No One Will Ever Believe You

Many years ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I attended a friend’s
birthday party. As a surprise present, to both him and me, the rest of
the attendees had pooled their money to take him to a strip club.
Being the only female in the group, I objected. However, after an
extended argument, I agreed to go for at least a few minutes.

When we arrived, I walked in to suggestive music, low lighting, and
the stench of cigarettes. Wrinkling my nose, I slunk away from the
group (who was huddling excitedly around a topless woman on a pole)
and sat down in the corner on a red leather couch, crossing my arms
and legs tightly. To pass the time, I pretended to check my phone.

Suddenly, a six-foot shadow covered me, and the phone was snatched
out of my hands. I jerked my head up anxiously, preparing to shout out
in protest. But as I opened my mouth, I realized that this was not a
freakishly tall stripper or a creepy rapist clutching my phone in
their raised fist.

It was Bill fucking Murray.

My eyes were as wide as dinner plates as he smiled and stepped aside,
gesturing behind his back. Sitting on the small stage surrounding one
of the poles were two other men: Dan Akyroyd, in full Blues Brothers
regalia (complete with sunglasses and a fedora), and Harold Ramis,
sporting a rather Bride-of-Frankenstien-ish haircut and large,
red-rimmed glasses. Next to Harold was a literal mountain of Twinkies,
wrappers littering the floor and cream smeared on Dan’s shoes.

I found myself unable to breathe when Bill tugged at my wrist and
pushed me up onto the side of the stage. I sat down, shaking, on the
edge of the wooden flooring and stared up at him. However, he grabbed
the pole with one hand, kneeled down and yanked me back up again. The
dim fluorescent lights flashed dully, the shadow of his features
outlined in neon purple.

I still had not spoken a word (not that could I find my vocal chords)
as he spun around the pole and pulled me with him, like a man dancing
around a lamp post in a sick musical of sorts. He was laughing as I
fought the urge to go into a heart attack. My first immediate thought
was whether my friends could see me; that worry was promptly pushed
out of my head as Bill grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me back
into the massive mound of Twinkies.

I bumped into Harold, who was busy eating one of the creamy treats.
He giggled girlishly and scooted over, making room.

As Bill moved away from the pole, he sunk slowly down into the pile
of Twinkies with us. He slid an arm around my shoulder, the other
around Dan’s, and leaned over towards me. I remained deathly silent,
wondering if my friends were looking for me by now. It was as if he
could read my mind.

“No one will ever believe you,” he said softly, smiled, and
offered me a Twinkie.

__Thanks Jawsy__

I hate Bill Murray. I was the first. It happened like this.
Bill and I went to the same grade school (St. Joe’s just outside of Chicago). I was a year older than him. At first I did not hate him but a bunch of things happened all at the same time and the rest, they say, is history.
We were both the school clowns and therefore rivals for the attention of our fellow students in general and for a girl (Mary O’Malley), in particular. Just before Christmas break Bill had beat me out to be the lead in the school play which hurt and then the day after Christmas I think he stole my new toboggan. It was a huge deal to get a new toboggan back then - my family did not have a lot of money. There was an enormous snowstorm just before Christmas and I had left my toboggan at Howard Park the day after Christmas. When I came back an hour later it was gone – but Bill was there with this stupid grin his face.
Now comes the point of my story. Right after Christmas break (it was the day the Pope excommunicated Fidel Castro which was a big deal to a young Catholic boy) both Bill and I had detention. We are sitting in class – just the two of us – and Sister Gregory was giving us the stink eye from up at her desk. Bill was weird that day, really fidgety, his legs were bouncing around like they were on springs under his desk. He was always a little jumpy but this was different. I have no idea even to this day why.
At some point the Sister leaves and then Bill goes nuts. He gets up and starts pacing around the room. Then he kicks a desk really hard and it falls over. He looks down and then picks up the desk and lifts it right over his head. He stands there for a few seconds struggling to keep the desk up with this wild eyed look on his face – like he has just seen his mom having sex with the mailman.
Suddenly Bill just slams the desk down onto the floor. The desk was strong but a piece breaks off and flies up and hits Bill in the forehead. He gets this cut and, being a head wound it bleeds like you would not believe. He yells out and then starts to cry. I stood there stunned but then this grin slowly spread across my face. Bill had just really screwed up. The Sister was going to bring down the wrath of God on him when she comes back. I was the happiest kid on the planet for about 15 seconds.
Now I am going to tell the next part of the story from the perspective of Sister Gregory. She is walking down the hall back to class and hears a huge crash and Bill yell out in pain. She rushes the last 40 feet or so and opens the door to a broken desk on the floor and Bill crying with blood running down his face....and there I am with an evil satisfied grin on my face.
The long dead maternal instinct of Sister Gregory must have kicked in as she ran over to Bill and put her arms around him. I can see his face over the Sister’s shoulder and then I hear him say through his sobs, “Brian hit me with my desk.”
I was stunned and as I looked at him with total amazement, he mouths these words to me, “NO ONE WILL EVER BELIEVE YOU”.
That might have been the first time Bill Murray used that phrase but I hear he has used it quite a lot since.

_Thanks James_

I was sitting at home reading the Bill Murray stories when all of a sudden there's a knock at the door. I go to answer the door and see that it is myself. I looked to the mirror we keep by the door and see my reflection that is not me. I've been replaced with a gray-haired and bearded man. I turn back to myself at the door way and tell me, "No one will ever believe you." I then close the door and look into the mirror in which I am myself.

Fuck you Bill Murray. Fuck you.

The craziest thing happened to me the other day.

So I'm on my way to work after it had snowed the night before. There wasn't a car as far as I could see, which, in retrospect, seems kind of strange given that it was in the middle of the day. But at the time I thought how lucky I was, at least when I drive my car into a ditch no one will be around point out that I've driven my car into a ditch.

The drive was nerve wracking. Every bump sent the tail end of my jeep into a different direction than the rest of the vehicle, and it is only after a bevy of swears and a near fatal heart attack do I resume a straight course. The highway in front of me curled onward, mockingly, nothing but a pair of thin black stripes cutting into the snow.

About thirty more miles, I think as I fight the Jeep for control. Awesome.

After another twenty minutes, or about four miles depending on how you want to look at it, I finally hit a patch of black ice that was too much for me. Despite my frantic insistence that the car go the way my wheels were going, the Jeep begins to slide to the right. The front tire hits the ditch first, causing the rest of the Jeep to sling itself around, painfully slamming its rear counterpart into the ditch as well. I was now facing the way I had come, the scene through my windshield now lopsided.

Fuck.

For several agonizing minutes I didn't do anything. With my hands still wrapped painfully around the steering wheel I had lowered my head onto them and was staring at my shoes, hoping for some kind of inspiration.

When I had decided that I would spend the rest of my life with my ass resting on this cracked leather, there came a sharp knocking on my window. Naturally I almost shit myself.

Since my car had died, I couldn't roll down my window. So instead I cracked the door open so I could address my... what, guest? Savior?

Bill fucking Murray?

He was unshaven and had a cap pulled down over his ears but it was unmistakably him. When he spoke I knew.

"Car trouble?" He says. I nod. It's all I can do. "Let me take a look."

So I pop the hood for him wondering what he thinks he's going to accomplish. As he tugs and pokes at whatever there is in there to tug and to pole I think, should I go talk to him? Should I let him know that I know who he is? But before I can decide the hood comes down with a crash. He comes over to my door again and tells me to try it now. Nothing. The lights don't even come on.

"Well, I tried," he said, and he starts away from the Jeep. He gets a few paces before he turns back and says to me, "And kid?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"No one will ever believe you."

Once when I was still in high-school, some friends and I went out to see a movie at the local theater. I believe it was “Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle.” We bought our tickets and snacks with no problem, and entered the theater. Once we sat down, I dumped my entire box of Hershey “Whoppers” into my tub of movie popcorn (extra butter.) This procedure is known as “Whopcorn,” and if you’ve never tried it, you definitely should. Anyway, I began to eat my whopcorn in peace, but as soon as the previews began and the lights went down, things began to get strange.

At first, I almost didn’t notice anything. The warm breeze I was feeling on my ankles was a little annoying, but I just figured that this particular theater had floor vents for the heat and I had chosen a particularly unlucky chair to sit in. Then, I remembered that it was the middle of summer, and almost 90 degrees outside. There was absolutely no way that the theater management would have turned on the heat. My heart skipped a beat as I speculated what exactly could be causing the movement of warm air across my ankles. I slowly, carefully, lifted my feet and placed them on the fortunately unoccupied seat in front of me. I tried to concentrate on the movie, where Cameron Diaz had just back-flip-kicked this poor dude right in the…well, right in the full throttle.

A few minutes later into the movie, and there had been no further problems. I was beginning to dismiss the odd warm breeze, when suddenly my chair jolted, just a little. My feet slipped in surprise, and fell back to the floor. Almost immediately, the warm, gentle breeze reappeared, and I jerked my feet back up to safety. I looked around, embarrassed. The only one of my friends who had reacted was the one sitting right beside me. All the others were totally engrossed in the film. “Did you feel that?” I asked my friend. “No, I didn’t feel anything, but I saw you spazz out. What happened, did you drift off for a second there?” he replied. “Yeah…yeah, that’s it. I fell asleep for a bit.” “How?!?” he demanded. “I’ve never seen anything more full throttle than what is occurring on this screen right now.” “Sorry, long night last night,” I lied. I knew I would only sound crazy if I told him the truth, and maybe even cause a panic. I lifted another handful of whopcorn to my lips, trying to calm myself down. As soon as the first piece of whopcorn had barely touched my mouth, there was another small jolt to my seat. It felt like it was coming from directly beneath me. This time, I was able to subdue my reaction, and as I looked around it became clear that whatever maliciousness was present in this theater, I was its primary target. None of my other friends had felt or even noticed the tremor from under the seats. The entire theater was transfixed by the crime fighting antics of Lucy Liu.

My mind raced. On autopilot, my hand reached into the bucket of whopcorn again, I felt another tremor. I lifted some of the salty-sweet snack to my mouth. Another tremor. I steeled my nerves, and flipped open my cell phone for the light of the screen. I aimed the dim glow downward, leaned forward, and scanned the area in front of my chair. I couldn’t see anything.

I sat back up, and reached into the bucket again. Thump. I froze, then I slowly pulled my hand out of the whopcorn. I reached back in again. Thump. Reach. Thump. Retreat. Reach. Thump. Retreat. I was beginning to notice a pattern here. I reached into the whopcorn bucket again (thump) and pulled out a handful (thump) and dangled the hand barely over the edge of the chair (THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP.)

Startled, I dropped the whopcorn onto the floor. I heard a scuffling sound, then a munching and finally a small, satisfied belch.
Gathering all my courage I grabbed another handful of my favorite movie-time snack, this time, I leaned over in the seat with my hand as close to the ground as possible. It was cupped, but open toward the area under the seat.

Almost immediately, I felt the warm breeze on my hand, which I now realized must have been the breathing of this creature. The breeze turned into snuffling and sniffing and then, to my disgust, I felt a warm, wet tongue licking the whopcorn from my hand. However, it wasn’t the tongue that disturbed me so much, especially not when I felt what seemed like a human nose attached to this thing’s face. And…was that stubble around its mouth?

Screw what my friends thought of me, I had to know what was going on. I flipped my cell open again with my free hand, and bent over quick. I was almost bent in half now, with my head dangling upside-down looking under the seat. I could hear my friends reacting in shock, but their surprise at seeing me apparently practicing an amateur contortionist act was nothing compared to what I felt when I realized what, or rather who, was under my seat.
I was face-to-face with and inches away from a grinning Bill Murray. Bill was lying on his stomach under my seat, his face covered in chocolate and butter from the whopcorn. (Looking back, the worst part had to have been the fact that Mr. Murray looked just so friggin’ proud of himself. Like he had won the Nobel Prize or something. I mean, that sucker was smug.)

“You….wha…?” I stuttered. Bill raised one finger slowly to his lips. “Shhh. No one will ever believe you.” he whispered. Then, silently, Bill Murray slid backwards, as if he were riding on some sort of conveyor belt. His grinning face disappeared from view, leaving nothing but darkness under the seat. Suddenly, one of his hands shot out, cobra-fast, and snatched up some more of the whopcorn that had spilled on the floor. The hand disappeared into the dark again.

I shot up and turned a full 180 in the seat. The girl sitting behind me screamed in protest as I pushed her legs out of the way and searched the ground behind my seat. Bill was gone, leaving behind no trace of his ever being there. I turned around again, apologizing, and sat back down in my seat. I was breathing hard and sweating, trying to come to terms with what had just happened. I noticed that all my friends were now staring at me. Come to think of it, the whole theater was staring now, no one seemed to care that Drew Barrymore was fighting off a horde of ninjas wearing a towel. (Drew was wearing the towel, not the horde of ninjas. That would have had to have been a huge towel. And I bet it would have slowed down their ninja skills, to be all trapped in one giant towel….sorry. Anyway…) “Well?” asked one of my friends, “Got anything to say?” I opened my mouth to explain, closed it, opened it again, and then I remembered Bill’s only words to me. “No one will ever believe you.”

That smug son of gun.