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.