The first Mombo Club-El Rancho Delux Welcome Back Summer Party in many a moon erupted Saturday night in Gabacho Heights, Colorado, a sprawling Aryan Nations compound just south of Bored Housewives Buttes, under the dark, phallic shadow of Pool Boy Peak.
Held at the palatial manse of Larry and Sheryl Martinez (“Oye, pendejo, make sure you call us ‘the Martins’ while you’re here!” hissed Larry upon our fashionably late arrival), the 2009 MC-ERDWBSP (Geezer Edition) reunited several members of a filthy fraternity that predated National Lampoon’s “Animal House,” which, contrary to popular mythology, was not a comedy but a documentary.
In attendance were the Martins, retired El Rancho jefe Jethro, Mombo Hisself and his wife Kimmie-Boats, Mudbone, Sarah and Charley Ellisonwonderland and of course Your Humble Narrator and the lovely Herself. The part of Fast Eddie was played by a potted plant, but the much-anticipated Dance of the Potato Salad had to be canceled in the absence of Chris Intercoursey, who advised via e-mail that he would be with us in spirit, if not in spirits.
“Say hey to the gang for me,” wrote the alleged writer, who now has something nebulous to do with trains in a northern suburb of San Francisco (yeah, I know, it sounds dirty to me, too). “Tell them I’m here in my back yard, sleeping with the toaster, snoring and blowing chicken feathers out my mouth every time I exhale.”
I was pleased to note that despite the passage of time and kidney stones that I remain the cutest member of the band, a perky Paul backed by a mangy pack of Ringos. Still, Mudbone has a kind of George thing happening (pre-Maharishi) and Mombo evokes John (pre-Mark David Chapman). That would make Larry George Martin, as he arranged the music for the evening, a typical El Rancho party mix of Jerry Jeff Walker, Tom Waits, Parliament-Funkadelic and Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen.
But the annual MC-ERDWBSP was always as much about comedy as it was about music, promiscuity, firearms, substance abuse and encounters with law enforcement, and though we were long on Cheeches and short on Chongs we laughed long and loud, winking to one another as we fraudulently cast absent friends as the stars in the worst of our reminiscences in order to avoid death by spouse (although the tale of Fast Eddie and His Faithful Dog Blowjob the Wonder Pooch remains wholly unexpurgated and unprintable, even on this site).
I snapped a few pix of the gathering, thinking that with journalism circling the bowl I might make a buck or two with the local gendarmes. But the only contraband these elderly maricons were smoking turned out to be a pair of old El Vestido Azul cigars left over from the Clinton administration, and the cops said no sale.
As space is limited here, we’ll put the rest of the pix up on Herself’s Flickr account as soon as I’ve finished Photoshopping everyone’s clothes back on.
Alas, the Ellisonwonderlands are not pictured, as they arrived even later than we did, and Sarah was carrying a great big stick.
Mad Blog Media 
Holy shit. How did all of you pendejos turn into such fuckin’ viejos? It must be the dry Colorado climate. Here in God’s Country, moist breezes creep in on little cat’s feet every night to caress the skin and rejuvenate the innards, keeping all of us on the Left Coast looking eggzactly as we did in 1979. Of course, I’m talking about how we looked on the morning after a Mombo Club-El Rancho party in 1979, which ain’t that different from how y’all look in these pictures right here, now that I think about it.
Sorry I missed the festivities. Seems like only three decades ago that we’d barely let a week go by without re-loading and doing it all over again, but something tells me this kind of reunion won’t come around again for quite a spell.
Keep ’em flyin’, Porgy.
You think that’s scary? When Larry and Jethro got to smoking those cigars it looked like “La Eme Meets the Sopranos.”:
“Oye, primo, we’ve been meaning to talk to you about the damage deposit on El Rancho.”
“What damage deposit? I never lived there.”
“Yeah, but you lived there, que no? You got any moneys? Or maybe a seester?”
We took care of the damage deposit… burned the sh*thole down, drained the Lorrine Polan swimming hole(sorry Stan no more lifeguard opportunities) and dug up all the dead animals and brain cells that were buried under the manicured lawns.
You young pendejos hope your still able to keep from sh*tting your Depends every time you fart when your my age!
Ya’know how we do it, yo?!
thumping in the hood.
Jethro
Haha….I’m only 39 and I too know the truest mantra of life-after-a-certain-age:
“Never waste a hard-on, and never trust a fart.”
Truer words, etc.
I have an 84-year-old neighbor with the predictable collection of ailments, and he confided once, “A good, dry fart is a thing of beauty.” Ask not for whom the finger pulls — it pulls for thee.
Back off, Shady! You already got a herself. Leave the seester whipping to a professional – like me! I wonder if those cerrotos they were smoking tasted as bad as they smelled – or was that Martini’s farts?