In case you're wondering, today's post really doesn't have anything to do with the writing process. It's actually a personal story of terror and hilarity that happened to the two of us a few years back. It was when we found ourselves invited to an upscale "writers' retreat" in the Colorado mountains. Little did we know it was nothing more than a secluded rape dungeon hosted by a nutcase.
You see, we were promised an exquisite getaway in the mountains: a retreat where we would be able to do nothing but write in the serene harmony of nature, eat the finest of foods, and mingle with some of the writing industry's most premier professionals.
Well, scratch that, because everything was the exact opposite as it had been described. Yes, we were asked to buy weed for the agents. No, it wasn't legal then, and no, we didn't get any. Or even know how, for that matter.
And yes (weed aside), rather than send industry professionals, we got such brilliant agents as Eddie, seen above, who was younger than we were, talked like Keanu Reeves with a learning disability, and rather than network with other agents or prospective clients, he spent his entire retreat in the hot tub being mesmerized by all the bubbles. True story.
But at least we could relax, right? Enjoy that sweet mountain air as we lounged in a beautiful cabin and worked on the next great American novel in peaceful solitude?
Wrong. The retreat started almost immediately by turning us into taxi drivers.
The first day of the 'retreat' was spent taxiing the out of staters from the airport to the retreat, which was almost 3 hours away. With our own cars. And no gas money. You know, this from the people who paid good money to be there and were supposed to be relaxing.
And so, since the retreat hostess didn't have any kind of shuttle service and apparently no one from out of state rents cars anymore, guests were guilt tripped into making airport runs all day long just so that the retreat could actually commence.
And the fun didn't stop there. Other guests were constantly made to do chores around the cabin. Now, don't get either of us wrong; we love helping out, and will often aid with setting up, washing dishes, and general clean up during a conference or retreat just to be helpful, but when we saw the president of our local writing club on her hands and knees scrubbing an agent's piss, shit, and vomit stained toilet from drinking too much the night before (way to go, Eddie)... well, that kinda drew the line.
But indentured servitude aside, did we mention the hostess kept trying to rape us?
Let us paint a picture for you. A picture not rooted in kindness but in brutal honesty. The hostess was a drunken, heavyset woman (with a mustache) that looked kind of like if you put a wig on a walrus and stuffed her in mom jeans. And it wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't spent the entire retreat trying to feed us both drinks and get us alone so as to make the unwanted sex with us.
The first night was easy enough to evade her, but the second night she was much drunker. Much more grabby. And she was overflowing with passive aggressive "I'm just lonely and need a friend to talk to, that's all" bullshit.
And so when everyone else went to bed and she cornered us, she begged one of us to just hang out with her and talk to her. And like the valiant friend that he is, Brandon stepped up to the plate and did this.
Which left Bryan to fend for himself. And as soon as the two were alone, the hostess tried to rush in and kiss Bryan. But thanks to his ninja reflexes, he bent in angles he never even knew himself capable of just to evade her walrussy bristles.
At which point he told her to leave him alone and went off to bed. He retired to a room that he shared with Brandon, and got into the bottom bunk of the bunk bed that was stationed there.
He thought that was the end of it. Alas, it was not.
At 3 in the morning, this woman crawled into our room, drunk out of her mind, and insisted again that Bryan do her. She did this while in nothing but a bra and granny panties, and was trying to drunkenly whisper, even though it was obnoxiously loud.
Even though Bryan told her no, she insisted she was just lonely, and after sobbing quietly, she fell, literally, into Bryan's bed and proceeded to pass out.
The worst part? And we're not kidding here, the absolute worst part of this whole thing? She then proceeded to snore like a dying wolverine and simultaneously rip ass like an intestinal machine gun.
Anyone who thinks women are dainty flowers that lightly sigh while they sleep has never heard this lady sawing logs with her face and blowing bubbles with her ass. It was truly one of the most disgusting things Bryan has ever experienced, and he spent the night sleeping under the bed, the same way his cat does when she gets scared of the vacuum.
Eventually the hostess woke up and drunkenly dragged herself to bed when she noticed Bryan was gone. And in the morning, without a second thought, we both packed up our things and officially fled the worst retreat we'd ever been to in our lives. And while we can laugh about it now, we were pretty damn pissed about it at the time.
Now, before we get any comments asking this - because there always are - yes, this is a 100% true story, down to the all-night machine gun farts. So what made us think to tell this story? Well, Ms. Hostess, who apparently still has our e-mail addresses, wrote to tell us that she was hosting another retreat soon and was hoping we'd attend. And as previous attendees, she asked if we could do her the favor of writing her a testimonial...
So consider this post our motherfucking testimonial.
Cheers and drop the mic,
Brandon and Bryan
Beer: Nothing can wash away the image of that lady in her skidmarked skivvies
Music: The death throes of innocence