“You know,” Sammy said, lifting our victim’s round, fluffy kitten high in the air, “I read that the best way to murder someone is by using their cat as a contraceptive.”
I shook my head, desperate to alleviate the image of my friend wearing nothing but a hissing feline wrapped around his genitals. It wasn’t the first time my imagination had conjured up something similar in the dark, hellish regions of my mind. I just prayed that it might be the last.
“Will you put Mr. Coppertone down and come help me with Douchenozzle?” Granted, ‘Douchenozzle” was not the Christian name of the dead body that now lay before us, but, due to a certain murder case still being open, I’m not too sure how much detail would be appropriate before Sammy and I would have a guaranteed date in the “Don’t Drop the Soap Olympics” (that means “prison,” for all you non-intellectual types). I do assure you, however, that Mr. Coppertone was the actual name of Mr. Coppertone.
“Tell me again - slowly this time - just what the hell happened here.” Although Sammy had explained the story to me at least five times, I was still having a hard time fully understanding his stoned speech. “And put the cat down, please,” I added.
With a defeated and somewhat sad-looking shrug, Sammy dropped Mr. Coppertone on the coffee table in front of him. With a loud crash, Mr. Coppertone fell through the glass top of the table and rolled to a bloody rest on the carpet, a large piece of glass protruding from his cute, kitten head.
“Good job, fucknuts, that’s two things you’ve managed to kill tonight.”
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Oh yes, I do assure you that Mr. Coppertone is full-blown dead.
Sammy opened his mouth to say something, but after thirty seconds of silence that I assumed to be his pot-addled mind trying to form words other than “dead” and “pussy,” I started to lose patience.
“Okay,” I started once again, trying desperately not to sound as pissed as I was at him, “explain again what happened. Without killing small, defenseless animals this time.”
Sammy, apparently broken from his weed-stupor, shouted “but you told me to put Mr. Coppertone down!”
“And I don’t really fucking care!” I screamed back. “How do you like them, apples?”
“Apples?” Sammy asked. “I’m hungry.”
I shook my head, desperate to leave the situation as quickly as I possibly could. I mean, shit, who wouldn’t?
When Sammy called me over to his house, I had no idea I’d be walking into a room with a dead body and eventually a dead Mr. Coppertone bleeding all over the tan carpet. Thanks to the misguided efforts of my stoned friend, I was now an accessory to murder unless I called the proper authorities. But where I come from, friends don’t let stoned friends get butt-pumped in prison. And Sammy was undoubtedly my friend.
And they're just the butt-fucking welcoming committee.
“Ok,” I said, kicking Douchenozzle’s head so that his face rolled around to where I could look him in his bloated eyes. “He’s blue. What’d you guys do, suffocate him to death?” I glanced over to Sammy, who gave me an “I don’t know” double shoulder shrug. He was also taking a hit from his beloved golden water bong.
“Give me that shit!” I yelled, grabbing the bong from his fingers. “This is what got you in trouble in the first place, stupid!”
With a dejected and saddened look on his face as if I had just murdered his brother, Sammy quietly whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I sighed. It was hard staying mad at the kid. Sammy was so high that me losing my temper with him would be the equivalent of yelling at mentally retarded children for not understanding physics. I would have to take this much, much slower.
“Sammy,” I enunciated slowly and carefully like one would to a stupid dog they’re trying to train, “please try to think about what happened to Douchenozzle.” This was it, the last time I was going to ask this question. If he didn’t answer it correctly, I would simply drive off and pray that he didn’t remember me being here in the first place.
Finally, with a look of extreme concentration or constipation, Sammy opened his mouth and responded.
“He smoked too much.”
I waited for more of an explanation. After ten seconds of silence, I decided to push the agenda.
“And?” I asked.
That look of constipation again on Sammy’s face. “No, that’s it. He just smoked too much.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.” I should have expected something like this. Leave it to these assholes to accomplish something that science had proven couldn’t be done.
“So you’re telling me, Sammy, that Douchenozzle somehow OD’d on marijuana?”
Sammy nodded his head excitedly. “Weird, huh?”
I found a recliner in the corner of the room and threw myself into it. I had the feeling that it was going to be a long night. Sammy, still high as fuck, laid himself down on a couch and began singing Tegan and Sara songs to no one in particular. This, I thought, was as good a time as any to have a smoke.
I took the golden water bong that I still held in my hand and put it to my mouth. Lighting it, I took a huge hit, hoping the weed would magically produce a solution to this horrible mess I now faced. Instead, I was greeted with the warm breath of death itself as it crawled down my throat and into my lungs.
Immediately jerking forward, I began to violently cough. It felt like my throat was a random German city that was being firebombed by the British Airforce.
“Holy,” cough, “fuck!” I managed to squeak across my vocal chords. “What,” cough, “in the fuck,” cough, “is this shit?” More coughing.
“Oh!” Sammy exclaimed, suddenly broken from his shitty karaoke act on the couch. “That’s Easter grass.”
“Easter grass?”
“Yeah, Easter grass.”
I somehow saw this coming. Don’t even ask me how, it’s just sort of a sixth sense I’ve gotten from hanging with Sammy for so long. Whether it was the time he broke his foot falling into a 2 inch ditch while drunk boxing at a party, or the infamous day he somehow managed to survive a full-blown 60mph ejaculation from the driver’s side window of his former Mercury Cougar, what should surprise me with Sammy just simply didn’t anymore. In fact, Easter grass in the water bong didn’t even rank a 3 on the “Weird-Shit-Sammy’s-Done-10-Point-Scale.” Still, I had to find out why there was Easter grass in the water bong if I were to even begin to hope to solve the problem of a dead Douchenozzle and save Sammy from a butt-fucking bonanza in prison.
But could I actually save him?
FIND OUT NEXT TIME I HAVE THE TIME TO FINISH THIS STUPID SHIT...IN OTHER WORDS, TO BE CONTINUED!
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