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| Johannes Brahms
Many musical historians cite 1967 as a premier year
in music history. And why shouldn't they? The Doors, Sgt.
Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, Disraeli Gears, and Pet Sounds, all
phenomenal and revolutionary albums, were released this year. But
the year that the Vatican's musical experts consider to be the real
defining year in music history is 1833, the year Johannes Brahms was
born! In Hamburg, nonetheless! Fucking Hamburg! Eat
your heart out, Hebrews!
Contrary to previous misinformation supplied to us
by presidential candidates, Brahms was not born a musical genius.
He had to study from the age of seven the art of the piano and learned
theory and composition at the tender age of 13, which was just old
enough for Michael Jackson. At age 20, Brahms was old enough for
Robert Schumann, but only to be friends with, much to Brahm's
dismay. The two men shared a friendship that would never leave
them. Brahms also knew Wagner (pronounced in German as VAG-ner),
but they were not seen as friends. This may be attributed to the
fact that Brahms would often refer to him as "FAG-ner".
Johannes Brahms worked a large number of positions
in his lifetime, including directing a woman's chorus in Hamburg in
1859, the missionary, conductor of the Vienna Gesellschaftskonzerte
(short for the entire English alphabet), doggystyle, music teacher for
many years, and bukkake. His friend, Hans von Bulow, gave Brahms
the Meiningen court orchestra to compose a series of chamber works in
1881. But as many jobs Johannes Brahms held, his sole multiple
desires were composing and trimming his beard. Brahms settled in
Vienna for the sole purpose of composing. His most famous work
was the First Symphony of 1876*, which had critics raving about him
being Beethoven's heir.
Unfortunately, Brahms never found much recognition
as a composer. Many attribute the slight as a composer to be due
to the fact that he was very outspoken against the principles of Liszt
and the New German School; Brahms was "old school", if you will.
He may have also been slighted due to his reputation as the town
drunk. He garnered this reputation due to the fact that he was a
clumsy walker. The form in which Brahms would walk the streets of
Vienna was described as looking like a "centipede missing 98
legs". This may or may not be true, because while it seems Brahms
was a clumsy dumbass, logic dictates that everyone in Vienna at the
time was also using only two legs to walk.
Brahms never had children, was never married, and
had an extreme loathing of Mexicans, though I'm not sure if Mexico was
an established, civilized country in the late 1800's, especially when
one sees what a load of shit it still is today. He was also madly
in love with Schumann's sister, Clara, though she was 14 years older
than he. When she died in 1896, he turned 45 degrees towards the
camera, and changed his name to Karl Marx. Fatboy died in Vienna
on April 3, 1897.
 BECAME ---> 
* Re-recorded by Tupac Shakur and aptly titled "Uh-Huh Wut"
Somehow, I managed to get a 95 out of 100. Because it was
late. There is much to be said about my senior year music
appreciation teacher, but a tough grader isn't one of them.
| | |
| (NOTE: This will not take the place of a normal story. As
per the schedule I've set for myself, the story where I overdose on
Adderall, ("Overdoing" Leads to "Overdosing", Who Knew?) will be
up by Saturday. But this event was too important to not write
about.)
Is This My Life???
I used to have little debates with myself in my head. I would
constantly wonder, is my life really this weird, or am I just great at
writing it with finesse to the extent that it becomes absurd, while
still remaining truthful? My question was answered. My life
cannot get any weirder than this.
I was sitting down at D'Bronx in Westport with the Great White Drunk,
and I am just about to burst into tears due to the excellence of my
pizza. My tougue is already watering, and as I close my eyes,
(for me, eating pizza is a romantic event, right up there with a first
kiss) I get a phone call. The mood is ruined. I check the
caller ID, see that it is from my job, and figure I should answer
it. It is my sister. What a fucking cockblock.
John's Sister: "John, you will not believe who is in the store right now!"
Who could it be? The only person that I know who is capable of
making people call other people to tell them something like that is,
well...me. I run through a list of porn stars in my head, only to
remember that my sister wouldn't know who I'm talking about, as she
doesn't watch porn. At least I hope not.
John: "Ok, I give up. Who is it?"
John's Sister: "Officer Barbosa."
The pizza proceeds to drop from my hand, and splashes the puddle of
grease that was on the plate. Pizza grease is all over my shirt,
and I don't bat an eye. After taking about ten seconds to compose
myself, I finally get the urge to say something --
John: "Bullshit. If he's there, let me talk to him."
Officer B: "Hello?"
John: "Hey, Officer Barbosa, umm, I'm sure you don't remember me, but you arrested me at the Plaza (see: John is Arrested on the Plaza) last year during Spring Break, for having umm...illicit substances, an-"
Officer B: "Oh yeah. You were the one with the minors."
My heart sinks. I am "that guy". I'm the one who when cops
remember them, they remember them as the guy who wanted to mess with
the 13 year olds. I can never live that down.
John: "Yes......yeah.....that was me.....with the minors.
Well, I just wanted to talk to you and say thanks, because you really
opened my eyes to what I was doing wrong. Thanks for giving me
some kind of direction."
Officer B: "No problem, John. Have a nice day."
After hanging up with him I just stared at the phone in my hand,
wondering if I really had that conversation. Very weird. I
also come to find out that right after he hung up, he told my boss what
I said to him.
Officer B: "Yeah, he said something about thanks for showing him
what he was doing wrong, and thanks for giving him direction."
The Boss: "Oh c'mon Barbosa, you know he's still twisted!"
Officer B: "Oh I know. I think he just meant thanks for letting him know there are security cameras on the Plaza."
The man has obviously dealt with a kid or two in his career.
____________________________________________________________
In case my week couldn't have gotten more fucked up-- the next week, I
am at my job, working the opening shift, from 11-4. At around 1,
a cop walks in and gives me the nod. I read his name tag.
BARBOSA. Holy shit. I can't tell if he knows it was me or
not. This is how I fall in these situations -- whereas most
people would just leave the man alone, and try not to talk to him, I
dove right in --
John: "So I gotta say, that surprised me a bit when I heard you were in the store last week."
Officer B: "That was you!??!"
We talked for a while, as he cleaned his gun on a table. Very
intimidating. He was actually a very funny, generally awesome
guy. We talked about school, and he asked where I was
going. I told him that I'm going to UMKC, and I got into their
pre-law program. He laughed about as hard as I did when we first
met, when I heard him say his name. I also told him about how I
tested out of Freshman Composition, and American Government, which
seemed very shocking to him. His exact words were, "Wow, smart
kid."
Well, when I'm thinking.
And the best part of our conversation -- Jimsulin, the other one he
arrested, came into work at 2. God set this day up perfectly for
us. The only crappy part, was that I really wanted to tell
Barbosa about how I made him an internet celebrity like myself, but we
had customers coming in, and I never got the chance to. Next
time. Fucking customers -- I'm having a story event, and all they
want to do is come in and fuck my day up. I would have fellated
the entire bar at Sharp's to avoid a rush today, as I wrote in one of
my Work Haiku's. (coming soon)
I am speechless. I am without speech. Does this kind of thing happen to anyone else?
Thank God I overslept, and didn't come to work stoned today.
| | |
| "Don't Drunk That Dia -- Err..."
As many of you can attest through hanging out with me, and those that haven't hung out with me can read about, there seems to be no limit to the stupid things I will do when I've been drinking. I've been arrested, beaten up, beaten myself up, hooked up with five girls in one night, and attempted to smash the windows of the doors of my old grade school.
However, proving I am human, I do have one thing I won't ever do while I've been drinking, no matter how much. It's my Achilles Heel, so to speak. No matter what I have drank, no matter what else I have done, I will not call my first girlfriend, Samantha.
Let me explain -- Samantha was my first girlfriend, and the only girl I've had a meaningful relationship with. Of course, she dumped me after about nine months, citing my "commitment issues" (Who? Me?) and then that was that. Even though I was dumped, and I have an ego to maintain, I have nothing bad to say about her at all. She was the coolest person I knew, and I'm sure if we were still talking, that would be the same. We haven't talked in over two years, yet she's still the person who I compare every other girl to, which is perhaps why I treat girls like shit. I'm pathetic, I know.
The only friend of mine who got to meet her was Farmhand, but my other friends have heard of her. So while we are drinking, my friends will always try to goad me into drunk dialing her. This often creates a problem, as I called her so many times over the course of nine months that I still know her home phone number. Somehow (don't ask me) I have done a good job of refusing this offer. My reasoning is usually consisted of three things; (1) it's 1 AM, (2) I only know her house number, and/or (3) I have just flipped off a Jones Store clerk, and maybe I've had a little too much to drink.
Not Monday night. Long story short (there's a reason for this -- the whole night's story is coming soon) -- I had way too much to drink, I went to Volleyball Beach, did a number of obscene/lewd things in front of about 40 people, threw random girls off their bikes at Loose Park, and a million other funny events. I was drinking while my friend from work, Katie, was driving me around. Suddenly, I got a great idea.
I should call Samantha.
So I fire up my cell phone that I dropped just five minutes earlier in one of my scuffles with a girl at Loose Park, and enter in her phone number. This is not good.
913....I so should not be doing this....
XXX..... This could be really funny, or really bad....
XXXX....I am great! I am invincible!!! I am calling Samantha!!
At "Hello?", all of my arrogance scattered, and I quickly handed the phone to Katie. Why?
It was her mom. The same mom who used to drive me and Samantha to movies. The same mom who made me cookies for Christmas.
Katie- "Hi, is Samantha home?"
Samantha's mom - "No, she's not, can I take a message?"
Katie- "Yeah, umm, will you tell her that her good friend Katie Hastert called?"
Samantha's mom- "Sure thing."
When my phone snapped shut, I suddenly felt like a terrible human being. I felt really dirty, really ashamed of myself, and really depressed that I officially have no more control over myself when I drink. I quickly drowned these thoughts with more alcohol, and was on my merry way.
I would later go on to do about four amazing acts of public drunkeness, and was basking in the adoration of people who saw me that night. I was king of the world -- until I saw this last night while browsing through people who subscribe to an old site of mine.
"I got drunk-dialed the other night... and my mom answered the phone- that was fun. Actually it was kinda funny b/c of the person."
That sounded shockingly familiar...but it couldn't be. I didn't even remember calling her. And I know I didn't talk to anyone's mom. I checked through my phone, and the only call that shows up as a number, not as a name from my phone book, is none other than Samantha's house number.
Without a *67 at the beginning of it.
Who the fuck did I think I was kidding?
| | |
| John Loses His Dignity -- And His Wallet.
Running the type of site that I run, many people have often asked me if I purposely do stupid shit so I have something to write about later. I've never understood where people get this idea -- so to help them get the idea of how absurd a notion that is; I ask them, "Well, would you go out concerning yourself with plot development and character traits?" Most everyone I have met has always taken this as an acceptable answer, and gone on to enjoy my stories.
After this story happened, I realized just why people ask me that question. The ridiculous acts I "performed" are so unbelievable that they seem like a caricature, like either I'm making it up, or that I decided to do them because they were good for writing about -- however, any one of the people in this story can vouch for this story 100%, and most of them post on this site.
_________________________________________________________
10:10 - The Great White Drunk and I have given up all hope. I was supposed to have my "going away party" (read: an excuse to drink) but that parade was literally rained on. It is monsooning outside, and no one is doing anything. We just want to drink. I will be damned if we bought a bottle of Everclear, 4 cans of Red Bull, 6 bottles of Gatorade, 2 bottles of club soda, and a fifth of Grey Goose vodka for nothing.
10:11 - It is still raining insanely hard, and no one is doing anything. I begin to think the tsunami victims had it easy in comparision to me.
10:15 - I go into my job to get spoons and cups. Why? Because we have decided that we will drink all of our supplies -- even if it means we do it while sitting in the Great White Drunk's car. My sister is in the store. I am so desperate, that I don't even bother trying to hide my reasons for coming in. I have no shame.
10:16 - In an obvious attempt to get on my good side so I can show him how to be like me, God delivers The Leprechaun to me, at my job. The Leprechaun tells me to go drive over to his house, because he is home alone this weekend. I am very happy that I got him a job.
10:30 - We arrive at the Leprechaun's house. I run into the house and immediately start mixing drinks and throwing them into glasses so the Great White Drunk and I can play Baseball.
10:50 - I am already kicking the Great White Drunk's ass in Baseball. However, I am more drunk than he is, because I am also slamming vodka/Red Bulls.
10:53 - The Leprechaun has guests come over. I now have an audience.
10:55 - I run upstairs and disrobe. I come back downstairs, wearing nothing but a bath towel around my waist, and sit down at the table.
11:00 - A great idea hits me. I think perhaps trying to stop the spinning ceiling fan is what is needed to really get this party started.
11:01 - The fan hits me. On my face.
11:25 - Great White Drunk and I have finished everything we came with, save for half of the fifth of vodka. We decide to walk to HyVee to get mixers so the vodka goes down easier. I run upstairs, and put my clothes back on. I make a conscious effort to grab my cell phone, wallet, and keys.
11:29 - Great White Drunk is boring me. I decide to drunk dial The Athlete.
John - "HHHHHHHeeeeeYYY!!! What's going on?!?"
TheAthlete - "Nothing. I was just eating milk and cookies and watching TV, you?"
John - "I am way more drunkest than I've ever been."
TheAthlete - "John, are you sure you want to do this?"
John - [Makes a grunting noise resembling the "Tool Time" noise that Tim Allen made]
TheAthlete - "Drunk dialing me? Are you sure you want to do this?"
11:30 - I don't accept charity. I plow right ahead.
John - "Oh yeah, don't you worry. We're just going to keep DRINKING!!!"
GWD - "John! Wanna watch your FUCKING surroundings?"
The Great White Drunk motions to a security guard sitting 5 feet from me.
I pause. I contemplate my options. I figure the best idea is to try to slink away quietly, so as to go undetected.
John - "OOOOOOOOOHHHHH SHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTT!!! RUN!!!!"
The Great White Drunk would later go on to tell me that my "screetching Banshee display" made Tom Cruise appear sane.
11:35 - I am still on the phone with TheAthlete, and have managed to get away from the security guard. I am swaying out in front of a building that I can't identify. TheAthlete decides that I will wind up in jail if I am allowed in public much longer, and says she will be right there in two minutes.
11:37 - I am through waiting for her. I continue walking.
11:38 - I am greeted by the honking of a horn. I flip the driver off. I realize I am in the middle of a very busy street. As the driver offended me, I decide I will continue walking in the middle of said street.
11:39 - My luck strikes again. It turns out the driver was none other than TheAthlete, and she lets me in her car, and she goes and parks in a bank parking lot. She is still puzzled how I got this far away from the HyVee.
11:40 - I berate her endlessly for parking in a handicapped spot. Never mind that it is 11:40 at night, and the bank won't be open for another eight hours, and never mind that she dropped her shit to put up with me, and never mind that I routinely make fun of handicapped people -- I find it important that tonight, I be an advocate for the helpless.
John - "What the fuck is wrong with you? These people can't fucking walk.
Can't. Fucking. Walk. What more do you want from them, you heartless wrench? THEY'RE HUMAN TOO!!!"
11:42 - In an attempt to appease me (or shut me up), TheAthlete drives away from the spot in question, and decides to take me back to the Leprechaun's house. I take a look as we pull out, and realize I was wrong. There was no handicapped sign.
I don't let her know that there is no handicapped sign. In my mind, if I don't admit defeat, I win by default. I am quietly chanting my name in my head, knowing I kicked her ass in that debate... kinda.
11:43 - I announce to TheAthlete that I "really need to talk to Patsy". For those that don't know, Patsy is my mother. My luck strikes a third time, and my phone battery is dead. Looking back on this, I still can't recall what was so important that needed to be said at 11:43 to my mom, but I don't think she's any worse off having not heard it.
11:45 - We arrive at The Leprechauns house. I get out of the car. However, TheAthlete can't find me. She looks around the yard. She checks back in the car. She looks in the house. No John Crawford.
11:46 - I am awakened with kicks from her feet. She has found me, passed out right beside her car. Apparantly, I fell straight from her car onto the pavement. Curiously, I still managed to close the door first.
11:49 - I get indoors and announce to the party that I'm here, and will be, "Droppin' bombs on ya mom's." No one knows what I am talking about. This does not satisfy me. In order to win back any cool points I might have lost by saying that stupid phrase, I take off my pants. And find my flip flops. I realize that I was running around busy streets with no shoes on.
11:50 - I laugh like a little girl.
11:51 - The Leprechaun, TheAthlete, and The Great White Drunk are all helping me get into bed for a little bit. I am in nothing but my boxers. I assure them that I will be fine. TheAthlete stays behind to talk to me. I'm gonna get some.
11:52 - I position myself up on the bed, and lean in to kiss her. I make contact with her lips. I am not pleased. Her breath smells like gym socks.
11:53 - I realize that I have done a face plant on the wooden floor. I realize now that she has not moved from the doorway, where she was two minutes ago.
11:54 - I am not deterred by my first attempt going awry. I will try again. I tell her that I "really really like" her. 40 times.
11:58 - I hear laughter downstairs. I am missing out on far too much. I stand at the top of the steps and want help downstairs. No one will help me.
12:00 - I help myself, by sliding down the stairs. Face first.
12:15 - I am walking around the party in my boxers. The Great White Drunk says we have to go to his house. I put my clothes back on.
12:18 - I don't want to go back home, so I decide to protest this trip. Once his passenger's side door is opened, I do my protest march -- by diving into the car. I hit my head on the opposite door, as it was closed.
[Ed. note: I'd like to tell you that I was trying to get back at him by trying to, say, smash his door's window with my head, but I think that even something like that would have been too smart of a plan for me, given my mindstate.]
12:25 - We get to his house, and I run up his stairs and go to his room.
12:27 - Even though I am so drunk that I couldn't spell my own name, I want to talk to him about books. All kinds of books. I actually ask if I can borrow one, "for tonight". I quickly realize that I am also so drunk that I cannot read.
12:48 - We are in his kitchen, drinking water, and I realize I don't have my wallet.
12:49 - I go back to talking about books.
12:57 - He tells me that we can sneak out to go back to the Leprechaun's house to find my wallet. I still want to talk about literature.
1:20 - We have ran about 12 blocks to the house, and we bang on the door. The Leprechaun lets us in, and I begin searching. For alcohol. I try to drink a Natty Light in 10 seconds. I fail.
1:21 - A large, burly fellow of African American descent shoves me and informs me that it was his beer. I tell him to watch his fucking mouth. I am John Crawford. I am not afraid. I tell him I will whip his ass right there in the kitchen -- even though I can't even stand straight.
1:50 - Still no wallet. However, The Leprechaun tells me that he has a boxing set downstairs. I think this is a bad idea.
1:51 - He reminds me that I get to hit him back. I think this is a very good idea.
2:00 - We have been fighting for about 8 minutes. Even though he landed more punches on me, I don't think I could have been feeling it any more than he was. I want more.
2:02 - We are outside in the front yard. The Great White Drunk and TheAthlete are watching us. I'm sure I am still getting my ass rocked.
2:10 - I've had enough of this. I stick my face out and beg him to "knock me out".
2:11 - My friends beg harder for him not to. The Leprechaun has mercy. I'll take that kind of charity.
2:15 - TheAthlete puts us in her car and starts driving us home.
2:16 - I drunk dial my work with The Great White Drunk's phone.
[Ed. note: If you go into my job, and ask the employees to play the messages on the machine, you will notice that all of them are drunk dial messages from various employees. Drunk dialing is not only not taboo, it is practically encouraged where I work. However, my drunk dial this night was so bad, that when I came in to check it the next day, it wasn't there. Why? THEY COULDN'T UNDERSTAND ONE WORD I SAID. When people who surround themselves with drunks say that about you, it's safe to consider that an "intervention"]
2:20 - We arrive home. Still no wallet.
Epilogue -- I finally found my wallet the next day, after searching about 20 possible places it could be. It turns out it was lodged in the shotgun seat of TheAthlete's car.
So I found the wallet, but have yet to completely regain my dignity. Consider what went on that night -- if you've ever done any of these:
- Face planted a wooden floor while trying to make out,
- Slid down a flight of stairs, face first,
- Tried to stop a ceiling fan with your face,
- Walked around a party wearing nothing but a bath towel,
- Told a black guy twice your weight to "watch his fucking mouth",
- Walked one of the 2 busiest streets in your city drunk and barefoot,
- Begged someone to knock you out,
- or dove THROUGH a car, then raise your hand.
Something tells me I'm the only one raising my hand.
Of course, there were reprecussions the next day. My body was black and blue, and my face was beaten, battered, and bruised (and possibly other "b" words). I had a cut that ran up and down my nose from where I slammed my face on the side of a stove while trying to leave the house. That's the absurdity of that night -- I could slam my face on a stove, resulting in a massive cut across my face, and I don't think that it's noteworthy enough to put in the actual story.
By the way, the week and a half of being a counselor at Kansas Boy's State (government camp), went great. I was a role model for those kids. Ahh, the irony.
| | |
| John is Arrested on the Plaza.
My junior year of high school was the first year I would go out multiple times a week, with the sole purpose of getting wasted. Sure, I drank a little, and smoked a little pot during my sophomore year and even freshman year, but it was really boosted up a notch junior year. Of course, by "boosted up a notch", I mean "turned into Jim fucking Morrison" in terms of pot/alcohol intake. So yeah -- I had started doing a little more.
My junior year, I was unable to do anything fun (read: go out of town with friends) for Spring Break, mostly because I had been arrested at Town Center during Christmas Break. I had just gotten ungrounded a few weeks ago, and my parents were just now starting to trust me, but not enough to let me have fun during Spring Break.
Instead, my spring break was going to be spent in one of the most boring, pain-enduring ways possible -- driving 18 hours to the bottom of Texas, staying for about two days, and driving 18 hours back. And when I say "the bottom of Texas", I don't mean Austin or even San Antonio -- I mean "I could throw this fucking cactus into another country" Laredo (check a globe). It is literally a stones throw away from Mexico, but it might as well be classified as a third world country. No cell phone service works there. No internet to be found. No cable. A tiny ass house where I have to be confined with about 15 other family members because the hotels are even WORSE.
We were going to embark on this trip on a day that I had been planning for for quite a while -- St. Patrick's Day. Needless to say, I was more pissed off than I had ever been (at least for a month and a half -- see John's Job is Shitty) that I had to miss one of my favorite holidays to drive for hours on end. I would not spend this spring break without getting fucked up in some way.
My best friend, Jimsulin, who was also just barely allowed to go out, as he had been arrested with me at the Town Center incident, and I decided that we would go to the Plaza, like the cultured young gentlemen we were, and smoke some pot he bought for us, as a "sending off" before my trip. This sounded like a very good plan. While walking around the Plaza, we would run into two girls who were very much into John Crawford, ShortStop and The Child. Both of them were very good looking. We told them that we were going to be smoking, and they asked if they could join us. Naturally, we said no, but after promises of sexual favors, I gave in. Jimsulin had a girlfriend, and it was his pot, after all, but me giving in gave them the green light to smoke with us. My friends really like me.
So we walk behind the alley of the movie theaters there and start smoking (out of a dollar bill that I had to roll with -- being the dumb fucks we were, we forgot to bring rolling papers, and I wasn't a good enough roller yet to tear open a cigarette and then re-use the paper). The ink reeks as soon as the fire meets it. The breath of Satan is crawling through my lungs. Seriously -- any other time, I would have stopped smoking there, and waited until another day, with better papers. I should have this time, because 2 minutes later --
Jimsulin: "Hey! Fuck! Put that out!"
At one of the enterences of the alley, a tall, dark figure is quickly approaching us. I notice he is wearing the hat worn by the security officers that patrol the Plaza. His tall, thin figure reminds me that I had a friend who worked for the same patrol unit on the Plaza, and that it must be him. Wanting to show off for our new friends, I inform the girls, not to worry.
John: "Nah, don't worry. Seriously -- this guy used to keep watch for me when I would smoke at work. You think he gives a shit if we smoke here? We'll be fine."
Jimsulin: "He still has to do his jo-"
John: "HE DOESN'T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING. But you need to shut the fuck up. And you (turns to The Child) need to pass that over here."
I take the dollar J from The Child, and take a monsterous drag. Fire is creeping slowly into my lungs, and I can feel them filling up with smoke. My hand starts lowering from my mouth, and I have to make a conscious effort to hold my hand in the same position. My eyelids start sagging, and then I get my moment of clarity --
John: "Shit. That's not [officer's name]"
Of course, by this point, it is to late to deny anything. I throw the j far away from us, and we being talking to him. We're fucked.
It wouldn't be a true John Crawford experience if I didn't get in worse trouble than I thought I could get into, and this instance made that point even truer. When this officer, Francis, was taking down our information, he had us lined up against the wall, in such order: Jimsulin, me, ShortStop, The Child. He asks us our ages, and these were the responses he got --
Jimsulin: "17." Goddamn, this sucks. Maybe I could just run away....
John: "16." Well, who knows, maybe he'll just give us a warning.....
ShortStop: "14." Oh, shit....
The Child: "13." (Now you know why she's "The Child") ... I'm going to jail.....
Officer: "Let me take a wild guess here. You two guys, were going to get these girls high, and take advantage of them tonight, try to have sex with them."
At this point, if I can't laugh at myself, I'll cry. So I look at the girls in their faces, look them up and down, kind of give a nod of approval, turn back to the officer and counter his question with another --
"Well, wouldn't you?"
A few other funny parts from that night:
- A cop from the KCPD was called down, and he introduced himself as Officer Barbosa. At the mention of his name, I started laughing hysterically, though when he asked why, I had literally no idea. I don't think that was a great idea. It didn't hit me until a few months later, what was so funny about his name -- I had just seen Pirates of the Carribean a day before this incident, and one of the bad guys' name is none other than Barbosa. You'd laugh if you were high.
- The way they coaxed a confession out of me was also pretty clever. They asked me for my social security number, and I rattled it off flawlessly. Perfectly. I was in complete control, and even ShortStop had to look at me and drop her jaw in amazement. I decided to use this to my advantage.
John: "See, I can't recite my social security number when I'm high, so we must not have been smoking pot."
Officer Barbosa: "Well John, I guess that means you've been smoking pot, because you just gave me your phone number."
John: "Oh....wow....umm....well....ok....so I had a little bit of pot. Not a lot."
Jimsulin lowered his head and whispered to himself, "What a fucking moron."
The worst part about that whole confession part? It turns out that I actually had told the officers my social security number -- they just figured if I had been smoking, they'd be able to lie to me, and I'd be convinced.
I think Jimsulin nailed it on the head. I'm a fucking moron.
- After my dad picked me up and took me home, my poor mother was actually upstairs packing bags and doing a million other things to get ready for the trip. She walks downstairs and can tell something was wrong. My dad informs her that I was smoking pot on the Plaza, and she loses it -
"John Marshall Crawford, [Ed. note: Uh oh, she used my full name.] what the hell is the matter with you? I get a phone call from you saying that you've been arrested while I am sitting around the dinner table with my parents and Jessie's (my uncle, her brother) family, I get told the day before we leave for our trip that you're smoking pot on the Plaza, you must be very unhappy with your life to have to keep doing these self-destructive things. Is there something I need to know?"
Find the funny, John, find the funny...
John: "Yes, actually there is something you should know. I'm gay."
For a second, I thought she was going to stop being mad at me and sympathize with my "problem". Unfortunately, she called my bullshit.
Gay people are never useful. | | |
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