Did I do that? My letter to Urkel

So the other day I found Steven Q. Urkel’s e-mail (j@jaleelwhite.com) and, well, you know what I had to do. I’ll keep you updated if I get a response! In the meantime, peep the letter:

Urkel,

First, let me say it…You ready? OMG. I mean, like, wow. WOW. Fuckin’ WOW. Oh, sorry about the curse. I know big Carl Winslow wouldn’t approve. He’s looking out for everyone’s best interest, good ‘ol Carl. Wouldn’t want Little Richie to pick up any bad words. But, hey, if Carl really was looking out for Richie’s best interest, why the fuck did he allow that absurd mullet in his house? Holyfuckmeinaman’sass! That thing was re-donc! I mean, we all already knew that little poop-spot was a demon seed but that mullet really confirmed it. You know what’s unconfirmed? Who his father was! Urkel, I know in your fervent quest for Laura you probably weren’t paying attention, but Aunt Rachel was slut. Let me rephrase that: A SLUT. Better yet: A SLORE (A slut and a whore.)! I don’t think even one of your clever machines could keep that floozy’s legs closed. And Rachel’s Place? We all know that was an establishment of ill repute. I actually just got an e-mail from Waldo saying that’s where he contracted the HIV. Nice, Aunt Rachel, way to bring down the rest of the fam. Personally, I think Grandma Winslow should have dropped some five-fingered discipline on Aunt Rachel and Little Richie. Write back if you agree.

I love you,

Bobby

Summer Orientation to the Real World

Sup seniors! Oh, I’m sorry, let me rephrase that: “Holler!” That’s what you crazy kids are saying these days, right? Right. Okay, so welcome to summer orientation! I’ll bet you guys are PSYCHED to be in the REAL WORLD!!! WOOOOO!!! REAL WORLD!!! Okay, so my name’s Bobby and I’ll be going into my sophomore year here in the real world. Well, actually, I’m a few credits behind after I got put on probation. Oh, no, it wasn’t academic probation. No, no, it was real judge mandated probation. Yeah, I mean I don’t really want to get into it but let’s just say her MySpace profile said she was 19.

Alright, anyway, the first thing you gotta know about the real world is the difference between what’s “appropriate” and “inappropriate”, or, as my boss likes to say, “being professional.” Apparently, it’s “unprofessional” to broadcast the highlights of your weekend around the office.

I know, I know, in college people LOVE hearing your tales of sexual conquest or the patchy details of a night of drunken disaster. Unfortunately, in the real world, that violates “proper office conduct” and borders on “sexual harassment” (words in quotes are my dickhead boss’s terms; not mine).

Well, I sure found this out the hard way when, after a sweet three-day bender, I came stumbling back into work hung over on a Tuesday, proclaiming to everyone “Guess who got laid!?!?!?” My boss, enraged, abruptly pulled me into his office where he sat me down and threw a hissy diva fit, where he reminded me I was in an “office environment” with a tone of voice I formally associated with the sassiest of gay men.

Man, my boss is in serious need of some tender manlove…

Moving on, another thing to watch out for is your relationship with co-workers. Now, take for example the story I just told you. Right before I got chewed out by the boss-man, I was relaying my weekend to Tom from Sales. I thought it’d be cool to start adding superlative z’s to emphasize the key words in my story, so, as I’m telling Tom about how I “gotz driz-unk” and then I “gotz liz-aid”, he told me about his weekend, which consisted of babysitting his brother’s kids and cleaning out his gutters. When I Tom that’s “giz-ay” he said maybe it’d be better if we strictly kept a “working relationship.” Pst,Whatevazzz Tom…

On second thought, don’t even bother trying to make friends with your co-workers; most of them are probably old geezers anyway, and won’t understand half the shit you’re talking about. For example, apparently Chuck Norris references are not well received in the real world! It’s like people don’t even know who he is! I found this out the other day when I told someone (that wasn’t Tom from Sales) I was wearing female legs around my waist like Chuck Norris wears karate black belts, and get this…they asked me who Chuck Norris was! (Someone needs to wake up and smell the roundhouse kicks!)

Oh man, I know you’ve probably already heard enough, but I want to leave you with one last point before I let you guys move onto the workshop for “Reasons why wearing a gray t-shirt that says ‘REAL WORLD’ isn’t cool like wearing the gray t-shirt that says ‘COLLEGE; but wait, that one isn’t really cool either…”. Now, I know in college you guys had Spring Break…well, in the real world, you’ll get COFFEE BREAKS! Now, I know a lot of you are like “I’ll shove a Folgers up your butt for using that kind of capitalized sarcasm.” But I’m serious, coffee breaks can be awesome if you add a little panache to 10a.m. – 10:15a.m. Think of this way: Here’s your chance to bust out the beer bong and start daring people to funnel 3 cups of coffee! I’ve found people LOVE IT if you kick in the break room door screaming, “COFFEE BREAK 2006!!!! WHO REMEMBERS?!?! WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”

Well, I gotz to go change Tom from Sales desktop wallpaper to some gay porn, so I’ll peep you guys latazzzz.

Score one for the blog team: The kickoff

If you peep the comments in my previous blog post (“The Perks of being an Asshole”), you cannot help overlook the feedback left by one “Larseniohall”. Not only can you not help overlook this comment because it’s the only comment, but also because you can’t help overlooking the fact that Mr. Larsenio is the fucking man.

Seriously, this dude is the real deal. The late, great Larsenio stars in some of my most cherished college memories such as being the ref in the famed pudding-wrestling event, when he wore only an absurd fake afro, a shirt of zebra stripes, megaphone, ridiculous sunglasses, and an even more ridiculous ear-to-ear grin that said, “Hey, now I LOVE degrading women”. Hence, when Larenio makes a request, I honor it like a ragtag mariachi band playing for loose change on a street corner…

Okay, so we’ve already established Larsenio and I attended the same small liberal arts college. What was not established was that our small liberal arts college had the worst football team in the history of worsts. This team was worse than your drunken hookup with the fat girl, worse than the Armenian genocide, worse than the worst time you zipped your fly on your wiener.

With this football team, it wasn’t so much the losing that made them the worst. While, yes, they certainly excelled in losing (3-39 record, nice guys!), they also excelled in being the biggest group of collective douche bags ever. Complete. Fucking. Douche bags.

No joke, not since the Nazis have a group of douches come together on this magnitude. They weren’t even individuals; they coalesced to form a monster douche, sort of like Captain Planet. (Except, instead of calling them Captain Douche, we called them the home team.)

Quick disclaimer: To be fair, yes, there were some cool guys on the team, but the majority were asshats.

Okay, getting back to my Captain Planet metaphor, in order to form Captain Douche the powers these “players” would have combined would have been: “Roid Rage! Farts! Failing Midterms Miserably! Majoring in Communications!” and finally, the most prominent, “Date Rape!”

While the school put up with these “superpowers” for a while, eventually the team’s loosing record got too embarrassing, thus forcing administration to dissolve the team.

And that’s when things got personal for me. You see, I had written a line in an article that went something like this:

“Let’s tackling some intense issues! And since the school axed the football team it’s the only tackling you’re going to see around this campus.”

I was pretty confident the team’s literacy rate would be low enough that I would be able to slip that one under the radar.

I guessed wrong.

Tipped off by the school’s student stalker directory, I found a throng of hulks conjugating outside my dorm looking to, “Kick my ass.” Now, if it were just a simple matter of a couple of brutes punting my buttock, I would have had no reservations. However, I believe the “ass kicking” they were referring had connotations involving also kicking me in non-ass related places as well as punching me (!).

Being the little nerd I am, I wasn’t particuarly excited about that sort of treatment. But, at the same time, I wasn’t going to lose to a team with a 3-39 record….

To be continued…

The Perks of being an Asshole

So today I was contemplating my “writing career”, and, particularly, my stint as a satirical writer (what I like to term my “bitter little geek writing”). What I came to realize is, when writing these types of articles, I have no allegiance. In fact, when I penned my infamous column “My Atrocious Opinion” in my college newspaper, I'd intentionally write one week about how awesome it was being drunk all the time (COLLEGE!!!) then, the next week, I'd write an article condemning drinking. Well, here’s an article that posits the latter. If you guys find this funny, I’ll throw up some of the hate mail I received in response to this. (Which is about 23912083102983019 times funnier!)

OkSOBERfest, OK by This Guy

The week of “OkSOBERfest” came and went, and most college students paid about as much attention to it as an informative seminar on the risks of unprotected sex. The thought of being “OkSOBER” for some isn’t even an option. The pursuit of 24-7 drunkenness and personifying the Hollywood portrayal of the “college dude” is for a select few, an everyday struggle where extreme sacrifices are to be made. Sacrifices, which include suspending academic success, physical wellness and personal pride to keep up the laborious claim: “I’m majoring in beer, and minoring in parties!”

The origin of this idealistic lifestyle is traceable to a genre of poorly written and directed movies depicting college in a ridiculous and outlandish fashion. Movies like Animal House, Slackers, and Van Wilder to name just a few, are propagandas films that fool high schoolers into thinking college is a out of control bacchanal where geeks are ostracized, getting “laid” is a bihourly occurrence, and inebriation is a given. For most people though, the epiphany that college is an institution of furthering academic study occurs within the first few weeks, for others it may take a couple months, and for a minority it never dawns on them. The latter are the walking abominations I plan on writing this seething dissertation about.

I know that college life is a stressful environment and we all need to wild out sometimes. Hence, it’s not the social drinker I’m out to blast; it’s the idiot who thinks he’s Van Wilder. The guy who’s going to wake up in a pool of his own vomit and exclaim: “How awesome was it last night when I peed/pooped my pants and completely embarrassed myself!!! Can’t wait to do it again tonight!!!” There are some flagrant warning signs when a person is headed down the road to this pathetic existence, such as: a profusion of uproarious alcohol-promoting posters, trite catch phrases esteeming beer as a pious entity, and the endless desire to get fall-down drunk at every bar within a 30 mile radius of campus.

First, if I see another poster of John Beluschi slugging Jack Daniels with a college sweater on, I’m going to flip my lid. I put a request in to Res Life that while conducting safety inspections to include searching rooms for Animal House posters. In my opinion there should be a limit set on the number of Animal House posters per room. This limit would, of course, be set at zero. The “Table of Mixology” is another repugnance that’s got to go. And on a side note what ever happened to the actual IUPAC periodic table of the elements. When did that one go out of style? I’d rather know the atomic weight of Beryllium then the ingredients to a “Blushin’ Russian” any day.

Possibly the only thing worse then posters venerating alcohol, are the phrases I hear out the mouths of some people. I caught up with an anonymous “college dude”, and the verbal discourse I caught in between gulps from a beer helmet almost sent me into a tizzy.

First, he broke down college into an easy to follow logic equation: “Parents equal rules, college equals no parents, no parents equal no rules, therefore no rules equal me drunk all the time!” Before I could even scoff at this twaddle, he added, “In all honesty, I love college. It’s just too bad the classes get in the way; well they’re good for catching up on my sleep!” Our interview was then curtailed though, because he was scheduled to be lying face down in a gutter in less than an hour.

In all honesty, changing the way people think is hard; and drunken hobos almost impossible. I’m not kidding myself actually thinking that anyone who I’m writing this article about is actually going to read it. The only way they’d ever even pick up a student newspaper is if “Beer is life” was copied and pasted across the front cover.

But if some random freshmen who’s taking a dump and needs something to read happens to stumble across this editorial and it gives them some guidance to choose the higher path of not becoming a scalawag lush, then this article would be a success. The fact that “OkSOBERfest” had these same ideals is why I’m a showing them some love.

In conclusion, I’m not proposing that people shouldn’t go out and have a good time, for at this school that would border on blasphemy, but don’t be the jerk who drinks mommy and daddy’s money down the over-flowing toilet at the local dive. If you’re drinking on a Tuesday, strictly because it’s a Tuesday, go to a meeting instead of waking me up screaming, “I’m sooooo wasted, I can’t remember my own name!” in the Horseshoe at 2 AM.

I am well aware I probably come off as a bitter little nerd with my own editorial column, which sadly is a reality I’ve come to face. But at least I keep my feces out of my pants (in public anyways). Be responsible, and don’t become a “College Dude”.

Legend of The Booty Buster

It was sometime in May. Year: 2001. I was at a high school party, swishing a mouthful of stale beer, when this doofus came scampering into the room.

To get a sense of this kid, picture a boner. Seriously, picture a throbbing boner with a huge vein jutting down the middle. Understand this was the type of kid probably raised in one of the most affluent parts of Long Island, yet dressed as if he just walked off the set of Boyz in da Hood.

So this kidboner bustles up to me with his North Face bubble jacket bubbling, his sweatpants hanging from his ass, his hat hovering off his head at a thuggishly crooked angle, and asks me about a passed out girl in the corner.

“That one?” I enquired, and pointed as if pointing was necessary, as if there was any dispute over the comatose girl lying next to the eucalyptus plant.

“Yee-ah, son,” he said as I watched his baby-fat face light up. “Ima take care ‘o tat. Name’s Gerard, by the way.”

I looked at him, quizzically.

“Yeah boy!” Gerard exploded, and then, as if offering an addendum, raised a hand yearning for a high-five.

I looked at the hand, quizzically.

As I continued to stare at the hand, perplexed, his oversized grin began to evaporate.

“Son,” he began in a voice growing dark with anxiety, “I don think yous heard me. Ima take care ‘o tat honey dere.”

He actually licked his lips.

Normally, I’m not one for the moral high road, but this was downright absurd. Gerard had to be stopped. If for no other reason, the fool deserved to be cock blocked.

“Yeah, Gerard, I don’t think that’s a great idea, boss,” I told him dryly, matter-of-factly.

“Oh!” Gerard bellowed, his face flushing with anger or embarrassment, “Oh! Son! Don’t, son! Don’t!”

He took off his hat to fan his face. I looked around the room, surveying for allies. There was a couple overtly making out/groping each other on the couch, two kids lighting up a bong by the door, and some ugly girl pacing the room repeating, “Mom can’t find out.”

Great, I thought to myself, Everyone is out of their fucking gourd.

The kid turned to face me head-on. Frustration filled his eyes. He never looked more bonerly. He said “Don’t” once more. His finger pointed at me threateningly.

As Gerard turned to claim his booty, Dan The Little Guy came out of the woodwork. “Name’s Dan,” Little Guy said, a warm limb snaking around Gerard’s sholders, his voice taking a pitch you’d expect from a used car salesmen, “How you doin’ pal?”

“Ima about to git these fingers wet up,” Gerard responded, showing Little Guy the fingers.

“Nice. Real nice. Like your style, pal,” Little Guy went on, his face getting closer to Gerard’s.

Gerard, obviously growing uncomfortable, tried to shy away, proclaiming, “Yo, Ima hit dis, bro. I’ll tell you bout it lata.”

Little Guy pulled him back, his mouth inches from Gerard’s ear. “I got a slut that wants to fuck your cock. You want that? A slut to fuck your cock?”

Gerard violently pulled away, but stared bewilderedly into Little Guy’s face.

“She want to fuck me?” Gerard said, excited, “Aight, son. Where she at.”

Okay reader, timeout.

You know it’s coming. I’m obviously not trying to “shock” you when I tell you a dude popped out. That’s not my intent. That’s not why it was hilarious. In the past, my atrocious cronies and I pulled a plethora of pseudo-gay stunts. But this one was different. This one gave birth to The Booty Buster.

First, you have to understand the song that I remember was booming from the speakers. That song was “Goodbye Horses” by Q-Lazarus. Never heard of it? Yes, you have. You’ve heard this sweet ‘80s ballad in Silence of the Lambs when Buffalo Bill gives himself a mangina. Hence, not only is the song sonically sensual, it also evokes images of sticking a wiener between your legs and pretending it’s a vagina. Awesome. Oh, and if I haven’t convinced you to download that song, here’s a link where you listen to it. Play that repeatedly while you read the rest of this article or I’ll eat your face.

Okay, so now that we’re all basking in the sweet sounds of Q-Lazarus, picture the party scene. Dan’s smiling up at Gerard as he’s puckering his lips, cracking his knuckles, getting ready to get some of those fingers wet.

That’s when The Booty Buster crashed through the door. His sexual prowess radiated from the pores of his skin. His build was muscular. His height was tall. His hair was blonde, long and handsomely disheveled. He looked like a Germanic pillager; he looked an Aryan warrior; he like a buster of booties.

You could have guessed his name from the cloths he wore: a tiny belly shirt, a pair of banana yellow bicycle shorts (two sizes too small), and a headband that made it clear there was an intent to break a sweat.

Gerard’s face assumed a look somewhere between terror and sickness. He made pre-vomit chocking sounds in betweens protests. “No, no” was all he could get out. He backed away, paralyzed by his terror.

The Booty Buster looked at Gerard. He looked appalled, as if Gerard was nothing more than a poop. And that poop was clogging a toilet.

Then he spoke.

“This is what you brought me?” The Booty Buster asked of Little Guy, revulsion saturating his voice. “Well…I’ll work with it.”

“Nah, no, nah,” Gerard made his protest. “I ain’t gay. I said I ain’t gay.”

“Well, that's okay cause I am,” responded The Booty Buster, not even looking at his prey, then added, “I'd better warm up.”

The Booty Buster began sets of air humps. He did this in a measured way. First he put two fists out in front of him, lined up, then humped the air ten or so times in a rapid succession.

In the middle of the third set, Gerard repeated that he “ain’t gay.”

“Quiet,” was all The Booty Buster said this time.

“Yo,” Gerard said, his voice becoming more calm, his thoughts becoming more calculated, “Ima jus gonna take dis chick out ta ma car for a minute, ya know.” He began creeping towards the passed out girl.

And we let him. We let him get within arms length of her, and, when he reached his hand hungryly to seize the girl, The Booty Buster dashed over and slapped Gerard’s wrist, forcefully gay.

As Gerard, turned angrily to The Booty Buster, The Booty Buster informed him it was “time to bust his booty.”

And that’s when Gerard informed us that we were all “fags” and ran out of the party.

The passed out girl later died from alcohol poisoning.

The end!

Why did the homeless man cross the road…

Interesting week. It was uneventful at work, and, as my classes wrap up, I find myself anxiously awaiting a summer of writing irreverent trash in this blog. Oh, speaking of irreverent trash, I have a story about a homeless person I want to share.

Okay, so the other day I’m walking down Eight Avenue toward the subway. And get this: a homeless person is walking in front of me. How did I know he was homeless? I’ll list my reasons in alphabetical order:

1.) mumbling angrily to himself

2.) pushing all his belongings on a little cart

3.) stunk like a mix of rubbing alcohol, old person, and poop of the feces kind (as a corny dad might say, “stunk to high heavens”)

4.) wearing a flannel shirt

I know a lot of you out there are probably thinking to yourself, “What a presumptuous jerk! Stop stereotyping! Those characteristics don’t necessarily mean he’s homeless!” And, I would agree with you that, yes, it could have also been:

1.) a deadbeat dad

2.) a urban lumberjack (oxymoron?)

3.) Kevin Federline

But I knew he was homeless because he was lacking one key item: his dignity. Yup! That’s right! Here’s the “Batter my heart three-personed blog”’s litmus test for figuring out whether someone is homeless or not. Look at them and decide whether they have their dignity. If not, they’re homeless. Sure, they may have money, non-stinking clothes, and a home now. But just wait. That’ll change. Soon your friend who is more than happy to let everyone laugh at him will be your friend who’s more than happy begging for your loose change.

Alright, enough of the expository foreplay. Let’s get to the story. So, this guy is trucking along the busy sidewalks of NYC. He’s walking dejectedly, dragging his cart behind him. His cart proclaimed all the trappings of bum-life: a crusty blanket, a hodgepodge of worthless paper, and, of course, the obligatory cardboard box.

But the cardboard box was not in good shape. This was a cardboard box that had seen better days. The flaps were hanging loosely; the cardboard was stained, damp, and soiled. Then, as the cart hit a bump, I watched a flap dislodge itself and land on the sidewalk. I watched in horror as the rush hour pedestrians tramped upon the bum’s box’s cardboard flap.

Now, here lied my dilemma. Part of me wanted to grab Homeless Man and alert him of his loss. If I were moving my house, and the back wall crumpled, I’d want someone to give me a heads up. But, on the other hand, I didn’t want to be a dickhead. So, instead, I said nothing then wrote about it in a dickhead manner in my blog. It reminds me of another time when I faced a similar situation during a “food drive.” Here’s how I recorded it in my “saved away messages”:

Auto response from Bobberous: AIM community, gimme an honest opinion...i took some pop corn from a homeless food drive, i poped it, and i ate it. I know you're first reason is totally "OMG, you ASSHOLE those people are HOMLESS" but think about it. Homeless people don't have microwaves. God, they don't even have their dignity. If some do gooder asshat handed them a package of popcorn that would be completely patronizing. Hence, I'm doing the homeless a favor...leave your opinion or i'll cut you

No, seriously, leave your opinion or you’re gonna get cut.

Man, I was sick…

I wrote this article when there was something seriously wrong with my brain. Man, I must have been such a perv – a super perv! – to come up with all these gross categories and ideas. But maybe you’ll either laugh with me, or at me, or both? In any case, this article is the first article I ever posted on Collegehumor (barring the AIM article, but that wasn’t on the front page, holla now!). Regardless, peep this, then peep some…porn?

My Hobby is Getting Boners: A Dissertation on Internet Porn

I’m not going to lie to you; you’re reading an essay written by a dude who loves getting boners. Pitching tents in my pants is as fun as running naked through a Jenny Craig convention covered in chocolate pudding. And because I’m the type of guy who waits ardently for my roommate to leave for class so I can drop my draws and mine that white gold, I figured I’d throw out some pointers (pun intended) for those looking at Internet porn.

-REMEMBER: When you’re perusing through those free site vixens, you’re Fabio! Now, in real life, the dic-tator between my legs has a skewed perception of beauty, as I often find myself shopping around simply for a penis receptacle. But fellas, this is not the case when you’re surfing the erection super highway. As opposed to real women, once you see a chick naked on the net, they won’t expect a friggin’ a ring on their finger, or even worse: a conversation (AHH!)! Getting rid of broads on the Internet is just a point and click away. If a chick’s hair is too short: “X”, if one nipple is bigger then the other: “X”, if her face is dripping with some love mayonnaise: “X”; it’s as easy as that!

-BEWARE OF MULLIGANS: A mulligan is when the tiny thumbnail of a chick looks decent enough so you click on it, only to find you’ve blown up a heinous beast. I would compare the folly of a mulligan to rubbing a magic lamp expecting a big, blue wisecracking genie to pop out; but instead to your dismay Mr. T climbing out up and posting up in your grill, strapping your wanker to the fender of the A-Team van, then high tailing it in fifth gear (ouch!) with Merdock sitting shot gun, laughing his old-man ass off.

-BE PREPARED: When the opportunity arises for your whopper to get out for some fresh air and a little R n R, you better have the tools of the trade ready for deployment. Any amateur knows Vaseline and tissues are a must, but I’m going to approach the game with some new added flava. Scavenger your dorm for everyday skin and hair care products such as: Luberderm, hair conditioner (Pert Plus is recommended), and styling gel. These items are definitely going to make your PC self-love fest wacky (literally!). Don’t get too creative though, one experiment with toothpaste had me walking around with a shriveled red member for a week!

Well I hope these tips help and you find yourselves chopping away to the beat of a different beater (does that even make sense?)!

Hey, maybe I’ll get some fan mail from a group of 12-year olds who think copious allusions to erect penises’ are funny!

Prom bomb

Ah, spring. I love swinging open my back door, letting radiant sunlight spill over my face, and filling my nostrils will the airy scent of the season. However, my love of spring has nothing to do with the poetic conventions of love or rebirth; rather, it’s when I can impart the most damage onto the unsuspecting public.

Of course, grannies out for a Sunday afternoon stroll or lovers cooing in the park provide ample targets of potential hilarity, but the single best group to look for during spring is the famed and alliterative Pre-Prom Party.

Oh my cock! I love spotting these fuckers! Whenever I see a congregation of tuxedo-lad gents and ladies in their Victorian evening gowns, I literally start foaming at the mouth. I think of all the parents, with their cameras and their smiles and their good intentions, and I know I have to ruin that. To exemplify what I mean by this, I again turn to the genius of Eddie.

Well, a few years back, when we were all home from college in mid-May, I was driving somewhere through the tree-lined streets of suburbia. Birds were chirping, white clouds hung lazily in the sky, and the sun was so bright the sidewalks looked white. People were out, milling around, strangers waved to one another in passing, comments were abuzz about the beautiful weather. The sound of basketballs bouncing off the sidewalk reverberated, swarms of kids were eating ice cream on curbs. It was a day of what I like to call “Suburban Pristine.”

The car I drove was packed: Eddie, myself, possibly the Booty Buster, assorted girlfriends, ect. We were probably listening to Journey, and, subsequently, probably the song “Don’t Stop Believing." We were most likely also singing along, slamming our fists against the dashboard to the chorus of the song.

Suddenly, Eddie broke the tranquility, “Stop the car! Stop the car!” he screamed.

Thinking something had happened, I immediately screeched the brakes. Had I hit a poor, unsuspecting squirrel? Had I sung the wrong words to the second verse of the song?

Eddie threw the door open and ran into the street frantically. In fact, frantically is not an apt word to describe the way his arms flailed, his legs spurned, his back arched. He looked like a cross between a caveman tracking an animal and a stealth spy trying to tiptoe inconspicuously.

If this were a movie, here would come the shot where the camera pans right to reveal a mass of people in front of a white aristocratic house. This was the pre-prom gathering right out of an Abercrombie catalogue. Toothy-grinned couples held one another in a long panoramic group shot as flashes from parents’ cameras lit up sporadically. Being such a grand affair, there were even a contingent of small children scampering about in the foreground, chasing a small brown dog. Everyone was ready for a momentous prom adventure. No one was ready for Eddie.

To start things off, Eddie darted to the middle of the street in plain view of the crowd. Of course, no one immediately noticed, so Eddie began screaming a mantra of “Hey!”s.

“Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!” he repeated, gradually gaining the attention of some active listeners. Most people were still consumed with the photo-op, so Eddie, getting resourceful as always, dropped his pants.

What still amazes me about this move was he never stopped the rhythm of his “Hey!”s. Even as he undid his belt, let his pants fall to his ankles, and threw his boxers down with a flair of showmanship, he never stopped chanting, “Hey!”

At this point, people were really starting to notice. Fingers were being pointed, mothers were becoming outraged, faces were turning red. To heighten the effect, Eddie started drumming an open palm off the cheeks of his ass. To get a crisp sound, he bent over; also providing everyone a rich visual supplement. After ten or fifteen slaps, the only sound was the slapping, and an occasional “Hey!”

Barring the occupants of my car, everyone was disgusted. No one knew what to do. The men weren’t sure if they should comfort their ladies or attack Eddie. All the women sported the same flabbergasted O-face. Children hid behind the legs of adults.

Eddie took a step forward. The step was labored as a pair of pants fettered his ankles. Everyone got a frontal view of Eddie’s junk. He stood there for a moment, stared. Then took another step. Still, silence. And, before quickly pulling his pants up and running, he breathed heavily and exclaimed these words:

“All your kids – every single one! –are fucking tonight!”

I almost got into a fistfight with a high school thug at 7eleven!

Holy fuck, you won’t believe what just happened.

So I’m supposed to write a play for class, so I figured I’d grab a cup of coffee and muse a little as I drove aimlessly around the suburbs. Well, at 7eleven, I got a surprise.

Normally, my transactions at 7eleven are smooth and nondescript. I walk in. I pour myself a cup of coffee. I pay. I leave. Sometimes I’ll make some small talk with cashier. Sometimes.

Well, tonight, I’m mid-coffee pour when this red-headed thug comes tramping through the door, barking into his cell phone about how “drunk he’s gonna be tonight, bro.” I hate these kids. Seriously, I hate a lot of things; in fact, I hate almost everything. But I especially hate these fuckers. I hate them almost as much as I hate babies. Almost.

Immediately I start shaking my head in condescending disgust. (This was a reflex by the way, like seeing a hot chick and getting a boner). As my head is shaking, uncontrollably, Professor Gangbanger starts pulling beer bottles out of the refrigerator, inspecting the back label.

As he’s still screaming into his Nextel with a flapping open mouth, I notice a mouthful of braces on said thug. Nice, I think to myself, Real nice, I wonder what ya mother would think of you talking like that in public.

He starts instructing whoever is on the other line that he wants “mad fly bitches out tonight, yo. I want doz hos wasted, boy!” Upon hearing this comment, I chuckle a bit too loud. Said thug cranes his head, faces me and clenches his teeth in subdued outrage. A little glare shines off the bottom row of his braces.

Yeah I just laughed at you, I think to myself, then add to myself, Ya little shit. However, realizing the sport of “thug watching” will not assist in writing my play, I decide to just pay and leave.

As I’m walking out, Sir Thug-a-lot apparently got a case of the pussies, neglecting to purchase the alcohol required to be “mad drunk, bro” and to aid in “[getting] doz hos wasted.” Hence, as he’s following me out, I don’t hold the door for him.

A quick timeout. Before you go ahead and start criticizing for being an “asshole” for not “holding the door” I’m gonna set the record straight. Even if this kid wasn’t a deplorable piece of shit, I still wouldn’t have held the door for him. The fact is, I think it’s retarded I’m expected to ascribe to social folkways such saying “god-bless-you” after someone sneezes or holding the door for someone. It’s retarded because it’s pointless. Why can’t you open a fucking door your-fucking-self? Why can’t you ask God to bless you your-goddamn-self? Why should I feel obliged to do something just because every other fucking person thinks it’s “the right think to do.” Fuck that, and, if you don’t agree with me, I’ll slam a fucking door in your fucking ungrateful face.

Okay, thanks, time in.

Anyway, this upsets the thug to the point where he’s huffing. His chest is rising and falling, his hair, catching the last rays of the late afternoon sun, looks like heated barbed wire. I am standing, clutching my coffee in front of me with two hands, sporting a grin that’s practically jumping off my face.

“Son,” he begins, “You can’t hold a fuckin’ door?”

Interesting inquiry, I think to myself, stare at him, then retort lazily, “No…No, I suppose not.”

“You suppose not?” he repeats.

“Yeah, that’s basically what I just said,” I say.

“Yo, fuck you,” he snaps.

“Oh, fuck me?” I ask, my voice rising with agitation, “No, how about FUCK you.”

“No,” he corrects me, “FUCK you.”

“Yeah?” I ask, and throw up The Bird. First, only with one hand, then, putting my coffee on the roof of my car, throw up the other hand. Two hands, two middle fingers in one thug’s flabbergasted face. I start dancing the fingers in front of his face. The dance is fairly simple, more like a variation on a circular motion.

“You like that?” I ask, ironically, because I know he doesn’t.

“Son,” the thug says, his voice now taking a jumping a pitch, almost laughing, “Son, you wanna throw?”

“Do I want to ‘throw’?” I repeat but this time I make sure he hears the irony, he hears the way I emphasize the word “throw” as if I’m patronizing not only his choice of language, but his whole being.

Awkwardly we look at each other for a few moments. No one really makes any power moves so I climb into my car. Once in the car, I realize something. When I went into 7eleven, I was playing the radio, loud. I had on a classic rock station. I realize that, now, with thug at the window still inviting me to “throw”, I have GOT to roll out to a badass song. But, since I had on the radio, this is completely in realm of chance as the spectrum of classic rock ranges everywhere from Led Zeppelin to Genesis. I could go out to in a blaze of glory to “Kashmir” or I could look like a penis-biter to “Walk like a Man.”

Well, I took a deep breath and turned the key. The car sparked up and immediately I recognized Pink Floyd. Yesssssss, I thought to myself. Some Floyd is always great when setting a badass precedent. I turned my head towards the window, towards the thug, and the mocking smile returned to my face. But then, suddenly, I realized I was mistaken. Not mistaken it was Pink Floyd on the radio (my classic rock ear is like 99.9 percent accurate), not that the song on the radio wasn’t badass, but, rather, the part of the song playing made me look, well, bizarre.

You see, the song that belted from my radio was “Welcome to the Machine” which, don’t get me wrong, has some serious badassness to it, but, however, also has some straight up gay moments in it as well. This was one of those moments. It came right on right at the part where all those strange-ass space noises are interjecting (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, listen to the song and you’ll see).

Awesome.