanic, where the ice burg hits the nose of the ship, the black fan deftly approaches at BigO's nose and lands dead on. *POP* Blood starts gushing everywhere, and the mysterious hot man loses interest in the now circumvented sexual tryst. BigO's face lights up as he explains, "'Ummmm... I think I should go now', the hot guy said, and he struggled with his shirt and stumbled out the door. So I'm left there with blood gushing everywhere, still trying to dodge the Rocky Balboa fan, while looking for some Kleenex, and then my left eye contact pops out and races to the dirty floor."

"HAHAHA, oh my god! That's funny! The funniest stuff happens to your nose. Wasn't it broken before or something?"

"Yes, yes it was, when I was thrown out of a car by my sister when I was little. But anyway, I drop to my hands and knees and start looking for my lens..."

"Are you sure you wanted to find it?"

"You know, BP, that's EXACTLY what I thought, and figured it wouldn't be good to put it back in my eye... especially in a place like that. So I decided to use my shirt to stop the bleeding, and then I passed out and here I am now." Big-O starts laughing and his nose starts bleeding again. Laughing, I hand him a handkerchief and say, "Ok, Cyrano, calm down and get your appendages under control."