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If there's one thing left that everyone can
agree on it's that weekends are not made for warm
or lukewarm drinks. When you need coolin', baby
you're not foolin'. Fortunately we live in a
high-tech age and can buy devices known as
"coolers" to keep our reagents at proper
temperature. But which of the many coolers on the
market is best for weekend partying? Hang on,
willya, we're getting to that. Immediately below is
the Official Weekend Warrior Cooler Shoot-Out.
Unfortunately, the test got rigorous right off
the bat when the volunteer testers turned out to be
my old chums from the Old Vets and Beatniks Rod And
Roscoe Club. This almost always complicates things.
The idea was to test the coolers under field
conditions by loading them with food and beverages
(I could have sworn there was some food in one of
them somewhere) and then setting out on an
expedition to do what many people enjoy on
weekends, namely slaughtering smaller fellow living
beings whose only crime was to occupy a lower rung
on the food chain, and then eating their corpses.
The coolers would be graded for capacity,
durability, and whatever you'd call the ability to
keep something cold.
The coolers tested
were:
"Goodtime", solid white foam, $ 1.19
"Lil Playmate", with swivel lid, 18.00
"Chill" Soft Cooler , fabric 14.99
"Igloo" 36 Quart Legend 24.99
"Rubbermaid" 54 Quart 24.99
"Coleman" 54 Quart "SteelBelted" 60.00
"Igloo" 128 Quart Marine Legend 189.00
The testing crew consisted of "Smokin'"Joe
Gasparetti, the Doctor himself--"Doc" Hardesty,
Tiny Tim Markham, and a couple of other
anglers/pirates who prefer anonymnity. Old hounds,
sea dogs, the sort of men who go down to (and often
under) the sea in ships.
As is usual in such maneuvers, the first night
was devoted to the ususal softening up of the local
community through light-hearted havoc and horseplay
while avoiding as always the responsible
authorities. Frankly, authorities give me a rash
and this feeling runs high in OV&BR&RC
circles. Somewhere along the line, and fulfilling
another tradition, several misquided young women
attached themselves to our party (some in
shockingly innovative ways) and were thus
shanghaied into the upcoming Cooler Test. As the
sun rose, we drank a toast to Steve McQueen in
honor of his role as The Cooler King in "The Great
Escape". Then, Jolly Roger hoisted on a diesel
cruiser and coolers in hand, we embarked.
The young women who accompanied us were of short
acquaintance, deep thirsts, limited vocabularies,
and brief wardrobes. In fact they could barely
scrape up enough scraps of fluorescent pink and
green fabric to cover their essential goodness. No
problem. The OV&BR&RC is ever a friend to
the homeless, hapless, underfed, and underclothed.
Supply lines secure, we turned serious attention to
the tests.
Right away we detected a failure in several of
the larger units. The 54 quart models, for
instance, would not accept 54 quarts of beer, no
matter how they were stacked. I was prepared to
downgrade all such items, until Tiny Tim pointed
out that it probably would hold 54 quarts if they
were emptied into it. He was prevented from trying
this theory out.
Tests went well at first. The coldness tests
were excellent from all units. People kept
repeating the tests, exclaiming, "Wow, check out
how cold this is!" and demonstrating on various
warm-blooded parts of various anatomies. All units
passed. As time went on we noticed poorer
performances from the smaller units. For one thing,
they got empty.
Tiny Tim tried to do more techical temperature
tests, but the thermometer had dissappeared,
probably in the hands of Doc and one of the girls
we hadn't seen in quite a while. He had been
muttering about the importance of ovulation
temperatures. So Smokin' Joe tested the
effectiveness of the Igloo 36 by sticking his toe
in the gelid, stagnant water in which floated a few
odd beverage cans, some scraps of food, and a
pre-tested condom. This did not yield professional
results, apparently, so he tried it with his wrist,
then his elbow, and finally his face. He seemed to
like this sensation and remained that way for quite
a while, gathering in-depth data, evidently
relishing the cool white solitude of the view.
Unfortunately, Doc liked the view of Joe's rump up
in the air, so he gave him a friendly boot. This
created tension. I was afraid these two deadly
warriors would start fighting. Or worse, singing.
But Doc suddenly told Joe to "cool out" and began a
deep meditation on motion and alimentation by
leaning over the rail for a prolonged period. This
practice, which he called "chum-baiting the fish",
involved passing previously digested pieces of fish
back into the water like a true sportsman. One more
of the great cycles by which nature works her
wonders.
Joe was experiencing a very literal mindset at
the time and took Doc's advice to heart, as we
found out when one of the girls refused to get any
live bait on the grounds that it was in the
Rubbermaid cooler, which was now also occupied by
Joe, sitting nekkid in the icy water, head thrown
back at a dangerous angle and complaining of
friction burns. I swear, that guy will bitch about
anything. Anyway, he left the cooler soon after the
Doctor tossed in a wounded sting ray he had caught.
But the girl still wouldn't get the bait. I might
add that the Rubbermaid proved a satisfactory
container not only for the ice and bait, but also
for a pain-crazed sting ray and Joe's booty in
similar condition.
By that time the "Goodtime" all-foam cooler was
totally demolished, the result of Doc having had
his face resting on it while somebody sat on that
very face. Let me caution you that coolers are not
made for this purpose. In fact I don't beleive
there is anything specificaly made for resting your
head on during face-sitting sessions. Pity, too.
All that was left of the cheap foam chest was
little white spheroids of foam that kept showing up
in every little inconvenient cran and nooky, a
reminder that those too ignorant to avoid history
are doomed to keep eating it. Hey, for $1.19 you
don't get bronze monuments to posterity. What you
get is beaches covered with little white crud. We'd
have to call the "Goodtime" a failure, on
ecological, psychological and scatological
grounds--smart weekenders come better prepared than
that.
At this point Smokin' Joe decided it would be
prudent to test the coolers' bullet-proof
properties. It would be easy, he pointed out, for
some fool to drop a spear gun, which could then go
off and ventilate a cooler, spilling lots of
quantity. This seemed believeable at the time,
since he was twirling a speargun, practicing fast
draws with it. The test was simple enough. Joe
hauled off and plugged the Igloo dead center with
one shot. The spear went right through the side,
and through a fish inside. Seeing the fish impaled
on the spear set Joe's ever-mercurial mind caroming
down other channels and he went off to cook the
fish over the charcoal...en brochete.
So we had no spear to test the other chests. The
Old Beats Club seldom lacks firepower, however, and
a withering crossfire ensued, which few of the
chests survived. When we do a shootout in the
column, me bucko, you may believe that a shootout
will be had by all. Since the chests had been
heaved over the side to give them a sporting
chance, the tests terminated at this point--though
it should be noted that whereas the Igloo 36 came
apart immediately, the Steel Belted Coleman showed
some impressive stuff. It even deflected a shot
from a .22 some fool had brought along. (But in
case it was smug about it, Doc blew the top right
off it with a one-handed blast from his sawed-off
12 guage.)
If anyone thinks this test excessive or
hazardous, let me hasten to note that all
precautions were taken--there were no beverages
left in the chests by the time of the tests. We
hauled the survivors back aboard, and Joe plopped
down on the Marine Legend which still served as a
fine seat despite multiple wounds from
large-caliber revolvers. And a stab wound from some
berserker. He was joined by a girl from Camp
Pendleton, who claimed to be a bit of a Marine
Legend herself.
At that point the coolers had flunked the
ultimate test--they were all empty. After travails
that would have daunted Ulysses we limped pack into
port flying the jolly roger and several other bold
ensigns composed largely of flourescent pink and
green fabric. We decided that all the chill units
rated careful consideration for purchase--much more
careful than we were capable of at the moment.
A few last minute tests were performed back at
Tiny Tim's apartment, including the highly
controversial test of being dropped from his second
story landing onto the hood of the neighbor's MG
(which the Steel-belted Coleman passed with flying
colors--mostly chips of British Racing Green). And
the crucial Being Kicked To Pieces In a Brute,
Blitzed Rage Test, performed by Joe after he turned
and tripped over the Rubbermaid with an armfull of
fish poles. The Rubbermaid would certainly have
flunked this test were we not grading on the curve.
Smoking Joe, after all is a Black Belt in some kind
of crazy Japanese crap.
That, then, was our cooler test. Cooler than
you'll ever be. As usual with the Weekend Warrior's
consumer awareness, you're on your own,
Pilgrim.
Before closing we have to take care of some
disagreeable business. I know you will share my
intense dissappointment when I report to you that I
have recived two sniveling letters from readers,
despite my suggestion that those with such
inclinations might prefer to pound sand.
The first, and I'm sure this will come as no
great surprise was from Mary Lang at the "Reader",
whining about our recent mention of her mucophagic
attitude. She even cited his association with a
number of lawyers--Jewish, no less, and all from
the Big Apple. Well, make my day, Mary Contrary.
The Weekend Warrior is not too big on lawyers, but
DOES have guns and money, not to mention a soupcon
of rabid psychopathology. So go ahead, just start
up.
The other letter objected to our reference to
"Caucasian" iced tea. Okay, okay. Pick nits if you
must. Make that "European-American" iced tea. And
hope you choke.
Because you know, we don't cotton to complaints
around here and take compliments only if they are
wringingly sincere or properly unctuous. Further
bitching will be forwarded to Santa Claus at the
North Pole. So if you wanna get persnickety, you
just might find yourself with a stocking full of
coal and switches next Christmas, and nobody to
blame but your own hypercritical (and/or
hypocritical) tendencies. So suit yourself.
Remember this column is for YOU, so believe it or
leave it.<
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THE WEEKEND WARRIOR
SAMPLE TEXTS
by Linton Robinson
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