Wright Racism

So here's a little gem I dug up from nearly two years ago.  I wrote this article for my creative nonfiction class and presented it during a literature reading on campus.  Sure, it's a bit outdated at this point, but the overall message still sadly rings true throughout the states.  Enjoy.

Wright Racism

In the last few weeks, racial accusations surrounding Reverend Jeremiah Wright have been littered throughout the media.  In mid-March, I couldn’t walk past a television set without hearing clips of what the reverend has said in his sermons for the past ten years.  The most commonly heard quotes generally had to do with America and its shaky racial heritage.  Basically, Wright brought up the fact that the African American is still being oppressed today by white America, and that it’s time for a change.  Endless news coverage later, and it is apparent that White America is not ready for said change.

            What Wright said about the American government and its treatment of African Americans is nothing new to me.  Yes, the government has failed the African American in the last two-hundred years.  Sure, slavery was eventually abolished, but it took another, oh, seventy five years or so for African Americans to become humanized in American society.  I can only imagine the things said across the country during the push of the civil rights movement.  “First we lose our free labor, and now they want to be able to eat with us!?  I know I don’t want no blacks eating in the same diner as me and my dog.  Fuck that!”  Et cetera. 

I think the most humorous thing about the whole ordeal is the fact that whites have the nerve to call the reverend a racist.  Sure, what he said about America and its racial stance is not flattering.  Hell, it makes us (Caucasians) look like a bunch of hate mongering racists.  Yet for the most part, he’s right.  Growing up in poverty stricken rural towns all my life (minus a brief stint in Washington D.C. for my first three years on earth, which, sadly to say, I do not remember) has taught me that most people do not view all men as created equal.  Shit, you’re lucky to find someone out in the sticks that even views women as equal.  These areas are (for the most part) so backward that even Wal-Mart wouldn’t build within a twenty mile radius.  We had K-Mart.  Not even a Super K-Mart, just K-Mart.  Yes, it was that bad. 

I was driving to campus earlier this semester and saw a bumper sticker that represented the confederate flag.  After choking down the immediate gag-reflex I felt in my stomach and throat, I began to tailgate in order to see what the sticker said.  “IT’S NOT HATE, IT’S HISTORY,” was plastered over the flag of the confederacy.  If I’ve learned anything over the past 22 years, it’s that if you have to justify something, then it’s probably not right to begin with, and I immediately began thinking of bumper stickers I’d like to put over the confederate one.  “I’M NOT RACIST, I JUST HATE NIGGERS” immediately came to mind.  Same thing, different wording.  I followed the hate-truck nearly to school grounds, praying it would turn onto campus so I could wait gleefully till whoever was in it left, key the shit out of it, and move to a different parking lot.  Sadly, such dreams did not come true[1].

I still remember the first time I ever encountered racism face to face.  I was five, and had just started kindergarten at Washington Elementary in Apollo.  It was bathroom break time, conveniently placed between lunch and naptime so that there was less chance of someone pissing all over the cardboard thin foam that Mrs. Rometo idealistically referred to as sleeping mats.  I simply like to think of them now as something that uncomfortably separated child from dirty floor, but I guess the school really couldn’t be spending much money on something that would more than likely be peed on and thrown away every month.  It was either plushy mats and no juice boxes, or juice boxes and pizza boxes to sleep on.  I’d still take the juice boxes. 

During bathroom break that day, my five-year-old classmate Steve called the only black child in the entire kindergarten-through-six-grade-elementary-school a nigger.  Being that I was only in kindergarten at the time, I had no idea what the word meant, but soon realized it had no positive aspects when Jesse (the accused) punched Steve in the face.  Mrs. Rometo soon arrived, yelling at both boys for their behavior.  Steve was crying because his face was swollen, but I couldn’t figure out why Jesse was crying as well.  She asked for a recounting of the situation, and I, being a firsthand witness, was asked to confirm whether Jesse’s story was true.  I said “yes,” and repeated the word that Steve had called him.  Now that I think back on it, it was kind of fucked up for her to even ask me to repeat “nigger” and not simply take Jesse’s word for it.  Rural PA, ladies and gents.

I still had no idea what nigger meant, and Mrs. Rometo was in no hurry to explain its significance (or lack thereof).  I only knew it was a big deal from the fact that both Jesse and Steve’s parents showed up and a shouting argument could be heard in the hallway.  Also, I don’t believe Jesse ever stopped crying until he left.  I pondered what the word might mean all day, since the idea of Jesse being different never really occurred to me.  He was more than likely the first African American I had ever seen in my life (or at least that I can recall), and he seemed just like every other small child in the class.  I guess I have my mother to thank for that, since she apparently brought me up in a house vacant of racial hatred.  I wish I could say the same now, but I can only guess that being old, white, and Republican does something destructive to the mind.

            It wasn’t till I got home that day that I found out what nigger actually meant.  My mother told me it was something extremely cruel that should never be repeated.  EVER.  That was a good enough explanation for me, and I probably forgot about the word till I hit junior high.  While this may seem unbelievable to some, I’ve never had any racial attitudes at all in life, and was therefore somewhat protected from hatred till the big move from sixth to seventh grade.  Whoever came up with the idea of taking children who have been sheltered for seven years in elementary school and suddenly throwing them together with other 12-15 year olds from a 20-mile radius should be fired.  In other words, I learned what sex, drugs, and racism were in my first three days of seventh grade.

            While I could easily wrap my head around hand jobs and roaches, hatred for people with different skin colors or ethnicities still had trouble penetrating the soft tissue of my brain.  Why?  What was the point?  We’re all human, I found myself saying repeatedly.  But common sense and rational thinking have problems trying to work themselves into heavily influenced redneck minds.  The real problem isn’t the kids arguing that “daddy says niggas are nothing but trouble,” it’s daddy himself that’s the problem.  Racism, as far as I know, is not something you’re born with.  If it is, it must be a social/economic disease that only affects the uneducated and poor (I’m only one of those so I apparently escaped).  Jr. didn’t pop out of the womb dripping placenta and words that would make the KKK proud.

            As firm as my stance against racism is, however, I can’t honestly say I’ve taken fool-proof steps to avoid it.  Living in these areas over the years has forced me to begrudgingly accept friendships with those less “open-minded” than myself.  To be quite (and unfortunately) honest, I have several friends who would probably join the KKK if they were bored and had nothing better to do.  Scratch that, I consider the really racist ones “acquaintances,” not friends…it makes me feel a little better about myself when I think of them in that way, at least.

            In fact, a really good, good friend of mine (second best friend, maybe?) was extremely racist until he came to UPG last semester and started spending less time with the rednecks at home and more time with the left-wingers here on campus.  By mid-March, he was considering voting for Obama, even[2].  Yet when word got out about his new mindset at a party in Vandergrift a short time later, said friend was instantly ridiculed.

            At this point in the paper, it’d probably be appropriate to state a few of the things said to my friend in response to his new voting choice, mainly to help provide examples of just how racist some of these people can be.  However, most of the things uttered that night I’ve managed to block out of my memory over the past three weeks, and I honestly don’t want to have to bring them back out again…especially considering these words were coming out of the ignorant minds of my friends, err, “acquaintances.” 

Maybe I’m a bit hypocritical. 

I do catch myself locking the doors to the car when driving through Wilkinsburg.  If I see a large group of black men standing on a street corner, I automatically reach for the button, clicking it two or three times to make sure it’s locked.  Is that racist or just being safe?  Well, I don’t do it when there’s a large group of white people on the corner, so there’s your answer.

I thank the media for this response, mainly because it’s a proven fact that they report more minority crime on the news in spite of the fact that there’s an almost equal mix of white and black crime every day.  Yet even though I know this little piece of information, I still find myself reaching for the button at times.  And when I do, I feel like such a dirty bastard because of it.  It’s like I’m not even thinking when I do it; it’s always after the fact that I realize just how nonsensical I’m being.

            Even my best friend who goes to Slippery Rock University manages to spit out a few stereotypical phrases about African Americans every once in awhile.  This comes as somewhat of a shock to me considering I’ve known the kid for over ten years now and never knew him to be racist.  When I occasionally travel up north to visit him, he always seems to end up saying something negative about the black community in front of his roommates.  I mean, he owns the first season of “The Boondocks” on DVD (so do I, Aaron McGruder = genius) so I always question him about why he says some of the things he does.  His response, un-shockingly, went something like this: “All my roommates hate niggers, so I have to say something every once in awhile to make them think I do too.”

            This shouldn’t have surprised me, and it didn’t.  Group mentality has always been a bitch of a monster, and I lay most of the blame on this cluster-fuck of a human response mechanism for racism in the first place.  If someone hadn’t come up with the idea of hating others because of their skin color in the first place, no one would have ever followed.

            I almost hate myself for saying that racism is nothing more than group mentality at the lowest level, but I truly think it is.  Sure, I’m metaphorically comparing hate speech to fashion trends but how else can you explain racism?  As I stated before, some ignorant fuck probably thought “hey, why should I like a human being with darker skin than my own?” and then spread the word.  Unbelievable when you think about it.  I almost feel dumber just typing that sentence out.  I mean, really, has there been a less sensible reason for hating someone other than skin color?  I doubt it, but religion would come in at a close second.

            Yet this is America.  Land of the free…and obviously the easily gullible.  Or at the very least, naïve.  Perhaps growing up in rural areas has helped me see the hatred that’s out there and that’s much more prevalent than most people would like to believe.  For all the Americans in denial, I think Reverend Wright shattered their perfect little world of racial segregation that still exists, and that’s why there’s such uproar.  Could he have talked about these topics in a more subtle or subdued way?  Absolutely.  Would it have been as effective?  Absolutely not.  This is the twenty-first century, almost a hundred and fifty years have passed since the emancipation of slaves in America, and yet there is still hatred in this country.  At this point, it’s going to take someone with enough balls to stand up and start saying things that the majority of Americans don’t want to hear or face in order to affect some sort of change.  It’s just absolutely mind-blowing that Wright has been ostracized and pinned as some sort of white-hating racist.  Does anyone remember Senator Trent Lott?  The man who continually voted against upholding the Civil Rights Act, the Voting Rights Act, and opposed Martin Luther King Day?  Probably not.  A story that should have been huge was continually hidden on page 12 of the local newspapers until Lott quietly resigned his post as Senate Republican Leader.  He still served as Senator, however, until 2007.  While some might defend Lott stating that his views simply come from his Republican and Mississippi background, I find it hard to believe that a man who is openly racist can keep his job as senator, while a man with a simple message of truth is continually ostracized.

            If anything, the sermons of Reverend Jeremiah Wright have opened the eyes of at least a few people in America.  While it is apparently okay to put down African Americans and other minorities, attacking Caucasians (the group that, might I add, has run this country since the day it was formed and is also the most economically sound and educated) is another story.  I can only hope that this “reverse racism” proves that there is still a deep and long running hatred between the races, one that has been buried over the years and needs to be dug up and addressed before even it is lost to the back pages of the Post Gazette or Tribune Review, behind the breaking news that Britney’s back in rehab or that Paris has a new sex tape; forgotten, and once more leaving the African American community in continual inequitable limbo.

---

[1] If anyone owns or knows someone who owns a hate-truck that has been recently keyed, I am legally obligated to state that I did not vandalize any vehicles on the Greensburg campus.  Yet.

[2] I’d like to point out that I don’t support the idea that white people are only voting for Obama to prove that they’re not racist.  I was just trying to infer that for my friend to even consider voting for a black man for President was a huge step in a non-racist direction.  Said friend agrees with many of Obama’s promised policies for change in America, and is not considering his vote to simply be an “I love black people” statement.

The Smoking Diaries: DAY 40 - COMING TO TERMS WITH LOSING YOUR FAVORITE MENTHOL FLAVORED FRIEND

 Over Christmas break I found myself back at home with my parents for a week.  In other words, I had to go without smoking cigarettes for SEVEN WHOLE DAYS.  Seven.   A literal shit-ton.  Technically, I could have excused myself at any time during those seven days to go outside and have a smoke, but I knew how my parents felt about it and I myself would have felt like too much of an asshole to even try it.

I smoked for eight years, starting when I was just 16.  How much I smoked or how many cigarettes I went through always seemed to be changing from year to year.  When I started smoking, I went through one pack a week.  Then it was two or three.  Then I started making my own cigarettes because it was just too damn expensive paying $15 a week.

The “making my own cigarettes trend” lasted about a year since I only rolled them because I had the time to roll them.  I was a senior in college and not working.  This was due to the fact that I worked my ass off all summer on a sausage production line - ten to twelve hour days were a norm.  So, I would spend an hour at night or even in my car between classes rolling my own cigarettes. 

If you haven’t ever rolled your own cigarettes then you have no possible clue how much time and patience it can take to accomplish such a small ordeal.  Sure, after a month or two I was rolling one cig per minute, but it’s still a complicated and meticulous pain in the ass.  Also, when you first start rolling, it literally seems like an eternity to just roll ten or twenty cigs.  An eternity.  I cannot express that sentiment enough.  Rolling your first twenty cigs is the equivalent of watching Rush Limbaugh run a marathon:  after appearing to only move a few feet towards your goal in the first ten minutes or so, your determination begins to be overwhelmed by a hopeless sense of failure.  I mean, shit, why should you spend all this time and effort running when you could just get in your $450,725 car and drive to the destination?

Yet I had the time and figured I might as well save the money.  Unfortunately, I was saving so much money that I was able to smoke almost triple what I normally consumed on any given day.  I would find myself rolling 30-40 cigs per day and sometimes needing to roll even more.  Yes, I was saving money but also smoking excessively at the same time.  Whenever everyone I knew was complaining about how badly I smelled (except for my best friend who was also rolling his own), I began to consider a change of pace.

I stopped rolling my own and kept myself to a pack - to a pack and a half - a week.  I was able to keep at this steady ratio for nearly two years.  Also during those two years, I had to deal with my girlfriend on my ass every single time I lit up.  It sucked.  I’d always have to go behind her back (feeling like an asshole the entire time) or just deal with disappointing her over and over again.

My habit had now been turned into an epic conundrum not seen since the “Is Jesus Really Our Savior?” debacle of the early 0’s.  Unlike Jesus, however, I was getting off that cross.  Hard.

…and I’m going to cut it short here.  I’ve run out of time – unfortunately - but I can say it’s been 40 days since a purchase of cigs (as I revealed in a previous blog, I did drunkenly smoke one this weekend) but I’ll be damned if the cravings aren’t still there, uh, obviously.  Sucks.

From the Archives of the Shore

So here's a bit I wrote about a month and a half ago.  I was actually sitting in the library in between finals and had nothing else to do with my time.  Really, what was I supposed to do, study?  Anyways, it's all kind of pointless now since the topic was all about that flavor-of-week-bullshit Jersey Shore...which I dearly, dearly miss.

Enjoy.

So.  I have a headache.  A massive, Steve Urkel-esque tumor of a headache that repeatedly screams “did I do that?” right after my frontal lobe explodes.

I know, it’s been awhile.  Shit’s been busy, not much else to say. 

I really really really want to finish my weed-inspired tale of virgins and Easter grass, but it looks like that won’t happen for at least another week if not longer (Christmas break starts this Thursday night at 9pm and I doubt I’ll be sober until sometime on the morning of the 25^th).

So, this headache thing.  I’m coming back to it because it keeps coming back to me.  Honestly, the stress of the last two weeks of every semester is enough to turn people crazy...crazy enough to watch Jersey Shore, even.  Okay, okay.  Everyone is talking and writing and masturbating to this show already and I promise I’ll keep this short.  Honestly, though, what attracts even normal, level-headed people (like myself) to this show?  I don’t even watch television that often but I’ll be damned if Jersey Shore isn’t scheduled on the dvr right now.  And, after initially hearing about this new form of “entertainment” from multiple sources this weekend, I had a morbid curiosity to see it for myself.

Then, I watched it.

Enjoyed it, even. 

Was completely ready to name it a guilty pleasure of mine and never speak of it to the real world outside of this computer screen. 

Then, the unthinkable happened.  I read an article on Cracked.com by a writer that I very much respect (as much as you can when considering it’s Cracked) explaining that he too enjoyed the show with little to no knowledge of as to why.

I have no explanation to provide, either.

Though I do believe that Jersey Shore should be used to educate all the creationists in the world that evolution does indeed exist.  Confused?  Well, you can’t have evolution without de-evolution, which is proven to humanity through the eight “people” that star in this literal fuckfest of a television show.  No disrespect to Italians, I realize that these “people” have chosen to be the way they are perceived…but goddamn, really?  Guidos and Guidettes?  Are you really proud of who you are and what you do?  Seriously, these “people” spray tan themselves to a point where they can’t even be categorized into a color-based race system anymore.  Shit, I’ve seen Africans with lighter skin then these folks.  Basically, they’ve hit a point where someone out there is going to have to create a new term for these dipshits.  “Spray-tan Americans” or “Fucking Pieces of Shit Who Overcompensate by Painting Themselves to the Point Where They Can No Longer Be Seen Without the Assistance of Nightvision,” or even “Disillusioned Motherfuckers that Need Our Help Through Laughter and Ridicule….” 

Okay, maybe I do have an explanation for my love of the Shore.  It’s not politically correct nor is it morally okay to laugh at retarded people or those with mental health issues.  Honestly, I’d feel like a pretty horrible prick if I laughed at those less fortunate in the world. 

If you laughed at Chase No Face, well, fuck you. 

And really, I wouldn’t poke fun to begin with because, hell, that’s just not me.  Yet thanks to the douches and douchettes on this show, I finally have a group of people that I can feel good about making fun of because they’ve chosen to be literal retards.  It’s kind of like that episode of South Park in which the boys had the definition of “faggot” changed to represent those individuals that ride Harley Davidson Motorcycles.  I, for one, am all for changing the definition of “retardation” to represent Guidos and Guiddettes.

Seriously, these “people” are Italian-Americans.  Be proud of who you are!  It’s been a shit-ton of a long time since Italians were discriminated against in America, so I don’t see why you’re trying so hard not to be Italian.  Don’t give me that bullshit about how being a Guido is so Italian.  You can wave your little Italian flags and use all your Italian slang, but I bet if I go to Italy I won’t  see a million spray-tanned black guys on steroids running around fucking anything with a hole and a pulse.  I’d wager money on that, even. 

Still, I’d almost call it a privilege to watch Jersey Shore.

For those of you who don’t “get” the Shore and think it’s just dumb television (which, I guess, I can’t really argue against when it comes to the “stupid” part), I almost feel as if you think this way because you may see just a little bit of yourself in some of those Guidos and Guidettes.  Maybe you do frequent clubs and fuck multiple individuals on such a consistent basis that you could literally repopulate the world if nuclear holocaust occurred tomorrow morning.  Perhaps you just enjoy spray tanning, hair gel, and Axe body spray to the point where you are no longer genetically considered a human being.  Or maybe you just think you’re above it all (which, I hate to break it to you, you’re not, Mikey).

Watching the Shore is like looking into America’s deepest, darkest regions of consumerist hell.  Only in America can you be someone you’re not through the use of beauty products.  Although honestly, I’m really not sure what these people are trying to become with all the spray tanning and hair gel and alcohol.  A new race?  I guess we already discussed that one but still, I’m baffled.  Maybe  the guys watched too much Dragon Ball Z as kids and maybe the women watched too much…fuck if I know.  God, that one chick looks like a chubby Smurf whose been marinated in liquid shit for ten years of her life.

"The Situation" ...minus the book...though not completely ruling out the whole tail thing.

Gross. 

Review: Motion City Soundtrack - My Dinosaur Life

Let me be honest here:  I struggled writing this review from the very moment I turned on itunes and let “My Dinosaur Life” come to life through my computer speakers.  It’s not because this particular album is terrible or in any way unlistenable.  In fact, the newest effort from Motion City Soundtrack managed to surprise me in almost every way.  Yet for some reason or another, I can’t quite shake the feeling that the band I once knew so well is now no more.

Well, let’s hold up for a second and backtrack eight or so years to the early 2000’s.  If you’re like me, you fell in love with MCS when you first heard the album, “I Am the Movie.”  Brutally honest lyrics paired with music tuned to a blistering pace managed to keep MCS’ first effort in my own personal rotation for the past seven years.  Their follow-up album, “Commit This to Memory,” was nearly able to match their initial pop-punk endeavor in terms of quality lyrics and quick tempo and is again something I find myself listening to from time to time.  However, 2007’s “Even If It Kills Me,” made me forget about MCS until now.  An album with nearly no redeeming qualities, “Even If It Kills Me” seemed to be a crossroads of sorts for the band; almost every song was a mass of confusion, consistently feeling like an unpolished pop record with a thin coating of punk aesthetic laminated overtop.  The band’s identity was inarguably gone, and “Even If It Kills Me” was MCS’ failed attempt to recover it.

When listening to “My Dinosaur Life,” it is easy to assume that MCS never did find that identity lost from their first two albums.  Unquestionably, “My Dinosaur Life” proves that MCS is not the same band you adored when “The Future Freaks Me Out” first made sweet, sweet love to your ears.  Instead, the identity that MCS appears to have now claimed can more or less be considered all pop, minus the punk.  Imagine if you can, if “From Under the Cork Tree” mated with “Stop.”  Essentially, this album has some great, sugarcoated pop hooks that never really manage to break from a mid-tempo pace (in fact, my biggest complaint is how restrained lead singer Justin Pierre feels; his voice never hits the extreme ranges that are found on earlier albums).  Is this a bad thing?  That’s where I find myself struggling.  Sure, I would have much preferred another “I Am the Movie,” but I never expected such considering “My Dinosaur Life” is a major label debut.  In fact, this album is a pretty solid pop record all around.  Sure, a few tracks manage to elicit memories of previous efforts; Disappear could be a b-side from “I Am the Movie” while Delirium could have been ripped straight from “Commit this to Memory.”  Overall, however, this is where most - if not all - similarities end.

So here I am again, struggling with my general feelings about “My Dinosaur Life” and how to properly score it.  Yes, Motion City Soundtrack has created a solid pop record that has managed to keep my undivided attention for the past week.  However, I have to ask myself whether or not I see this release passing the test of time as the previous two albums have, or whether “My Dinosaur Life” will find itself collecting dust with other flavor-of-the-year pop records.

 My prediction right now?  Probably the shelf.

3.5/5

Pointless Update: Entry 101189

I haven't been writing as much, I know.  Don't ask why.  I wouldn't blame it on a lack of time or subjects; in fact, I've actually been participating in a lot of cool stuff lately.  I went to a party at Penn State this past weekend, for instance.  I even managed to only drunkenly smoke one cigarette, which, by the way, was not as good as  I remember it.  The unfortunate aspect is that I know I would still start smoking again if I bought a pack randomly someday.  It's truly a weird situation knowing that smoking really isn't all that great nor is it what I remember (taste/smell wise) but that I'd still pick it right back up if I really wanted.  I guess that's a weakness of sorts.  I highly doubt I'd ever start smoking again while in a relationship with my girlfriend, but should things ever go south and that would end, I can 100% guarantee that I would begin smoking again.  Shit, that almost rhymes.  Onward and upwards, I guess.
I'm starting to think I might just have writer's block...but a really weird form of it.  I mean, I have tons of ideas and stories literally floating around in my head at this very moment.  Unfortunately, I don't really feel like writing about any of them.  It almost feels as if I'm waiting for something, though I really have no idea what.  Well, I take that back.  I know I'm waiting for that one great idea that will eventually culminate into a story that I feel could be the one that gets me out in the public eye.  I know that is coming.  What it is or what it involves, however, is still pretty vague.
I did write a review for punknews.org today, though.  I'll see if it gets posted this week at all and add the link to this page.  If it doesn't, I'll just post the entire review for anyone interested.

Goodbye, December

When you're still in the never-ending swing of continuing education, December is by far the fastest month of they year.  Whether it's cramming for finals or finishing the six, 15+ page papers you put off till the last minute, the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas blows over quicker than Paris Hilton's acting career.
To be honest, I had absolutely no time to update this thing for the three people in the world that actually read it.  I apologize.  For the first two weeks of December, it was finals time for me, and then I spent a week back home with the parents, enjoying the holiday season and separating myself from technology as much as possible.  I then spent New Year's here, at the apartment, with my beautiful girlfriend.  We got shitfaced and watched Jennifer's Body.  Happy New Year indeed.
I've also been coping with quitting smoking.  In fact, I've been smoke free for fifteen days now and holy fuck, does it suck.  I'd like to get into more detail about the situation, the side effects, the pain, and all the usual suffering, but my beautiful girlfriend who has also been pushing me to quit just walked in the door from work.
I'll have some free time tomorrow morning, perhaps.
Talk to you later, kiddos.

Attack of the Easter Grass, Part Deuce

DISCLAIMER:  This is Part 2 of a multi-part story.  Part 1 is directly below this blog.  Please read it first.


***

“Why, I dare ask, did you put Easter grass in the water bong bowl?” At this point, I could somewhat speak in a normal tone, as most of the poisonous gases had apparently left my lungs.


Sammy sat forward on the couch, a sly smile creeping up on his face. “Okay, okay,” he said, trying to suppress a laugh. “You’re gonna love this.”

I love the fact that you can actually coherently speak at this moment, that’s for goddamn sure.

“Keep going,” I snapped. I was still irritated that it had taken this long to get an explanation, and even more pissed that the water bong in my hand contained no actual marijuana.

“Well, you know how me and Africa and Abe Lincoln Emo Fuck always complain about Douchenozzle just coming over and smoking all our weed, right?”

I was indeed familiar with this situation. Apparently, Douchenozzle had come to the conclusion that he no longer wanted to pay for his marijuana, and would instead simply stop by and let Sammy and the gang smoke him up. Since the gang was much too nice to say anything about it to his face, they instead would complain behind his back at all times. I could only guess at this moment that the gang decided to seek revenge by placing Easter grass in the water bong.

“Let me guess: you guys put Easter grass in the water bong as some sort of ill-conceived revenge plot?” I don’t know why I asked; truth be told this was the only rational explanation to the scene I was now witnessing.

Sammy looked to be in a state of shock. “Dude! How did you know?”

I shook my head. “Just a good guess, I, uh, guess. Regardless, did you guys smoke the Easter grass too?”

“Yeah man, shit gets you high as fuck! Who knew, right?”

“How the hell are you all not dead right now?”

“Well,” Sammy paused, eyeing-up the water bong in my hands, “we kept passing it back to Douchenozzle every chance we got, so he probably smoked way more than me, Africa, or Alf” (Abe Lincoln Emo Fuck…the “e” is silent, don’t ask). “Then he sort of just passed out on the floor. About two hours after that we realized he might be dead. That’s when Africa and Alf took off and I called you.”

This was quickly becoming more than I could actually handle.

“Hey,” I asked, “you have any actual weed for me to smoke?” I figured that since the gang more than likely came up with their Easter grass fuck-up while smoking that the only way a solution could be properly invented would be with my mind under the influence as well.

“Um…no. But seriously dude, just take a few hits of that grass, it’ll fuck you up.”

For a split second I actually considered taking another hit from the murderous holiday decoration bong, but before I could come to a decision, Abe Lincoln Emo Fuck crashed through the back door.

“Holy fuck!” Alf screamed upon seeing Douchenozzle and Mr. Coppertone dead on the floor. “There’s a fucking corpse in here!”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I replied looking towards Sammy. “Didn’t you say he was here with you when this all happened?”

“Yeah,” Sammy said, “but he was high off the grass and drinking Vlad so he might be more fucked than Douchenozzle.”

I had to agree; Alf had a tendency of drinking and smoking to excessive amounts and not remembering entire days at a time. In other words, he was about as useless to me right now as a vagina in a gay bar.

“Eww, it’s still warm.” Alf was currently using his right hand to repeatedly poke at the back of Douchenozzle’s arm. “So, uh, guys,” he muttered, still poking, “do you think if I fucked this thing that it would make me, uh, well, you know?”

“What?” I asked. Leave it to Alf to make the situation even more fucked up. Exactly what I didn’t need right now.

“I’m not following you,” Sammy replied.

“Come on guys,” Alf whined, “ you know what I mean.”

“No, I’m pretty goddamn sure we don’t,” I said. I honestly had no idea where he was going with this, even though I probably should have.

Alf sighed for at least a good twenty seconds, then (finally) stated, “Okay, so if I fuck this body here, it would make me an un-virgin, right? It’s gotta count for something.”

Alf looked at us both with a smile that I can only describe as shit-fucking-creepy. In fact, that smile coupled with the idea of him fucking a dead man’s corpse would be enough to haunt my nightmares for the next ten years. Therapy included.

Silence took us all over for what felt like a millennia. Alf continued to stand there, his shit-fucking-creepy smile plastered all over his shit-fucking-creepy face.

“No,” Sammy exclaimed, finally breaking the silence. “I’m pretty sure it would just make you gay.”

“That so deserves a high-five, dude,” I said, putting my hand up in recognition.

Sammy returned the motion, the slap echoing off of Alf’s ears like a gunshot. While Sammy’s last comment was indeed funny enough for a high-five celebration, I was more excited by the fact that such a well thought-out and humorous effort from him meant that he might finally be coming down from his Easter grass high. It also meant that I now had a capable sidekick, and our chances of getting away cleanly with this entire fiasco were suddenly much, much better.