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Published March 13, 2012

Day two No Cable -

                Still being acclimated to school hours we found ourselves awake and without the supervision of cable television for yet another day.  In need of pizza and smokes we decided to hit the streets and check out the local talent.  After an hour of cigarette buying, pizza eating, and flagrant ass staring we returned to our shit shack by the sea.  Climbing the dilapidated porch of our Newport cigarette mansion we soon realized that all of the doors had been locked.  The surprise that our doors had functioning locks quickly subsided as water balloons began to rain down upon us.  Hanging out of the second floor window was a shirtless liquored up Captain Tone. He had a gallon of rum in his hand and was yelling “Avast Ye landlubbers, this be Captain Tone’s ship.”  There was no time to question how we had managed to leave him home alone, war had been declared.

                When our scouts returned from the backyard our fears were confirmed, we were locked out.  Like any good Scooby Doo escapade we decided it was best to split into groups and work as teams.  I’ll be honest; I was planning on betraying everyone the first chance I got.  I reasoned that I’d rather fight with and not against the person that had finished half a gallon of rum before lunch time.  Knowing what shitty people my friends are I knew they were all thinking the same.  The plan was simple, be the first one to try to get in a window, once everyone was preoccupied, fall to the back, slip away, and beg to be let in the back door.  LeftLeg, Cheddar Hands, and P-lan worked on the front windows while me, LG, and Renaldo went to the side of the house.  Gainesville and The Politician stood out front smoking cigs throwing things at the upstairs windows.  When Captain Tone realized we were trying to get in through the windows he came armed with a trashcan lid and broom stick.  His wild drunken broom swinging gave me the opportunity I needed to sneak away.  Intoxicated by having outsmarted us he began taking risks.  The front door opened, a flash of cock, and then it closed.  Even with three men pushing it was no use.  The man was as strong as a mule and twice as drunk.  As he made his rounds through the house he caught sight of me looking in the window of the back door.  I was confident I’d be let in the house if I was alone.  For one thing, I could throw a piss filled water balloon accurately, something he couldn’t do.  Second and more importantly, I had a limitless capacity for pranks and had no qualms about betraying people for my own gain.  The door opened a crack and he said “what’s the password?” Without batting an eye I responded “New England clam chowder.”  “The white or the red?” he said.  “I don’t know, just let me in the fucking house before the other assholes get here.” 

Once I was safely inside the house I entered a form of transcendence marked by taunting, gloating, hazing, and general ostracizing.  It was like Christmas morn at a food bank, pressed hams for all.  The sight of my ass cheeks pressed against glass enraged my friends to the point of primate like chest beating. At this point not only were they annoyed by being locked out, they were sober and it was about time for their morning eye opener.  While looking for more water balloons the captain and I heard strange rustlings coming from the right side of the house.  Busting into Gainesville’s room armed with a bucket of filthy water and a broom stick we managed to arrive just as the window was being opened.  “Jab, thrust, parry” said the captain.  “Fuck that, piss out the window” I urged.  The captain was no Commodore Perry and I thought chemical warfare would be more effective.   Standing on a ladder with an immanent golden shower coming, The Politician and Gainesville decided to reason with us.  “Dude, stop assholes, just let us in, we’ll help.” “Yea, hurry up before those other pussies get here.”  Not the best negotiators but in my mind I saw the opportunity to turn this from a one-in all-out situation to an all-in one-out coup de prank.  The Captain had other ideas.  Broom in one hand, cock in the other, he stood laughing, pants around his ankles, pissing out the window.  His stream of 100 proof piss was less than accurate and miraculously missed the two new recruits. 

The situation at this point looked like this:

People inside the house: Captain Tone, Gainesville, The Politician, and myself

People outside the house: LeftLeg, Cheddar Hands, Renaldo, LG, and P-Lan

               

                It was clear to everyone what was happening, the only question was who would be the last asshole stuck outside.  With four people inside the house we launched an assault from all angles.  The rules were simple, if it didn’t contain alcohol and wasn’t the Xbox, it could be thrown.  A toaster, a dustpan, trash, and other people’s food were all fair game.  However, what we hadn’t considered in the rules of war was the sight we’d soon stumble upon in the kitchen.

                Coming down the steps for more ammunition, Gainesville, The Politician, and I were frozen in our tracks by a sight that was so horrifyingly recognizable it was unrecognizable.  With our backs against the front door we looked down the hall at the Silhouette of Captain Tone in the kitchen doorway.  He had a beer in his hand and was emitting possessed-pot-bellied-squeals of laughter.  Between his bare, shaking, hairy, squatting legs, there sat the flattened box of a case of beer.  In the middle of the box he had placed a single red plastic cup.  It was the most primate of all weaponry.  Although none of us possessed anything that could be construed as class, poo flinging was truly above and beyond the call of duty.  Word of the brown bomber quickly spread to the enemy.  It was the turd heard round the world.  We decided it was in the best interest of everyone to order a cease and desist.  As the old saying goes “It’s all fun and games until someone loosens their bowels.”

                Everyone had been notified that the war was over.  Everyone except P-Lan who went to fiddle in his car, and Captain Tone who, despite having started the war, never knew he was in one.  The shenanigans were done, but we still had a cup of shit that needed to be dealt with.  We weren’t sure what to do, but we thought it a shame to waste a perfectly good turd.  Meanwhile, realizing the house had grown strangely quit, P-Lan decided it was safe to approach the house through the driveway.  The sound of feet upon gravel, stirred within us, something as dark and rotten as the turd itself.  Whether they deserved it or not, we reasoned that whoever was approaching the house had been chosen by fate as the fecal recipient.   Obviously shitting in a cup is no exact science, so we were doubtful that it had been a strait shot.  Also turd law dictates “He who make it, must take it.”  Therefore, it was decided that Captain Tone would take the shot.  We gathered around the open window waiting for the unknown approaching victim.  The crunch of gravel grew louder and louder as it echoed between the houses.  We were constipated with anticipation.  As soon as P-lan stepped into view we yelled “FIRE”.  Captain Tone threw the cup in an identical manner to that which a Turkey uses to try to fly.  It flew through the air majestically, the centripetal force keeping the load glued to the base of the projectile.  Up and up it soared across the gravel driveway, until finally it hit the ground 30 feet from P-Lan with an anticlimactic thud.  That was it.

“What are you assholes doing?” said P-Lan.

“Nothing,” we groaned, walking away to continue our day with disappointed frustration.

                We went back to business as usual, drinking, playing darts, and blasting music.  We never spoke of the turd again.  Like those that are spotted floating in the ocean, it was now just another piece of Wildwood shit.

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