It's Not Delivery, It's A Porno

I've mentioned my friend Luke previously in a couple of stories, such as They Call It Mellow Yellow and Kill It With Fire; Luke and I have shared some crazy adventures and they haven't stopped yet. The two of us have always been as close as brothers and we have been roommates at various times over the years. This story goes back a long, long way, to the very first time that we were roommates. We were living in North Miami, Florida, at a huge apartment complex called the Hamlet Estates. I'm not sure how they made the jump from apartment to estate, but whatever. Aside from a few moral degenerates, meaning us, the community had a very large and eclectic population, but for the most part, it was full of young singles and we had many friends that were also neighbors. It was a great place to live and a lot of great memories were made there.

We even had a friendly neighborhood cop that lived down the hall from us, Dan worked next door in North Miami Beach. He was such a nice guy and such a great neighbor that he was kind and thoughtful enough to stop by one day and knock on our door, just because he wanted to be a good neighbor and do us a neighborly solid. Luke and I had been sitting around, trying to smoke a week's worth of pot in an hour, when we were startled by an abrupt and authoritative pounding on the door. I looked at him, he looked at me and we both knew that we wanted the other to get the door, mainly because we were both lazy, stoned fucks. The pounding started again and I sighed and went to answer the door.

I really, really need to get in the habit of looking through the peephole, before I open a door, because, as I opened the door, a large and very visible whitish wave of Jamaica's finest wafted out (talk about watching the clouds roll by) to engulf the police officer who was standing before me,

I nearly shit my pants, but not before I noticed that his badge read North Miami Beach and not North Miami. No worries, I wasn't in his jurisdiction, so fuck that guy. My sphincter relaxed a bit. My gaze travelled from the badge to his face and I recognized our neighbor.

"Hey Dan, what's up?" I asked him.

"Mind if I come in?" he asked.

"Nope. Can I get you a drink or something?" I asked as I led him into the apartment.

"No thanks," he said, "I just wanted to talk to you and Luke for a second."

"Sure, dude. What's up?"

Dan explained to us that we were really stinking up the place. Literally. Evidently, we smoked so much pot that the smell and the smoke filled the hallway like a cloud. Walking to and from his apartment, he said, was like running the gauntlet in a Colombian sauna and he blamed us for the contact buzz that caused an increase in his doughnut intake and the subsequent widening of his waist.

Dan suggested that we stuff a towel under the door to help block out some of the smoke and the smell, because he thought that eventually someone was going to complain and that he didn't want us to get in any trouble.

He told us that he liked us, thought we were nice guys, good neighbors (he knew we did everything under the sun to help out the little old lady who lived next door) and that he'd hate to see anything happen to us. We thanked him for his kindness and advice and then he was on his way. I turned around and there was Luke with a rolled up towel. A towel that was headed directly for my face,

"Catch!." Luke said and turned away.

The towel smacked me in the face. Fucker. He hadn't even stopped to admire his handiwork. I think that was the bigger insult.

Fucking asshole. Payback, motherfucker payback. We've been playing this game for thirty fucking years. As a matter of fact, I owe that bastard one. I'm glad that I remembered. You just can't let these motherfuckers get away with shit, ya' know? You don't fuck with a thug like me and get away with it. I shall demand justice in the most passive aggressive way that I can. #winning

I threw the towel under the door and then we went back to getting high.

Back in those days, cable television was still a toddler and satellite television was in its infancy. Our apartment complex had contracted with a company that would provide satellite television programming, a package that included everything that we currently had, along with a few extra channels, but at a fraction of the cost of cable. Since saving that much money on the cable bill would mean that we would have more money to blow on women, drugs and booze, it was very easy for us to cut the cord and make the switch. The twisted logic that you can use to justify stupidity is a wonderfully enabling thing when you're young. We signed right up, of course and were given an appointment. We were good to go.

On the day of our appointment, both Luke and I had taken the day off from work. Back in those days, their customer service was even worse than it is now. I know how hard that is to believe, even more so, if you're a Comcast customer. For example, if you had an appointment for a cable or satellite television installation and it was scheduled for 9:00 am, you might be lucky if the tech arrived by 5:00 pm. You couldn't do anything all day, except wait for the cable guy. You sat and you stared at the door. And you waited and waited and stared and stared and you checked the time, a lot, and you slowly went out of your fucking mind until the guy got there, You couldn't even pee, because if you did, it would be guaranteed that the guy would be knocking on the door while you've got your dick in hand and faster than you can shake and stuff, the fucker would be gone and you'd have to go through the whole rigamarole all over again. With the two of us there, we could still do other things; one of us could cover the door if the other one had to pee and we wouldn't miss the satellite guy. We were pee buddies. #peebuddies

As Luke and I were waiting for the satellite guy to get there, we broke out the weed and started getting high. It was a veritable bonghit bonanza and a great way to kill time.

Our appointment time came and went. Still waiting. Still smoking weed, too.

The fucking pizza we ordered arrived on time.

We caught the delivery guy a buzz as a bonus tip.

Those guys are my fucking heroes, putting their lives on the line, every single fucking  day, to deliver manna from Heaven in thirty minutes or less. Respect, bros!

 I even wrote you guys a little poem/song to show the love. I stole the music from Sesame Street, but you can sing-a-long with me!

Ready?

He's my hero, pizza guy,

Comes to save me, when I get high

That's as far as I ever got with it. What did you expect from a pot head? I hope your expectations weren't too high. Who the fuck am I kidding? If you're reading this, I suspect that your expectations are pretty fucking low as it is.

Why is it that I am always early for everything in life, but not one goddamn thing can ever happen on time for me? That's some bullshit, right there.

Almost three hours after our anointed appointment time, there's a loud knock on the door. A cop kind of knock. We panicked and spilled the bong. Fuuuuuck!

I carefully hid the bong on the side of the couch and went to answer the door. I opened the door and there was the satellite guy in all of his homeless man looking glory. Finally and thank goodness. Another five minutes of smoking weed and I'd have no longer had the ability to function as a human being. I could barely stand as it was. As I staggered to the door, it felt as if I were walking through quicksand. Luke was even more useless than I was. He was barely coherent and glued to the couch.

The installer apologized for being late, we showed him where everything was and he went right to work. We asked him questions while he was working and he patiently explained everything that he was doing. All in all, we thought he was a pretty cool dude. We wanted to hook the guy up and give him a tip, but since we were young and stupid, we tended to spend all of our spare money on necessities like weed and alcohol, so we were both broke and the only thing that we could tip him with was weed.

I popped the question.

"Do you smoke weed, man? Do you wanna' catch a buzz?"

He looked at me as if I were retarded. People do that a lot. I don't get it.

"That's a stupid question," he said. "This is Florida, dude, everybody gets high,"

He did have a point. Maybe I was retarded, after all.

Well, Luke and I sat that motherfucker down and we got him stoned. No, it was much more than that, we got that guy light years beyond stoned. We broke out the weed, we broke out the bong, we rolled joints and huffed and puffed away, but then Luke drastically upped the stakes by pulling out the coup de grace; our own little personal Death Star. It was a thing of beauty, it was and I loved that thing all the way up until the day that it exploded in my face. Luke had this oxygen/gas mask abomination that was attached to a piece of PVC, that had a bowl attached to the end of it and a carburetor hole at the front. It looked like something out of a bad BDSM nightmare, but it got you freaking baked. In the end, that was all that really mattered. One of the best things about this contraption was that the carburetor hole was the perfect size for the nozzle on my whipped cream maker, which was the kind that took nitrous oxide cartridges. Basically, this setup enabled us to do nitrous oxide bong hits and very potent ones at that. We put the satellite guy into the fucking twilight zone. That poor guy was orbiting the planet and could barely stand upright, by the time that we were finished with him.

When it was time for him to leave, we packed him up a little care package to take with him.

He was one happy motherfucker, let me tell you.

Satellite man told us that he needed to get one last thing out of his truck and that he'd be right back. He left the apartment and returned a few minutes later, carrying a small black box.

"I thought we were all set?" I asked him.

"You guys just needed one last thing," he said.

"What's that?" Luke asked.

He asked us, "Do you guys like porn?"

I looked at him as if he were retarded. Dumbest fucking question ever.

"Dude," I said. "We're guys. Of course we like porn."

Porn. That magical elixir of life. Back then, long before the Internet, porn wasn't as easily accessible and private as it is today. It's freaking everywhere, these days. Hell, I'll bet that there isn't one innocent thing that you can Google without turning up at least one result that's porn. Which, when you think about it, is quite an indictment of the society that we live in. But back then, if you wanted porn, you were limited to the porno theater, the video rental store. soft core Cinemax, magazines and places like this:

On second thought, that's a fucking lot. And none of that porn was free. :(

The satellite guy walked over to the television and put the little black box on top of it, plugged in some wires, fiddled around behind the tv, doing some kind of mystical satellite guy voodoo magic, plugged in the box and hit a button on the remote and magic happened.

Hardcore porn filled the screen.

It was beautiful. It was breathtaking, I wanted to drop to my knees and cry. I almost did. I even thought that I heard Luke stifle a sniffle from somewhere behind me. I turned around and I saw the look on Luke's face; he was mesmerized and excited. So excited, that I thought that he was going to jump up and hug the satellite guy.

He did. And he did it with tears in his eyes.

"I love you, man," Luke told the satellite guy. "Thank you, this is the best day of my life,"

Satellite man told us that we were the coolest customers that he'd ever had and that he wanted to thank us by showing his appreciation for how nice we were to him. He showed his appreciation by hooking us up with a free converter box for the hardcore porn channels.

Free porn.

Free fucking porn.

And this was decades before the Internet, mind you. Free porn. Holy shit. Are you fucking kidding me? For two guys that had just turned twenty, this was like we had both just had our birthdays, celebrated Christmas, won the lottery, found a bag of weed and gotten a free fucking ice cream cone, all at the same time.

Holy shit! I couldn't believe our luck.

Holy shit!

We thanked the satellite guy profusely. Luke hugged him again and I could have sworn that I heard him whisper, "I love you," once again, to the satellite guy, but Luke denies it. Maybe it was just the porno that was playing in the background. I know what I heard, though.

The satellite dude went off on his merry little way, bag of weed in hand and a big ol' smile on his face.

We now had a twenty-four hour backdrop of hardcore porn to accompany everything that we did in the apartment. Eat dinner? Porn. Catch a buzz? Porn again. Wake up in the middle of the night to go pee? Where's my pee buddy when I need him? Even more porn. I think I got a little jaded. Nah, I'm just fucking with you. Who could get tired of free porn? Nothing beats a full-time backgound of hardcore porn to lessen the banality of your mundane existence. Yeah, existentialism wrapped in shit is still shit. Porn was always there; omnipresent. We never turned it off. I'm not sure that we ever really watched anything else, either. Who the hell wants to watch television when you can watch free porn?

Hell, I haven't even told you the best part, yet. I know, right? You're sitting there, asking yourself, "What could be better than free porn?" You'd think that getting free porn would have been the best part, but it wasn't. I know that it's hard to believe, but it's true.

So what's the best part?

The best part is that we got not one, not two, not even three, but four, count 'em, four channels of free hardcore porn. That's more porn than you can shake a dick at, Stick, damn it, I meant stick. I hate fucking cliches...

Free fucking porn! Woohoo! Calling it fucking porn does seem a bit redundant though, doesn't it? Then again, that moniker does help to distinguish it from oral, anal and homosexual marriage equality and polygamy porn, because, you know, The Gays.

Once word got around that we had more porn than we knew what to do with, Luke and I became immensely popular with all of our friends and those jerkoffs started dropping by the apartment at all hours of the day and night. Hell, we even caught a couple of assholes trying to steal our converter box. Dickheads. Friends don't steal porn from friends. Thankfully, we were able to hang on to that magic little box and we were able to enjoy the fruits of our kindness over the next few years.

In closing, I'd just like to make the point that you should always treat people with kindness and consideration. Also, you should always remember to tip well for a job that is well done. Finally, and this might be the most important part, get that motherfucker high as fuck and maybe, just maybe, you'll get hooked up with some free porn of your own, but I doubt it.

You'll just have to go fuck yourself.

Thanks for stopping by. If you enjoyed this story, you might like this one:

If The Shoe Fits

Looking for a more serious read?

O' Brother, Where Art Thou?

Bonus pics below.

I wonder if they deliver?