Back when I was living in West Virginia, I went fishing one day with my friend Ted and his son, Chuck. We went down to Back Creek, which was near my home and we ended up at this spot that was known locally as "The Waterfront". Yeah, you got me, but that's what the hillbillies called it. Anyway, "The Waterfront" consists of a high cliff wall that was an easy climb down to the creek below. Back Creek was deep enough in this spot to be a popular swimming hole and it was equally popular as a fishing hole. This place was about as close to hillbilly heaven as it gets.
Ted... I loved that guy and I can't help but laugh like hell, whenever I think about him. Ted had transplanted himself from Minnesota and he had the accent to boot. Ja? If you know what I mean. Ted was tall, a bit over six feet, with a curly mop of grey hair that adorned his scalp and a big, bushy porn star of a mustache that was the same steel grey as his hair. Ted was just the sweetest guy ever, just as jolly as could be, but man, that guy was fucking burnt. I'd never imagined that anyone could possibly be stoned twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week and three hundred sixty-five days a year, but Ted laid my any doubts that I had to rest. That motherfucker was always fucking stoned. The amounts of alcohol and pot that Ted could consume were absolutely staggering. I was kind of in awe, to be honest.
Chuck, Ted's son, was basically just a shorter, younger version of Ted, with brown hair and without a mustache. Chuck definitely followed in his father's footsteps. Great kid.
The three of us had been at the creek for hours, drinking beer, sippin' corn likker and we probably smoked enough weed to get half of the fucking county stoned. Good times.
Ted and Chuck caught a lot of fish that day, reeling them in one right after the other. Meanwhile, I caught nothing but ridicule. Fucking assholes. Every time that Ted or Chuck would catch a fish, they would look my way, start laughing and give me a huge ration of shit. Those dirty fucking motherfuckers.
This shit was not only intolerable, it was humiliating. I really needed to catch a fucking fish.
After a while, Ted asked me to reel my line back in and I did. He told me that he knew that I was used to salt water fishing, not fresh and he told me that he wanted to check my tackle. Ted adjusted the weight on my line, changed the hook and he changed my bait for shits and giggles I guess, before handing the fishing rod back to me.
I cast my line back out and waited... And waited... And then I fucking waited some more.
Nothing. Zip. Nada.
Son of a bitch.
Those bastards kept right on laughing at me. Motherfuckers kept catching fish, too. I could have shanked a bitch.
I really, really needed to catch a fucking fish or I was never going to be able to live this shit down. It was unbelievable and it seemed that no matter what I did, no matter what I tried, I just couldn't catch a fucking fish. There were times that I cast my line out to virtually the same spots where Ted and Chuck had their hooks in the water and still those fucking pricks managed to catch all of the fucking fish. Fuck me.
Around half past three, my ex-wife showed up, with both of our sons in tow. Anthony, our oldest, was five years old at the time and he jumped out of the car and ran towards me. He was so excited. Anthony loved fishing.
"Hey Dad," Anthony yelled, "Did you catch anything yet?"
Ted and Chuck erupted with fresh gales of laughter. I felt my face burn red from embarrassment.
Fuckers.
"Not yet, buddy," I replied, "But I'm trying."
I really, really, really needed to catch a fucking fish. There was no way that I could allow myself to be humiliated like this in front of my children.
Medusa walked up holding our youngest son Dominic's hand. Dominic didn't seem very interested in what was going on and he certainly didn't give a fuck about fishing. He still doesn't. Now that I think about it, Dominic seems to have that attitude about a lot of things. The not giving a fuck, I mean.
Medusa asked how the fishing was going and those two assholes started laughing again. They told her that they were having a great time, but I evidently had the fishing skills of an old, blind goat, but even an old, blind goat would have surely caught something by now.
Medusa started laughing at me too, that traitorous bitch. Fuckers. They were all fucking fuckers. I was going to show them. Yes sir, I most certainly was. It was on like motherfucking Donkey Kong.
Yeah, why don't you guys go eat a big bag of dicks or something.
I really, really, really, really needed to catch a motherfucking fish.
Anthony asked me if he could fish for a while and I brushed him off, asking him to wait for a little bit. I was going to catch a fucking fish any second now and I just knew it was going to be a whopper, I was sure of it and there was no way in hell that I was going to give up that fishing pole, not until after I had caught my prize..
Ted caught another fish. More laughter and more insults followed. Bitches.
"Please, Daddy," Anthony asked again, "Can I please fish for a little while?"
"In a minute, buddy," I replied.
I was mere moments away from glory, I just knew it.
"Please, Daddy," Anthony said, "It's not like you're going to catch anything."
I looked at my son, startled.
Et tu, Brute?
All of those motherfuckers started laughing at me again.
I felt the sting of Anthony's betrayal like a knife piercing my heart, but I reeled in my line and I attached fresh bait to the hook. As I prepared to cast the line back out and hand the rod to Anthony, I got a queasy feeling deep in my gut. Somehow, I just knew that as soon as Anthony touched that fishing pole, he was going to catch a fish and then my humiliation would be complete. I shook off my premonition and my angst, cast the line back out and I handed the fishing rod over to Anthony.
I don't even think it took ten fucking seconds before Anthony let out a whoop of joy.
"I caught one. I caught one," he yelled excitedly.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
Let's just say that someone, and I'm not going to name any names, but someone came very close to getting a combination cliff diving/swimming lesson that day.
Those fucking assholes started laughing at me again and gave me even more shit than they had previously. I felt my face grow red again. I'm sure glad that those motherfuckers were having a good time, because I sure as shit wasn't.
I remember thinking to myself, "That's okay, motherfuckers, y'all are staying for dinner and I'm going to poison your asses. I couldn't poison Medusa, though. That bitch had built up a tolerance over the years, despite my best efforts.
I helped Anthony reel his fish in. He was proud of his catch and rightfully so. Anthony had caught a fairly large striped bass and was excitedly showing it off to everyone, the little shit. Good for him and all, he's my son and I love him, but that little shit had caught what was supposed to be my fucking fish! I had been taken down by a snot nosed kid.
Meanwhile 3/4 of the supposed adults in this story were busy pissing themselves with laughter and it was all at my expense. Yeah, real fucking funny. Assholes. Had our situations been reversed, I'd never have given any of them a hard time. No sir, not me. Honest. Like, cross my heart and shit.
Dejected, I called it quits and I let Anthony continue fishing. He caught another fish and then another. Every time that he caught a fish, my pride and dignity were assaulted and brought down to a new low.
That's fine, motherfuckers, I know how to make bodies disappear.
Around five o'clock we packed it all in and headed back to my house to get cleaned up and grab some grub. Apparently, Ted and Chuck evidently had an immunity to poison as well. Lucky fuckers.
I haven't fished since that day, the scars run too deep.
Fuck fishing.
Catch this...
If you liked this story, here's a link to another one. You won't find this story anywhere else.
One summer, my friends Jack, Chad, Dana and I all chipped in and we rented a very large and luxurious, almost palatial, vacation home in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. We loaded up our families and our vehicles and then we caravanned down to the Barrier islands off the coast of NC, for a relaxing week full of sun and fun.
After we'd been there for a day or so, the guys and I made plans for a day of surf fishing at the beach, with our families. Being an experienced salt water and surf fisherman, I was considered the resident expert and when our Deadliest Catch crew invaded the waters of a local bait and tackle shop, I advised everyone on the purchase of rods, reels and other assorted fishing gear. Our purchases made, we headed for the beach and the bounty of fresh fish that must surely await us.
After unpacking our families and getting them settled on the sand, it was time to get our gear together. I assembled the various rod and reel combinations for everyone, seven sets of them; two sets for Jack, and one each for Chad, Dana, his son Zack and one for myself. I strung the lines for everyone, added weights, leaders, hooks, bobbers and bait. One by one, I got everyone squared away before showing them how to cast their lines into the surf and how to set their poles in the sand without having them dragged out to sea. Everyone was all set up, fishing and as happy as a fat kid with a gallon of ice cream. I started assembling my own rod and reel. I ran the line, added weight, attached a leader, a hook, a bobber and bait and then I double checked everything. Satisfied with my handiwork, I was ready to start catching some fish.
I grabbed my gear, stood up and walked down to the surf line. I got myself situated, drew my arm back and cast out my line.
Snap.
Dafuq?
My line had snapped. Well, that was just fucking great, but not that big of a deal. Still, I was feeling a little frustrated. I had set up five other rods and reels without a hitch, but when it came to my own, there just had to be an issue. I dragged my rod back to where I had left my fishing tackle and I put everything back together again, before walking back down to the surf line. Once more I drew my arm back and then I snapped it forward, giving my cast a good bit of distance.
Snap.
Are you fucking kidding me?
The line had snapped again. I couldn't believe it. I started cussing up a storm that would have made a drill sergeant blush. I was overcome with frustration and anger and I took it out on the closest thing that I could; I looked at my fishing rod before throwing it down in disgust.
Jack looked over at me and said, "Wow, it really sucks to be you, doesn't it?"
Yeah, fuck you, buddy.
I wasn't about to give up just yet. Once more into the breach...
I picked up the fishing rod and walked back to where all of the fishing tackle was and set up everything once more fucking time, walked back to the fucking water and cast the fucking line back out. It was a perfect cast. Satisfied with my handiwork, I expertly set my pole into the sand and walked back to the where the coolers were, so that I could grab myself a beer.
Just as I had reached the cooler, I heard Jack yelling my name.
I turned around and looked. Holy shit! I had a strike and I had caught something. The way that my rod was bending, it was something big, too. I watched horrified as my rod bent over, was dislodged from the sand and was quickly pulled into the ocean. I started running like hell, but was slowed down by the soft sand. I was slowed down even more by the face plant that followed next. I got back up and started running again, almost making it in time, but I watched horrified as my fishing rod, like my dignity, was pulled swiftly out to sea. I ran into the ocean trying to chase it down, but it was already too late. I searched and searched, but I couldn't see the damn thing anywhere.
Dejected, I turned around and started wading back towards the beach. I was about halfway back to shore, when I was taken by surprise by a large rolling wave that sent me tumbling over and over and dragged me the rest of the way back to the beach. Let me tell you, I could have done without the fucking shortcut. Spluttering and spitting out half a gallon of fucking water, I rose from the ocean like a drowned rat and made my way back to where my ex-wife and son were sitting.
Medusa looked up at me as I approached and as she took in my bedraggled appearance, she raised a questioning eyebrow.
Here's a sneak peek at chapter one of the book that I've just started writing. I'm hoping to work hard and have it finished by the end of January. Please let me know what you think. Thanks!
Not with a bang but a whimper. - T.S. Eliot
When I first moved back to Philadelphia after my divorce, I thought that I was moving back home; a delusional idea, if ever there was one, for the old adage holds true; you can never really go back home. I was looking for something, though I'm not quite sure what it was; perhaps it was safety and security; the remnants of family and old friends; love, comfort and understanding; peace and acceptance; maybe all of the above, maybe none of it. Maybe I just needed to get laid. Who knows? Whatever it was that I was seeking remained elusive. Perhaps it still does.
What I found instead was a city that was distant and cold, populated by people that were self-absorbed and shallow. The sidewalks teemed with people but so many of them seemed soulless and empty, like the shells of the abandoned buildings that they shambled past every day. Existing moment to moment, heads bowed and collars turned to the wind, they ignored the world around them as they lived from one step to the next. I thought about The Hollow Men and I shivered, bowed my head and turned my collar to the wind before shuffling off. There ain't a whole lotta' love in The City of Brotherly Love.
The city had become a stranger; neighborhoods had changed and so much that was familiar was gone. Old friends had moved on, many others were casualties of life; the living, the dead and the living dead. I worked and worked, drifting from day to day, never realizing that I too was a casualty; another member of the living dead. I desperately tried to keep myself occupied; I wrote a lot of stories and I watched way too many movies. I was spending entirely too much time with myself and I was starting to annoy the shit out of me. I began using my time off to explore Philadelphia and the surrounding area. Ten and twenty mile hikes to wherever became a regular thing. With camera in hand, I traveled hither and yon in search of adventure, discovering some incredible places and taking some amazing photographs along the way. I also did some incredibly reckless, dangerous and downright stupid things, but we'll get to that later. I still wasn't meeting new people or making new friends like I wanted to and truth be told, I was starting to feel a bit lonely. I craved human contact, but I was unsure of how to find it. It's not like you can just walk up to a random stranger on the street and say, "Hey, you look like a pretty cool motherfucker. Would you be my friend?" and then they say, "You look like you're a pretty cool motherfucker, too. Let's be besties," and then you just hang out and do cool shit together. Now, as great as that sounds, unfortunately, life doesn't work that way, but it sure would be cool if it did. I think I'd like that, though. Life would certainly be a lot richer.
My options for meeting people were pretty limited though, with churches, bars and the Internet offering the best chances to make new friends. I didn't think that the whole church thing would work out too well, what with me being an atheist and all. Plus, there was no way in fucking hell that I was going to populate a pew in any church, pretending to worship and idolize a deity that I didn't believe in, just so that I could hang out with people who were high on Jesus or maybe I might get to squeeze a pair of tits. Tits are great and all, but I was going to need a much better inducement than that. Don't get me wrong, there's a lot that I'd do to squeeze a righteous pair of tits, but chillin' in church ain't on the fucking list. Pass. That left bars and the Internet. I'm a bit too old for the club scene and I've never been much of a drinker; it's just not my thing. Plus, I can't stand to be around drunk people, they annoy the living shit out of me and I really didn't want a group of friends whose lives were centered around alcohol. So, bars were out too. Another pass. That left the Internet. Oh boy, the fucking Internet, home of freaks and geeks and people like me. I was totally fucking screwed, is what I was if that was my best option. I tried using MeetUp, hoping to find people with interests that were similar to mine, but that was a bust too. Apparently, there aren't quite as many people who are into llamas and dwarves as I would have thought, if I thought about that kind of shit, which I don't. Swear. Alpacas are much softer, anyway. Still not thinking about it...
Against my better judgment and let's face it, even my best judgment is still a bad decision, I decided to check out the world of online dating. What the hell, it had been sixteen years since I had last waded into the dating pool, so why not dive back in, headfirst, into the shallow end? That way, I might be able to kill two birds with one stone; meeting people and getting laid. I mean, finding my soulmate. It's the same fucking thing though, isn't it? I mean, I'm going to fuck my soulmate, aren't I? I sure would fucking hope I'd rate a little shag time from my one true love. So, I'm just stating the facts, right? Don't shake your head at me. Look, if I went to the animal shelter and I rescued some fucking mutt that shit all over my house, I'd be a motherfucking hero. However, if I went to the women's shelter to find a new girlfriend, you'd freak the fuck out and suddenly, I'd be some kind of fucking monster. Think of it as dating creatively. You're entitled to your own opinion, though. I guess. Besides, with my luck, I'd only end up meeting some nice woman named Lorena, who would then proceed to bone and Bobbitt me. Getting boned? A resounding YES! That's a good thing. Getting deboned? Yeah... not so much and definitely not a good thing. I'm quite attached to my penis and I have a strong preference for keeping it attached to me, thank you very much. Other than my penis though, I really didn't have much to lose and even when considering my penis, I still didn't have all that much to lose, if you know what I mean. I hit the interwebz and I Googled up some free dating websites; free, because I'm way too cheap to spend any money on that shit.
Still not thinking about it...
Out of the multitude of dating websites that turned up during my search, there were two that caught my eye; OkCupid and Plenty of Fish. OkCupid was simple and easy to use, with a great user interface, whereas Plenty of Fish felt clunky and cumbersome, like I was using my left hand; it was just awkward. OkCupid also had a great little app for my phone and PoF didn't have jack shit, which was unfortunate. I used both websites, but OkCupid was definitely my preference.
Not one to limit my options, I signed myself up and filled out my online profiles. I'm a writer, so that should have been pretty easy, right? Wrong. How the hell are you supposed to sell an old, used piece of shit car that no one wants to drive? You lie your fucking ass off, that's how. Not really. I was very honest and I showed my sensitive side, you know, the soul of a poet. Okay, that's absolute bullshit, because I have no soul and I can't write poetry for shit, but I was myself and I was honest and no one was ever going to be stupid enough to want to fuck me. Hell, I even uploaded a few decent pics of myself, which is no mean feat, because I'm not the most photogenic person in the world; decent pics are few and far between, but I have one that just drives all of the little babushkas hog wild and yes, I am sporting the sexy lederhosen. When I had finished with my profiles, which I have to admit were works of literary genius, I perused a plethora of pics, liked a few profiles and I even sent off a message or two. Congratulating myself on a job well done, I sat back to await the results of my endeavors, expecting to be squeezing tons of titties soon. Party animal unchained, I promptly fell asleep. Story of my life.
As it turned out however, I didn't have very long to wait.
This is the fourth and probably not the last edit of this chapter, so expect it to change. If you've enjoyed what you've read, please give this story a shot. Thanks!
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.
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I've previously mentioned my Dalmatian, Caesar in the story "Hosed," but please indulge me for a moment and allow me to give you a little bit of background on that demon bastard of a dog,
Just before I married my ex-wife, Medusa, her aunt had purchased a Dalmatian puppy that Medusa fell in love with and she absolutely, positively had to have a Dalmatian puppy of her very own. I said no. She begged me. I said no again. She argued with me. I still said no. This went on for days. She broke down in tears, so I stuck to my guns; I don't negotiate with terrorists. That's all absolute bullshit, of course. Once Medusa turned on the water works, I completely folded and gave in. I surrendered so fucking fast that you'd think I was French. I promised her that she could have the puppy as my wedding gift to her and that when we came back from our honeymoon, we would go to the breeder and she could pick out the puppy that she wanted.
We went and got married and took off on a little whirlwind tour of the Mid-Atlantic coast; it was the honeymoon from hell. It was a honeymoon haunted by hurricanes, terrorized by demonic ponies and stricken with plagues of biblical proportions; a foreshadowing of the years to come. When we returned home, I took Medusa over to the breeder so that she could pick out her puppy, as promised. I suggested to her, over and over again, that it would be wise to pick out a female, as they are usually smarter, more docile and easier to train than males, but she had her heart set on a little boy and I do have to say that the little guy that she picked out was an amazing example of the breed, as far as coloring and spotting went.
We decided to let the puppy name himself, which is a tradition of mine and after a few days of strutting around the house as if it were his kingdom, with his head held high and an attitude of imperial disdain, we decided to name him Caesar.
Afer a few more days, I realized that Caesar was almost completely deaf and that he showed an extraordinary amount of aggression for a puppy. I wanted to take him back to the breeder and exchange him for a different puppy. Medusa disagreed, We fought about it. A lot. Eventually, I wore her down and I won; the puppy was going back.
We called the breeder, explained the situation and loaded Caesar into the car. Medusa held the puppy and whimpered the entire way there. When we arrived at the breeder's, she turned on the tears and refused to get out of the car, but after she calmed down a little, she relented and exited the vehicle.
Medusa reluctantly gave Caesar back to the breeder and we went to look at the other puppies that were still available. That was when Medusa decided to go for the gold and she turned the tears on again. It ws like a fucking faucet. She was so attached to that defective puppy that she just couldn't let him go. She looked at me as if I had just killed her best friend.
Without a word, I turned around, grabbed Caesar, put him in the car and we took him back home.
In time, our defective little puppy turned into a defective dog, a terrible dog, the worst dog that I've ever owned. Caesar was aggressive and unpredictable; as his hearing loss increased, so did his aggression and unpredictability. He had other issues as well, he constantly dribbled urine everywhere, he literally climbed the walls to chase bugs, he barked at shadows, became enraged by them and would try to attack them. Caesar jumped through the glass portions of both our front and back doors in order to chase neighborhood cats and he did this several times. If he found food, he ate it, including the top layer of our wedding cake as it defrosted on the kitchen counter th day of our first anniversary. That cake was horrible when it was fresh, so I can only imagine how bad it would have been after sitting in the freezer for a year. I also noted that Caesar hadn't finished it off. Smart dog. In a way, I was pretty thankful that he'd saved me from having to eat it, so I really wasn't all that mad at him for that particular episode. Caesar also liked to destroy things; anything and everything. Still, the dog was a complete and utter lunatic.
I have always trained my own dogs and they have always been well behaved. I had never had a problem with a dog before, but with Caesar, I had hit the proverbial brick wall. Everyone I knew had advice to offer and we tried everything tat everyone suggested; we were aways open to suggestions, but nothing that we tried seemed to work.
That dog was completely of of control.
My friend Will was always telling me that I had to assert dominance over Caesar and I did, all day long. I would get him to lay down and roll over (I had trained him using hand signals, as I do with all of my dogs) and I would very lightly pinch his throat with my fingers, much like an Alpha dog would do with its jaws. Will didn't think that I was going far enough and he wanted me to take it to another level.
"You have to be more assertive with him," Will told me.
"What do you mean?" I asked him.
"You have to hump him," Will said. "That's what the Alpha dog would do and that's what I do with my dogs."
"You hump your dogs?" I asked, incredulous.
"Only to assert dominance," he replied.
"You hump your dogs," I accused.
"Well..."
"I'm not humping my dog," I said. "No way, no how."
"That's what you need to do," Will said.
"Maybe that's what you need to do, but I can assure you that my needs are entirely different," I said. "I prefer the company of women, which is why I married one. You, on the other hand, are single and have four dogs, That and your words today lead me to believe that your "needs" are entirely different from mine.
The argument about whether I should hump my dog or not raged on for months. Every time that Will came over to my house, he argued his point of view and he would go on about how he humped his dogs all of the time and that I should hump my dog, if I knew what was good for the dog and my own peace of mind. Will was the most emphatic of my friends when it came to Caesar and he was just relentless about it; he never let up.
"Hump your dog," he said. "It will be a good thing."
Can someone please explain to me how fucking your dog could ever be considered a good thing?
I steadfastly refused to hump my dog. The peanut butter trick might be one thing, but fucking your dog is something else entirely.
One quite memorable time when Will was over, Caesar was misbehaving more than he usually did, Will started in on his old dog humping spiel all over again.
"I am not fucking my dog," I said for the umpteenth time.
"You're not fucking your dog," Will told me, "You're asserting dominance over the animal. Do you want me to do it for you?"
Well, I guess that Will had finally had enough of Caesar and something in his mind must have snapped, because Will suddenly jumped up and without another word, before I could even make a move to stop him, Will stood up, grabbed Caesar by the collar, got behind the dog and started humping him.
I couldn't believe it, that motherfucker was really humping my dog.
Holy shit!
You know, I've seen some really strange shit in my life, but this... this... I had no words for this shit and if that doesn't tell you how shocked I was, I don't know what would. I just... Fuck it.
I was stunned, the entire scene was surreal. Will was fucking my dog. No, that sick, crazy bastard was pumping away at my dog like a piston engine in overdrive. Sure, Will's clothes were still on, but that doesn't matter and it doesn't change the traumatizing event that I was forced to bear witness to; that freak was fucking my dog and I wasn't happy about it. Jesus, I think I have PTSD.
Apparently, Caesar wasn't happy about it either/
As fast as lightning, Caesar's head flew around and he bit the living shit out of Will's balls. Sank his teeth right in and let me tell you, it was somethung to behold. Too bad that's not what really happened.
The truth is that Caesar bit Will's hand, but saying that it was his balls just seems to invoke some sort of cosmic karmic justice, whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean. Caesar had taken a deep bite out of Will's hand and Will squealed like a little bitch. Blood was gushing everywhere and Will wasn't doing anything about it, he was just letting it drip onto my carpet. Not cool. I thought that was very inconsiderate of him. I mean, the guy tries to screw my dog and then when he gets what's coming to him, he has the audacity to bleed all over my stuff. Again, not cool.
Someone's going to have to clean that shit up and that someone is me. I'm the one who is going to get stuck with cleaning up the mess that Will's poor life choices made. How is that fair to me?
Asshole...
I helped Will clean his wound and then I bandaged his hand. It's a good thing that Caesar didn't bite his balls, because I'd have let Will bleed to death before I touched his junk, Seriously. Like, if we're ever in the woods together and a poisonous snake bites your dick, you're completely fucked. Hey, just letting you know where you stand.
Will apologized to me and acknowledged that the responsibility for the bite was his and that trying to hump my dog was a foolish thing to do and that he'd learned a valuable lesson.
And that valuable lesson was...
Don't fuck my dog.
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Dogs have been known throughout history as being man's best friend and this is mostly true, but sometimes, for no particular reason at all, they do some crazy ass shit, Yes indeed, dogs are fucking lunatics. Even worse though, are those dogs that are just straight up assholes.
Back when I lived in West Virginia and not long after I married me now ex-wide Medusa (I did catch my typo on ex-wife and know that it reads as ex-wide. I corrected it, but since she has become noticeably wider since our divorce, I decided to keep it the way it was), we bought a male dalmatian puppy that we named Caesar.
Not Caesar, but pretty much spot on in the brains department.
Caesar was a beautiful dog with an amazing spot pattern. When that dog stalked (Caesar didn't simply walk, he stalked everywhere), you could watch his muscles ripple along the length of his body. Unfortunately, those were his only good attributes. That dog was just a hot mess. Other than being a complete asshole of a dog, Caesar's biggest problem was that he was almost completely deaf. Oh, he could hear you just fine, sometimes, on a good day, if the wind was blowing just right, and if his head was turned just the right way and if you were screaming at the top of your lungs. Yeah, he could hear you alright. Almost on par with Caesar's lack of hearing was his incredible stupidity. Good Lord, that dog was as dumb as he was pretty. Caesar also liked to pee everywhere.
Caesar was also insane, he would chase bugs up the walls, attack shadows and bark incessantly, just because.
Caesar was also very aggressive and could turn mean without warning. We kept him away from small children. Contrary to what the people at Disney would have you think, for the most part, dalmatians make terrible pets and are not always good with children. More than anything else though, Caesar was just a flaming asshole and a hell hound, but we loved him.
Devil Dog: Hound of Hell. The completely true story of my dog, Caesar, the sweetest dog ever.
One day, my friend Tommy came over to the house to hang out for a bit and he, Medusa and I went upstairs to my office to smoke a little weed, drink a little beer and to shoot a little shit. Tommy was a really nice guy, a bit of a hippy and he was about as laid back as a person can get without being comatose. Nothing and I mean nothing ever troubled Tommy. He had the ability to make you feel at ease and keep you laughing. Great guy.
The three of us were just hanging out, passing a joint around and engaging in true intellectual conversation by telling the filthiest of jokes. Hell, even old stone face cracked a smile or two. We were having a good time and laughing it up when Caesar made his into the room, looked at everyone as if he were sizing them up for a meal or a chew toy and then he made his way over to me and nudged me with his head. He wanted attention, so I gave him a little and then he moved on to Medusa to scam a little attention from her as well. Caesar sat down at Medusa's feet and he stared at Tommy.
Without warning, Caesar suddenly got up and padded over to Tommy, looked him up and down and started sniffing the poor guy. Suddenly, Caesar lifted his leg and pissed all over Tommy and let me tell you, that poor man got hosed.
You could see the pee dripping down his legs and flooding his sandals. It was horrible. I was so embarrassed. No, I was beyond embarrassed, I was absolutely, positively mortified.
I did the only sane and rational thing that I could do at the moment and I burst out laughing, loudly and maniacally and then Medusa joined in as well. I'm pretty sure that the dog was laughing at him too. Everyone was laughing it seemed, except for Tommy. I really didn't want to laugh at Tommy's misfortune, but I just couldn't help myself and there was no way that I could stop anytime soon. I kept trying to apologize to Tommy for what had happened, but every time that I tried to say something, more laughter erupted. I was laughing so hard that I literally couldn't breathe, I was coughing and choking; I had tears streaming down my face. I could barely make an articulate grunt, forget about trying to utter a word, a sentence or an apology.
When I could almost breathe normally again and I felt as if I might be able to form words, I tried to apologize to Tommy once more but that only served to commission a fresh round of laughter. I tried and I tried, but I just couldn't stop laughing. It was brutal.
While I'm sure that Tommy wasn't exactly jumping for joy after what had transpired, he was handling it very well. He wasn't mad, he didn't raise his voice, nothing. He just wanted to get cleaned up and I can't say that I can blame him seeing as I'm not a fan of golden showers either. Like I said, the guy's a champ.
We let Tommy use the shower to get himself cleaned up. I loaned him some clothes and Medusa took his soiled clothing down to the basement and tossed them in the washing machine. After Tommy got himself cleaned up, he hung out for a while longer and we drank and smoked a little bit more. Medusa and I couldn't stop giggling the entire time that he was there. We invited Tommy to stay and join us for dinner, which he did and afterward, we sent him home with his clean clothes and more apologies.
After Tommy left and I closed the door, Medusa and I looked at each other and started laughing all over again.
Poor guy.
Just a random memory that popped into my head.
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A friend is a friend, so good and so true, but fuck your friends before they fuck you.
Many years ago, I had two roommates, Craig and Jeff and we shared a shithole of a trailer that was literally falling apart around us. The three of us were great friends and loyal to one another, but the torments that we inflicted upon each other and the adventures that we shared were the stuff of legend. The stories that I could tell about the things that happened under that sagging and leaking metal roof...
Jeff was this wonderful guy who had the biggest heart and would do anything to help anyone. Unfortunately, his kindness was always repaid by people taking advantage of him. Even worse, Jeff suffered from horrible depression and silenced his pain with copious amounts of alcohol.
Craig, on the other hand, was this huge mountain of a man who also had a heart as big as he was. You could always count on Craig to lift you up; to make you smile and laugh.
We also (briefly) had a puppy named Lumpy. Lumpy was a lovable mutt and dizzying ball of energy who loved everyone and everything. The only bad thing about Lumpy was that he had an acute form of canine IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome). That dog was just a shitting machine that spewed volcanic eruptions of fecal matter everywhere. When he started farting, you literally had seconds to get him outside, or you would be scrubbing shit for hours. Literally. It was like the shit had truly hit the fan; it would spray everywhere; the floor, the furniture, the walls and more than once, the ceiling. Imagine the surprise you would feel to come home, plop yourself on the couch and feel something cold and wet splash down upon your head. Your first instinct is to wipe your head with your hand. Bad choice. Instincts can be bad things and nothing says "Surprise!" quite like a splatter of shit to the top of your noggin. Trust me on this one. Even worse was looking up while wondering, "What the fuck?" just in time for the next dollop to land on my face. Not quite the way that I wanted to be welcomed home by my dog.
A couple of quick stories about Lumpy...
One very early morning, Jeff and I were awakened by Craig yelling and cussing up a storm. Thinking that there was either an emergency or a murder, Jeff and I sprinted down the hall to Craig's room, our hearts racing with worry. When we burst through the door, we both stopped short and our concern turned to hysterical laughter. Apparently, Craig had decided to let Lumpy sleep in his bed that night and at some point, the puppy had crapped all over his pillow. Just as apparently, Craig rolled over in his sleep landing squarely on the aforementioned pile of puppy poo. Craig's face was completely covered in crap; running rivers of shit were streaming down his face as he frantically tried to clean himself up. Jeff and I should have and could have helped him clean up the mess, but we were too busy laughing and mocking Craig to be of much use as a cleanup crew. For reasons that I still can't understand, Craig didn't share in our laughter and he never seemed to appreciate his new nickname of Shithead. I've always wondered why... Hell, I still practically piss my pants with laughter every time that I think about it.
After several experiences with Lumpy and his fountain of feces, Craig started locking Lumpy in the bathroom at night and I would liberate the poor pup and sneak him back into Craig's bedroom, where Lumpy would then proceed to leave his little presents on the floor, making miniature minefields of manure. Many was the morning that Craig would wake us up by yelling at us and showing us just how creative he could be with foul language, but I always denied everything and blamed it all on Jeff, who was either still too drunk to wake up, or too hung over to try to defend himself. Craig didn't know who to blame, although, I'm fairly certain that he always suspected it was me. He just couldn't prove it or catch me. Good times...
One night, Jeff came home early, got drunk and passed out in his bedroom. I was out whoring around and didn't make it home until late. Forgetting to liberate Lumpy from his potty prison because I was a bit tipsy myself, I staggered into my room and promptly fell asleep only to be awakened by a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass. Apparently, Jeff had woken up, staggered to the bathroom, hadn't bothered to turn on the light and promptly slipped on a pile of shit. Lumpy must have had a rough night, because it was like a shit slip & slide in there. At some point while he was practicing his shit skating skills in the bathroom, Jeff managed to become airborne and while he was flying around like Superman in his tighty whiteys, he went headfirst into the shower, breaking the glass door. By the time I got to the bathroom, there was blood and shit everywhere; it was pretty bad. It was obvious that Jeff was in need of medical attention, but there was no fucking way that I was going to put him in my car. I wrapped Jeff's head in a towel and Craig carried him outside where he dumped our roommate's limp body into the backseat of his own car and we sped off to the hospital. When we got to the ER, Craig carried an unconscious Jeff inside and up to the counter. The astonished looks that we got were priceless. Here was this giant guy carrying this little guy that was covered in blood and shit. Keep in mind that Jeff was wearing underwear and nothing else. People were tripping over themselves to get the hell out of the way. The triage staff were completely professional and sprang into action, taking him straight back. Poor Jeff, he left there after spending the night, with seventeen stitches in his scalp. To make matters worse, Jeff had to explain all of this to his insurance agent, because he owned the trailer and had to make a claim on his homeowner's insurance. I only heard one side of that conversation, but let me tell you, it was pure gold. Listening to Jeff stammer out that explanation was one of the funniest things I've ever heard and because Jeff had been so drunk, he didn't remember a thing.
And then there's the story of Lumpy and the pizza, but I'm going to be nice and skip that story, just in case you haven't eaten yet. No need to thank me, I'm a paragon of virtue and kindness; the epitome of purity and innocence, I am. I even have a halo around here somewhere.
Craig found a new home for Lumpy. I was heartbroken.
I decided to bring home a new pet, but the guys made me promise that it would be something that could be easily taken care of, so Craig and I went down to the reptile shop that had just opened to see about buying a monitor lizard. Craig decided it was a bad idea after it tried to bite his finger off. I think he was a little scared of it. For such a big guy, he sure was a pussy. I mean, what's one little finger or toe? You have nine others, right? Hell, if you're the guy that killed Inigo Montoya's father, you even have a spare.
I ended up buying a breeding pair of Giant Day Geckos and all of the associated paraphernalia instead. What could possibly go wrong with that?
I also bought a hundred crickets. I had to feed those little fuckers.
Day Geckos require some special care. They are mostly a terrarium species and are a little shy, but over time,you can get them to eat out of your hand. They really aren't meant to be handled as their skin can slough.
While I was promised a breeding pair, I'm not so sure about that. As far as I know, they never mated and I don't know if I had a male/female pair, or two females. Had they both been males, they would have fought until one of them was dead. I had no way to tell what sex they were and I certainly wasn't about to start looking for a little lizard dick. So, I just appreciated them for their beauty.
The crickets on the other hand, were a fucking nightmare. Do you know what it's like to have a hundred fucking crickets chirping in your house? Even worse, they would escape from their box and hide all over the damn house. The chirping was incessant. Crickets everywhere. I couldn't wait to feed those little bastards to the geckos. To this day, I hate the sound of crickets, they drive me crazy.
Crazy? I was crazy once. They put me in a round room and told me to sit in the corner...
The geckos were working out well, except for the crickets that kept escaping and that fucking chirping. We would hunt them down whenever possible and we took a great sadistic joy in watching them get devoured by the geckos. It was so cool to watch them feed on the little bastards.
One day while I was in the reptile shop for a refill on the crickets, I saw these wonderful little creatures.
They were ginormous. And disgusting.
"What the hell are those?" I asked the clerk.
"They're giant mealworms," he told me.
I smiled, thinking of all of the wonderful possibilities.
"How much are they?"
He told me a price that wasn't too bad for what I had in mind.
"I'll take a hundred," I said.
"They're too big for your geckos," he told me.
"They're not for my geckos," I replied, "I have other plans for them."
He quickly bagged up my crickets and mealworms, I forked over a little cash and headed for home. I think that I have the same evil little smile on my face right now as I did back then. Ah, memories.
I got home, fed the geckos a few crickets, completely enjoying watching those little bastards get consumed.
I was the only one home. It was perfect.
I headed for Craig's bedroom and pulled his blanket back from the bed. I then proceeded to dump all of the mealworms onto his bed, spreading them out to get a nice, even distribution.
I quickly covered them up and tucked the blanket back in. This was going to be epic. I practically skipped down the hall on the way to the living room, turned on the TV and waited for Craig to come home. It was a bit of a wait, but I didn't care. I knew this was going to be awesome.
Craig finally arrived home and we hung out for a bit and then he decided to go to bed early. I was so excited, I was ready to piss myself. I waited outside the door to his bedroom.
It didn't take long.
He screamed like a little girl. Like I said, Craig was a big wuss. I burst through the door and I swear that guy was in midair. Seriously, what's the big deal about crawling into bed with a hundred giant maggot looking things? It didn't bother me, but then again, they weren't in my bed, crawling all over me.
I was laughing my ass off.
He started freaking out and stuttering. His face got really red.
I looked death straight in the eye.
"Oh, shit," I thought.
I showed incredible courage. I ran like hell and headed for the door to the trailer.
"I'm going to fucking kill you!" he raged.
Craig started chasing after me. I made it to the door running like Bruce Jenner headed for a free sex change. He was right on my heels. For such a big guy, he could run really fast, but I was faster. There was no way I was going to let him catch me. I poured on the speed. He sped up too.
"Calm down," I urged him. "It was just a joke."
He told me that he was going to make me eat the mealworms after he finished kicking my ass. No way. Fuck that. I needed to put a stop to this.
"Dude," I yelled back, "If you make me eat them, how will we get Jeff?"
Well, that was the right thing to say, because it was like music soothing the savage beast. Craig stopped running.
"Get Jeff?" he wheezed.
"Well, yeah," I said. "You don't think I'd waste all of that money just to fuck with you, do you? It's better to get two for the price of one."
"Let's do it," Craig said breathlessly, "I can always kill you later."
It was progress of a sort.
We headed back inside and I collected the mealworms and we headed for Jeff's bedroom, where I repeated the process of hiding them in Jeff's bed. Two for the price of one. Yeah, this was going to be sweet.
Jeff came home and started drinking. Big surprise. After about an hour of drinking, he told us goodnight and went to bed. Craig and I stood right outside of his door. Once again, it wasn't a long wait. Jeff screamed even louder than Craig had; longer too. It was pure fucking awesome. Craig opened the door and Jeff was cowering next to his bed. The poor guy was so terrified he could barely form a coherent sentence.
"Y-y-you m-m-m-m-motherfuckers," he stammered, "That's not funny. What the fuck is wrong with you guys?"
Craig and I couldn't stop laughing long enough to answer him. I was laughing so hard that I could barely breathe.
After a few minutes, I cleaned up Jeff's new friends and tossed them outside and we all decided to call it a night. Jeff crawled back into bed, Craig headed for his room and I went into mine, locking the door behind me. I pushed my dresser against the door to block it. There was no way in hell that anyone was getting in.
Within a minute I heard Craig yell a string of profanity that was directed at me.
Oops, must have missed a few.
Sorry, bro.
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