Boi: The Legacy

Matties.

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 17:12:26 -0500

Boi Draft 09

I know with Freedom Fest V coming up there might be a lot of questions about games that will be played. Beer pong, flip cup, boxing, jew ball, etc. You’re probably thinking…hmmm….who do I want to be my partner? Or who can I trust when the games on the line? So in order to help everyone out I had my good friend over at ESPN, Mel Kiper Jr. (draft and recruiting expert), to give us his expert analysis. Or as he likes to put it, his Mock Draft. So here is his draft listed from last to first.

21. Anthony “Lil D” Deangelis. Here’s the reason why he’s not in the 1st round (top 20). Because I don’t trust these kids that come straight out of high school. Is he gifted? No doubt. He might revolutionize the game for all we know. But its a huge risk. How well can he manage his life with all these distractions around him? Too many question marks for me.

20. Jeff “DJ HIV” Dye. This kid really has not impressed me over the course of the last five months. He had a horrible day at senior day and when I talked to him after the game he just gave me all the wrong impressions. He had a flacid handshake, wandering eyes, and a lot of “ummm i don’t know” answers. He’s likely to go undrafted if he doesn’t get his act together.

19. Sein “Ron Sheeds” Reid. Remember back in 2005 what everyone was saying. Oh this kids gonna be the next Reggie White. He has hall of fame written all over him. Not so fast…He’s still a great athlete with potential but my personal feeling is that he has already peaked physically. He can be a starter for any team but the question is, how bad does he want it?

18. Sean “Smoothboots, Fa$e” Borelli. Nobody knows how to break through to this kid. I understand he had a rough upbringing but we’re talking about becoming a professional here. He understands that this is the biggest moment in his life and then what’s he do? Fails his drug test right before the draft. It blows my mind. I wouldn’t take him.

17. Kyle “?” Sparkman. Some questions have arisen over this kid’s enthusiasm for the game. However no one questions his intelligence. If he’s not playing on the field within five years then he’ll be making moves in the front office, that’s a guarantee. Side note - The fact that Sparkman doesn’t have a nickname kind of disturbs me. Makes you wonder….why?

16. Mike “Mikey Stumbles” Busacca. Good heart, great smile, never late. I’ll put this kid on my team anyday. He’s got all the tools for the real world. However, like his nickname suggests, he has two left feet.

15. John “JR” Underwood. A real wild card here. He’s great in the clubhouse. Players love him. His college coach actually shipped his daughter off to boarding school in order to make room for JR to move in when JR could no longer afford rent. However, there is a downside. Underwood gives new meaning to the word, “Personal Foul.” Its like buying a new dog…..Do your research before you buy so you are prepared for what you’re getting.

14. Joe “2slo” Gavish. People always asking me, “Yo Mel, How come you got a guy named 2slo as high up as 14th overall?” I tell the guy, “Look. I know he’s put on some weight and lost a step or two in speed. But his style and approach to the game will be a great fit for somebody.”

13. Chris “Korbusso” Corbus. This guy has seen it all. Raised by a poor immigrant family, diagnosed with asthma at an early age, never given the oppurtunities that most kids have. But somehow he made it through all of that. He just got back from traveling overseas. You talk to him for five minutes and see the level of maturity that this kid possesses. He’s got future coach written all over him.

12. Dan “Dan Smith” Smith. This year’s Chris Weinke. A little old however he can really help out a young team. He’s a natural leader with a knack for big plays. A solid starter for any team. His knees are a question mark though.

11. Nicholas “Lazer” Casario. His physical tools are top 10 if not top 5 draft status, his mental tools are not. All I hear about this kid is how he got in a fight with five people at once, how he narrowly escaped a DUI, how that loaded gun really isn’t his. I think if he can get his act straight he’s got All-Star potential no doubt. But his violent, party lifestyle will keep him out of the pros.

10. Ben “Benji” Moneyhan. This is my draft sleeper. An 18-25 pick on most peoples’ lists. On mine he’s top ten and let me tell you why. This kid is someone who know’s how to play the game. I don’t care if he’s not as strong or as fast as some of the other players. He knows how to play the game. You draft Ben Moneyhan you’re drafting a drinker.

9. Adam “Monkey” Webster. Just an overall solid pick. Class Act. Here’s a guy who is settled down, married with kids, knows what he wants in life, has earned a real paycheck before, and wants to make a better life for him and his family. You won’t have off the field problems with Webster. This is a conservative pick who will fit in with anybody’s team. You won’t see anybody trading up to pick him though.

8. Sawyer “Leffy” Leftwich. Repulsive person. Not the face of the franchise at all. But, and thats a powerful but, nobody steps up to the bar like Sawyer Leftwich. He gives 110% everytime the bottle touches his lips and you can’t ask for more out of a guy than that. He loves the game.

7. Trever “TMac” McDonald. Great physical tools. Can be a utility player. Put him in any spot, in any game, and in any situation and he’s going to shine. However health concerns are someting worring alot of GM’s out there. They call Trever “Sleezy T” in the locker room. How will gonorrhea affect his ability to perform 3, 5, 10 years down the road? Is this something that McDonald should come out and publicaly address?

6. Matt “Gay Troy” Padgett. One of the most gifted athletes we’ve ever seen enter the draft. His physical tools are off the charts and he can sniff out plays like a bloodhound. However, his character is a question. He is currently on trial for three felony gun charges. Even if he is found innocent, his marketability is already tarnished. What team wants a “thug” as the face of their franchise? This guy might go anywhere in the top 5 but i’ve dropped him down to 6 on my board.

5. Robbie “BAMF” Jernigan. Last years heisman is an impressive speciman. His strength and game-time mentality is more like a Spartan than a boi. However he won the heisman on big plays, raw talent, and luck. In order to succeed at the next level he will need some fine tuning on his fundamentals. His college coach tells me that during the few hours before gametime Jernigan must be kept in a calm, safe, and friendly environment to make sure that he doen’t hurt any of his teammates.

4. Conan “Conan” Obrien. A quality young man. People always ask me, “Yo Mel what about….” I cut him off and start talking, “He’s a behemoth in the weightroom, a behemoth in the bedroom, and a behemoth at the bar.” Thats what i always say. He was the Defensive player of the year last year and I really like this pick. Good pick.

3. Charley “Big Time Ca$h” Combs. This guy is a horse. Tons of upside. Its hard to decifer the truth from legend about this guy. The story of him drinking a fifth in 30 minutes…thats fact. Saw with my own two eyes. But the throwing up and creating the Mississippi River out of his own vomit, pretty sure thats just myth. Either way the kids franchise all the way. There is a possibility of him holding out for more money though. If a team can’t come to terms quickly with Combs, then he might miss training camp and cause a whole mess of problems.

2. Clay “Maverick” Thomson. Boy do I like this guy. Strong work ethic, great technique, Southpaw, and he has a certian swagger about himself during the game. On top of that he has the pedigree to back it up. Thompson is a world class drinker who could easily be the number one pick.

1. Matthew “Top Gun” Suters. I don’t need to descibe his abilities. I think we’re all aware of what this man can do. He excels at more than just drinking. Gambling, golf, women, drifting, acting, style, stock markets…need i go on? He has the potential to be the face of the bois over the next twenty years. But, he’s a thrill seeker. Last weekend he almost died in a Formula 1 race on amateur driver day. His adventurous / thrill seeking attitude could create future problems with his contract, however he is just too talented to pass up in my book.

BROS CREED

Shades on, collar popped, Walking out the door,
Gonna get some strange, Hope she’s not a whore.
God I smell so nice, It must be the Tommy,
Riding in my Beemer, Trying to impress the mommies.
I pull up to the players club, blaring my techno beat,
I know they’re all staring, They all know I look sweet.
I stroll up to the door, Me and all my swagger,
But suddenly I’m stopped, By a superhuman nagger.
This beast is gigantic, He says I’m not their type,
So I argued with the man, Until he hit me with a pipe.

Its midnight on a Saturday, And you know what that means bro,
I’m GONNA get some strange, No nagger will tell me no.
I love to drink and drive, It’s kind of what I do,
Trying to find a club, Hopefully someplace new.
I see the flashing lights, WOW there’s lots of honeys,
Once they see my hair, they’ll think I’m made of money.
Failure is not an option, Strange is what I need,
So I take out my jokers, And roll me up some weed.
I walk up to this honey, A shitty grin is on my face,
She doesn’t like my game, My eyes now torched with mace.

I’ll give it one more shot, That’s a bro’s creed,
This time I’ll get some strange, But no more smoking weed.
Cruising in my beemer, My muscles looking hot,
I really need to hurry, It’s almost one o’clock.
I pull up to the castle, God I’m so damn cool,
I can’t wait to find this broad, And screw her in the pool.
There’s not a lot of girls, In fact it’s overwhelming dick,
But that’s okay with me bro, Because my polo’s fucking sick.
I’m extremely disappointed, As I get back in my car,
How can I find some strange, If I’m at a gay bar?

I’ve never felt more worthless, I feel completely ashamed,
It’s like if you traded Michael Jordan, for a player-to-be-named.
How is this night possible, I’ve let down all my bros,
I know they’re with some hotties, licking on their toes.
I’ll try again tomorrow, That’s a bro’s creed,
I really need some strange, A bro’s in desperate need.Official Police Report for September 1, 1995.

Suspects:

Ca$h, Big Time. AKA: Big Time Ca$h 5’ 6” 180 lbs. African American with a stout, muscular build. Several tattoos including “BANK” written on his neck and a Benjamin Franklin portrait on his left pectoral. Mr. Ca$h resides in Oakland, California with his girlfriend and seven illegitimate children. Notorious gangster, pimp, rapper, money launderer, and money lover. Ca$h also sells underground hit albums throuhout California. Forbes magazine ranks him among the ten richest African Americans in the world today. His exact worth is unknown but Big Time Ca$h insists that it is truly “Big Time.” He has been arrested 47 times before for all kinds of charges however Mr. Ca$h has only spent a total of 13 days in jail. This man has no formal education. Mr. Ca$h can not be trusted.

Troy III, Gaylord Richard. AKA: Gay Troy 6’ 5” 235 lbs. African American. Tall, strong, and well proportioned. Several tattoos including “Alpah Nigger” written across his upper back and two Colt 45 pistols on his lower abdomen. Mr. Troy lives on a vast estate in Atlanta with several pitbulls. He has no living family or childhood friends that we know of. Mr. Troy has his MBA from Georgia Tech University. It has been believed for some time now that Mr. Troy has been involved in gang activity. He is also a possible homicidal psychopath. Mr. Troy takes part in homosexual activities. Mr. Troy does not take part in community activites. He is believed to be armed and extremely dangerous.

Detmer, Ty. 6’0” 185 lbs. Caucasian. Morman. 1990 Heisman Trophy Winner at Brigham Young University. After deciding that professional football was not in his best interests, Detmer decided that professional crime was. He quickly became a demolition expert. Using small amounts of TNT and C4 stuck to footballs, Detmer could use his heisman arm to throw these deadly grenades up to 50 yards. He rose to the top ranks of American assassins and working out of Salt Lake City, Utah, Detmer made connections throughout California and the west coast. This man is very smart and an exceptional athlete. He has six wives, all of who are deadly killers as well. Ty Detmer and his wives are considered to be highly dangerous but severly wounded.

Official Overall Report:

It is believed that Ty Detmer was hired as a professional assassin by Big Time Ca$h. The hit was suppose to be made on Gaylord Richard Troy III, better known as Gay Troy, on July 30, 1994. Ty Detmer was also suppose to steal a Dinette Set that Gay Troy won on “The Price Is Right” on July 26, 1994. Detmer did not kill Gay Troy but he did steal the dinette set and start a gang war that would last more than a month. In the end no one ended up with the dinette set, as the dinette set was burned in a furnace and Ty Detmer lost his leg. The where-abouts of all three men are unknown. Several civilians lost there lives.

7 / 26 /94 “The Price Is Right” tape. Cut out of Gaylord Richard Troy III winning the Dinette Set.

GAY TROY COME ON DOWN!!! YOUR THE NEXT CONTESTANT ON THE PRICE IS RIGHT!!!

Drew Carey: Come on down Gay Troy
Gay Troy: Oh my god! Oh my baby jesus Oh my god!!! Oh God Oh God Oh God!!!
Drew: Whats our next item up for bid?

A BEAUTIFUL DINETTE SET MADE FROM RARE OAK ONLY FOUND IN TAILAND. ACCOMPANIED BY FOUR CHAIRS.

Drew: A rare oak dinette set. Alright let’s start the bidding with Gay Troy.
Troy: $300,000 Drew.
Drew: hahaha Wow. A bold guess by Gay Troy.
Troy: Watch your tone Drew I’d hate to ruin a good time.
Contestant 1: $40,000
Contestant 2: $30,000
Contestant 3: $41,000
Drew: Ohhhhhh everyone went over we’re going to have to guess again.
Troy: Let me get that $21,000 piece Drew.
Contestant 1: $8,000
Contestant 2: $10,000
Contestant 3: $32,000 Drew.
Drew: 32,000? Thats your final guess? We did go over last time remember?
Contestant 3: $32,000 Drew. That’s final. Wooooh Dallas!!!! Woooh! Go Dallas!!!
Drew: Actual Retail Price….$21,500 come on up here Gay Troy!!!
Troy: What? WHAT?!? Oh shit oh shit oh my god oh shit.

Chronological History of the crimes believed related to this case:

7/30 - Negro found bruised and battered. Said his dinette set was stolen by a quaterback. Police search the negro for drugs. When the search comes up negative, they plant some on him.

8/1 - Detmer Palace in Salt Lake City Utah attacked. Only the Dinette Set, underwear, and highlight tapes were stolen.

8/4 - Traffic Backed up for six hours on the interstate due to a high speed chase between two men which involved heavy gunfire and three casualties. Two of the
casualties are two of Ty Detmer’s wives. Both were carrying explosives on them. The third casualty was Timmy Tonnebaker, a local third grader who didn’t make it to see his 9th birthday. Timmy was shot 39 times.

8/9 - Fight breaks out at Dunkin Donuts. All donuts all stolen. No money is stolen. One elder man claims his soul was taken from him that morning.

8/10 - Bombing of Atlanta night club goes off around 1:30 am. Police find scraps of footballs laying around the club. They also find customized condoms in the VIP section. GT*ATL is written on the resevoir tips.

8/15 - Dinette Set found stolen again from the Detmer palace. Two more of Ty Detmer’s wives and Ty’s personal servant are dead. Ty’s personal servant shows signs of rape but interestingly enough, the wives do not.

8/20 - Gun battle breaks out at Bojangles Chicken in Atlanta, Georgia. Blood everywhere. “Thai Oak” is written in blood on the walls.

8/30 - Dinette set found burnt in a furnace of an office building in downtown Oakland, California. Chained to the burnt dinette set is a man’s leg. DNA tests reveal that it is the leg of Ty Detmer. Big Time Ca$h, Gay Troy, and Ty Detmer are still at large

Gay Troy and His Quest for Boyko Radko

It has been more than three years since Gay Troy defeated his archrival Big Time Cash in battle; three years since Gay Troy spoke with God; and three years since Gay Troy walked to Quebec. He arrived a victor and, as God told him, he was greeted as a king. Gay Troy had the time of his life in Quebec. He lived in a French mansion built over 250 years ago, he made major coke deals on a weekly basis, and slept with beautiful men every night. But one night this fantasy world that Gay Troy now called “life” came to an abrupt end.

It was about 3:15 am and Gay Troy was sound asleep in his flannel sheets. Then a bright light with what sounded like trumpets appeared in his room. Gay Troy immediately jumped out of bed, startled but not scared.

“God damn nigga I just pissed my drawers! Who the fuck do you think…” Troy was cut off by the booming voice.

“Silence Negro! For I am Michael, the Archangel of War! I come bearing news of the upmost importance and I expect your undivided attention!

“Wait, wait, aren’t you suppose to be…”

“Yes I know. Gabriel is on two weeks paid vacation and I am filling his place. Now, as for your undivided attention. The Lord your God has chosen you for a certain mission. A mission so serious that if you do not complete it God’s perfect plan will be in jeopardy. Do you understand?”

“Yeah that’s cool and all but why me?”

“Gaylord Richard Troy III you are, short of Lucifer, the worst creature ever to set foot on Earth. Your heart is filled with hate, your mind is full of greed, your guns are full with bullets, and your stomach is filled with sperm. And this is exactly why the Lord has chosen you. A man so ruthless, wicked, and black that you can’t do anything but succeed. Fly to London and meet up with a man named Nigel Wood and his fellow companion King. He will instruct you from there.”

Gay Troy, still mad about pissing his pants and hearing his full name said out loud, bought a one way plane ticket to London, England for 6 a.m. the next day.

When Gay Troy stepped off the plane he was met by an odd looking fellow and his beautiful pitbull.

“Let me guess, you’re Nigel Wood and that is King?” Troy said with a slight smile.

“If I’m not Nigel Wood, than you aren’t the darkest nigger I’ve ever seen!” Nigel said with hearty laugh.

Gay Troy reached for his 9 mm but King, always on alert, quickly silenced that thought. They all exited the airport and rode to Nigel’s house to discuss matters. Nigel explained the whole situation to Gay Troy and how his failure would surely doom the universe. He told Gay Troy that his mission is to destroy one man; however, this is no ordinary man, in fact no one even knows if he is a man at all. Nigel told Gay Troy that his name is Boyko Radko, which means “Battle Happy” in his native language. Nigel described Boyko as a man “so mean, so vicious, so uncontrollably brutal that not even hell would accept his soul.” Gay Troy laughed and touched his cock. For Gay Troy loves a good challenge.

Two days later Gay Troy, Nigel, and King all set out for Sofia, Bulgaria. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Sofia it is the capital of Bulgaria and lies next to the Balkan Mountains. To best describe Sofia best would be to set a bag of dog shit on fire and then set it next to mountains. Anyways, almost as soon as they stepped foot off of the plane they started looking for Boyko. With Nigel researching in the libraries, King using his excellent nose for tracking, and Gay Troy forcing information out of people at gunpoint, the trio made significant progress in the search for Boyko Radko. One old lady, while begging for her life, told Gay Troy of a hidden temple where Boyko is suppose to reside. Gay Troy thanked her and then disposed of her cold, dead body. King frowned upon this but decided to turn his furry shoulder.

After four hours of horseback riding, yes King can ride a horse, they found the temple. The temple was old, beat up, and it smelled like moldy banana pudding. First they heard footsteps, then voices, then moans, then they smelled the stink of the undead. For none of them could have expected what came next, Zombies. The zombies, six of them in all, stumbled out to meat our fearless trio at the entrance of the temple. Gay Troy’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe it! It couldn’t be! It can’t be! It was. It was Big Time Cash, back from the dead. His fade was gone along with his cash. And his skin was a little more green than it was black but nonetheless Gay Troy instantly recognized his old nemesis. Nigel instantly called for the smallest, weakest zombie. King barked four times, which obviously means that he will take on four zombies. And as for Gay Troy…well he had unfinished business with his old enemy. King made the charge and tore through the zombies like a fat man at an all-you-can-eat steak and shrimp buffet. Nigel faced off with his weak enemy and struggled to win but after ten solid minutes of maybe the pussiest fighting the modern world has ever seen he stood victorious. Gay Troy instantly pulled out his two 9’s and emptied the clips. It had no effect on BTC’s zombie corpse. As Big Time inched closer Gay Troy pulled out his razors, still no effect. Big Time wrestled Gay Troy to the ground and had a firm grip around his throat. His grip was ten times stronger than that of his former self. As Gay Troy’s life was fading he knew that he had to think of something and do it quick. Suddenly he remembered BTC’s ultimate weakness…Cash. Gay Troy whipped out a $50 bill out of his pocket and waved it in his face. BTC’s grip loosened. He moaned like a whore and reached out for the $50. Gay Troy threw BTC off top of him, took out a lighter, and burned the $50 bill right in front of his face. The zombie Big Time Cash was so outraged that he snagged the lighter from Gay Troy’s black hands and set himself ablaze. The trio had won, no one was injured, and Gay Troy had defeated Big Time Cash in life and in death. It was his greatest accomplishment. The trio now went into the temple to search for clues on the whereabouts of Boyko Radko. They found zombie BTC’s cellular phone laying in the temple. Nigel picked it up, scrolled down to BOYTOY and pressed the call button. Nigel had the British Secret Service Agency track the call and locate the villains position. The trio rushed downtown to the designated position of Boyko. Much to their surprise it was painfully obvious where Boyko had been the whole time. The only skyscraper in the whole city had BOYKO CO. written across the top of it. Feeling like three peas wrapped in a big douchebag pod, they entered the skyscraper and traveled up ninety stories to get to the roof of the building.

As soon as they exited the elevator there was Boyko, in all his evil glory. He was built like a linebacker and his skin was nicely tanned. His hair was jet black and spiked. He was dressed with sunglasses, a bright pink polo, very short shorts, and boating shoes. “My God,” Troy muttered to himself, “He is the very thing I despise.” When Boyko opened his mouth and preached his nonsense to the trio, all Gay Troy could think about is how his voice sounds like Madeleine Albright. He also couldn’t help but notice his teeth were razor sharp. So sharp that they could cut through steel or a turtle’s shell. Gay Troy had hoped to get a blowjob from the villain before this whole escapade was over but that thought quickly exited his mind. Boyko was still preaching about his plan to overthrow God and undo the universe, but Gay Troy couldn’t focus. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Boyko’s muscles. “It would be a good lay,” Gay Troy thought to himself, “A strong lay.” But suddenly, breaking Gay Troy’s attention, battle ensued. Boyko struck Nigel first. One crippling blow and Nigel was down for the count. Then King went for the death grip on the throat. No such luck. He too now laid injured on the ground. With Nigel unconscious and King critically wounded, it is now up to Gay Troy and his half chub dick to save the day. Gay Troy and Boyko Radko battled maybe the greatest hand to hand battle of all time. The sounds of their thunderous hits will echo throughout history. It was like two American Bison Bulls squaring off with one another for the right to mate with the female. Or Neo and Agent Smith dueling in another epic cinematic fight. Fist connected with face, foot connected with groin, and teeth met the flesh. They fought for roughly an hour but anyone who witnessed the event would say it lasted a millennia. The fight ended almost as quickly as it began. Gay Troy is 6’5” and 235 lbs. He has been fighting since the age of four. He is powerfully built and can end a full grown man’s life and one fatal blow. His Negrolific strength gives him an unparalleled fighting ability. And when he connected with Boyko’s face, one could hear the bones shatter from beyond the horizon. It was instant death. You couldn’t of hit him harder with a bat. Gay Troy smiled. He was pleased with what he had done. Gay Troy picked up Nigel, picked up King, threw Boyko the shocker, and headed home.

When Gay Troy got back to his hotel room he poured a glass of top shelf rum and rolled a blunt of the finest weed London had to offer. He thought about Nigel and King in the hospital, he thought about his place in history, he thought about the final blow that ended Boyko’s life, and he thought about masturbating but he had not the energy. Then before Gay Troy had even had time to sit back and relax a thunderous noise shook the room and dimmed the lights. A voice rang out, “Brother Troy.” A stoned and drunk Gay Troy started cracking up laughing. “BROTHER TROY!”

“Word?” said the tipsy colored.

“It is the Lord your God, creator of all things good, architect of the universe.”

“Oh….word.” Even in the presence of the All Mighty all Gay Troy could think about was a double scoop of Rocky Road ice cream.

“Because you have successfully done what I have asked of thee I am awarding you with a vast estate on the northern side of Atlanta. Go there and make your peace. Your obedience will not be overlooked.”

The Lord vanished with such haste that it left Gay Troy wondering if that really just happened or if this is just some kick ass sticky icky. When Gay Troy arrived at the estate he instantly knew what he wanted to do with the land. He called up his friend and they went to work immediately. Gay Troy along with the help of his fellow Atlantian, Mike Vick, successfully turned the estate into the world’s premier dog fighting rink. It was truly a thing of beauty. It was certainly a sight to see: blood thirsty pitbulls fighting in a ring and directly in the middle of the action stood Gay Troy and Mike Vick making out. You could say at that very moment, all was good in the universe. Mankind will live to see another day.

This is the true account of Gay Troy and his quest for Boyko Radko.

Gay TROY Facts

Gay Troy once met God, and was told to travel to Quebec.

Satan lost his soul in a bet to Gay Troy.

Although it cannot be proven, most scientists agree that Gay Troy’s dick is approximately 13.5 inches.

Gay Troy once slapped a 7 year old for incorrectly explaing the rules of 4 square.

Gay Troy once made love to a man until his heart exploded.

Gay Troy once met President Reagan; called him a bitch and slapped him in his bitch ass face.

Gay Troy once killed a litter of kittens just to prove a point.

Gay Troy once traveled to Oakland, CA and shit all over Big Time Cash’s house and parents.

Gay Troy once shot a man in the skull and preceeded to skull-fuck the man.

Gay Troy has a MBA from Georgia Tech University.

Gay Troy once wanted to be something great….but then found his daddy’s gun.

Gay Troy’s dick has never been photographed.

Gay Troy can not be seen in mirrors. No he is not a vampire.

Gay Troy’s skin is the same color as the night sky.

Gay Troy once thought that gold fronts were for pussys. Instead he gold plated his balls. 24K nigger.

Gay Troy owns Atlanta.

Gay Troy once received head from Chipper Jones, Robert De Niro, and that guy from Reading Rainbow.

Gay Troy has seventeen platinum albums.

Gay Troy has one main man = Maverick

Gay Troy has one arch enemy = Big Time Cash

Gay Troy has one dick to rule them all.

Gay Troy once blew up a bus full of cross country runners, just to prove a point.

Gay Troy once fell in love at first sight, and moments later killed the poor bastard for making him feel warm inside.

Gay Troy’s favorite band of all time is Earth, Wind, and Fire. Closely followed by the OA bois (Gay Troy, Fa$e, and Conezone)

Gay Troy once had sex with a woman. He didn’t like it.

Gay Troy once fucked i guy in the ass, pulled out, covered him in spermies, whipped out his 9mm, shot him 3 times, threw him the shocker, and left.

Gay Troy will have a lunar eclipse in his asshole from time to time.

Gay Troy is wanted in 43 states and 1 Canadian province (all for murder)

A cop has actually said “Who is Gay Troy?” (True Story)

Gay Troy is the alpha nigger, now and forever.

The Rise of Troy

It was muggy Tuesday morning. The air was filled with dew and the morning doves brought the hope and promise of a new day. But there was something in the air. There was a feeling of hostility and rivalry. Ali - Frazier, Rome - Carthage, Hamilton - Burr; these names are echoed throughout history but none would impact the universe as greatly as this battle. The stage is set, the planets are aligned, the animals are silent, and blood is about to be spilt.

A body appears. It seems to grown inch by inch out of the ground. It is a short yet stout man. Unproportional yet well balanced. He was strong and black. He had a pencil thin beard and a well groomed fade. His clothes were fashionable and his shoes were gator skin. He wore a baseball hat and a gold chain that read “Big Time Cash.” He starts to pull out his flask when another man appears. The dewy fog divides and out of the woods walks a man. He is tall, broad, strong, and as black as night. At first appearance he is a man who well experienced, demanding, controlling, and dominant. He is shirtless wearing only jeans and brand new sneakers. Across his back a tattoo reads, “Alpha Nigger.” It is him, it is the Alpha Nigger, it is Gay Troy.

Two great enemies now stare into each others eyes from across the battlefield. The sun has risen, the air is silent, and the invisible eyes of the universe are watching. Each man waiting on the other to make a move. Big Time Cash takes a swig of his flask. Gay Troy touches his cock. A white dove lands in the middle of the field…….and then explodes. The battle has begun. For nine whole days these two men waged war on each other. Guns were fired, swords were drawn, mines were detenated, dicks were sucked, and blood was everywhere. And at the end of the ninth day it was Gay Troy standing. Big Time Cash was finally dead. His body was cold and his limbs seperated from his body. His time had ended.

As Gay Troy started to eat the flesh of his victim, something peculiar happened. The clouds opened and a booming voice rang out of the sky.

“GAY TROY.”

“Yes Lord?”

“YOU HAVE PASSED YOUR TEST AND YOUR REWARD AWAITS YOU.”

“What shall I do Lord?”

“TRAVEL TO QUEBEC. AND YOU SHALL BE GREETED AS A KING.”

When Gay Troy and God were done speaking God receded into the heavens and Gay Troy walked back to the woods and headed towards Quebec.

The Adventures of ATP and Dirtrow. Vol. I

Year: 1994 Setting: Chicago, Illinois

Everyone knows that the three things that ATP and Dirtrow have in common are their love of women, beer, and hating the french. And when the french started selling drugs to children in their own backyard, ATP and Dirtrow decided to take action.

It was a normal Thursday afternoon when they heard the news. ATP and Dirtrow were at the shipping yards and on break when they read in the paper about a local french gang selling drugs in Chicago schools. They, like the community, were in outrage. Their hearts were filled with vengeance and their minds with killing. And when seeing a news report later that night our heros decided to take matters into their own hands. So they took off work. If they are to become assassins, mercenaries, peacekeepers they cant be working 50 hours a week at the yard. They thought about their plan of attack. Find whose at the top and bring em down. They started with ATP calling a few old friends at the bureau. They informed him with a list of names the led the gang and that the three top leaders are meeting somewhere in the city within the next week. Now that they had names, they needed information.

Its now Saturday night. ATPs doing recon. Gathering information, taking pictures, and watching every movement of these men as he follows them to bars and clubs around downtown. Dirtrows mission: Gather information first hand. He drives to where two small time dealers usually hang out and sell. He walks up slowly with a certain confidence about him. A confidence that has “Im gonna fuck you up” written all over it. Before the first poor bastard even mutters a word Dirtrow knocks his front teeth out. The second man swings and misses. Dirtrow throws him on the ground and tells him to talk. The man curses but the french language only angers Dirtrow even more. He grabs him by the head, tells him to bite the curb, and knocks his teeth out. Realizing that he has two unconscious, unable to talk frenchmen, Dirtrow steals their cell phones, wallets, and drugs. He throws them both in the river, rolls a fat one, and heads home.

Tuesday Night: The large gang meeting is taking place at an excellent local french restaurant. Dirtrow, armed with a Louisville Slugger and a broken Icehouse bottle, can taste the blood on his lips. ATP, equipped with a 6” blade and a Desert Eagle, feels like a small child on christmas. Dirtrow opens the front door and sticks the first guard with the icehouse bottle. He starts taking people out with the bat left and right. When everybody realizes what is happening and try to reach for their guns, ATP drops in from the ceiling. With the precision of a artist bullets go flying. 9 shots, 9 brains on the wall. Theres one man left. The Boss. Crying like a baby he begs for his life. Our heros show no mercy. Dirtrow takes his legs out with a bat and ATP takes his head clean off his shoulders.

“Your cute when your angry,” exclaims Dirtrow.

“I know,” says ATP.

They grab a cab and head to a bar.

History Of GKG

In recent months it has come to my attention that people are claiming GKG status. However, not only are they not real GKG but they probably don’t even know what GKG stands for, or the two house political system that we built, or the initiation process. So I’m going to explain for everyone and then it will be clear who is GKG.

Now the two House political system started out as two rival gangs. The Confederates and the River Terrace Crew. Each gang consisted of a general and several members. Many battles were fought. I personally went after school to back up a fellow FED in a fight. Turns out he was a pussy and didn’t show so it was me versus four RTC members. I got my ass beat. The war lasted for close to a year, but ended on one glorius night. At the 2004 Homecoming Growl we fought our last battle. The two generals walked up on stage and met. Nick, the RTC general, was sporting their colors and I, the FED general, was wrapped in a confederate flag. All the members then fought on stage and tore down the stage and pissed everyone off. But more importantly that battle ended the war. The next day we were in Mr. Griffiths office. He asked us who is the “grassy knoll gunman?” Whos the hidden man behind the stage. We all thought it was funny that he made a reference to the Kennedy assassination so we started calling ourselves the Grassy Knoll Gunman or GKG. So actually the assistant principle of Hernando High gave us our name. So that is how GKG started and the war ended. There is also a treaty between the gangs. Its not written though. The generals split the price and bought a beautiful yellow bong. “The Treaty.”

Now, for the initiation process. All members of the original two gangs are automatic GKG. We were there from the start, we fought our war, thats just how it goes. But new members can be added. Since GKG was formed, two members have been added and met the requirements. Joe ‘2slo’ Gavish joined the RTC and Anthony ‘8 inches’ Deangelis joined the FEDS. But heres how they did it. First off, you must be a rudeboi. We like to smoke, drink, and laugh, its what we do best. Then they must pledge to a gang. FEDS or RTC. Then one week of hazing is required. aka “Hell Week.” You have to do whatever we say and no questions. For example Lil D was the last one to do it. He did sprints, a lot of pushups, drank whenever we told him, smoked whenever, bit a random kid, wore a little pink girls shirt and served everybody beer, and ate a horrible salt cube thingy. While going through hell week you will see death around the corner but you wont die. You are also required to know all the members of GKG, the history of GKG, and the grandfathers of GKG (ATP, Dirtrow, and Uncle Joe). IF you make it through hell week then you will get your scar. We’ll put out a cigarette or a blunt on you. After that your GKG. Your seen as an equal in the group and we will all die for you. 2slo and lil D have my ultimate respect and love for what they went through. So unless you have our consent to try hell week and then make it through hell week, you cant be GKG.

GKG is a firm organization that is more professional than people think or know. We vote when problems come up within the group. We do such events as GKG thanksgiving and GKG christmas. And it is a democracy. I’m the general of the FEDS because I am of Confederate blood and the heir to ATP. However I can be voted down if it is necessary. In the heat of the war, the RTC was on a hot streak and it looked as if we werent going to make it through the week. The FEDS had a meeting and I volunteered to step down as general. But we voted and everyone thought that I should stay general. Our political system has thrived. And this year GKG has gone National. We now have Ambassadors in Brooksville, Tampa, Tallahassee, Deland, Ellington, and New Mexico.

So there it is. Now you know if your really GKG. All these people that come up to me and say ”dude i put a blunt out on me, im GKG” or “yea im GKG because a member said i was” …now they know the truth and i hope that they read this.

Molly

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 21:56:34 -0500

Natural Light has tranformed from a party favor to part of my daily diet. I have atleast one no matter the occasion; cleaning, video games, movies, snacks. So its expected that every night begins with a slew of “Natties.” Today me and a good friend bridged a gap from a recent arguement. The metaphorical peace treaty was in the form of Molly; in laymans terms a form of ectasy. Normally my repetoire of drugs does not include pills or manufactured chemicals but for the sake of peace and friendship I relieved my short list of morals.

The act of overdriving my brain began at around nine thirty. Rivers, Kasey, Brittany, a newcomer Matt, and myself were in attendance. They’re were a total of 8 clear capsules filled a 1/4 of the way with what appeared to be tiny white flakes. Rivers took the captains chair and broke open two of the capsules and evenly distributed the contents into five of the capsules, leaving one extra. He then proposed a toast, as we washed the chemicals down our throats.

“Tonight will be amazing. Close friends finding their minds lost in the eye of our sky. Making amends, taking nothing for granted… savouring our breath.”

A peculiar feeling set on me as soon as Molly began her descent into my stomach and subsequently into my blood stream; anxiety. Unlike cannabis or cocaine, these drugs take an inconclusive amount of time to kick in. I have learned that this time period is usually between an hour to hour and a half for myself. This is much longer than anyone else any time I have done a drug that requires ingestion. I have attributed this to having a slower metabolism than most. To kill the time I decided to play a game of pool with the newcomer Matt. Matt was a coworker of Kasey and Brittany and I had never met him before. It seemed logical to get to know him before we dive headfirst into a drug induced euphoria. After an unsually sloppy game of pool the girls and Rivers started acting funny. Their pupils dilated and they began to talk incessantly. I felt nothing peculiar, other than anxiety, and a slight buzz from Natties.

Boredom began to set in and everyone decided to move to the roof. I still had no euphoric feeling associated with Molly but everyone else seemed to be in full swing. “How are you feeling, you feel good?” I assured them I was fine, that I really didnt feel anything. Kasey and Brittany began touching my hands and legs in an attempt to induce euphoria. I felt nothing beyond the normal sensation of being touched gently by women. Rivers jumped up and blew vicks in my eyes; for some reason it was awesome to them, I never quite understood it. Two new voices shouted from the stairs to the roof. The neighbor kids had found thier way over to our house. Travis and Cheeta are the neighbor kids; 17 and 15 respectively. After delibration we allowed them to hang out with us.

Atleast an hour and a half had past before any affect had s

-work in progress im coming back to it.

Toolbelt

Thu, 02 Jul 2009 18:45:06 -0400

I am very peturbed at the use.

Vagabond

Wed, 01 Jul 2009 14:17:52 -0400

The last couple of weeks have been different. I took a haitus from the annals of Tampa Bay and found myself in a familiar place; my parents. There is this quote from a movie that I don’t even remember the name, or even exactly how it goes but it was an idea something similar to this - when you leave your home you never really feel at home again, its just a place to put your stuff. It never holds that quaintness or familiarity that you felt as a child in your bedroom. I feel like I have no home, a vagabond. Even when I drift home I find myself in a spare bedroom that I sleep in. Its a strange world I’ve made for myself.

Currently I’m sitting in “my” room in Tampa. Theres a bed in here now, there wasn’t one when I left. There are two beautiful girls dozing beneath a black comforter. (one is little baby girl penny) Last night we had an interesting adventure. We all ate at the very least 13 shrooms and preceded to have our own spiritual journeys. JR came to the assumption that he was on the Truman Show, and I told him I was a paid actor that was hired to become his best friend and expose his innermost character to the world. He really freaked out about that, I felt legitimately bad about. Sydney transformed into a concerned woman, she held her wits with no qualm but she had an unsated urge to assure everyone was fine. Kasey sat on the couch and did not move for five hours, she was sick, and there were a lot of sober people around us, she was freaked out. I left her alone for a long time and then eventually just sat down with her. Nothing was spoken for two hours, we just sat there. I couldn’t tell if I was imposing or wanted, it was a strange feeling. I honestly was horrified because of how miserable she was but I did everything in my power to not purvey that emotion. I hope that I had some type of calming effect, that was the intention.

Why did I think of this

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 01:13:57 -0400

He was sitting there just stoned out of his mind with blue striped pants and a blue v-neck. The cat was sitting in front of the door undecided in whether or not she wanted to go in. He just sat there and looked at that cat. “healthy as horse” he thought to himself. That particular cat with it’s calicoat fur has been prowling for almost two decades and she doesn’t look a day over eight. His mother was inside, and so was his father and his sister. He just sat there, right on the front porch. High.

i'm 100% opposite of this.

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 21:50:59 -0400

Saturday was a ridiculous day. Its a strange paradox, but I believe I’ve come to the general assumption that I do in fact have some sort of problem with drinking. Physically I am completely independent but mentally I’m viced. It isn’t the taste of alcohol, or even necassarily the physical state of being drunk that draws me it is the complete loss of inhibition. I crave the wildness, the loss of concern for worldly matters, the fighting, the yelling; the chaos. Somehow the twisted creek I’ve floated along has brought me here to this very spot.

Last night I asked some people;

“What is a regular night for you?”

Subject 1: “Umm… I do some homework, masturbate, hang out”
Subject 2: “I dont know, I work, or go out to a bar, or watch movies”
Subject 3: “Hang out”

So I’m coming to this assumption that people lead relatively normal lives of some type of work, masturbation (or some form of sex), and “hanging out.” Well if you haven’t read some of my recounts of evenings my nights are rarely like that. Most nights I tightrope a line between a prison sentence and ineffable hilarity. My liquor laden heart beckons me to push the limits of whatever it is that is happening and thus I do. We (as in the bois) create a god damn spectacle; a circus of brutally uncivilized behavior. Saturday night I portrayed myself for a couple of minutes as some kind of (un)motivational speaker and got a group of seven people to metaphorically “throw out thier morals.” When the hell did I get to this point.

Embers.

Wed, 03 Jun 2009 17:23:00 -0400

My life is a fragile alliance embodied by a glass blowing artisan. I am irrational, I am immature, and most of all I am incredibly irresponsible. Those traits aside I often can make people laugh, but recently that has subsided. I find myself monitoring my breaths to ensure I am still breathing. At the mid point in the day my stomach feels hollow and Im not sure if its because I haven’t ate in twelve hours or if I am really that empty. Other times I am full for days and I wonder if its because my digestive track has given up, or maybe my brain has given up so much that my organs don’t know any better. Aches and spasms riddle through my body as my mind wanders through obscure thoughts and complacent feelings that I am unable to define. Its a sadness, a sick and twisted depression fueled by city borders and fermented yeast. A flame that I suppose will never be extinguished as long as I am monitoring my breath. Give me a fucking purpose.

Ways To Piss Off People

Sat, 11 Apr 2009 13:59:39 -0400

Leave the copy machine set to reduce 200%, extra dark, 17 inch paper, 99 copies.
In the memo field of all your checks, write “for sexual favors.”
Specify that your drive-through order is “TO-GO.”
If you have a glass eye, tap on it occasionally with your pen while talking to others.
Stomp on little plastic ketchup packets.
Insist on keeping your car windshield wipers running in all weather conditions “to keep them tuned up.”
Reply to everything someone says with “that’s what you think.”
Practice making fax and modem noises.
Highlight irrelevant information in scientific papers and “cc” them to your boss.
Make beeping noises when a large person backs up.
Finish all your sentences with the words “in accordance with prophesy.”
Signal that a conversation is over by clamping your hands over your ears and grimacing.
Disassemble your pen and “accidentally” flip the ink cartridge across the room.
Holler random numbers while someone is counting.
Adjust the tint on your TV so that all the people are green, and insist to others that you “like it that way.”
Staple pages in the middle of the page.
Publicly investigate just how slowly you can make a croaking noise.
Honk and wave to strangers.
Decline to be seated at a restaurant, and simply eat their complimentary mints at the cash register.
TYPE IN UPPERCASE.
type only in lowercase.
dont use any punctuation either
Buy a large quantity of orange traffic cones and reroute whole streets.
Repeat the following conversation a dozen times.
“DO YOU HEAR THAT?”
“What?”
“Never mind, it’s gone now.”
As much as possible, skip rather than walk.
Try playing the William Tell Overture by tapping on the bottom of your chin. When nearly done, announce “No, wait, I messed it up,” and repeat.
Ask people what gender they are.
While making presentations, occasionally bob your head like a parakeet.
Sit in your front yard pointing a hair dryer at passing cars to see if they slow down.
Sing along at the opera.
Go to a poetry recital and ask why each poem doesn’t rhyme.
Ask your co-workers mysterious questions and then scribble their answers in a notebook. Mutter something about “psychological profiles.”

Many will call me an adventurer - and that I am, only one of a...

Sun, 05 Apr 2009 19:22:49 -0400

Many will call me an adventurer - and that I am, only one of a different sort: one of those who risks his skin to prove his platitudes

The Curious Case of April 4th

Sun, 05 Apr 2009 19:17:05 -0400

Each night here in Tampa provides a thickening plot to my life story. This particular catalyst was the eldest of the Moneyhans, Aarons, birthday. Tonight is the 26th anniversary of his birth so we set out to celebrate with all of the approriate mannerisms of our barros(1). For some reason a popular place to celebrate birthdays is at Channelside; a high class courtyard filled with bars such as Stumps, Howl at the Moon, Wet Willies, Margaritaville. I have only been in attendance twice and from my observations I’ve drawn that this is where cute young single girls go to find presumably well off men to buy their drinks. I am not a well off man, but Aaron is, so its a reasonable destination.

A group of eight assembled at our humble apartment at Camden at around ten. It consisted of Kasey, Leigha, Trever, Benji, Aaron, two medical students and myself. After the delay of two eighteen packs and a bottle of vodka we decided that we needed a cab to take us to Channelside. Ben called a cabby that he knows on a first name basis, Imad, and arranged for us to be picked up by him and a friend. For some reason we had to meet them at the gate so the gang began the short trek to the main gates of Camden. Everyone drove, even though I insisted on walking. When we got to the gates two cabs were already there waiting for us. After a friendly exchange we seperated into the two transports and hit the road. It was a ridiculous ride, both cabbys allowed us to bring booze unboard. The ride was the better part of twenty minutes and ended up costing 38.55. Ridiculous.

When we had arrived at channelside it was almost eleven-thirty and the raucous environment was in full swing. Girls in short black dresses accompanied by men in striped collared shirts and stylishly torn jeans (apparantly the formal attire of channelside) perused the inner courtyards. Women clung to the cookie cutter assortment of men held asunder by the charm of alcohol. A distinct taste of pity hung in my mouth, I find this new tradition of courtship disgusting.(who am I to judge however) As we meandered through the crowd we found our way to Stumps Supper Club. I have no idea why its called stumps supper club, but I’ve never actually investigated. It is what it is; Stumps Supper Club. Immediately after a routine ID check at the door we walk to the first bar in sight. Practically no one is in the entrance as the dance floor is packed. A stereotypical female bartender is cleaning various bartending tools to kill the time. We walk up and place our orders. Pabst Blue Ribbon is the poison of choice tonight, at 2.50 a tall boy its a relatively good deal, although it is devoid of class. We met up with more of Aarons friends, med students as well, and begin to drink heavily.

Everyone had spoke of two girls that were going to be meeting us at the bar. I was told that they would be absolutely beautiful, and listened to several rants of one particular girls attractiveness. After much anticipation and curiousity that I am guilty of, they arrived. Beautiful, yes; intriguing, no. I noticed both of them staring at me at one point, obviously out of perplexion to my appearance. Everyone I was with was wearing polos, with properly manicured faces. I on the other hand was wearing a green flannel, gray shorts, chuck taylors, and a fedora that didn’t really match anything else I was wearing. I assume I look out of place in most places I am, but to be entirely honest I love this adverse reaction as I pride myself on my distinctness from the populace. These thoughts occupied most of my time over the course of two or three tall PBRs. Suddenly the signature drink of Stumps arrived on our table; the bucket. The bucket is basically a huge pale filled with a mixed drink and a dozen or so straws. At 25.50 its hardly a bargain, but its an entertaining conversation piece. The ritual of the bucket usually involves everyone taking photos sucking on the straws at one time for the coveted myspace photo. Kasey and Ben ordered one bucket of “sex on the beach” and another “margarita.” At this point the combination of pre gaming, PBRs, and the buckets have taken our soberity.

For a long time on the patio of Stumps I sat and stared at all of my friends and thier friends. An odd array of characters; med students, doctors, soccer players, marketing students, smokers, drinkers, christians, etc etc. All laughing and exchanging banter. I had no idea what any one person was talking about, I wasn’t listening to the conversations rather I was watching the scene. I believe someone asked me if something was wrong. I admired the concern, although nothing was wrong so I answered with a ridiculous statement that is so cliche of my ego; assuring the worrier that I am fine. For some reason Ben and Trever got into a scrap, catching the bouncers attention. This broke my train of thought and I assured him that there was no problem, they were kidding (in the show biz, we call this foreshadowing.)

Ben had a restlessness in his eyes, I could see it from across the bar. I think he knew I noticed it so he asked me if I wanted to go margaritaville; I obliged. Once we left the bar we settled on Wet Willies instead. Wet Willies is a smorgarsbord of frozen beverages. Ben ordered a Pina Colada, I ordered a “Call-a-Cab” and Leigha and Trever ordered god knows what. The inside of Wet Willies was actually kind of dull so we decided to go back to Stumps. After sitting at our table the bouncer told us we couldn’t have the frozen drinks inside. I assured him that our group had spent a lot of money here tonight and two frozen drinks wouldn’t be a problem but he wouldn’t budge on his stance. So we took the drinks outside. The four of us sat in the courtyard and talked about various issues. We talked about fighting someone for fun, Trever confided he needed a break from Tampa, I texted people in my phone book. Eventually Ben got bored and took a PBR can, filled it with his Pina Coloda and took it into stumps incognito. His last words to me; “If you get in a fight, yell for me and I’ll be there”

Somehow I ended up at the table by myself, for an undetermined amount of time. Kasey broke my third daydreaming stint of the evening. She looked upset so I asked her what is wrong. Ben, whom I love like a brother, is known for short tempered outbursts and apparantly told her he was gonna kick her out of our apartment. She was on the verge of tears and it honestly broke my heart, I felt a great degree of empathy. I asked her to sit down and reassured her he didn’t actually mean it. Out of nowhere a loud commotion came from the front of Stumps. I turned around and saw Ben being forceably removed from the bar by a bouncer and several men. It carried itself to the table I was at, well outside of the bar. This bouncer was older, maybe late thirties and twice the weight of Ben with atleast 6 inches on him. He pushed him down to the ground and I interjected. I stepped between the two and pushed the bouncer and told him not to touch Ben. The bouncer pushed me and Ben jumped up and swung at the bouncer. The punch connected, a sweeping right, to the bridge and orbit of the bouncer knocking him back. The chaos ensued after that throw and the bouncer and another man came at me while a group of atleast five took Ben to the ground. The cops swept in immediately and pulled the men off of Ben and stopped the bouncer and his presumed pal from coming at me. The bouncer scoffed at me and wiped his blood on my face claiming I was involved and should be arrested. Ben was carried off by police officers and I was told to sit where I had been previously. I gave the officer my ID and waited. The two officers who questioned me were reasonable men and I told them what happened verbatim. They took my name and number and let me go. I followed my flustered group of friends whom coupled with alcohol were obviously upset at the events. We walked to the cop car ben was being held at and questioned the officers about what was happening. They said he was being charged with a misdemeanor and was not being taken to jail. The older ones of the group argued with the officers, oscillating between respect and hostility. I knew that the arguements were pointless but I tried to present our case anyways. After they let him go we got to get a good look at Ben. He was coated in other peoples blood, his only wound a split open knuckle. After more exchange with the LEO’s (including an amusing anecdote involving Trever yelling sarcastically to the officers “You go get breakfast!”) we flagged down a cab and piled seven of us into the van. We were haggard, bloody, and drunk but he didn’t seem to mind. The whole way home we talked about what happened, exchanged perspectives of the story and laughed about much of it. Once we got home we payed the cabby a sum of fifty-five dollars and drove the cars back from the entrance of Camden. I rode alone with Ben. The gravity of the situation came down on him on the short drive.

After we got home, we lit up a joint and offered are marijuana induced opinions. It was almost five am and I decided to wrap the night up. I stumbled into my room, fell face first on my air mattress and went to sleep.

(1) Barros: Argentinian Slang for a gang of young boys

10-13-07. A tale from the past

Thu, 12 Mar 2009 15:00:17 -0400

“Cousin!”

I jolted into a sitting position from the floor. my back was sore, hair frazzled, and I was obviously still drunk. Wiping my eyes in confusion I looked for the source of the last audible noise I had heard. A silhouette stood between the light and me; it was my cousin. With every ounce of strength and sobriety I could muster my body slowly lifted itself from the carpet. It took a couple moments for me to find stability, clarity, and memory. Once the fog lifted I had remembered where I was, what had happened, and what was going to happen. I was at Sean’s, my cousins, apartment. It was a humble abode filled with all sorts of neat extensions of wealth. Three fine recliners, an Xbox 360 and a relatively large flat screen TV. My last memory had consisted of stumbling into this apartment with a fellow boi and two girls at 3 in the morning. I faintly remember yelling “Cynthia is a saint!” The clock read 5:30 am, and reality struck. Regardless of how hung over(or drunk) I was we had an agenda to complete. MY cousin obviously had watched my confused mannerisms long enough.

“you ready to this nick?”
“yeah, Linda, lets do this”(1)

With my friends still fast asleep and my clothes unchanged, my cousin and I left for Amscot and a convenience store. We had many things to do before the sun held high noon. Our first stop was the aforementioned Amscot, only because the counties conservative legislation restricts us from buying alcohol before six. Sean’s putt-sy corolla sputtered into Amscot and the first adventure of this particular Saturday morning began.
Amscot happens to be one of the many establishments in the north Tampa area catered to the shady and shadier. Bold blue lettering reaches across the front of the building reading “You’re OK with us!” These words seem to call from all corners of the local ghettoes. Some of their customers are honest citizens trapped in the poverty cycle while some are obvious abusers of government welfare programs. As Amscot reassures however they are all ok with them. Sean and I are neither poverteers or abusers of the system, we are just simply looking for somewhere to cash a check at five forty five in the morning on a Saturday.
Ten minutes later the puttsy corolla pulled out of the parking lot with roughly three hundred and forty dollars, with some odd change. The clock now read Five fifty eight and our next stop was the convenience store. Hess seemed as good as choice as any so Sean pulled into the equally as shady establishment. We sat in a car for a minute debating what purchase to make. Sean suggested a brand name beer such as Coors or bud light; something the average drinker wouldn’t think twice to send down the hatch. I on the other hand posses much different motives. I am looking for a chuggable and inexpensive beer; Natural Light. There is a four dollar difference per twelve pack between the former and latter beers and considering we are spending between forty and fifty dollars, we are going to get at the very least twelve more beers out of transaction. With the only god-given talent I possess, I convinced him to buy Natural light, or “Natty” as I affectionately refer to it as.
As we drove back towards my cousins apartment the scenery starts to change. The buildings begin to look newer and so does the populace. We have entered Bulls Country, the area of Tampa surrounding the University of South Florida. Normally a Saturday morning would be dead as most of the students are sleeping or just getting to be from a rough Friday night. This particular Saturday morning however is game day, with kickoff scheduled at high noon. College football is unlike any other sport for fans. The intensity level is four times that of any other event save maybe the world cup. In the eyes of the student the success of the team is correlated to the belligerence and intoxication of the stadium. So tens of thousands of twenty something’s gather around kegs, makeshift Jacuzzis, cheap grills, and ancient RV’s as they consume as much alcohol as possible before kickoff.
After navigating the mainstay of Bulls country, Bruce B. Downs Boulevard, we found ourselves back to Sean’s apartment armed with enough alcohol to kill a gorilla. Sean and I decided to leave the beer in the car since three flights of stairs were part of the trek to his front door and neither of us wanted to carry booze that far. Instead we grabbed two beers each for our shortened return to the apartment. Since leaving earlier that morning the scenery inside the apartment had changed. Light filled the entire living room to expose three people squeezed in to every inch of floor space as well as an absent floor space where I had been sleeping prior. Each person seemed to be deep in a drunken slumber, but that was about to change. I immediately went for the only boi in the room, Maverick. It was almost seven o’ clock, the sun was up, and it was time to get ready for the game. I stared at his unconscious body for a few moments, taking note to the half cocked jaw and slight snore; then I yelled. He (like myself earlier) jerked awake and started mumbling something inaudible. “Rise and shine boi.” He blankly stared at me as I handed him one of the beers I grabbed from the car. Maverick wiped his eyes popped open the can and took a healthy chug. “I’m up” he declared and then rose to his feet.
The commotion woke the two girls occupying the other floor space. Their daintiness held me back from giving them a “rudeboi wake-up” similar to Maverick’s. Unlike us three boi’s the girls needed showers, toothbrushes, lotions, makeup, and all other sorts of preparation to start a day. We allotted them thirty minutes to complete these tasks while we prepared coolers and beverages for the upcoming charades. It was a relatively uneventful thirty minutes as I flirted with the idea of falling back asleep while waiting. Maverick, whom I had just ripped from slumber, and Sean would not allow that to happen however. So to pass the time we talked; mostly about the night prior. We had tackled a keg in the waning hours of the previous night/current morning. As expected, the tackling of a keg created more than enough pillow talk.
Thirty minutes had passed and the girls were coming around, and although they looked unfinished in their preparation they obliged to the time limit. We took the remaining coolers from the apartment and brought them downstairs. Through some type of negotiation that I somehow missed Erica, one of the two girls, had been designated to drive. Her SUV provided ample room for the three recently packed coolers. With a turn of the key the Ford rumbled to life and rolled out of Deer Park (the apartment complex) to the rendezvous point. This rendezvous point was another girls home; and I slept the whole way there, a decision I later discovered would be valuable.
We arrived at the rendezvous somewhere in the neighborhood of eight o’ clock. The girls were obviously hung over and not alright with the early morning call. By this time Maverick, Sean, and I were four beers deep and starting to get loose. The adage “Fight fire with fire” seems to only work with hangovers, but the girls had no will to meet with those ends. The last thing on their minds was drinking. We stumbled into the two story townhouse and were greeted by familiar acquaintances and strangers I have met over the course of the 2007 football season. Fortunately the bulk of this crowd was female. The crowd lingered in the town home for thirty more minutes before leaving for the stadium. Ironically the USF Bulls lack a stadium to call their own so they play at Raymond James Stadium, home of Tampa’s professional football team. The only downside to this location is it is located on the other side of the city, far away from the USF campus. Lately however, there has been no problem drawing a crowd. With the affirmative pop of another natty opening we sped cross town into the sunrise.
Within reaching five miles of the stadium the density of traffic tripled. Honking horns, drunken battle cries, and excited “woooo!”-s filled the air. I popped my head out of the sunroof of Erica’s SUV and gave battle cries of my own. You could feel the intensity in the air as it hung with the morning dew. What would normally be a distressing situation of Tampa traffic had been turned into a mockery of civilized behavior. As a boi, I lived for this kind of situation. Maverick and I both knew that the shit was about to hit the fan.
There is a particular parking lot I always attend at a home game; lot 4. If for some reason my entourage does not park around lot 4, I will always (and normally successfully) lobby to walk to lot 4. In my previous escapades to RayJay lot 4 has provided me with numerous allies in the form of clubs, fraternities and regulars who frequent that section. Luckily we found a parking spot up close in lot 4. Both Maverick and I slammed the remainder of our beers and stepped out of the SUV. The next few moments took time to absorb. The lot was filled with screams, cracking glass, music, air horns, and the occasional police siren. The average student drunkard was obviously underage but it seemed the police had bigger fish to fry between the various brawls, auto accidents, and parking violations. The entire three square mile block of Tampa was in complete anarchy at nine in the morning. Maverick looked at me with the kind of look that pleaded me to pick a destination. I guided his eyes to our first stop, the SAE bus. SAE is one of the affiliates I had met in my prior tailgating experience and perhaps my favorite. Their rickety RV was garnished with public beer taps, a roof that had been converted to a dance platform, pullout awnings, and a beaten and battered Jacuzzi. “That’s where we begin boi.” Maverick grinned in response. This is going to get ugly really fast.

Food for Gluttons

Thu, 12 Mar 2009 14:26:24 -0400

Matty is the kind of man you’d see on a street corner asking for change. Obviously you wouldn’t give him change, but you would probably think he was pretty cute for being homeless and broke. Assuming he still brushed regurlarly and had access to razors and other various toilettries.

I am too wierd for this existance, as HST brilliantly stated “too weird to live and too rare to die.” I can only hope that one day this strange brew of thoughts will one day lead to wild success although I am cognisant that this more than likely won’t be the case. Where does one begin though, where do I start? I have been a stray dog for years now and nothing has gotten more clear (or less clear for that matter).

“DJ Layze is in a maze, one he did not construct! He took a right, he took a left, God damn that nigga got stuck.”

That pleasant rhyme is all too ironic.

SMS

Thu, 29 Jan 2009 23:03:47 -0500

Me: you may find yourself thinking “am I the aggressor”

Lef: Shit.

Me: You know. You know what you are.

Lef: Whatever happened to lifting each other up.

Me: I’m calling you an aggressor; that’s awesome.

SMS

Thu, 29 Jan 2009 23:03:44 -0500

Me: you may find yourself thinking “am I the aggressor”

Lef: Shit.

Me: You know. You know what you are.

Lef: Whatever happened to lifting each other up.

Me: I’m calling you an aggressor; that’s awesome.

A Dialogue Between Lef and I

Tue, 27 Jan 2009 17:38:14 -0500

sawyerlef (12:05:08 AM): …………bring lisa

XDropkickxMurphX (1:05:41 AM): hahahaha

XDropkickxMurphX (1:05:47 AM): absolutely not

sawyerlef (12:05:56 AM): fucker always what you want

sawyerlef (12:06:00 AM): when do i get mine

XDropkickxMurphX (1:06:14 AM): when you step up to the plate and quit submitting so easily

XDropkickxMurphX (1:06:35 AM): hows that answer

sawyerlef (12:06:38 AM): what does that even mean

XDropkickxMurphX (1:06:48 AM): i dont know but it sounds good

sawyerlef (12:06:54 AM): very good

old piece pt IV

Tue, 27 Jan 2009 17:36:28 -0500

(5-16-06) obviously this was written after a break up. The theme is interesting though.

The best way to entrap prey is to camoflauge the inherent danger. A lioness’ coat is very similiar shade to the grass in which she stalks her prey. Crocodiles lie perfectly still to resemble a log patiently floating towards the shore. Girls incorporate the word love into thier very selves to get close to a boy. However a lions coat is not grass, a crocodile is not a log, and a the word love is not love it is just that. A coat, a crocodile, a word. Just as only the strongest prey survive the strongest hearts remain untouched. Until a stronger predator arises or a more promising hope.

Old Piece pt III

Tue, 27 Jan 2009 17:34:00 -0500

As a backstory I wrote this after an interesting exchange with an ex girlfriend… (oct 30 08)

People are pretty strange, or I’m pretty strange; one of the two. Maybe its me, because I can break down and understand why many people choose the actions they choose but I can’t always do that for myself. So there; in two sentences I’ve alienated myself from the general population. For instance here is an action that I have witnessed and I’ll relate that to a strange action on my part; I can’t name the persont hough so these will just be vague peturbations of actual events.

So you have someone head over heels in love and they get drunk (always a great excuse for any bad decision) and pour their heart out, feelings that they hold deep down, underneath this lustful love. So they come out blah blah and then realize what they have done. So what do they do to right the wrong? One of two things, they either come back to the previous lover and try to pour into them and some how make up for something they don’t even know about by pampering and over loving, which works pretty well as long as they are clueless to the situation; or they enter this spiral abyss in which in they end they those both lovers, because they actually can’t choose between the two, like some kind of fucked up chic flic.

Me on the other hand went and drank half a bottle of tequila, cutting years off my liver for 52 dollars and spending the next 8 hours in the bathroom off some kind of sick mexican bet. I wake up the next morning with the money and a hangover. The logical thing to do would be to cherish that hard earned 52 dollars. however my dad wants me to sell a full keg thats still at my house, so I peruse around and find a buyer, in which i only initially want to throw ten down. Long story short, im out 40 bucks and now it comes down to me drinking half a bottle of tequila, killing a piece of my liver, and having about ten warm gross beers for nothing but some gas that i end up spending taking my sister to school. That is completely illogical and I don’t understand why I (or anyone) would create such a predicament

Whats sad is that I completely understand the considerably more complex and strange behavior, I can provide a complete anylasis of the situation and probably with 75% accuracy nail the feelings of the aforementioned. However I can’t explain why I do the things I do, nor do I understand why I continue to do them.

Another Old Peice about Bitches, Tricks, and Hoes

Tue, 27 Jan 2009 17:32:47 -0500

Women have caused me great grief in my life. As far back as I can remember.

In first grade I distinctly remember a group of boys and girls in schoolyard fashion (me being of the group of course) showing our naughty no nos and getting consquently busted within minutes and being whisked away to the catholic office, blushed and embarassed. My mother picked me up, and I have no recollection of any talks or scoldings only the deeper more recurrent feeling of shame. Shortly thereafter I can remember a girls face, but no name. My method of showing my boyish attraction was cutting out a picture of the Green Ranger (apparantly some sort of phallic icon of the nineties) and trading it in turn for the status of boyfriend only to be beaten up in turn by Tommy. Interesting how his fists imprinted his name and her batting eyes did not.

Later so, there was a girl in fourth grade whom did not look or acknowledge my presence once but I had the deepest most sincere adoration for her beauty. Now at this point in my life the names stick to the faces in my memory banks but the names are now sensitive to my pride; so no name dropping! Being a shy new kid I never advanced or told her I liked her, just simply held this crush. This seemed to be the case for years, changing each semester, but being a shy, unpopular lad I never approached any of these girls. I seemed to think that I could never be the sly-talking ladies men that I saw my fellow male classmates to be, and how could I have thought that? These boys were picked within the top five in all schoolyard sports, won fights, smoked cigarettes, and reportedly “kissed girls.” Adversely I was picked near last, save I wasn’t obese, always lost fights, and relatively stayed out of trouble. When this translated into middle school the same rules applied but the variables intensified. It is also in this time that I felt the first sting in my chest, loosely translating to heartbreak. This particular girl for some reason I felt was the prettiest, smartest, nicest girl I had ever seen; and lord did I try to win that heart! I asked her to every dance, bought flowers, and offered my lunch money to buy her things from the a la carte line. Obviously none of these tactics worked, and eventually I gave up and watched other boys succesfully do what I could not.

We could insert more embarassing lines of what I had done to try to win a heart; but I’ll spare myself further embarassment. Further passage takes us to High School, where the second heartbreak takes place. This happened at around 15. Obviously things had changed since my middle school years; light drugs, alcohol, cool-ness, and carnal knowledge to name a few additions to the conscience. This girl to that point appeared to be an angel. She was a little older than me, and often picked me up from my house along with the other guys in the gang. I was whisked away by her blonde hair and ability to drive. She listened to cool punk music and seemed to have a concrete personality and style. She was an admiration, not in a creepy way, but in a “Im 15 and this is the hottest girl in the world” way. Needless to say, Im not the boy in our gang who won her heart. And for the first time that hurt in a way I had never felt before, my heart literally did sink into my chest and wither like a sickly fawn. But time moves on, and so the heart heals. The next year I was a different kind of person; I felt like I a concrete personality, with style of course. Stonewashed denim jeans, band tees, long hair, plenty of party experience, and a mended heart. I dated one girl that year, and I didnt even like her. We dated for two weeks seeing each other twice, both in a drunken stupor. I dont consider it a real relationship, just me wanting something to see what it felt like. So this girl bore no scar upon my chest, just an interesting night fireside in the woods (and no we did not have sex.) An interesting thing happened this year though, I saw two of my close friends enter a relationship, one that I had wanted so badly for so long, and then I saw both those relationships crumble severely and both of these friends cried like I had seen no person cry before, it was gut-wrenching, total collapse tears; like there still beating heart had been ripped from there chest.

That summer passed and I had a fling with a girl that I had a crush on in middle school, one of the ones who had paid no mind to me. It was exhililarating to be considered in such a notion but my lack of experience in the ways of courtmanship doomed it from the start, especially with such a seasoned girl. But my popularity had moved triple fold, and I was a senior so I had both these factors working for me. I was set on finding a girl and moved forward ever so confidently. The first girl this happened with was a girl I hit on in class, as a semi-expirement and to my suprise had alarming success. Long story short she went with me to a party in Tampa, we hooked up, dated for two weeks and then mutually ended that. I had no time to mourn that loss, I had to find someone else and quick. (As a sidenote, a particular girl at that time had caught my eye, but was forbidden because of prior arrangements with another boy, who happened to be a friend) So I found another girl, who was also respondant to my advance. Whether or not she actually liked me, or the idea of me at the time will never be known, I had become a very popular person in Hernando High due to my exposure to everyone at school as a comedic partier that was associated with a great time. Anyways this relationship was the first that I entered that was a sort of chase, she had a boyfriend who was out of school and wanted to end the relationship. Something about hiding in the shadows made it fun. We ended up dating, and it last almost a 1/3 of the actual chase, but we’ll consider the chase part of the relationship summing this to 3 months. The end of this relationship however led to the first real relationship, the one I was searching so long for; this girl I’ll name, Courtney.

It all started with a simple notion that she may have liked me. As previously noted I had noticed her for a while but never advanced upon her or even tried ebcause of previous barricades. But at the time this knowledge was bestowed upon me, she wasnt hindered by these barricades… and with my new sift of knowledge of girls I advanced for the first time confident and agile like a seasoned hunter. Ironically fifteen minutes after i convinced myself i was going to do so, she made the first move and asked me to hang out with her after school; it was an oppurtunity and I siezed it. It started slow by visiting a lake, I brought it up and she shyly dismissed it. We left, got stoned with my cousin at JRs infamous north street property and went back to my house to watch Bourne Idenity. That was the first time I felt like it was right, when we kissed it tingled, and it was a great feeling. The first couple weeks we kept it hidden, but that young love burst at the seams and it was impossible to keep hidden, and so it was that. The first real relationship I wanted. We did all kinds of things together, picnics, it was storytale-ish (or so I remember). We uttered the I love Yous for the first time. We even moved in and lived together. That relationship exalted everything I thought a relationship should, and my was it blissful. I loved that girl so much, I made foolish boyish decisions like something out of a movie, and cared not of the outcomes. However, I seemed to forget the end of the microcasm I saw of this in 11th grade; i forgot the image of my close friends balling at the loss.

All things are viewed in micro and macro casms. The only difference is the macro is the severe and extended version of the micro. At the end of this last relationship, the end was as it was with my friends only longer and more intense. As it had ended, so did my world. All things felt as if they crashed in, my heart was absent. No other girl could live to such expectations! I was desperate to regain her heart, but it was too late, there was no avail, no turning back what time had done. She was with a new man, and I was with nobody. For a long time thats all i thought about, all I lived for. It plunged me into a deep dark depression that lasted months. I theoritcally was my sobbing 11th grade buddy for several months. It was as if my still beating heart was ripped from my chest

But as all things are, and all things willl; time moves forward, and hearts do mend. So now I’m left with me as I am, a concrete personality with a “style” a way of thinking, and a philisophy upon which to tackle life. Only this time, its with a forward thinking progressive mind, and not the regressive outlook that plagued me for so long. All i ever wanted as a boy was to have a relationship that was heartfelt and real; and i got it for better and for worse. With a sense of completion I lay my head on my pillow and rest my eyes asunder for a new day.

A Boi Story

Tue, 27 Jan 2009 17:31:07 -0500

(an older peice. may 2nd 08)

What makes a boi, a boi? I have spent the last couple nights pondering this issue and through long hours of self contemplation an answer has come to light. The common denominator amongst the bois is the want, neigh the need to push the limit and seek the pinnacle of chaos. This chaos that we seek isn’t an all out anarchy, or complete irresponsible lack of control but rather an event that pushes the limits of things that we cannot imagine.

One such night is a perfect example;
Once upon a hot sticky February night, bois from all over the state of Florida amassed into one central location; a peculiar apartment complex off of Amberly drive in the Tampa Lutz area. A thick air sat amongst the hallowed walls, rich with fermented alcohol that had accumulated in the rugs, carpets, and corners over the course of the past couple of months. The scent was so rich, so fierce that any normal mans hair would singe into sweet nothings; but the men who were about to inhabit these walls were in fact not men at all but something different, they were bois. The stars had been set, and the moon and sun aligned (or so it felt) for a common purpose; tonight was one particulars bois last night within an arm’s reach of the brotherhood. Clayton, or Maverick as the enclave affectionately referred to him, had signed a contract forfeiting the next four years of his life to the United States Air Force. So tonight in honor of such a commitment each Boi offered what he was most rich in, pure unmitigated chaos.

As the day had begun each Boi had offered ideas and systems in which to carry the night on. A common problem to fueling such a festival is the acquisition of funds. Given the clever minds in the room a verdict had been reached on how to attain funds. A raffle! From the depths of Boi headquarters we designed an artifact that (in our opinion) no citizen would ever pass up; A nude picture of Maverick. The photo was modest however as his genitals were covered cleverly with fluorescent light coverings. The opacity offered only a blurred distortion of the Thompson family jewels. The photo was complete with a signature at the bottom and made official with the blessings of each Boi. The idea was presented to purchase admittance tickets to conduct the raffle, but that notion was quickly dismissed. The entire notion was implausible; spend money to earn money? Blasphemy! Certainly there are enough materials within this Boi capital to conduct the raffle at no cost. A decision was fashioned immediately; the Bois would write celebrities of varying fame on pieces of paper, ripped into tickets and purchased for 1 dollar per ticket (or a bargain deal of 20 for ten dollars). This process took the combined entertainment industry trivia knowledge of ten Bois and two long hours. At the end of the allotted time the enclave had produced a list of over 200 celebrities and corresponding tickets. Shortly afterwards a mammoth stuffed bear was found on the side of the road and also added to the raffle and dubbed a second place prize.

After the funding process had been completed, the Bois were left with another problem; providing accurate music to fill the night. A predisposed event had already been chosen to happen on this night. Several weeks prior an idea had emerged that by stroking air guitars, drumming the air, and singing into fake microphones a group of Bois could relive the legacies of deceased rock legends. And so Zed Leppelin was born; the world’s first and foremost pioneering air band. This particular night was slated for the inaugural show. Such a duty required much planning, wardrobe, and mental preparation. One boi named Nicholas, or Lazer, was donned with this task.

With the night fast approaching Lazer built a playlist a hundred an eighty songs deep with such hits as;
Paula Abdul- Straight Up
Earth, Wind, & Fire – September
Michael Jackson – Thriller
Lil Wayne – Go DJ
??? – That Choo Choo Train Song
The hits were apparent. Everything from disco to death metal was encompassed and the playlist was sure to please all. Then a particular “EP” was constructed for the concert; a series of Led Zeppelin songs that had been assumed to be the most entertaining to imitate. The track list consisted of four songs; “immigrant song”, “black dog”, “ramble on”, “ocean.” These four songs were chosen amongst the delegates of the enclave whom participated in Zed Leppelin.

After much planning and delegation the hour of infamy struck and we packed our supplies and walk/drove to the destination. The destination was at most three quarters of a mile from the headquarters, so many more walked than drove. The bois entered the door in a dramatic fashion, akin to a scene from Ocean’s Eleven only far less sexy. Each Boi donned his most applicable outfit; a pleasurable blend of style and practicality. With proper dress they faced the night with an open and clean mind. No Boi however, knew what the moon had in store.

The next couple of hours came in flurries and blurs. The only living documentation of those hours comes from secondhand accounts, fables, and photographs. Property damage exceeded four figures as well as unknowing amount of damage done to the liver.

From the blurred memory banks of the bois lives fractured accounts of several events;

A fastball in the form of raw chicken breast riddled with salmonella

Screams, chants, and phrases so obscure that no sane citizen would ever be caught mumbling

Awkward exchanges of drunken romance

A dozen fist sized holes strategically placed throughout the humble abode

Only event that night that can be thoroughly explained and retold with affordable accuracy; Zed Leppelin live and in person.

Maverick took front stage sporting tight bellbottoms,
a woman’s plaid shirt that was three sizes too small, a robust afro, and a microphone that existed only in our imagination. Troy wore similar bellbottoms but donned a brilliant green frilled shirt with black stitching and the sweetest air bass one could possibly imagine. Kyle wore the same tight bellbottoms with a short sleeved button up (unbuttoned) and strapped firmly to his body (in our minds) was the most beautifully constructed Les Paul. In the rear Lazer filled out the invisible drum set with ridiculously short denim cutoffs and a white shirt soaked in draft beer. Everyone had stopped their socializing, binging, gossiping and looked in awe at the sight that was Zed Leppelin. The music started and the air band tenaciously struck every invisible note, without noting that the music was skipping and nothing was being achieved at all. The sight was amazing; four bois rapping at fake instruments to their own beat with no harmony. No one seemed to care though, because when the music stopped it was immediately replaced with loud chants “ZED LEPPELIN, ZED LEPPELIN, ZED LEPPELIN!” Lazer leaped into the crowd only to be caught and hovered above the small gathering like the rock stars they sought to imitate. The goal, regardless of the method, had been achieved. For those couple of moments Lazer, Matty, Kyle, and Maverick were deceased rock stars.

From that point on, the night is even more fragmented. The next morning all of the bois awoke at the headquarters with no recollection of the journey back. Matt awoke in his bed next to a woman; Lazer awoke in a closet wearing nothing but the denim cutoffs from the show; Maverick awoke to a shared floor space with at least a dozen others, some he knew, some he didn’t. The pure morning light and morning birds pierced our hearts forcing each boi to share prayer with the porcelain gods. The night had retired, Maverick was leaving for home and one last stint with his family. For the rest of the bois, it was a new chapter in the ongoing pursuit of boi-dom. The bois rest, recovered, and continued on with their lives.

In essence this is the eternal birthright of the boi. It is what makes a boi, a boi. Each night, each day presents itself with a tale that can be told again and again for generations. Each experience becomes so rich and unique like a precious metal, or valued investment. It is an understanding that the only things in life that have true value are the friendships that are gained and more importantly the strength of the enclave, GKG. It is nights such as that fateful February evening that strengthen these bonds; and these nights come very often.

New Years Uh-Sump-Shins

Tue, 20 Jan 2009 23:56:37 -0500

Twenty days ago we celebrated the new year. I havent written in this blog in so long; so I’ll choose to do so now at 11 pm on a Tuesday. As a reader you may be using your deductive reasoning to assume that I will write about resolutions and changes I should make; I’m not. You know what they say? When you assume it makes the first three letters (ass) out of “u and me.” You don’t want to be an ass do you? Im going to go ahead and give you the benefit of the doubt and pretend as the thought never entertained your mind. So with new years resolutions off the blackboard what more could I possibly say?

New Years 09

I rolled out of bed somewhere in the time frame of 2:30 PM. A late start but not by my standards. Of course it would have helped if Alyssa didn’t have sheets blocking out any sort of sunlight that would’ve have alarmed me to the hour. My phone was dead, I was hungover, and my life had come down to a sum of ten dollars and a half tank of gas. I stumbled out of Alyssa’s room into an equally as dark living room (you guessed it, sheets over windows.) At this point I have begun to seriously question the mortality of my Sanford brethren. Three long days I have spent in this apartment and three long days I have been immersed in a vitamin-c defecient world. I suppose it isn’t actually that severe, but my vivid imagination paints that image in my memory.
Moving on from the dark world I notice Alyssa is watching Speed Racer, the new one. I plugged my phone into her computer to charge and sat down to watch it. Emile Hersch stars in this film so Alyssa loves it. From my fragmented memory I can only pull one clear detail from the film; the evil, greedy, racing CEO. I imagined the director wanting Alec Baldwin to play his role (which would have made the film a thousand times better) but settling with a british prick who looks similiar. As my phone charged (simutaneously advancing the film) I held an idle chit chat with Alyssa. Through the means of conversation we came to terms that she might actually make the trip to brooksville and its outlying areas that night; something I may have forgetten to take well enough mental notes of. I decided to text some of my roommates and see what was on the agenda for the night. After an estimated forty five minutes of waiting I recieved a SMS that read as follows:

Where are you? We are going to have a taco party!”

A Taco Party! Taco parties are like racial slurs; they are pretty neat but overuse has driven them to a weightless phrase. Benji, one of my many roommates, has put “Taco Parties” as bargaining chip for bets, all of which he is lost. Mind you I have never actually seen a Taco Party, so I consider them to be useless currency. Could tonight be the a real Taco Party? Could the stars be aligned in such a way that a buffet of ground beef, lettuce, taco shells, tortillas, chopped onions, diced tomatoes, guacamole, chips, salsa, hot sauce, sour cream, and graded cheese (am I forgetting an item?) will grace our disgusting bar top? With this exciting and groundbreaking news I decided to leave that very moment.
Hindsight is twenty-twenty; leaving sanford at 4pm was a horrible idea. I feel as if Orlando is quite possibly the most horrible city in the continental United States. I-4 is rubicon of frustration and I am convinced that simply being in Orange County, Florida causes severe anxiety to motorists. I could explain in great detail the two and half hour journey to Tampa (a 100 mile trip) but to do so would incite such anxiety; I’m saving myself the hassle.
After what seemed like an eternity of driving I finally parked the Nissan registered to my name in front of our apartment. I noticed Dan, Tootie, and Phil playing some ball at the courts. “WE NEED TO TALK!” yells Dan. I knew what he wanted to talk to me about. I was supposed to never talk to Alyssa again, and I left three days prior and drove to her house at midnight. “I know, I know, Im a pussy bitch.” Suprisingly everyone pretty much left it at that. I immediately asked if the Taco Party was still a go, and what the general plan was if not the Taco Party. The Taco Party was a go; two hours ago. I rushed upstairs and saw a ravaged and withered spread of the aforementioned items. I scavenged some vegetables and a spoonful of ground beef, I’d be lying if I told you it was absolutely wonderful.
After the disappointing late arrival to the Taco Party and a much needed shower Dan informed me of the plan. “We are gonna invade a party!” Awesome! My mind began to spin with ridiculous plans and debauchery for our unsuspecting victims. The plan involved buying a keg and bringing it, along with a dozen or so Bois. Keep in mind that Dan specifically used the term “invade.” Invade, as defined by dictionary.com, is described as “to enter forcefully as an enemy; go into with hostile intent.” Dictionary.com lists attack as an adjective. This is the mindset I go to this party with.
In true Boi fashion we arrived drunk at ten thirty. There were a total of 6 people at this party, and four looked dorky even by our standards. A man stood behind the kitchen bar top with a slew of liquor bottles and two girls; one of them with pretty cute. “Full bar man! Donations accepted!” What the fuck? Donations? From that moment on I decided to be the weirdest mother fucker any of those people had ever met.
My first scheme was aimed at the bartender. I rounded up a good amount of my friends and began demanding “Sam Seltzers.” As far as I know, there is no such thing. “Sam Seltzers all around!” I screamed. With a puzzled look on his face he asked me “Sam Seltzers? What the hell is that.” “You know, a Sam Seltzer!” I replied. Meanwhile my friends looked impatient while yelling “Sam Seltzers! WOOO! Sam Seltzer!” He was absolutely puzzled, just as I had hope. My fun was brought to a screeching halt when Dan and Monk came up to me and told me to stop and be nice. I looked at them and scratched my head. Be Nice? Did we not state prior to coming that we are “invading” a party? Am I incorrect in my definition of invasion, or can it be defined as a peaceful assimilition? I looked at my other friends and the moment struck me. I’m a dick; but they love it, I love it, we love it. Besides Dan and Monk, every Boi thoroughly enjoyed the debacle, thus I continued.
Midnight was minutes away and everyone pulled out the bottles of champagne, party favors, cameras, and cell phones. The television showed the ball dropping with the countdown. I found it all to be incredibly stupid; I turned around and refused to watch the ball drop. I celebrated and yelled and chugged glasses of champagne but I never watched the ball drop. I kept yelling “this is fucking stupid!” Everyone that heard me just looked and then went back to what they were doing, as if they didnt hear me correctly. I must have drank an entire bottle of champagne within fifteen minutes; even snorting a glass for laughs. (which proved to be the first absolutely absurd decision of the new year) I looked behind me and Benji lay lifeless in a chair. Tootie was falling over; Kyrsteen was falling over. The cute girl I mentioned earlier was kissing all of us for no reason. It was time to leave, and that is what we did. We just left, and so did the party.
The ride home was absolutely horrible. By somehow defying all laws of logistics we packed nine people and a keg into a Jeep Cherokee and drove home (obviously drunk) without any complications. Everyone passed out as soon as we got home; at one am; what an early night.
Robby, another roommate, and I never went to sleep. Robby invited Kara and Ashley over to watch a movie and they joyfully obliged. For some odd reason I lobbied for King Kong. A three hour long masterpiece by Peter Jackson. I watched all but the insect scene (due to sleeping). At one random point in the night Alyssa and B stopped by donning ski jackets and trousers (the ones with the suspenders). They stayed for five to ten minutes and then left. King Kong ended; Kara and Ashley left; I went to sleep.

-nmc.