Cockroach of Doom

I was on the old patio with Saima the other night.

“Oh my God, look at that giant cockroach,” she says.

“Shit…” I contemplate. “That is a big fucker.”

I grab a broom and scoop him/her out into the open. I had on some slippers and I didn’t want to fuck them up. This fucker was huge.

“How should I kill this thing?” I wondered.

I saw some spare cardboard lying around. This would cover the roach, then I could step on it without having to worry about ruining my slips. So I grab a piece and cover the roach up.

After a few seconds of contemplation, I finally stepped on it. You should have heard this sound. It was absolutely fucking crazy. You probably could have heard it in Colorado.

“Man, that was gross,” the lady said.

I picked up the cardboard slowly for some reason, as if this thing could have regenerated or something. Alas, it couldn’t. This fucker was dead. But do you know what I saw when I picked up this cardboard? Imagine yourself stepping on a Boston cream donut – chocolate frosting with sweet yellow pudding in the center. Now imagine what one of those would look liked smashed.

Go ahead, take your time.

That’s what it looked like. Yellow fucking cream pudding shot out all around it.

“Oh my God, what the fuck was that?” I ask.

The lady wanted no part of it but I finally talked her into giving it a glance after a few minutes. I then got on my knees to give it a closer look.

The pudding stuff actually looked like a bunch of eggs or something. It appears that I killed a giant pregnant cockroach – genocidal abortion at its finest! But I didn’t want these magic eggs to hatch… so what could a brother do?

The Dying Fetus (May, 2009)

The only thing he knows how – pouring lighter fluid on it and setting it ablaze. Poor thing never knew what was coming.

Parents is Dumber – Texting Helps Your Kids Come Faster

Author’s Note: The following stories are all true. I’ve changed the names not only to safe face for the youth of today, but to save my own, as my job could probably be terminated should an authoritative type actually find this.

I’ve recently touched on the subject of parenting, basing all of my opinions on today’s youth and how they act in the classroom. How kids of today couldn’t live without a cellphone vibrating in their pockets for over 46 seconds. It’s the parents of today that perhaps need the education in etiquette.

I was on my lunch break the other day when a group of female students came into my class. One of them had to grab some missing work from some days she was absent, the others were there because they had nothing else to do.

It was about then when a male student of mine, let’s call him Steve, came into the classroom. He chatted with the girls a bit then headed towards my desk. The kid gave me a fist pounce before leaning towards me and asking, “Do you see that girl right there?”He pointed to one of the girls who was my student.

“Susie? Yes, I had her last period.”

He says, “Ah, I fucked her the other day,” then let out a laugh.

This kid is 16 years-old and the girl he pointed to is only 14. I wasn’t stunned at the fact that kids these young ages are fucking – you’d be a dumbass if you think your kid isn’t doing the same. But I was stunned at the fact that he just randomly told his teacher about his exploits, without showing any sort of respect for my title, age, or authoritative power. I gave him a lecture about how I am a lot nicer than other teachers but that doesn’t give him a reason to share his exploits with me. He has not shared any sort of information since then.

Susie often comes to my classroom during lunch with a group of 4-5 other students. Some of these students aren’t even mine – perhaps they see my classroom as a shelter from the storm of idiocy outside wandering about or in the cafeteria throwing food and openly talking about blow-jobs and “titty-fucking” (these are just a few of the examples I’ve heard while walking around).

Yesterday in class, Steve came up to me and told me he thinks he got someone pregnant. He told me with a smile on his face, as if it was the funniest thing in the world. I thought for a second about what I could tell him. Should I tell him that getting somebody preggers is the worst STD around when you’re that age? Should I tell him about The Three Ps?

I tried as best as I could to explain the severity of this notion. It wasn’t funny, cool, or cheap, and there definitely wasn’t a quick escape out of this one. This would last for at least 19 solid years.

Then I found out he was talking about 14 year-old Susie.

You know that movie Juno that came out a few years ago? About that pregnant white, 16 year-old suburbanite girl? I wasn’t so much a fan of that movie. When I saw it, I was pretty positive that the girl in that movie was too smart for her own good. 16 year-old white girls from suburbia aren’t that smart – they don’t know shit about Herschell Gordon Lewis (a really obscure filmmaker from the 60s – one of the best) or who the fucking Stooges are. They don’t. Want to bet me?

The first day of school this year, I ask my students a series of questions, as part of a “introduction” exercise. One of the questions was, “Who is Herschell Gordon Lewis?” Most thought it was my real name. The rest left it blank. Where do I live and teach? In the middle of suburban fucking America. And that shit won Best Original Screenplay… but I digress.

I Be Pregnant – Lol! (4/2009)

So 14 year-old Susie is pregnant. I couldn’t wait for lunchtime to roll around so her and her band of merry girls and boys would come to my class to eat their triangle tater-tots amongst the company of intelligence. I didn’t say anything about what I had heard.

She had no problem telling, out of nowhere, about the rumor going around about how she is pregnant. “It’s not true,” she said, after explaining how he wore a condom. I did nothing but shake my head.

However, I was a bit curious how this incident happened in the first place. So I asked how she got herself in such a situation. She began, “Well, he texted me out of the blue one day…”

I was too into that sentence to pay attention to the rest of her story. It all started with a simple text – and I hear stories like this all day. Anytime something happens that shouldn’t have, the story begins, “I got this text…” Variations include but are not limited to, “I got this text saying he fucked my mom…”; “I got this text saying to meet in the bathroom in 5 minutes…”; “I got this text saying she/he was ready…”

But I digress.

There are a million other teachers who would do the obvious “report to guidance or administration” to share these tales of childhood woe. And I have done that on many occasions only to find my efforts fail when their parents could care less. Perhaps I am just now desensitized to it all.

Now I think of these stories as mere entertainment. Is that wrong? These stories are better than Crank 2. The dramatics of high school seem to be at an all time high. If I had any sort of motivation, I’d be inspired to make a documentary.

Kids have always had sex – that’s just what they do. They did it in my generation, your generation, your parents generation; and they will continue to do so until out days end. When I lost my virginity during those lonely days of age 16, I didn’t run to school the next day to report it to my teacher. Nor did I send out a mass text to all my friends that read, “I fuk’d dat gurl finally, bro. It wuz sweet yo! Lol.”

Perhaps this generation gap is one which can’t be filled.

Read more “Parents is Dumber” by clicking these colored words.

The Audible Vasectomy

Today’s picture is a bit naughty… so lift with caution. You might also want to note that this is easily one of the best things I’ve ever drawn. Enjoy!

I know nothing of docorific shit. So, as you read this, please feel free not to correct me. Sometimes my mind like things to be mysterious. Such is an incident of today.

I saw a billboard today on the side of the road. It said something like, “Fresh Vasectomy – No Needles, No Cutting – Released the Same Day!” Wait a second… so I get what a vasectomy is. Guys get these to prevent themselves from having kids. But the only way I know it to be done is by way of a scalpel-to-sac procedure. Sounds painful, I guess, but this is one procedure that should be done a lot more often. I’ve met a lot of kids whose fathers either treat them like shit or disappear from their lives. I’ve also met a lot of kids with mothers who simply shouldn’t have been allowed to have kids.

As Keanu Reeves once said in Ron Howard’s immortal 1988 classic Parenthood, “You know, Mrs. Buckman, you need a license to buy a dog, or drive a car. Hell, you need a license to catch a fish! But they’ll let any butt-reaming asshole be a father.”

That movie seriously rocks my balls. That one line is way more philosophical than anything Keanu had to say in those ridiculously awful Matrix sequels or that newfangled Day the Earth Stood Still remake.

Back to the subject at hand… so I know what cutting does as far as a vastectomy is concerned, but I am not even going to pretend to actually know what a needle can do (although I can certainly imagine some wonderful things).

So my question is, if you aren’t cutting or shooting some sperm killers in there with a needle, how the fuck do you do it? I could only picture one alternative.

Stop making baby seed you motherfucker! (4/2009)

The doctor would have to be trained to speak a language only the testicles could agree with. He has to speak to them, maybe even shout at them, to get them to stop producing baby formula. They should then call it the “Audible Vasectomy” and deliver that shit for free to people in jails. Or even to children in high school who are fucking way early without the common sense needed to use protection.

Share this with your friends.

28 Years Later…

28 years ago today, yours truly went on a bogus journey that would forever change his life. It was the beginning of my life actually – the day I would come spiraling out of my mom’s vagina and into this perfect world…

Oh wait a second. I am having that one French phrase everyone says (and these are probably the same people who adapted the infamous ‘Freedom Fries’ routine). This sounds much like how I started last year’s birthday post. Have I no variety? Surely I owe you better than that.

As I write this, my birthday hasn’t hit yet. But it’s coming. And by the time you read this, it’ll be here. I try to think about how much my life has changed since last year. I moved to a new town, got a new job, work a night job too, teach the kids of America, and even began a relationship.

I also got cut from my job and my future is now 100% unknown. Where am I to go and what am I to do? There are more education cuts in Florida than one cares to think about. It’s about 78% probable that I will not be able to get another teaching job for next year. That puts a damper on me starting Graduate School this summer, like I intended. I have to put that on hold because now that I have no job, I can’t very well spend money on schooling now can I. That impacts my future even more.

I think back to that time when I was shooting through the uterus; my life was very much ahead of me. There was no defeat yet, or complications, or even struggle. The other brothers and sisters trying to make it to the egg gave me no such struggle. I know this because I don’t like competition or doing things that are hard. So the other millions of children swimming down the pike must have been completely retarded. Or maybe they let me win?

“You have to go now…” (4/2009)

You know you want to make that the background of your desktop. Go on, I’ll wait. Click on the picture. Now right click. Pick the correct option. There, now, doesn’t your monitor look so pretty now? Tell me that isn’t the best looking sperm you’ve ever seen.

Anywho, that’s it I guess. Today is my birthday. There are midnight screenings of Fast and Furious all about this evening. What better birthday present can one have than the face of Paul Walker and his masterful thespian skills matched with what is sure to be a brilliant screenplay tackling themes as deep as vengeance and as whole as love?

Sarcasm means nothing to me.

April Fool’s Day Part II

Last year, I recalled a rather touching conversation I had with an ex-girlfriend about the amazing power of the Day of Fools. This year, I decided to keep that up. The following phone conversation took place.

Ring. Ring.

Sally: Hello?
Mike: Hey Sally. It’s Mike.
Sally: Mike who?
Mike: Come on, you really have to ask that?
Sally: Good Christ, what the fuck do you want?
Mike: I was just calling to check on you; see how you were doing. How goes it? How has life been treating you since we last spoke?
Sally: Are you fucking kidding me? I haven’t heard from you in 5 years. You just disappeared. Where did you go?
Mike: My wife found out about our relationship and she threatened to walk out on me unless I ended it. So I ended it.
Sally:… (I could hear her thinking)
Mike: Are you there?
Sally: …You were married?
Mike: Yeah. Funny, huh?
Sally: We went out for over a year, and you never told me? You told me you loved me.
Mike: I know, hilarious, right?
Sally: What the fuck are you telling me this for?
Mike: It’s part of the 12-step program… you know, calling people, and apologizing for shit.
Sally: You’re an alcoholic too?
Mike: Oh yeah, that’s why we got a divorce. I can’t see my kids without supervision. I was an angry drunk.
Sally: You have fucking kids too? Jesus fuck, what the hell else do you want from me?
Mike: I was just calling to ask for your forgiveness. To let you know I am sorry.
Sally: I wondered what happened to you for 5 years, and this is what I learn? I hope you drop fucking dead asshole…
Mike: Okay, wait… calm down, I have something else to say!”
Sally: No, no, no… you’re going to listen to me asshole. If I ever see you again, I will fucking kill you, you got that?
Mike: But wait, don’t you know what today is?
Sally: No, and I don’t care. This conversation is over. I will fucking skin you alive if I see you again, you got that? Don’t ever call me ever a-fucking-gain.
Mike: But wait… April Fo….

Ghost of Fool’s Past (3/2009)

And before I could finish, she hung up. I guess she never got the joke.

The Day That Fish Died…

My friend had a fish in her office once. As I visited her, I took notice of it. “Fish looks miserable,” I commented. “Yeah,” she said, “he certainly does.” I stared at it for a moment. “How about I take it home with me?” So I took it home and placed him near a window, where he would see outside for the first time in his life, as his old home was one which contained no windows.

He was a good fish. Never did come up with a name for him though. I called him “That Fish” to my friends. He seemed pretty happy for the next few months.

Recently, however, he went back to being a depressed looking fish. He looked exactly the way he did in that windowless office. One day, last week sometime, I brought his bowl over to the sink so I could clean it out and give him some fresh water.

I never really understood people’s fascination with keeping a bird or a fish as a pet. Birds can fly wherever the fuck they want to anywhere, yet, some silly white bastard has to cage them and stare at them 10 minutes a day while speaking gibberish towards it. I bet if these birds had fingers, they’d have killed themselves long ago.

Same goes for fishes.

As I started to drain his little bowl of the foul water, he didn’t appear to try and swim away from the draining water as he usually does. Instead, he headed straight for it and, before I could even blink, he fell into the sink. Luckily, I was able to grab him right quick and put him into the new bowl. I continued cleaning it while thinking, “That was a close one.”

Now he was in a different bowl with the same dirty water from the previous bowl. I had to drain this dirty water in order to put him back into the new bowl. I started dumping the water out while using a net against it in case he tried to make a break for it again. Unluckily, he succeeded in making another break for the sink. Unluckily, I wasn’t able to save him this time. He fell on to the metal part of the drain and just as I was about to snatch him, he slid right down the drain and journeyed down into a world of shit, piss, and used condoms.

I felt awful.

This Empty Bowl (3/2009)

He’s never tried to do that at all, but on this simple day, he tries it twice? How can that be? Regardless, his mission towards suicide was a success. But I felt real bad about draining the hot water from my spaghetti that night down the same drain. It was like I was pouring one on my homie instead of for him.

The Injury Chronicles: Thumb of Flames

I moved to Florida in 1991. Being from Jersey, I didn’t know too much about trailer homes and what not. So when the school year started and a kid invited me over to his house for the weekend, I was terrified when his bus drove into the woods and dropped us off at his trailer home. We were so far from civilization. My brief culture shock was erased when we headed to the movie theater to see a double feature – Child’s Play 3 and Pure Luck, the latter being so fucking awful it still gives me nightmares.

We planned this weekend for weeks. We were the only 2 kids in our class who wanted to see Chucky fuck some shit up again. So I ended up not caring about where he lived – I just wanted to see this movie. It was to be a weekend to remember.

Saturday morning, I was introduced to something I had no idea existed… in this kid’s backyard, was a big pit of garbage. It was kind of gross. He woke me up and said, “Come on man, I have to go handle the garbage.” Idiotic me said, “Doesn’t the garbage man pick it up?”

Not even close. This kid had to wake up every Saturday and burn his garbage in a giant pit in his backyard. Hilarious? Pretty much.

This kid and his brother were out there piling shit up as I sat back and watched with utter amazement. After a while, they poured a little gas on it to get the fire blazing, then sat there for a few minutes and tried to light it with a regular lighter (which I am sure is the safest way). They couldn’t get it going.

It was then that I thought I would step in. I was only 10 years-old and still labeled the “new kid from Jersey,” so I had to show these kids up. I grabbed the lighter and flicked it once; walked over to the pit and slowly lowered it down. This is the point of the story that involves stupidity to the utmost degree.

I guess there was some invisible gas on this milk carton near this paper I was lighting because the flame went straight for it, and fire just shot out of the opening of the jug right at my thumb. “Fuck!” I said with the vigor of childhood cursing abilities, “I burned my thumb.” My thumb was on fire for an inch of a second before I started shaking it around wildly.

Your Thumb is on Fire (3/2009)

It didn’t hurt at first, like most burns, but it hurt like fuck within an hour. I wanted to cry but couldn’t, me being the new kid and all, so I just held it in. The kid said, “Dude, I think you’re supposed to put butter on your burns.” Who was I to argue? Last I knew, people came to collect your trash. This was a new universe to me. Logic was a thing of the past.

Butter does not fucking feel good on a burn dude. It was on my thumb for a few minutes before it melted, turning my burned thumb into something much greasier. A day or two later, I was in the shower, cleaning up. I tried hard not to get the thumb wet or soapy, but I slipped. The thumb hit the water and an entire layer of skin came right off. Fuck did that hurt. It makes my cornhole pucker up just thinking about the pain.

Some weeks later I asked my mom if I could go rock this kid’s house again for a night. She said, “Well, okay, just stay away from the trash, Garbage Man.”

Parents Is Dumber – How American Parenting is Destroying Society

This piece was originally written by me a few months ago in an attempt to get published in some educational journal or literary magazine or something. As it progressed, I realized that sometimes my dreams are just too big. So I’ll post it here for you guys. And soon I will tell you where I’ve been for the past 2 weeks…

I used to think my childhood was rough. During my younger years, I used to think my mother was as evil as they came – even my friends never wanted to come to the house. She was so vocal about everything and her voice was strong enough to pierce through a mountain made of solid diamond. I hated living in her house when I was a kid. But now that I am older, wiser, and a touch on the bald side, I can honestly say that I am now a bit thankful for those rough years. Because of her strict regiment of shouting and debasing me at every available turn, I think it’s safe to say that I turned out to be a pretty decent human being because of it.

It was only about a year or two ago that I thought about becoming a teacher – a shaper of young minds if you will – and this is something I never quite thought I would actually do. Today, I am currently a 9th grade English teacher at a public school in the glorious (and by “glorious” I mean “awful”) state of Florida.

The first day of school was nothing shy of brutal. I walked in with a million questions. What kind of kids would I have? Would they be troublemakers as I once was at their age? Would any of them actually want to learn a thing or two from the curriculum? Would they like me? Would they care about anything other than the cell phones in their pocket or who is saying what on their Myspace accounts? I left that day with all of those questions unanswered.

The first semester is about to end. I have had these students for 18 weeks and in that time, I’ve learned more than I ever cared to. For example, each and every one of them has a cell phone on their person at each and every minute of the day. My school has a strict “No Cell Phone” rule that is ignored by 102% of the student body. They’d rather text than listen to the importance and significance of literature, Frederick Douglas, Shakespeare, and capitalizing words at the beginning of each fucking sentence.

When I first started, I’d make my kids write something every day – a simple composition where they would have to use critical thinking skills in order to answer a question about something we’ve read. I can’t tell you how many 14-year-old American children use things like “LOL” in a paper they have to turn in for a grade. It’s quite scary. The following story is something I will quote from a student’s work but I will not use their name. This is actually something that was turned in to me and after getting to know this child more and more as the year progressed I realized that this was indeed their best attempt at writing. They simply knew nothing more.

We were reading a short story called “The Open Window” about a neurotic man who moved to a new town and decides to meet all of his neighbors. So he shows up at this one house where a little girl creates this fantastical story about ghosts and such. The man panics and leaves, confirming his state of social retardation for the rest of his days. I asked my students to create a fiction and answer the following question: Who do you think will walk through this door next and what will they want? It was something simple to keep them busy while I took attendance and such. This anonymous student provided the following snippet of Pulitzer Prize winning material, complete with how they think proper punctuation should look like.

Theys gonna be 5 top modls walkin threw that door. They gonna come right for me and all the ladies be hollerin. Then theyll take me out this class wit them cuz they need to go wit em someweres. My teacher will be like oh damn were he goin’? but he ain’t gonna be able to hold them back.

That’s the long short of it. I’ve saved that paper in my desk drawer as a reminder of our futures. Today’s kids aren’t like us at all, though it seems that every generation is afraid of their youth. Not as afraid of them as I am now. This is a generation of the selfish, the gross, and the inconsiderate. If it isn’t on their phone or Myspace page, they don’t care for it. They talk to their parents as if talking to a friend. I guess that’s the point after all. When did parenting stop and friendships begin?

I’ve made over 60 phone calls home to parents about children misbehaving or failing. I think only 4 of those calls made a difference. The others would come into class the next day and laugh at my efforts and implore me that their parents don’t care. At first I wouldn’t believe them – my administration told me to never take their word for something like that. Then I would see how they would continue to misbehave or fail or not pay attention to the lesson just to get another text in or two to their friends down the hall.

I take cell phones all the time in my class. That’s the school’s policy – if we see a phone, we take it and turn it in the office. A few months ago, I took this girl’s phone. She spent the rest of the period pleading with me – “please, my mom doesn’t get off work until the school closes” – and on and on. I then told her that I stay late a few nights a week so she can come to my classroom to collect it if she’d like. So the mother came in, all irritated looking, because she was upset that her kid was using the phone in class. The mom tells me, “You won’t have to worry about this again sir, I am terrible sorry. I am going to take her phone away for a week.” Her daughter was with her – the girl I took the phone from. As she walked towards my door to leave, she begged her mom not to take the phone away. What happened next? After 4 seconds of begging, her mother handed her phone back. Lesson fucking learned.

What do kids need cellphones this badly for anyway? It’s not like they are helping prevent rape or kidnapping – just read the fucking news. Back in our day, if your kid was talking to someone on the phone, you’d be able to keep track of it, via caller ID or straight-up stalking. If someone wanted to talk to us, they’d have to call our house. That way our parents would actually be familiar who we were talking to. There be a bit of control – or parenting – involved.

Cellphones make all of this impossible. Sure, you can read the incoming/outgoing numbers and times on the bill when it comes at the end of the month. But that’s often to late. Your daughter has moved on to blowing someone different in the bathroom at school by this time.

“Wait, what?”

Oh yeah, you’d be pretty shocked with how often blow-jobs happen in a school bathroom these days. Thanks to text messaging, this sort of thing can be planned in a matter of seconds. We’ve even bust kids having actual sex in the bathrooms – it’s that crazy. And we wonder why so many of our children are turning into Juno.

That is Probably Your Kid (3/2009)

I found out yesterday that I am not being re-hired at my school next year. I am not sure if it is because of my lack of experience, budget cuts, or if I genuinely suck as a teacher, but I can’t say I am all that sad about it. I’ve learned a lot this year, tons actually, that would make me a much better teacher next year. I just don’t know if I’ll be able to muster the strength to give it another shot, especially considering how parenting is ruining the classroom environment. What would be the point?

The Story of Cletis

So this is a tale, my good readers; one that will surely stretch the threads of your imagination. But you must realize it to be true. I would never steer you wrong, especially when you’ve been so kind to me throughout the months. No matter how strange this story seems, you have to understand that it really happened. I was there and I witnessed it in its entirety. I was at a gas station sometime last year. There was a line and I was in it, bored, looking around at things. There was a man behind me, probably aged 35. I couldn’t see his legs – they were invisible – so I could only deduce that he was wearing camouflage pants.

I happened to notice that right under the counter above was a display for gift cards. This gas station had gift cards for every store/restaurant ever – it was a amazing. They had them for Blockbuster, AMC Theaters, Regal Theaters, Home Depot, Chili’s, Applebees, Olive Garden, Wendy’s, iTunes, Rhapsody… this list goes on an on. They had an amazing selection of gift cards for being just a simple gas station. I thought people only went to gas stations to get gas, beer, smokes, and beef jerky. Learn something new every day.

There was also a gift card for Barnes and Noble. Without even thinking, I commented outloud, “Barnes and Noble gift cards? Who comes to a gas station to get a gift card to a book store?” That funny man I described earlier, who was standing behind me, started to laugh a bizarre, mentally challenged-sounding laugh. Some of the other patrons laughed to. Perhaps they were laughing at him? I don’t know. But it’s about this time when the unthinkable happened. Something that took me by surprise. I should have known then, however, that living in Florida brings out the oddest treats.

This guy – I call him Cletis every time I tell this story – then said, “Man, I ain’t ever read no book in my entire life.” He said that proudly, as if he was the smartest man in the universe and he got that title without ever having to read. But I didn’t believe him.

We Don’t Need Education Dollars (3/2009)

I quickly retorted with, “So you’ve never read Green Eggs and Ham or The Cat in the Hat?” I thought the suggestion of Dr. Seuss classics would jog his memory because who hasn’t read these? “No man,” Cletis said. I shot out some more simple childhood titles but he still denied me. “How did you get through elementary school without have to read anything?” I asked.

“I didn’t get too far in school.”

That was it. He was done laughing. All he wanted now was to purchase his Natural Light brew and go home to his trailer or whatever to party. Poor Cletis. Part of me wanted to teach him to read right there in the gas station, the other part of me wanted to destroy his existence.

I’ll never forget that story. Was he lying? I don’t know. He was pretty convincing. But why would he brag about something like that? Finding out a 30 year-old man, who is clearly allowed to have his driver’s license, can’t/won’t read. I guess being able to read stop signs should be enough for me. Clearly it’s enough for him.

And yet our government keeps taking away money from education. If these results are yielding such fine products as Cletis, what will happen to the rest of us in the future? It’s only going to get worse. Who gives a fuck if we have plenty of people to man fast-food jobs. Who is going to be able to handle anything else? That movie Idiocracy may have presented the closest thing to an actual future I can figure.

July 18th, 1995

Someone tried to mug me one time. It was in 1995 and I was 14 years-old. My friend Sweeney and I walked over to the new Target in our town. We picked up a Slayer CD, some fireworks on clearance, rented Evil Dead 2 from the Dollar Video next door, and then made the walk back.

On that journey back, we stopped at a gas station to pick up a drink. We were thirsty little kids in that hot Florida son. We then sat on the corner, enjoying our treats, when this crazy drunk asshole came up to us. It was about 2:12pm and this guy was wasted beyond belief. He comes up to us and says, “Hey, I see you got some fireworks. Why don’t you get in my car and come to this party with us.” I looked over his shoulder towards his jalopy – I believe it was an 80s Chevy Caprice with more rust than not. He indeed had some people with him.

Either this guy really wanted fireworks or he wanted to bang a couple of under-aged Slayer-listening fellows like ourselves. I didn’t think about the banging option until many years later. How ignorant was I at 14.

I said, “No dude, we’re cool.” He didn’t like that. So he grabbed my bag but I held onto it strong. Sweeney says, “What the fuck is your problem asshole?”

He didn’t like being called “asshole.”

“Give up your sky flowers!” (2/2009)

Nor did he expect my strength – I pulled the bag from his arms and he fell back a little. Then he yelled, “Give me back my bag you little prick!” loudly so those pumping their gas could here. Sweeney was like, “Yeah, okay fuckface.” Sweeney was so badass. He didn’t care about anything or anyone. He’d kick a baby and take its money without even thinking twice about it.

“Let’s go,” he said and then we turned and ran with fury. He knew we couldn’t take this drunk redneck or his army of friends. He quickly followed us, shouting this and that. We ran across a busy street and into a Rib joint of some kind. The waitress noticed our distress. “What’s wrong fellas?” she asked. I remember thinking that she shouldn’t be working at a place that serves all you can eat ribs.

“This asshole is trying to take our bag,” said Sweeney.

She looked at us for a minute, seeing if we were being truthful. “Okay boys, go to the back.” We sat at a back table for a few minutes and she disappeared back to the front. The redneck walked in and told her a couple of boys grabbed his bag and ran in here. She came over to us again and questioned what was in the bag — but told us not to look first. I told her the contents. She left again.

When she came back, she was smiling. She asked the redneck the same question and all he could answer was fireworks. But they weren’t in the actual bag… they were in a plastic bag separate from it. She let us out the back and I never saw the redneck asshole again.

It’s funny how scared you can be when shit like that happens as a kid. The last time I saw Sweeney, about 4 years ago, we talked about this moment. Sweeney said if that shit happened today, he’d have killed that poor sap. I believed him. He was truthful like that.

I just hope that poor sap killed himself long ago, by some terribly awful car accident to which he was the only victim.