When you take a group of pussy starved 18 year old boys and remove them from the ADD suppressant that is Cable Television, and then add to this copious amounts of alcohol and drugs, you create an issue of national concern. The aftermath is rather similar to letting wolves lose in a baby day care center; blood, spit, and all manner of human discharge. Really the only difference is the air guitaring and constant loop of Skynard albums. Sure at first the mind will attempt to adjust to soap operas and reruns of Frasier, but that will only last so long. Eventually something snaps. Lord of the Fly’s, fuck no, this was lord of the Cockroaches.
Day one of no cable - Several of us fiddled with the rabbit ears, believing that with enough tin foil Sports Center would eventually begin to play. 40 cans of Beast and 30 cigarettes later we realize it’s no use wasting the tin foil that is needed for packing bowls. These are the days of our Lives… Quickly we realize the girls on soap operas are hot, unbelievably so, but we aren’t nearly fucked up enough to make those plots palatable. The key point to remember here is that we did see, somewhere in our near future, that soap operas could conceivably be hilarious entertainment. We weren’t worried; we almost reveled in the chance to go back to our roots, back to the days of our youth when we could pass an entire afternoon with nothing but a tennis ball and a healthy imagination. What we didn’t realize was a healthy imagination combined with a healthy appetite for Jim bean, creates an entirely different experience. Scoping out the side of the house we realized we had ourselves a perfect set up for some good old fashioned wire ball. There was only one problem, pigeons. The solution? Do what any good hunter does; binge drink competitively and find a weapon. At this point we had been drinking since mid-morning and the devolutionary process was in full swing. AKA we were missing a few chromosomes. First choice of pigeon dismemberment device was a simple green tennis ball. It was obvious the Spalding was accurate but wouldn’t inflict sufficient damage to the cum-rag specious of fowl. Like watching a time lapse of evolution, we soon upgraded to wiffle-ball-bat spears.
With a system of grunts and chest bumps we honed our technique; the tribe was learning to use tools. Thinking that I needed a shot of Bean to steady the hand I ran to my room only to remember I possessed possibly the deadliest weapon known to man. Because of it’s under rated and unrespected ability to cause untold amounts of financial, mental, and physical damage, the sling shot wrist rocket is the most lethal weapon known to humanity. I stood upon the back deck of the shanty town shit shack beating my chest with a bottle of Bean in one hand and a sling shot in the other. I was King Kong. I had invented the wheel and brought about the age of man and the downfall of cum raggeous fowlicus. Armed with a bottle of 15 dollar liquid rage and a backyard of gravel, victory was all but certain. It should be mentioned that the original purpose of removing the birds from the wire had been completely forgotten. Nothing less than complete and total annihilation of everything pigeon would be accepted. As we each took turns hurling rocks the rest fired off a battery of four letter mortars that resounded throughout the neighborhood. As the majority of birds had flown to safety, we began missing our targets more and more regularly. Needless to say this had nothing to do with the few dozen recycling bins we managed to fill with horse piss beer. As the inebriated hamster stumbled on the wheels of my mind I began to question the final resting place of our gravel ammunition.
Upon realization of our rocks trajectories it seemed as though the proverbial light bulb was lit by Lucifer himself. Our only regret was that we couldn’t see who or what we were hitting. Although the wrist rocket eventually broke that day, it helped to usher in a period of anonymous, unprovoked abuse against an innocent J.O. Motel.