Writer vs. YouTube: Spin Spin Sugar

Writer Versus YouTube: Spin Spin Sugar
©June 02, 2011 by Daven Anderson

In the far corner of the ring is “Spin Spin Sugar,” a rock music video by the Sneaker Pimps.

My story is written from the point of view of the young man first seen attempting to change TV channels with the remote.

Dammit. This old piece of junk TV isn’t getting any channels. I give up. Lord, I never should have answered that personal ad. My date’s acting like a total drug addict. She’s in the bathroom. Fully clothed, sitting on the john, yelling out disjointed words.

I glance into the bathroom. My date stares lasciviously as she moans, “I’m everyone, I feel used.” What is she on? I’m the one who’s feeling used here. When a girl invites you to her motel room, you expect it to be just the two of you. Instead, her weirdo 1980′s retro-freak male friend is in the bathtub, wearing day-glow fluorescent clothes, sipping a strawberry milkshake.

She smiles at me and says, “I need you.” Oh, god.

Eighties freak boy stares at me for a second, then throws his milkshake on the bathroom mirror. Jealous, are you? Don’t be. This is the worst date I’ve ever been on in my life.

Great. Now sicko fluorescent retro-boy is licking his spilled milkshake off the mirror.

“Twist for me,” my date yells.

Uh oh. Now I get it. I think they want me for a threesome. Why didn’t she put her ad in Casual Encounters? As if these two weren’t bad enough, someone’s banging on a big African drum in the next room. This is the sleaziest hotel I’ve ever been in. I think she’s a hooker. This must be the place she takes her tricks to.

I bet glow-boy put a roofie in that milkshake. Now that freak’s dropping to the floor in agony, gripping the back of his mohawked head. I’ll be lucky if I get out of here alive and unmolested. Wonder if anyone’s hiding under the bed? I duck down and take a look. Hmm, no bodies, but a bunch of worms are crawling around under there. Gross.

“I want perfection,” my date says as she writhes on the other bed.
Honey, you’re the furthest thing from perfection.

I get up from under the bed and bang on the wall.
“Quit playing that fracking drum,” I yell.
The incessant drumming pauses for a second. I think they heard me.

What else is going on in this hell-hole? And why would some sleazebag hotel like this have a picture of Pope John Paul II on the wall? Must be covering something up. I chuck the photo aside. Aha, a peephole. I kneel down. A girl drinking wine and dancing in black light. Wish I was in that room with her.

Great. Now my date’s crawling across the floor, toward me. Leave me alone, I’d rather look at the other girl.

I gotta get out of this place.

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