DICKHEADZ – THE RETURN OF BABOON BABOON

Sorry, not to leave you hanging all cliff-style since Friday’s demi-installment of Dickheadz. Here at long last is the gripping conclusion to the saga of B. “Baboon” Baboon.

The next time that I saw Baboon Baboon (a.k.a Rhesus Rhesus Ghali Pink Ass) I was a little older, around 15. I was strolling back up to school from down the road where we (and the more haggard of our teachers) smoked cigarettes, and I thought, damn, I’m hungry. How about some snacks. Yeah, snacks.
I crossed the street to where there was a small cluster of shops, including the drug store where I once had the mind-blowing experience of hearing a Muzak version of the theme song from Doogie Howser, MD. I would never even dream to make that up.

So on top of this drug store was a supermarket, where I went and got some chips. As I crossed back to the other side, I heard a commotion behind me. People were yelling and pointing at the roof of the supermarket where, casually scratching his pink ass—again—was that jerk Baboon.

He was even mangier than before, like he’d been slummin’ it. But he was still surly and acting bitchy and unimpressed, like oh, he’s so cool because he’s not in school and he can just sit on top of the supermarket and do whatever while all us retards just point and gasp. Prick.

So anyway, Baboon’s just sitting up there, checking shit out, scratching his ass, and he was either ignoring the crowd or else railing off a mental list of “fuck you, and you, and you,” when suddenly he caught sight of the chips in my hand.

I looked down at the chips. I looked at him. He looked at the chips. He looked at me.
His eyes were fierce.

But I was like, hell no, Baboon, and flipped him the bird and walked away.

Eventually somebody called the police to tell them about the baboon. Which wasn’t necessarily the brightest move as the police where I grew up were half-assed and largely inept. These were the same guys that, when apprehending us as 14 year-olds drinking an astronomically sized bottle of tequila in the park, checked our IDs, confirmed that we were 14, told us to please keep it down before adding as they left, “That’s a great tequila, by the way.”

They were also the guys that somehow missed the obscenely large ball of hash jutting out from my sock during a random patdown one afternoon. They were even the guys who, from their little outpost office that I had failed to notice, mustered no reaction when I crashed a stolen golf cart into a fire hydrant in the middle of a thunder storm. And if a quick flip through my old photo album is any indication, these were the guys who also happily posed with us for many a drunken teenage portrait.

Baboon must have gotten bored of the roof, because when I came back to see what was going on, he was on the street facing off with two terrified police officers. One of them was holding a large, green municipal rubbish bin while the other one feebly tossed bananas in an attempt to lure him in—which was a doubly stupid plan, because every time Baboon swiped away a banana, the cops just leapt back in fear.

It was like a bad cartoon. Sure, the police probably weren’t trained in trapping wild animals, but they didn’t have to be such losers about it. And what the hell, Baboon? You’re such a dick. You could have totally run away but you stuck around just to fuck with these guys. Actually, that makes you kind of funny, but for the purpose of this column, man, Baboon, you are a meanass bully son-of-a-bitch.

I watched the police struggle with Baboon for a while, but eventually got tired of their slapstick tactics and left. I guess he got bored and took off too, because yes, I’d be seeing him again soon enough.

The supermarket incident got a mention in the evening news, and Baboon Baboon became a legend on the lam, spotted at other schools and seen lurking around the mini-mall near my house. Baboon was a pretty smart guy. I mean, shacking up in the sub-tropical hood of my school alone was a genius move—he didn’t have to travel far to find snacks, scare the crap out of kids, or belittle his unsuccessful captors.

The next time I saw Baboon Baboon was about a year after his run-in with the cops. Some friends and I were at school on a Saturday for a play rehearsal. What exactly I was doing in a play I don’t know, but my theatre career wouldn’t last long anyways, because this may or may not have been the day when I casually left a processed cheese single on the windshield of my drama teacher’s car. (A word of warning: if you ever find a processed cheese single inexplicably placed on your car, you have probably done me wrong).

So we were coming back from the supermarket carrying various food items for our lunch, and going up the same stairs where I saw him back in the day with ol’ perv Mr. Clehms. We heard a rustling in the decorative shrubbery lining the steps. As we turned around, Baboon Baboon jumped right out of the bushes.

Well, I’m not sure if jumped is the right word. It was more of a stagger. Because by this point, motherfucker looked straight up deranged. He was something nasty. His hair was all gross and he had sores an’ shit on his face, and it looked like he’d been getting trashed in an old-man bar with temporary scumbag friends. I mean, he looked fucked.

We all screamed and hoofed it, but Baboon was right behind us. One of us was smart enough to throw their food at him, and following suit I threw my package of instant noodles and boxed lemon tea and scrambled away.

Once we had caught our breath and gotten over the initial shock, I slowly played back what would be my final, epic encounter with Baboon Baboon: Baboon getting beaned with groceries, Baboon amidst the debris of our edible artillery and realizing his bounty, Baboon contemplating my package of noodles before theatrically ripping them open, a confetti shower of dehydrated ramen exploding through the air and raining down upon him.

And then it occurred to me. That was my lunch. Fucker stole my lunch.
Baboon’s probably dead by now, or else a decrepit bum. Or maybe he’s running with some gutter punks. Who knows, I never saw him again. But Baboon, if you’re out there, somewhere, scratching your pink ass and wondering where next to look surly and unimpressed or act like you’re so goddamn cool, let me say just this: You owe me lunch, asshole.