Why I No Longer Smoke Crack

Greetings friends and foes!

I come today with a new chapter in the adventures of a duo who will henceforth be known as The Unsinkables. It pains me to say that this was a semi-solo mission as the faithful Kelley is still MIA, flown the coop, adios amgio. In reality she is searching out a new lair for The Unsinkables as we speak, but more on that another day.

This past weekend I witnessed foolishness unseen since the days of my youth. There was a midet in a raincoat, a red carpet turned brown, blood and gore, and a category of slutery that will hence forth be known as “Courtney”ing.

I set out on this crazy night late into the evening. I should have known from the start when Cali-Girl (as she will be known to you) called me and asked me to join her at a party where there was to be a VIP room in a fat kid’s bedroom. “No good will come of this,” I thought, but I went against my better instinct- camera and pencil and paper ready at my side.

The second warning came when we pulled up at our rendezvous and I recognized the place as being the same apartments where my pseudo-grandmother lives. “This is where The Dick and Faux Painter Boy live?” I asked Cali-girl.

“Yes,” she replied, “but we are just picking up Faux Painter Boy.”

Faux Painter Boy’s apartment was a bachelor pad in the vainest of terms. And yes, he had a faux painted dresser. For those of you who do not know what faux painting is, it is a bizarre graffitti-like practice where basically anything is painted to look like a texture/substance. Faux Painter Boy’s dresser in particular was leopard-spotted. I can only imagine this was to match the leather couch and get girls in a “wild” mood.

Do not fear though. I got out of there as soon as possible as the techno beats nearly deafened me for the few minutes I was present.

We finally made it to the party around 12 or 1. I parked in the synagogue next door. (Again, I should have known better, having spent the better part of the evening at services downtown.) Walking to the house, I ran into Bob, who needs no introduction for he is as ridiculous and small as he sounds. “Bob” I yelled. “How the hell are you?” and tapped him on the shoulder. I did not realize he was urinating and what proceeded was as unpleasant as you could imagine.

When we made it to the door, there was indeed a red carpet. The torrential downpour earlier had turned it more of a crimson color though. There was also a random photographer snapping precious memories of legions of boobies bursting from dresses and men behaving like outrageous drunks. My gray wife-beater and jeans stuck out like a lion in a petting zoo, but I rocked it all the same.

The next few hours went like this. Drink, drink, drink. Smoke. Blah Blah Blah. Smoke. Drink. Blah Blah. Smoke. Blah Blah. Line for the bathroom. Blah Blah. And so forth.

THEN- disaster. Most Drunk Girl is getting her groove on while on the dance floor when she slips and face plants, knocking herself unconscious and bleeding profusely. Now, this is the difference between high school and adulthood. In high school, this would have ended the party, especially after someone announces that an ambulance has been called. In adulthood, all the guests were shuffled to the backyard until the ambulance had come and gone and the party continued.

During this calamity, the midget made his appearance. Leaning against a hallway, talking to some lady friends, I suddenly turned and behold! A small fat man in a rainjacket came out of nowhere. He was zipped all the way up so that only his face peaked out and I had the strange image of a turtle coming out of his shell.

Cali-girl nudged me and whispered, “That’s him.”

“Who?” I said.

“Him,” she said, “The one who mounted me when I slept here once and tried to make me touch his penis.”

“That is FAT DAN? No!” I shouted. (I don’t think he heard me, but…)

“Yes,” she said, “I will never recover.”

(Insert hug and touching moment here. tear**)

Later on I saw old friend Jackass as he was being cornered by his obnoxious ex-girlfriend. In the spirit of charity I tried to assist.

“Jackass, want to come have a smoke?” I asked.

What follows angers me for two reasons.

“No.” he said, while looking prickous and dick-like. “I don’t smoke.”

so 1- Jackass does smoke, especially when he’s drunk, which he was and

2- I was trying to rescue you from Psycho Curl you fuckwit.

Let that be a lesson to me- do not help people that date Pyschos. They are,in fact, crazy as well.

As the night waned, I looked about and noticed a few things. One- everyone was skinny. Two- everyone was possibly (i say this with only the slightest uncertainty) on drugs. Three- there were maybe four people attending with IQ’s above what could be classified as borderline retarded and all of them thought they were sober enough to drive home.

What can be learned from this debauchery?

Well, I do not, nor have I ever, smoked cracked, but if I ever felt the temptation I would reflect on this night of drunkeness and moral depravity to remember that all of those people’s parents probably smoked cracked. And I think I will have enough on my hands as a parent to deal with without giving birth to a Moron.

Check back for pics.

Love you later,

Lou Focker

ps- I apologize for my deviation from the standard format of my messages to You. There comes a time in a writer’s life when one must stray from the past and experience the foreign in order to learn and grow in their uniformity.