About when his tranquilizers wore off, Fred Durst turned sour.
I believe it was the day when he shook his formerly adorable head as I was administering his medicine, splattering the gritty pink stuff all over me, that I began to wonder if I had made a mistake.
Over the next two weeks, with guests for Jon and Kazia’s wedding scrambling for space in a big loving heap of effervescent drunkenness (I think at one point twenty people were staying in my house), Durst became increasingly enraged. I thought his misgivings would wear off, but this would prove to be not the case. Here is a partial list of the casualties, and the deeds done to them (let me know if I have missed any, or if I have my facts wrong….I’m certain to have blocked about 90% of these from my memory):
- Dave’s shoes– pee
- Brandon’s sweater (Durst crawled into the pile of folded garments, urinating on the second layer)– pee
- Mika’s guitar case– pee
- Tyler & Sage’s suitcase– pee (Mika wrote to me after the NYers were home to say that they’d discovered the mess when they were nearly back, on the subway)
- the living room carpet– countless separate poop incidents
- my bedroom, again, countless, countless times
- JoHn’s bed– poop & pee
- Ross’ sleeping bag– poop
- Roy– poop
Yes, you read that correctly. Fred Durst pooped on Roy. One morning I came downstairs and began breakfast for the last slurry of my guests, a motley-crue of smelly men-folk hiding out til the semester started. They all woke slowly this morning, but Roy, as usual, was the last to stir. “Roy,” I recall yelling, “breakfast is ready!” I went out into the living room where my bearded friend was sleeping, and I caught wind of that familiar, disgusting smell…the one that meant that Durst had struck again. I looked around the room, sniffing in different corners, stepping around my friend who was swaddled in afghans on the floor. Suddenly, horribly, I realized that the smell was coming from Roy himself. “Oh no, oh Roy….” We rolled him over and discovered that Fred Durst, under the cloak of nightfall, had crawled under the first layer of blankets and had actually pooped on Roy. No one could believe it, least of all Roy, who leapt up cursing in his squealy Roy voice at the angry kitty.
Another night, Roy slept on the couch in the living room. He was awakened rudely in the early, early morning hours to a noise from a tremendous crash. He turned on the light and beheld the scene before him– the broken coffee table, collapsed on the floor in the corner of the room, my computer tossed nearby, my studio lamps knocked over, a box of stationary upended, several glasses thrown….Durst lingering coyly nearby.
All we could do in situations such as this one was to play “Break Stuff” while forcing laughter.
He had wreaked havoc on my home and my friends, and it would only worse. Jake returned from Ecuador and one night we were brushing our teeth in my bedroom. Fred Durst hopped up onto the bed, looked me square in the eye AND BEGAN POOPING. ON MY BED. ON MY BLANKETS. ON THE BLANKET MY GRANDMA MADE FOR ME.
“DURRRRRRST!!” I cried, toothpaste foaming from my angry sad-girl-mouth (Jake laughing behind me). I picked the cat up, who continued to poop in the air and eventually on the carpet, where I set him. “Maybe the cat should go outside.” Jake suggested, not unkindly. Now, I have made a formal vow never to have an outdoor cat again, owing to the droves of my childhood cats who perished in unusual and gory outdoor-inflicted manners. But maybe, for just this one time, Jake was correct. I put Durst out that night, muttering obscenities under my breath.
But I couldn’t help feeling a little sad, so I snuck a bowl of food onto the back porch before bed. WOE.
WHY WON’T MY KITTY LOVE ME????
WHAT WILL BECOME OF FRED DURST??
WILL ROY EVER GET ALL THAT POOP OFF OF HIM??????
This, and more, on the next and final installation of the tearjerker Fred Durst saga of mayhem and dramatic flourish. I know you’re all anxious. Never forget.