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Hi. Do you like vans and duct tape? I have a clown suit in my basement.

By Rape Van Guy (as told to Seth Freilich) | Miscellaneous | June 8, 2009 |

By Rape Van Guy (as told to Seth Freilich) | Miscellaneous | June 8, 2009 |

My Friday night started like any other Friday night, with me trying to find a place to park my van. You know, Chris Farley and that whole “living in a van down by the river” shtick really chaps my hide. Gave us van owners a bad fucking name. Thing of it is, vans have a shitload of utility. They’re big and roomy. They’re dark. And if properly insulated, they’re oh-so-very-quiet. And now, thanks to Mr. Farley, everyone assumes that just ‘cause you own a van, you must be some loser living down by the river. Fuck.

Of course, there is a downside to vans. It’s hard as shit to find a place to plant those fuckers. I mean, your normal parking lots are a no-go before you even start. Shit, I park the LuvShack in your common lot, there’s a good chance I come back to find the wood paneling all scratched up. I paid good money for that paneling, and I’ll be damned that shit get scratched. Plus, scratches are identifying marks. Don’t need none of that. And furthermore, you park in a lot, you can’t make a quick getaway. Fucking lots are always congested as a motherfucker. And you know, sometimes the end of the night, you just want to get the hell out of the city as quick as you can, you know? Find a nice dark stretch of country road where you can just relax in the back of the van and ponder things.

So like I says, last Friday night like many a night before it was me and the LuvShack crusing the streets of downtown Philly, looking for a primo place to park. I landed my shit eventually and moved on the next part of my usual routine, which is finding a nice, dark and grungy bar where I can sit in the back unnoticed. I’m shy, you see. And good for me, there’s plenty of them type places in Philly. I love this fucking town. But this parti’clar night, the Khyber was the first such establishment I found that meets my particular tastes. Back corner and Yueling it was, waiting to see what the night had in store.

Over the next hour or so, aside from the man hanging out with his infant kid (if you need a babysitter, pops, call me!), I noticed a small little gathering of people by the front door. There were a few lovely ladies, happily throwing back their drinks, flipping their hair, acting all inviting and enticing and sometimes throwing a little wink or nod my way. And yeah, there were some dudes, too. Whatever. So this group hung around for a bit, talking and laughing and the girls shooting me the Look and then the group got ready to move on. And I can tell you that this was a group I wanted to move on. With.

So I hung in the shadows while they stumbled on down to South Street and into Jim’s Steaks. I kept my distance (remember, I’m shy), sitting on the stoop of a nearby tattoo parlor. While waiting, I killed the time by silently repeating this little mantra to myself. I learned it back in the clinic. Helps keep the urges down, ‘cause I got a tendency to just get a little too excited sometimes when I’m out and about like that.

After the fifty-second time through the mantra, this gaggle reemerged and our little adventure was back on. We wound up at this hidden-in-plain-sight bar called Sugar Mom’s. My kinda place. I like things hidden in plain sight. And the fact that it’s in a basement and is a bit dungeony? Bo-nus. So I met up with my new group of friends in the basement and found their numbers had grown, and there were close to twenty of them. Which was great, because there were even more lovely ladies, plus with the crowd, I could get a little closer, blend in. And as the evening grew on, blending in became easier and easier, frankly, because these kids were drinking. Alcohol was flowing. Vulgarities were flying. I can neither confirm nor deny that there was a discussion about blowjobs including loud declarations of who enjoys giving them. But I can confirm that asses were grabbed. BBD’s “Poision” was danced to. Beer bottles were falling. Wine glasses were shattering. And cleavage, glorious cleavage, was being expressed (it was dark, even with the camera flashes, but I do think there was a troubling amount of hair involved with one of the cleavage shows).

After a while, I moved to the outside area, as I found that several in the group would go up for their filthy smoking breaks, and others would join them for some fresh-in-the-misting-rain air. And this outside had one wall lined with a few very comfortable bushes, allowing me to stay out of the way. I’m just not much of a people person, you see? The aforementioned shyness and all that. So I hung out in the bushes and listened to these kids talking about some review website that I guess they all had something to do with. That’s this Pajiba thing you’re talking to me about, right? Whatever. Next interview with the site, can you send me one of the purty ones to talk to instead?

Right. So my highlight of the night came when most the folks were gone from upstairs. But there was still this one girl, cute little pixie of a thing, and she came a-tumbling right into my bushes. I thought to myself, “self, the moment is mine!” But then some asshole came in right before I could introduce myself, and helped her stumble back down into the dungeon. …That asshole was you? Well yeah, thanks for that then.

See, the thing of it is, I’ve come to learn that you really only get one good moment a night. You bide your time, you study, you look for that one girl who’s off balance and can’t focus. And if you miss that moment, you’re best just packing it in and calling it a night. So that was it for me. I did keep lurking for a bit, though, ‘cause I wanted to find out if this group had more adventures in store for us over the weekend. I wanted to meet them again. And when some of the group went to Pat’s for their second cheesesteak of the night, that’s where I managed to overhear they’d be going to the Roots picnic the next day. Which meant alcohol and mass crowds. Score one for Rape Van Guy! So I scampered off and drove the LuvShack back on down to Bear, Delware, the place all Rape Van Guys call home, and after shining up my favorite pair of black stilettos and using the heels to cut my arms, I happily called it a night.

Next day, I was at the Roots picnic right at 2 p.m. I smoked a joint, loaded my pockets up with ruffies, and I was feeling aces. But the gang wasn’t there. I felt like I had an in with these guys, and I didn’t want to have to start from ground zero with a new group. But patience prevailed, and this Pajiba group showed up a few hours later. Mostly the same people, with a few additions and a few missing. Some early eavsdropping filled me in on the generalities of why they were late — an overarching state of hangover, apparently. Seems smaller groups had met up earlier in the day, some having breakfast in West Philly, some discovering a hole-in-the-wall that puts chicken in its vegetarian wrap because chicken ain’t no damned red meat, and some decided to go see The Hangover before making a two mile hike under the beating sun. None got there by breaking out of my van. Because Friday night was a failure. Fuck.

Anyway, they started drinking. Which is a good thing. And there was loud music, which is also a good thing. But I wasn’t there to hear no music. I was there to make a new friend. At first, I thought my new friend might be this wonderful 16-year-old boy who showed up. But damn it if he didn’t have a whispy little mustache, and Rape Van Guys do not abide facial hair. But I looked some more, and lo and behold did I find my new friend. She was wearing a shirt with what I later learned had something called a murdertank on it. *Swoon* Blonde and wearing murder right on her chest? It was like my high school prom all over again!

I swallowed up my shyness and did a few fly-bys, throwing out my best “hey baby, come play Captain Howdy with me” stares. I even met a few of the gang in person, using one of my solid openers (I believe I went with “hey, you got any weed?”). And we talked and hung and were cool. Although I wasn’t really paying attention to the conversation, since my gaze and focus were elsewhere. And as the sun went down, I turned up my cat-and-mouse game, stepping back for a more passive approach, finding cover under some bleachers.

And I watched some more.

I watched the group drink, and some ate, and they all rocked out to some Public Enemy (man, the Pajiba white boys cannot dance — next time you’re in town, lemme show you a thing or two about things). They seemed to be having a dandy of a time. But they weren’t drinking fast enough for my tastes, nor where they getting distracted enough for me to make my move. In fact, I was just getting ready to do a pass-by so I could introduce my friend Mr. Rohypnol when they decided to leave early, before the mass exodus. Curses!

Back to the shadows I went, creeping along Columbus Ave and following them north to yet another bar. I was going to again hide myself in the bushes, until I found a convenient hearse parked right out front. Again with the flashes to my high school prom — this night couldn’t have been written better! So into the back of the hearse I went, staring out through tinted windows while trying not to be distracted by the glowing neon skull in the front of this hearse (fucking creeps, whoever drive this around, I tell you what — fuckers need to get some class). Several hours later, the group all stumbled out, hugs were exchanged, and they were going on their way. I held my breath. My pulse was racing. This was my moment. Surely, some of the group would stay behind for a cab. And if the Apple of My Eye didn’t stay behind, there were others who would more than do just fine. Good looking bunch, this Pajiba.

But damn it all to hell if most of the group didn’t stumble off together to pile into one dude’s weak excuse of a van (tint your windows, son!). Not one fucking broad stayed behind, and my last moment of this PajiBacon East was staring at three fucking dudes. Some big yahoo with tats, plus you and another idiot, with you both wearing the same fucking t-shirt. Yeah, it was that murder shirt again, and I’ll tell you what. For the record, that shirt looks terrible on dudes. Looks better on chicks. And looks best when it’s on the floor of my van.

Now here, throw back this drink I made you and then I’ll give you a truly exclusive interview.


Box Office Round Up June 8, 2009 | The Tony's Try to Kill Poison's Brett Michaels

Seth is a Senior Editor and sometime critic. You may email him here or follow him on Twitter.