The Smoking Lamp Is Lit
STUPID DRUNKEN THINGS NOT TO DO
Drive from Daytona to the gator farm in St. Augustine at ludicrous speed. When it’s time to pass the geezers, drive in the oncoming lane, while 8 Barrel and Phid, driving behind you, pass the same car at the same time, on opposite sides.
(Mustang GTs can go off-roading, in case you were curious).
Repeat this stunt (driving on the shoulder/beach to pass on the right) the next time you are in Florida
- to make sure it’s still stupid and
- for pussy whip practice when your Osco GF has a conniption about your psychotic driving.
“But 8 Barrel did it” will not save you. Better start saving for a minivan.
* * *
The best way to figure out if your Festiva can top out its 85 mph speedometer is to go with Pod to Phid’s restaurant on the lake and drink like fish, before the customers get there. Then load in Pod and Mrs. Camaro (in order to maximize the downforce so the car doesn’t take flight –hey, it could happen). Neglect to check to see if the speedometer is in fact maxed, because you are too busy trying not to die at whatever crazy speed you’re up to. In a Festiva, this number is probably 65.
(If the road is long and straight and flat enough.)
* * *
Pretend that you have the will and ability to quit smoking for the 13th time right then and there (at Phid’s restaurant). Buy yourself a beer if your willpower lasts an hour. It won’t.
- Repeat this futile Nicorrette dance each time you are drinking with Pod, or have a new girlfriend.
* * *
Go to the pub in the mall with your new girlfriend Madonna, and drink two “Last Calls” (6 different liquors and 6 different fruit juices). The recommended limit is one, so 2 should be just about right. This is a great time to play “I thought youpicked up the check.” Having Madonna waiting by the door with the motor running will sorta undermine the sincerity angle if you get caught.
* * *
Go to the same chain pub in a different mall with Pod for some beers. Then drive to 8 Barrel’s house 110+ miles in 90 minutes (avg. speed: about 20 over the speed limit precisely 55 mph (highway only); avg. BAC: about [5th Amendment] over the limit exactly 0.0). This is way more impressive than rushing the school newspaper to the printers 18 miles away in 13 minutes, back in the day, because it lasted way longer. Have a woman explain the benefits of lasting longer to you. Fail to remember it anytime it would be useful. You rule!
* * *
Repeat this run to Detroit numerous times, with variations:
- lose all the clothes off the back of your motorcycle. Get a ticket.
- Blow up a Starfire in Parma. Get a ride at 3 am.
- blow up your Pontiac on the way back from a concert at the Masonic Temple in Detroit. Make that AAA card earn its keep. Try not to dwell on the real live gang bangers you taunted as you raced through the Cass corridor with a car that was about to have a coronary.
- drive to Canada to buy beer, because it’s cheaper than at 7 Eleven.
- as Pod, have the police intercept you because you were driving almost double the speed limit.
- take an abrupt detour to a lake in the middle of nowhere while you wait for the cop that noticed you speeding to NOT find you on the highway.
* * *
Drive at highway speeds down local/country roads with your lights off, to see if that car that looked like an undercover cop really was one. (He was.) Sure seemed like he was following you. (He was.)
Learn how police interception techniques work in real life when the cops swoop out of nowhere and block you in. If you brought “suicide pills,” you can talk your way out of this by blaming a loose fan belt.
- Invent “suicide pills” (Velamints, in the pre-Altoids days) for just such an occasion. Big Red gum works in a pinch.
* * *
Try to figure out if lawn chairs can move that fast by passing out in one, after a day of painting Dribble’s pool, and swilling Bartles and Jaymes wine coolers. When you wake up, you will be on the other side of the house. Huh? Where’d those sprinklers come from?
* * *
Develop healthy habits, like having Pod pick you up every Sunday after your shift at the Sparkle Buggy Wash. Go to Bacchus and grab a six pack of the weirdest beer you can find.
* * *
- Drive to AA for a football game with Ken at 2 a.m. on 11.1.86. Tooling around Ypsi in a Yugo looking for a place to crash is more fun than you might think when you finally get there at 4 am.
- Embarrass Ken relentlessly at the Michigan game. He wishes he was a student there. You wish you brought more beer into the stadium.
- To show what a fun guy you are, knee Ken in the gonads for real one time when you are trying to just pretend to knee him at the Phi Sigma Kappa house.
- That trauma may affect his brain, which will retroactively explain the business card he carried around during the Reagan years: “Ken B*****, Republican.” (Watch and rewatch the last episode of Star Trek TNG until you understand this reverse time phenomenon.)
- Ken B. went to the same school as Snell. Dribble went there too. So did Jody No. 2, and about 10 other girls from your church that turned you down over the years. They still hate you, if you’re wondering.
* * *
Be sure not to ever teach Dribble’s Pomeranian to drink like you do, with proportionately sized doggie buzz units. If the dog is walking funny, there has to be some different explanation, because you would never let a doggie go on a bender. (Relax, PETA, the dog will live 15 years after that.)
* * *
Remember that HS football game, the year after you graduated? The one where the kid you picked on in band had to drive you home. The one where you were hitting on the weirdo redheaded girl who lived near 8 barrel, because you figured you could at least score with her (worry about Coyote Ugly tomorrow, right?) The one where your Mom was in the stands and saw all this. Yup, that one. Possibly everything can be traced to the pint of Southern Comfort you were swilling in the bathroom under the stands. You are SO COOL!!! Dumbass.
* * *
Go out for a walk and chain smoke about 4 More Menthols (the brown wrapped ones that look like thin cigars). Convince the Minute Market dude that you’re stoned (although its more like nicotine poisoning and 300/200 blood pressure). He will utter four words that will define your life (if your life parallels a guy named Chris and you are prone to turfing the high school lawn with your parent’s Buick wagon and drinking codeine-laced cough syrup on boy scout paper drives): “Keep that buzz goin.’”
(Remember the Minute Market for when need Merit Ultra Lights or a case of Lowenbrau to hide in your room, or you get some girl named Cindy who drives a blue Sunbird to buy you a pint of Chivas Regal. Ignore the fact that you could buy like 8 gallons of Huber beer for that price.)
* * *
Get busted with smokes, because your sisters (Milquetoast and Buzzkill) found them and immediately suspected you and narced to Mom. Deny that they are yours. Explain to your Mom that you bought them from a vending machine at Upper Crust (which is close to “I swiped them at Shifty Takers”), and you were going to trade them for tequila that some guy named Brian was going to get for you at the next boy scout camp-out (which almost sounds like “they’re mine”). Mom will be so proud.
* * *
Instead of tequila, takes that Chivas on a camp-out at TBJ. (TBJ is a good base for a variety of alcohol fueled experiments.) Hit the bottle a little while you are on “keep the fire going” duty overnight, then load up the stove with as much wood as possible. Grab a smoke, because booze and smokes is what Boy Scouts is all about. If only there were some hotties with you to complete the picture. Then you could sit there drinking while your buddies scored.
Anyway, now the stove cannot possibly run out of fuel before morning. (It might melt and burn down the cabin, but it WILL NOT go out) Criminal negligence is a disquieting thought, however, and Assistant Scoutmaster Darrell “Michael Jackson” Shithead, a future protective custody inmate will point this out in vivid terms at 4 am while you are trying to sleep through fire watch duty.
* * *
Try not to kill Assistant Scoutmaster Darrell *Michael Jackson* Shithead at that time or when he:
- powders his loins (to prevent crotch rot) in the middle of a Philmont campsite (and in full view – where is shrinkage when you need it?)
- screams at you to GTF outta bed at 5 a.m. because he is ready to hit the trail,
- feeds your shoelaces to the chipmunks
- adopts a kid nicknamed “Chipmunk” as his personal armrest and god knows what else.