07/07/2005 - 8:22 p.m. | i drink from the bottle, weeping why

All right. I am going to sit here and I am going to listen to my Manitoba and I am going to try very hard to write a diary entry. It would seem I don't like being pinned down at all lately, which will no doubt make things very difficult for patrons of the Housing Authority, Abercrombie D&D guy, and the dude on myspace who wants to suck my dick for $50. Oh - did I neglect to tell you about that last one? Yeah, I got this message from some dude - "Ron" - entirely out of nowhere, and he offers me 50 bucks if he can go blow me. Uhhhh... Uhhhhhhh... Does this happen to anyone else? This is normal, right? He's probably early thirties, sort of musclely in his own right, and how the fuck did he find me? I suspect foul play, as I frequently joke with my friends that I would suck dick for $50, but still... I am tempted to write him back and go, "Uh, do I actually have to cum? 'cause, hell, man, I can't even do that with girls I am attracted to..."

Why is that, by the way? I think Missy is getting more and more depressed that she cannot please me or whatever... Honestly, though, guys - I can't even understand that whole stereotype about guys prematurely ejaculating... How do you manage? For me to have an orgasm is a massive effort of focus and concentration, thinking about the weirdest, most unexpected shit (e.g. Christina Aguilera in her chubby period?) just to throw my brain off guard enough to maybe kick things into gear. Then to try and do that when there is, you know, another person involved... Jesus. It's like trying to play Tetris in your head while playing the drums along to "Wipeout." Simple enough tasks individually, but something's gonna suffer if you try and do both at the same time.

I think it is importnt to note that this called "retarded ejaculation."

My sad life aside, it was actually a really good weekend. We'll skip the useless work parts and go straight to where things really got going. Kyle phoned from Indiana: "They have Dead Reckoning."

See, Ducky was flying into town for the weekend. And by "in town," I mean Indianapolis, so Kyle had to drive and get him. The timing was good, though, as it allowed Kyle to stop at one of those fireworks places along the way and get us some illegality. Before he left I made a specific list of things to look for (illustrated). Chief among my demands were for those shitty little cardboard vehicles that never roll - whose wheels usually fall off, in fact, and the whole vehicle ignites in place. And falls over. It is doubtful you have seen Land of the Dead, but a good portion of it revolves around this big stupid zombie-destroying tank called Dead Reckoning. So, when Kyle called and told me they had that shit (or close enough to it in his mind)... well, I wish you could have been there. You could have seen the meaning of the phrase, "His eyes lit up." It was actually a big stupid semi truck called "Spy Mobile" (which apparently also shat a little car out the back), but it was close enough for my purposes - those being, to attach a ridiculous amount of fireworks to said vehicle and pretty much douse the thing in flames. Good show.

Friday night we started lighting some primitve shit up when they got back, trying to get a good idea of what would work how on our respective creations (three Spy Mobiles were purchased, by the way... and about $150 of other God knows what ridiculous shit). The idea was theoretically to get drunk and go see Caleb Cole again, but I don't know if that ever got off the ground. Well, half of it did, I guess... I think we did walk there to the Embassy, but it was dead and we fled back to sit on the porch. Here's an interesting one: So we're on the porch, doing whatever, and this guy starts kind of hovering around our general area. He's got a blazer on, an upbuttoned plaid shirt, and no pants, only boxer briefs. He stumbles about in seemingly-random directions, snapping the whole damn time. Clearly, this is the man who will kill us. So we sort of glide inside and wait for him to go the fuck away, but Missy decides she needs a picture with him and runs to catch up with him (She has two beers in her, which is enough to make her almost wasted). He is crazily aloof, though, and won't acknowledge a thing she's yelling at him, still just changing direction and kind of prancing about and snapping, always snapping. I was very surprised to not wake up and find him standing over my bed at 4 in the morning, staring and snapping the whole time. "Oh, hello, Snapper. There is ice in the fridge."

I was awakened far too early the next day in my mind and was therefore grumpy for about the first hour of existence. Everyone was entirely too chipper for me to tolerate, especially Kyle, who was in one of sing everything all the time moods. Normally fun, but if I heard Garth Brooks once more, someone was gonna get kicked in the ribs. The plan was to go garage sailing (lol, get it?) with everybody, with a brief stop at cheese and olive place. I made Ducky grab three Icehouses for the road. They were gone almost too fast to be registered by the naked eye. They also bought some summer sausage - yike. The garage sales were pretty weak - mostly because everyone was too scared of poor people to stop anywhere really good. Honestly, who do you think is hosting these things to begin with? We all tried a Gazelle, though, and Kyle and I got some sweet pins ("I am a swimmer's grandma" / "I am a swimmer's grandpa" which we wore proudly as badges for the rest of the day), and Missy, with balls of steal, grabbed the GIT R DONE magnet off the van pretty much right of its owners. That's my girl!

She got carsick, though, so we came home to begin construction on pieces of explosive destruction. We began brainstorming objects we could use for extra fuse and how we could possibly connect them. This meant a trip to the areas of commerce, and Missy was not for that and started girl coding hardcore. I knew how I could win, but I've been trying to give her the benefit of the doubt lately and argue things logically. "Miss, you've been sleeping the whole time. You won't even know I'm gone." "I want you to stay with me." "But you won't even let me near you as you say you're too sick." "I want you to stay." "That doesn't make any sense, Miss. I'll be gone like half an hour." "No, don't go." Arg, fine. I'll play your game. He is deliberate in his words: "Okay, Missy. I'll stay." Reversal: "No, go to the store!" And the trick finish: "Okey! See you later!" I hate playing dirty, but that's how it must be sometimes.

We got some stuff and spent most of the day building shit. We eventually started taking the fuses out of bottle rockets (We had thousands, and we were still going to have thousands when we finished), and after trying all sorts of stuff, Kyle finally figured out the best way to wire fuses together to form complicated circuits for lighting multiple things at different times: Duct tape. Ah, you wonderful creation! When won't you be the best?! Other things we learned: 1) Tape the ends of the big bottle rockets when you attach them to something else, or else they were shoot out the ends and do nothing. 2) Blue smoke bombs dye everything blue forever. 3) If you combine about 40 M-95s into a tube and seal it up tight, it will not destroy anything (Couldn't even blow up a gallon of moldy Grape Drink - despite our best efforts), but it will be loud enough to create shockwaves. I was running away from the shit after I lit it, and I swear I was nearly forced down by the outward blast from my little creation.

We had some Mexican, and Ducky and Kyle split a pitcher of margaritas (Ducky had already had three beers and one or two very strong White Russians), so they were getting just a little bit tipsy for the evening. Ducky fell over the fence and wounded his shin pretty bad, but I think he wanted to seem manly, so all he did was pour vodka on it. Saturday was, of course, karaoke night, but I was reluctant to have Allison and Missy and myself in the same place altogether. Especially drunk Missy. As Shelly pointed out, I haven't actually done anything wrong, but my guilt sure as he implicates me. We got our game faces on - and our game shirts, while we're at it. See, at work the previous day, I'd out of nowhere received a package: 5 medium beige-denim workshirts, helpfully labeled, "United States Contracting, Inc." Yeah, like the fuck I was going to wear those. Anyway, we all put on one and started dancing around. Missy and I swam in ours, and Ducky looked like he was going to pop all his buttons any second. All of us wisely took them off before we left, though. All of us except Kyle.

As we walked on to Geo's and Missy whined more and more about Allison, I thought to myself, "O Lord, this is going to be a travesty." But hey! I didn't even have to ask Him this time - he just did me a huge solid and gave Allison the night off, leaving us with glasses waitress instead. There seems to be a bit of bad blood between them, though, as she said that Allison had quit when she had not at all. Well, good. I could relax and focus on singing and trying to keep Missy from being too publicly affectionate. I know, I'm such a bad boyfriend, but she was sort of tipsy, and she was so touchy-feely. I was rather uncomfortable.

Ducky decided to get both himself and Kyle real real hammered, and so he handed Geo's his credit card and started up a tab. Big mistake. $80 bar bill he found out two days later. God knows who else he bought drinks for, besides the countless shots of Yukon Jack he and Kyle shared. He admittedly said he would go hoggin' ("I can't tell which ones are borderline still cute anymore and which ones are just fat" "Good luck, man"), so I bet some of the tubby beasts got some drinks, and there was that weird frat guy he wouldn't stop talking to, but still. 80 dollars is a lot of booze.

The plan was to go early and get lots of songs in, but the bar was strangely busy, so Kyle and I only got two each. There was the usual Garth Brooks, of course, but then Kyle was so trashed by the time he got to "Criminal" that he completely trainwrecked that shit. He kept trying to clap above his head (and missing) and he definitely did some crotch thrusts and got down on his knees and moaned and made his drunken fart face pretty much the whole time. Good show, old bean. I stayed at least semi-coherent the whole time and picked out two real winners: Neil Diamond's "Cracklin' Rosie," which I don't think anyone know and Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al," which actually would have been pretty sweet were it a solo performance. Edmund showed up again with his posse, and though he is an absolutely horrific singer, I still let him up on stage with me a lot because I don't know how to say no. So he asks what I'm singing, and I tell him the song, and he asks if he can come up. As a safeguard, I try, "Well, do you know the words, man?" He says he does. This is clearly a lie, and it is the same old drunken Edmund yelling the words in the background, occasionally trying a note, and by that a mean a feral moan like a bear being gutted. That's bad enough, but suddenly Ducky decides he needs to storm the stage and comes up all big and happy and loping and starts yelling even louder. I shove him back with Edmund and try to mask their sounds, but still - what a performance. The fat girl I gave the flower to that one time was so fucking happy about it.

Eventually, time was low and our party was overwhelmingly drunk, so we tried to get ourselves out the door. No easy task. Katie (fat flower one) kept trying to show Kyle pictures of her kids (while he was onstage singing even), and for some reason he was supremely interested. Meanwhile, Ducky got to that rare comatose state he apparently only gets to around us. His slur got so bad that his words lost meaning and he started sort of drooling on him self and even if you didn't ask him he would say that yeah, he was doing fine and oh, where was his beer? Towards the end of the evening, he stumbled over to some fat beast and even she was horrified by his game, all rolling her eyes when she could finally get away from him. It does not help that he becomes incredibly touchy feely - towards everyone - when he is in this state. We got Kyle and Ducky over to the bar to pay their tabs (Ducky just kept handing the bartender his card over and over again, which could potentially explain his high bill) and got out of the bar as fast as we could... which is to say not fast at all. What can I say? Kyle gets very chatty. And Missy had to run to keep zombie Ducky from trying to catch her with the remainder of his beer. Off to a good start.

Of couse, Missy had been sitting the whole night, so she stands and all of a sudden she's completely wasted, too. Like fall down, stumble into the street drunk. So suddenly it's Shelly, who is pretty sober, and me, who is pretty not, trying to get us all home. The blind leading the blind. So we get Missy off the ground, off of the street, and Ducky tumbles over the wall of the construction site. That is fall number 2 so far this evening. I am holding Missy's camera now, so I start collecting pictures, as this is clearly something that must be recorded. So we get Ducky up, and I try to carry Missy, but she is in limp noodle mode, and Kyle tries to support Ducky, but he has drunken ADD and runs off ahead to do something, and clearly we are all going to be arrested.

So I focus on Missy, constantly reminding her to "be cool," Kyle focuses on Ducky, and Shelly focuses on Kyle, and we sort of stumble our way past Schnucks. Missy asks me if I will push her in the shopping cart on the hill, and I say no, so she runs to Ducky who, in his catatonic state, will more or less follow orders blindly. So she starts to climb in the basket and he starts to shove it forward and the rest of us try to stop the whole thing from happening and, of course, they tumble down the hill. That's fall three. Ducky did have the instincts or whatever to keep the cart from falling on Missy, but they were both collapsed on the ground, and a cop car had just gone by. Missy gets up with Kyle's help, but Ducky is looking fucking dead on the ground, all splayed out, his "DRINK TIL SHE'S CUTE HAT" popped off his head. We're yelling at him, trying to kick in his frat instincts: "Pledge, the cops are coming! Move!" but he is not responding. Finally, though, his glazed eyes open, and we are back on the warpath.

It's suddenly decided (well, less of a conscious decision, more of a huge earth-shattering mistake) that we split up - the minors (me, Missy, and Shelly) away from the legals (Ducky and Kyle) - just in case we do get caught. So they start cutting across streets, but we have our own problems to deal with, keeping Missy under control. That is, until they brilliantly decide to jaywalk diagnolly right in front of a cop car. Oh fuck. So the cop drives off, but we hear sirens, and the two of them take off to God knows where. We wind our own way home until we get to roughly where Smacko got us busted last time, and we spot Kyle and Ducky talking to some middle aged people. Now is not the time to rest, so we go over and try to get them the fuck away. And what a group of ugly motherfuckers they were. The best looking of them all was this black guy with a mustache, Joe. When in Rome, take pictures, so I actually have a perfect shot of Kyle and Joe together, Kyle looking about happier than I have ever seen him ever. So Kyle is talking about how he ran from the cops, and the rest of the mutants are trying to get us involved in some sort of orgy. No, seriously. They were talking about swapping and shit, and they keep inviting us over to their lair for weed, and Kyle is of course in the mood where it seems like a perfect idea and he will not leave them and Missy is all drunk and impatient and Shelly is clearly scared. The one main woman kept telling Missy how she'd prosper if we came over to their place. "You'll prosper." Oh, that's not horrifying.

So we do get on the road again, and now it's Kyle and Missy in one group, me, Ducky, and Shelly in another. Kyle is pissing on a tree when a cop car goes by, and again, we are miraculously not caught. Ducky is like an unstoppable automaton who Shelly and I have no control over. "No, Ducky! Don't cut through the bushes!" But he does, of course, and now we have fall number four. Same leg is fucked up, on the knee now, but the really bad part was the sickening sound it made when his jaw hit the pavement. FWOP. I don't like to think on it. So he is pretty much in horrible pain but is drunk enough to walk through it, and we get home. At last.

Missy is drunk and... amorous and wants to get to bed, but there is too much going on. Ducky starts puking on the living room floor, then in a bowl in the floor, then in the toilet. I have more good pictures of him with vomit on his face looking all noble. Ah, lumbering giant. How I missed thee. Kyle, caring individual that he is, is sitting on the floor of kitchen in the dark, eating Nestle's Crunch ice cream out of the container and talking about his sordid sexual past... of which he has none. "FIFTY GIRLS!" he cries and then tells Missy how much he loves Shelly some more.

We get to bed, and I fuck Missy sideways. LOL, I always wanted to say gross stuff like that.

Standard next morning affair. Some shitty breakfast at Bob Evans (shitty only in that I strongly dislike sausage) and a discussion of the previous evening's events. We got home, worked on our fireworks creations, and waited for Smacko to arrive. One most note that his bangs were strangely absent upon arrival - THE SYSTEM WORKS. CLEARLY! I mention some qualm passive-aggressively, and the world sorts it out for me. Of course, the fact that he knew that meant he read my diary, which he then mentioned, then gloated about, and then got me in a world of shit with Missy. "Well, no, girl. When I started, I didn't intend for anyone to read it. No, I wasn't lying. I just changed my mind." Cry, cry, etc. We have a thin thread of patience inside of us, and I was working the shit out of mine. I knew I had to hold out or things would only get worse, but I am a big fan of making things worse, and I wanted to say something awful and walk away. But I held my tongue, and she eventually left, and I could breathe again.

You know those damn little paper things you throw on the ground and they pop? Our house is riddled with them. I hate those stupid things.

It would seem the drinking started fairly early again, but this time it was Smacko who got lost beyond reason. If only you could look into my mind and see the hair metal dry hump dance he did while Kyle launched shit. I don't know if you've heard, but back when Smacko and Emmy were still dating, he got blown by Taylor, and now that he is single and fancy free again, he is wookin' pa nub once more. I don't know how it happened exactly, but Taylor and Brytne sort of invited themselves over, and they in turn invited Dustin ("Pervert Marc Summers" my brain kept telling me to say) and that creepy lurking Indian guy over, and yay, it was practically a party. Many fireworks were shot off, and Smacko and Ducky sat out on the curb and yelled insults at passing cars. I don't how we ever attracted the attention of the police.

It actually turned out OK, all things considered. I was the unfortunate one who opened the door, thinking it was someone locked out by our tragic one way door (which drunken Ducky managed to fix). Anyway, I was pressured and standing in front of what can only be described as a super explosion factory, so I figured the jig was up. She was actually very understanding, though, and even though she lurked down an alley for a while and tried to catch us at misdeeds, we saw her first and were good for the rest of the night... part of it. I figure they will be less happy when we are still shooting off bottle rockets in March.

Shelly lit off her version of the Dead Reckoning vehicle, her sole goal to get the damn thing to actually role. This was less than successful in that she used a Roman candle to propel her ride, and it sat like a cannon, shooting multicolored fireballs at a nearby house. Kyle lit his car - and though his circuitry was impressive - it failed to send up the fleet of UFO things as he had intended. Still, it was scary as hell and sent those two blacks guy running down the street. Kyle is definitely an idea man, but his designs are a little... haphazard. Shelly is all about design, but she doesn't have his destructive sense of melodrama. I like to think I am right in the middle and that Dead Reckoning reflected this. It did not roll, granted, but it was a sputtering mass of hell (a well-organized sputtering mass of hell), leaving nothing but a melted wheel and a weird chariot at the front.

I really think I have the timeframe wrong for all of this, but bear with me. The alcohol and
explosions start to blend together. There are two other events that don't quite fit. Kyle retrofitted the leftover pieces of his Spy Mobile and launched it in the street by our house. Unfortunately, it was just when spray-painted Best Car Ever pulled out of their driveway, and we had to try and warn them. They just drove right on by. I guess they don't need to worry about their car being fucked. He also took the last Spy Mobile and attached it to two huge bottle rockets. It flew about 8 feet and then nearly killed us all.

Smacko was still trashed beyond belief, trying to grab Taylor's tits and having people thwack his Miller High Life bottles so that they would turn entirely into foam. Also, when we had gone out earlier to purchase some Wild Turkey Liqueur for Ducky, we happened to catch Hall & Oates' "Maneater" on the radio. It struck a chord with Smacko apparently, because he would not stop singing that piece of shit for the rest of the day. And we can safely say he did not have a complete grasp of the tune, as he would just repeat, "Whoa-oh there she goes / She's a maneater!" in this awful falsetto over and over again. Taylor and Brytne meanwhile were acting like attention whores, according to Shelly, but I was mostly busy working on Dead Reckoning II, assembled from a Coors Light box and Redline cans. I guess drinking beer out of one another's cleavage could be construed as attention whoring, but who am I to judge? I made out with Ducky.

Yes, friends, our tongues touched. Boy uses too much teeth, though.

Will Smith, party staple, was brought out, and everyone was eating my damn jelly beans, so Kyle and I went to stew in his car (having forced Yousaf to DD us somewhere secure) so that we could yelll Sister Hazel and Counting Crows songs to our hearts' content. We eventually spread the gospel out to the rest of the world, and we all sat on chairs on our front lawn, wailing away. It was sort of surreal, actually.

Maybe I smoked a little weed, maybe, but no one's said anything about a drug test thus far, right? It fucked Brytne hard, though, so she and Taylor and the rest of her friends left for the evening, leaving us high and dry and drunk. Ducky eventually suggested that we walk to the U of I chapter of his fraternity, theory being there would be some bitches there. We assembled an away team - me, Ducky, Jevon, and Spritz - and I forced them to carry me on their backs in turns the whole way there. Perhaps this was not the wisest idea, as they were pretty fucked up themselves, so I had to work just as hard staying on... but it made sense in the long run. We got to the house and started prying Ducky for his big frat secrets - their knock and handshake and whatever. I tried to catch what I could, but that was essentially nothing. Point is, we were allowed in to the Sigma Pi house... and it sucked balls. There were literally only two people there - both dudes, one of them shirtless - and I think it was awkward as hell for everyone all around. Spritz ran to play pool on their purple velvet table, and Jevon and I eventually sauntered over to watch. This left Ducky to talk to those two cretins, but if there's anything Ducky is a master of, it's social engineering. I could never have thought of ten minutes of conversation with those people, but he kept going on and on and probably would have had even more if we didn't start giving him signs that we should get out. I think everyone was thankful for that.

We started back, and I somehow enraged Ducky, as he wanted to box me. In an effort to make a peace offering, I grabbed at some flowers at some sorority, but apparently they were the kind with thorns, so ouch! Spritz was inspired, though, and started stealing different flowers from everywhere so that he could drop them off at Amber's and score major points. Jevon and I hid in the bushes (Ducky pulled up no parking signs and lugged them about in a bundle) and overheard Amber's squealy joy. "OH BABY" Yeah, at least someone's getting blown tonight.

We stopped at the gas station, and I got some bean dip, and Jevon wanted some bean dip, so he eventually commanded zombie Ducky to get it from me, so I ran up to my room and locked the door and eventually passed out (after I had finished the tin of dip - no one's fucking this little Italian over!)

July the 4th was actually our slowest day. I spent most of the afternoon working on Dead Reckonng II, especially its damn stupid wheels, and everyone else sat about watching that most patriotic of men, Maury Povich. He had a special Independence Day episode on, and I am not sure how it was related exactly, but there were a bunch of "ladies" on, and we were supposed to decide if they were really men or women. Happy birthday, America! The people in the crowd were going apeshit, though, and a little of that spirit made its way back to us. "NUH-UH SHE A MAN!" we'd yell. It must suck to be on that show and actually turn out to be a woman. Self-esteem cruncher.

Eventually, it was time to drive Ducky back to Indianapolis. Kyle drove, and along the way we got caught in a monsoon such as those I usually face coming back from Kansas. He was nervous, I could tell, so I did my best to relax him by continually encouraging him to drive stupidly fast. "Catch up with those hot bitches," I'd say. And he would slowly start to accelerate. "This shit ain't nothing, man! I've been in worse monsoons at night... in St. Louis... during rush hour!" And he would drive faster still. Clearly, I could be a motivational speaker.

We stopped at the first White Castle we found. Smacko and Kyle each got a Crave Case (30 sliders), Shelly and I split one, and Ducky got weird random shit (chicken rings???). In the same way they usually fuck each other with shots, Smacko and Kyle fucked each other with hamburgers, each trying to keep up with the other until they both downed ten and felt like hell. I decided after one that I did not like White Castle burgers, but at 5 more just in case. We also all stole soda because we had just given them 140 of our dollars. Kyle got Jevon a case, but the handle broke and lots of them fell on the floor. I've never seen a sadder face. I did not make it out the door without shitting rivers, and the car smelled awful for the rest of the trip.

As we were getting back on the highway, this guy in a brown minivan fucking cuts us off completely, so Smacko waits until we are right up beside them and gives them the old double barrel middle finger. Perhaps the two barrels were a little unwarranted, but it did not matter because our worst fears were confirmed: We found someone fucking angrier than Smacko. This guy in the brown van catches up with us and is leaning like 2 feet out the window, waving his arms angrily and clearly saying that we lipreaders recognize as "motherfucker." We speed off and think it's probably over, but none of you have clearly seen Joy Ride. Fucker starts following us, weaving dangerously about just to keep up. "He's going to ram us off the road." "No, he's going to follow us to the airport and beat the shit out of Smacko." Whatever he did, we were all terrified of Van Man (as we had started to call him), and Kyle did his best to lose him. With only a mile to the airport, he just managed to give the guy the slip (he was still wildly gesturing that we come over and fight him), but we remained on edge for the rest of the trip. Van Man will show up in my bedroom standing next to Snapper now, and I really don't like sleeping with the gun.

We dropped Ducky off and headed for home, stopping at the fireworks place Kyle had gone to originally. Like explosive heaven on earth. Shelly got some more stupid shit, and I grabbed some "ground flares" to give Dead Reckoning II a good finish. We came home, and I started drinking and building, and pretty soon I was very trashed with the most perfect zombie destruction machine ever created. "Perhaps I should not be using this glue gun," I slurred, and clearly I should not have been, as I burned my pinkie pretty bad. Big blister and all. It was worth it, though, as I had created the most superior model yet. It actually rolled forward, for one thing, and it shot shit everywhere, even after someone tried to extinguish it. And it eventually tried to turn on us, which is how all the best creations should be. Number One, report: "Since everything went off in the first two seconds, I can only assume that these were fireworks from another dimension that somehow came here after the first ones ripped open a hole in the spacetime continuum." Engage.

We skipped the real fireworks, as it was sort of raining, and we had our own shit anyway. Yousaf had bought this battery of like hundreds of Saturn missiles because his parents never let him get them as a kid and now was finally his chance. We forgot, however, that he has become an insane recluse and would not even come over to set them off. Instead, we had Jevon climb onto the roof with them and set them all off. It was fairly impressive, actually - imagined lots of large linked colorful bottle rockets without tails on them. Sounds safe, right? Well, it wasn't. Towards the finale, the force of too many missiles going off at once set the entire battery falling off the house and into our driveway, where it continued to launch missiles at random. Somehow all cars and building survived unscathed.

We all sat out on the porch for the rest of the night, lighting Shelly's gimmicky shit (Aladdin's Lamp, my ass!) and drinking more and more. I took the entire gross of black snacks (hundreds!) I had Kyle get for me and dumped them all into a paint can, tossing in some lighter fluid and fire. It worked exactly as I hoped - shooting out this giant turd of a snake - a foot long and two feet tall, completely solid. It produced a smoke that smelled like bleach, though, and I inhaled a shit ton of it, so I was not doing great for a minute. Came inside and played some Mario Kart 64. Should have figured something was up when I kept insulting people like a Shakespearean character: "THOU ART A KNAVE!" I still lost all the time.

Back on the porch I had a whole lot of Kyle's K-Punch (Tropical Tampico and Karkov - at the time, it tasted like bad Now and Laters... and I hate Now and Laters), so I ended up pretty trashed beyond reason. I have a bad feeling I kept talking about how big my penis is, and I am fairly positive I drunk messaged Andrea on thefacebook. However, I did pull some trickery. I have been trying to find out about this lesbian dream of Shelly's forever, but she would never budge. Finally, though, we did this drunken one-for-one trade thing. I would give her one letter of Smacko's password for every detail she gave me about the dream. It was actually very tame. Just some naked chick in the front of a car with her legs spread, and I guess Shelly wanted to touch her. The end. Weak. Well, my last coherent act before bed was to change Smacko's password and IM him the new one, then hide all record of this. I know, what an asshole. But Shelly's the one who I am supposed to be punishing here. Kyle and Spritz are along for the ride in that sadistic teacher way where you go, "And remember, it's all her fault!" Just trying to keep from having to do this all over again someday is all. That I'm driving Shelly nuts does not hurt either.

Now, how much did I forget? I know, doesn't even seem possible, does it?