There's a saying that goes, "Children are the greatest gift in life", coined by someone who obviously never dealt with children. It's a sentiment entirely lost on the children in question, who are all held bent to do as many terrible things as possible in their brief youth. I was no exception. I misinterpreted that statement as an invitation to cause mayhem. Creative destruction was my gift to the world. In my youth I was adorable and innocent, and part time ballistic missile. Here are nine contributions of mine to making the world a more harassed place to live:
9. I stole someone's Oreos
When I was a screamy little baby, my family and I lived in an old haunted house near Bonnie Doon. I have four distinct memories of growing up in this house as a baby. One, we used to have a fort in the backyard that you could only get on top of via a rope that would puncture your skin because it was literally made of bee stings. Two, I remember eating Froot Loops in the kitchen one morning, cheerly madly and throwing several loops at my mother's face. Three, you had to walk up about 4000 steps to reach my front door. I have other obscure memories like how our yard looked like Chernobyl, and how I used to throw pebbles at my annoying neighbours, but my fourth memory is about the day I stole someone's Oreos.
Eventually we moved out of that house to the house I'm living in now, but for whatever reason, every summer for several years we would go back to our old house and clean up the yard. I guess my parents rented the place out to people who didn't have the capacity to do so. So one day we were there cleaning up, and one of the strange, ugly people who occupied a space in the house was talking to my parents. While everyone was distracted, I decided to go exploring and found myself in this man's basement suite. I remember his life was similar to that of a mental patient, in that he appeared to be living out his life in just this one room. I don't think he had a bathroom because I remember he had yeti-like qualities and smelled like sewage. There was definitely a bathroom in the house somewhere, but it was probably full of spiders and the souls of the indians buried underneath the house that we had angered for living there.
He had a couple couches, an enormous TV, and a table in the middle of the room. The table is the important detail because on top of this table was an open package of Oreos. It never occured to me that these cookies could be caked in disease. What did occur to me is that taking them would be wrong and that I shouldn't do it, mainly because the package was still reasonably full, so if I ate any, the guy would notice. But when you're a child, being considerate to other people rarely ever stops you from doing anything, so I started eating them. I was just standing there, eating the food that this man was probably living off of and just admiring his room. Then something happened that sent me into panic mode. My mother called me.
The problem was that I was midway through Oreo number two. I knew if I didn't respond immediately she'd come looking for me, and when your parents come looking for you, you're in trouble no matter what you're doing. If I responded immediately I could make the excuse that I was just exploring the house, which indeed was partially true, so I decided to dispose of the Oreo the only way I knew how - by spitting it behind this man's couch and walking upstairs. It seemed most convenient to me.
I went upstairs to my mother, who did seem a little upset that I was exploring places I shouldn't, but to her it seemed like I was doing just that, so she shrugged it off. When we were leaving, I saw the dude go back downstairs. I still imagine him to this day, noticing his supply of Oreos being dramatically lower than it was previously. I only ate two, but I smuggled several more out of the house. In an act that was oh so childish in that it was clever and disgusting at the same time, I concealed the Oreos inside my underwear. When I got home my balls were caked in Oreo dust, but it didn't matter. The heist was a triumph.
The best part is that I don't even like Oreos that much. I didn't even end up eating the Oreos I took home. I just threw them in the garbage when I got home, which means that I am an asshole.
8. I deleted all the files on my mom's computer
There is a rule when you're a child. When someone tells you not to do something, you instantly make it your goal in life to do that very thing. They don't tell you obvious shit like, if you find a needle on the street, don't jam it in your eye or eat it. Generally you know what's truly horrifying when you're a kid and you stay away from it. But when someone tells you not to do something, they bring attention to it, so you're immediately interested in it. They're always so enticing too. My parents told me stuff like, don't throw stuff at your brothers, wear a helmet and don't smash glass bottles. Do you have any idea how many glass bottles I've smashed over the years? I probably threw them at my brothers, and I don't even know what a helmet is.
Computers were always fascinating to me when I was a kid. Computers back then were far different than computers today. Monitors were enormous cubes and weighed roughly as much as a car. There used to be these things called "floppy discs" that you would have to insert into the computer tower. The old floppy discs were the size of a plate, and you actually had to lock them inside the computer. Keyboards were only slightly more advanced than typewriters. Mice also had balls and were fucking impossible to use. Some computers were outfitted with a mysterious "turbo" button. To this day I'm certain my computer would have rocketed into the sky if I had pressed that button. If you were cool you also owned something called a "Joystiq", a name I later adopted for my penis.
But, the important detail of this story is that computers back in the day ran on an operating system called "MS DOS". There was no Windows back then, at least until 1994 I think. MS DOS was entirely keyboard based. Instead of clicking on your C: drive in Windows, you manually had to type in C:\My Documents\ExtensivePornStash\Lesbians to locate your files. There was a particular command that completely fucked up your computer, or at least that's what I thought it was doing. All I remember seeing when I typed it in was the monitor turning into The Matrix in fast forward. My best guess is that it listed all the files on your computer, or performed some kind of primitive system scan. Either way, at a certain point, you had the option to delete absolutely everything on your computer. I believe the command was something like "/ff", then later it would simply say, "DEL: YES/NO".
I became fixated on this strange command, largely because my parents told me never to play around with it. So one day I was in the office with my mother. She was talking on the fax phone, a machine I still don't understand to this day. In other words, she wasn't paying attention to me, so I started fucking around with her computer. I remember typing in that command, and soon, the delete option appeared on the screen. All I can remember is being extremely curious. I wanted to know what happened if I pressed DEL. Perhaps it was the knowledge that something was absolutely going to go wrong that enticed me. It never occured to me that I was just about to cause temporary havoc in my mother's professional life.
I don't remember the moments immediately following my decision to press "DEL", which probably means my mother knocked me out with the phone. All I can remember is the aftermath. I have this picture of my mother in my head, a range of emotions clashing in her head. Utter disbelief that her child would do this to her, sheer panic, wanting to strangle me and love me at the same time. She eventually did get all her files back somehow, so the disaster was brief. Strangely, I never typed that command in again. It disappeared from memory immediately following that event. After that I focused my malcontent into gaming, and became amused at my ability to crash the network whenever my brothers wanted to play videogames with each other. Haha.
7. In mindless rage, I attacked someone with sand
In your life, there are facts about yourself that you cannot change. All you can do is accept and deal with them. Me personally, a long time ago, I accepted the fact that I have arguably mild anger issues. I came to peace with this somewhere inbetween trying to club someone to death with a ski, and once threatening to fuck someone's entire head. But there's always that lingering question, when did this all start for me? I distinctly remember when my violent tendencies were thrust into the world. It was in response to an attack.
I don't remember exactly how old I was. I would say three or four. I was in some playground that I don't remember, and the neighbourhood asshole was there as well. I'll just say his name was Daniel. A child bred purely to be mean and cruel. An appropriate mental picture for the word "hellspawn", right after Amy Winehouse. He started picking on me while I was playing, which was fine. I didn't pay too much attention to it. Then at some point he started trying to kick and punch me. Remember, I'm just a child. Not shitting my pants is new to me. I have no concept of fighting, so I'm not sure what the appropriate response was. Then he gave me a hard shove and I hit my head on a metal bolt. Hard. It really hurt.
Something awakened in me in that moment. My pain was suddenly replaced with what I can now clearly describe as rage. My crying ceased immediately, and all I wanted was to inflict pain on Daniel. I hunted him down, red in the face, my tiny non-existant muscles bulging, stomping everywhere I was going, which must have looked extremely cute to all of the parents surrounding the park. They must have thought my gorilla impression was adorable. What happened next was far from cute.
I remember finding Daniel swinging on the monkey bars. I walked up and punched him straight in the dick. Prior to that first punch, I really had no idea how much agony getting punched in the balls caused. Instinct simply told me it was a vulnerable spot. Daniel fell off the monkey bars into the sand below, where I leaned down and slapped him in the face. Once really hard, then I started flicking his cheek and pinching his ear. I was going for the humiliation factor. Then something snapped. I abandoned all compassion. Something in me was telling me to feed him sand, so that's exactly what I did. I sat on him and started shovelling sand into his mouth. It wasn't that much sand, I didn't want the guy to choke to death, I just found the thought of him having sand in his mouth for the next few years to be extremely funny. So I went hour glass style on his ass, got a fist of sand and slowly began pouring it into his mouth. When he closed it, I realized that you can make a person's life miserable from so many angles with sand.
I started dumping it up his nose. When he covered his face I started pouring some in his ear and in his hair. He managed to roll on to his stomach, despite the fact that I was sitting on him, which would have been an iron clad defense had I not noticed he was wearing baggy pants. I lifted up the back of his pants and started whipping sand in his underwear. I could tell he had given up at this point because he was laying motionless. Either that or he was dead, which is when I realized burying things in sand is kinda fun, so I started burying his head in sand. It was at this point my mother realized exactly what I was doing, raced over to me in horror, picked me up and got me as far away from Daniel as possible.
Then the memory just ends for me. Cuts of black. I just sort of proceeded from that point as a violent person. But that didn't make sense to me. How come I didn't receive any discipline? Years later I asked my mother what happened, and she said she put me in the car, went back to talk shit to Daniel's father, then she took me out for icecream. Apparently, prior to the sand massacre, she threatened to chop Daniel's head off if he picked on me anymore that day, so she wasn't phased much when I eventually lost my shit and gave him a beating. She described Daniel as "a runty little jackass shit" who "deserved a good whalloping" for "being such a little pony shit".
So I learned a valuable lesson that day. My mother is a badass, and icecream rules. I would say that the fact that I was genuinely amused during that senseless beating is concerning and sadistic, but seriously, jamming sand up his ass was brilliant.
6. I threw a rock through my neighbour's window
In the last story, that was the first time I discovered violence. In the stories before that I guess I learned mischief and thievery, respectively. In this one I became familiar with the concepts of stupidity, obliviousness, getting in a fuck tonne of trouble, and disappointment. I would say this is the first time I really got in trouble. Prior to this age, everything I did could be classified as disgusting things babies do. But this time, I was in my right mind.
When I was a kid, I had a grumpy old man neighbour named Walter. Walter used to have this giant, yellow sheet of plastic on a 45 degree angle from his house. I don't know what was under it. Maybe gardening tools or something. I guess he couldn't fit them in his garage, which he used primarily to burn plastic to poison the earth (seriously), and where he kept the rest of his tools to torture small children (probably). Whatever purpose that yellow sheet served, this one night it was the most fascinating thing to me. Now, at the side of my house is a bed of rocks. Its intended use was a bathroom for my dogs, but my dog Curly at the time was far too content shitting in my mother's garden to care, so I essentially had an absurd cache of potential ammunition.
I quickly became obsessed with picking up the rocks and tossing them on to the sheet. I honestly can't remember why. Even if I did, I'm not sure if it would make sense in our adult minds. I guess I enjoyed the noise. Probably not as much as Walter did. Maybe I made it a challenge to knock the rocks off of the sheet, or see how many I could get on there at one time. Perhaps I enjoyed how the rocks bounced. Perhaps a little too much...
Directly above the yellow sheet was a window. Everyone can see where this is going. I certainly didn't. I was utterly oblivious. Walter even came outside to tell me to be careful at some point, and I completely ignored him. I just kept tossing my rocks until eventually, a rock went sailing through his window. I remember having this odd sinking feeling in my stomach when it happened. I didn't know what it was, but I knew it was bad. When you're a child, the concept of "responsibility" is not something you typically embrace. If you were anything like me, the only option in unfavourable circumstances was trying to conceal potential evidence, and pleading innocence. I thought, maybe if I could get the rocks down, Walter would think his window simply exploded for no reason. When I realized I was too short to climb the fence, I decided to just go back inside and pretend like it didn't happen.
But then of course, a few minutes later, it all went to hell, like doing jumping jacks after extensive indian food. It wasn't just that my parents were angry at me, they were disappointed. That's just so much worse. I remember afterwards I would gaze longingly at that yellow sheet, wanting to throw things at it for some reason, but I knew terrible things would happen if I did. So I decided to take up hockey instead and slap shot street hockey balls at Walter's fence. Sometimes they would go into his yard, so my brothers and I would invade his property and fuck up his grass trying to get them. Walter's obsession with burning plastic to make us miserable is kind of justified, come to think of it. Still, I don't know how that window broke. I didn't whip the rock at it. It took a little bounce and practically hopped through his window. What a weak ass piece of shit. I guess you could say that I was framed. Oh ho ho ho!
...
5. I broke my brother's Ninja Turtle Helicopter
I'm addressing my childhood friends with this next statement, and everyone else who grew up in the 90's. When we were kids, didn't we have the best fucking toys ever? Not to mention the best cartoons. We had it made when we were kids. Except me, of course. My brothers always got all the best toys. I got all the shit they broke and the lego pieces they didn't need. Thankfully when I was a child I was gifted in the art of creativity, deception and good timing. All important skills to master when you steal shit. I stole Batman toys, those awesome lego pieces that spun, and I stole a Light Bright board. I don't think my brothers were too broken up about that toy going missing. I'll admit, it wasn't my most distinguished theft, but certainly the most dazzling in the right hands. But there was one toy that I was never, ever to touch. It was my brother's prized possession. It was his Ninja Turtles Helicopter.
It was the coolest fucking thing on the planet. It didn't shoot missiles out of the front. It shot boxing gloves. It also had secondary missiles at the back that looked like screaming turtle heads. It was a complete mind fuck of awesome. I wasn't to touch it because I was a kid. I senselessly broke everything I touched. The bulk of my toys quickly became decapitated, multiple amputees. I was a little altered dose of serotonin away from being a serial killer. Even my mother out lawed me from playing with the helicopter it was so valuable. But, I'm an asshole, so naturally I got my hands on it anyway. Before proceeding to the next paragraph, I'd like to make a quick note of the under current of sexual innuendo. Completely unintentional.
Anyway, I don't remember how it happened. All I remember is that batman couldn't stabilize the aircraft and had to suffer a crash landing on the concrete slab that was our backyard at the time. I don't remember the extent of the damage to the helicopter, nor the beating I suffered afterwards at the hands of my brother and my mom. All I remember was the helicopter was impossible to repair, and I felt so horribly guilty. I think that's the most guilt I've ever felt in my entire life. The guilt was so potent, it has stuck with me to this day. I feel awful just thinking about it. Though now I'm curious why the helicopter couldn't be fixed. Did I somehow vaporize some of the parts on impact? Was this before the inventions of glue and China? At least batman made it out ok.
4. I took a piss in the library at school
My rebellion towards education started at a young age. I was among a group of troublemakers held bent on causing as much mischief as possible, because seriously, flirting with danger is just the greatest thing when you're a kid, and a boy. The area of the school that was the focal point of our ceaseless rampage was the library, because come on, how could it not be? It's such a tediously structured area. The books are arranged in alphabetic order in different categories, everything is clean and organized, you're not allowed to run or be loud or wander off. You just sit your ass down and read a book. How is that fun for a child?
It started out somewhat harmlessly, with someone tearing part of a page out of a book. Not the whole page, just the number of the page or the chapter name, so the next person to pick up the book would be tormented not knowing what the name of the chapter was that he or she was reading. It became a bit of a competition after a while, seeing who could do the funniest or worst thing. I started moving the massive stuffed dog that was our school mascot around the library when no one was looking, which I thought was the funniest shit ever.
There were other stuffed animals in the library as well, and we'd arrange them in suggestive ways, or take the shell off of the turtle and put it on Arthur the bear. I think there was also a way to shove Arthur's head up the turtle's ass, so we did that a lot. I think someone eventually picked their nose and put it inside a book. But as with any competition, there is always someone looking to raise the bar to heights never before imagined. This is where I came in.
One day I found myself face to face with an iSpy book with a heavy bladder. I don't know what possessed me to do it. Perhaps hatred towards iSpy. Maybe it was my insatiable need to experience danger at all times. Whatever the reason, all I can remember is concealing myself in a corner of the library, holding the book with one hand, my dick with the other, and pissing all over it. I didn't put it on the ground, because I knew when the stream of piss made contact with the book, I would draw attention to myself. I also never told anyone I did it. I simply left it on the ground and walked away. I knew if I told anyone, I would be ratted out, which means I didn't do it to impress anyone. I did it just to be an asshole.
The book was eventually discovered in a puddle by one of my classmates who shrieked in disgust, bringing immediate attention to the attack. The culprit was never found, because no one would confess, and the attacks stopped, leaving me champion of the library. At least so far as I know. Someone has probably taken a dump inside a book by now and stomped on it with both feet.
3. I ghost rode my bike into someone's car door
There were a lot of crazes in the 90's. Among them were Pogs, crazy carpets, GT Snow Racers, and ghost riding your bike. Ghost riding was probably trendy long before my group of friends and I picked up on it, but for a while there, it was the thing to do. For those who somehow don't know, ghost riding your bike is when you hold your bike up, take a running start, let the fucker go and see how far it can go before falling over. It was one of the most irresponsible things to do with your bike, as there isn't a circumstance where you can't damage it in some capacity, but that was part of the appeal. Setting your bike free, watching it soar down a hill or up the street was so tranquil, but true amusement came from watching it crash into something, whether that was the ground, a person or an object. You always think there's no risk with activities like this. Not once did I think that my bike would eventually collide with something extremely expensive.
One day I was infront of my friend Alfred's house and we were ghost riding my bike around his street. I remember it like it happened yesterday. On my last attempt, I ghost rode my bike so beautifully, so aimlessly, so majestically, it's as if time stood still. Time also stands still during a catastrophe as I discovered. Moments after releasing my bike, I watched it glide directly into someone's car door. My bike back then was extremely heavy too, and somehow mid-ghost ride, it gained a frightening amount of momentum, so when it bashed into the door, it didn't leave a little scratch or a dent. It left a fucking crater. I practically had to tear the bike out of the side of the vehicle. I remember being so petrified at what just happened, I was frozen in place, until I heard someone down the street yell, "HEY!" There was no escaping this. It's the end of the world.
Then something bizarre happened. I just walked away. I told Alfred I was going home, and I just went home, ate a bologna sandwich and watched TV. At a certain point I remember hearing the doorbell and I peeked upstairs to see who it was. My mother was talking to some random man at the door, so I shrugged it off. Eventually she came downstairs and said this exact sentence to me: "There was a man at the door who says you slammed your bike into his car." It wasn't a question or an accusation. It was a simple statement, punctuated by the evil mother stare, which is designed to instill fear and subsequent confession out of children. I remember I looked up at her, said no and shook my head acting confused.
That's it. My mother dropped the issue and it was never spoken of again. I suffered no disciplinary action whatsoever, and as far as I can tell, my parents weren't forced to pay damages to this man's vehicle. I still have this image in my mind of this man walking up to his car, only to notice an enormous section of the door being a lot further into the vehicle than it should be, and simply having to deal with it. I broke his car and he had to take care of it entirely by himself. Fuck, if I had known I wouldn't get in trouble I would have just thrown my bike at it.
2. I ran away from an old lady once
This is a two part dick move of mine. It began on an afternoon out with my old friend Mat. Mat and I were walking around the neighbourhood eating chocolate or something, when we turned on to a different street and noticed two construction signs up on the sidewalk. The sidewalk was being repaired by people who weren't there working in the middle of the day. There were pylons that seemed to stretch forever, all strangely meticulously set up in order to keep the sidewalk safe from parked cars and wandering feet.
I'm curious if there are people out there who actually think this is what pylons are good for. Pylons are only good for being kicked and stolen, and the only things they stop are traffic, when you arrange them in the middle of the road. This is a lot like how laws are in place, but they don't stop people from shitting on your car or eating your face at three o'clock in the afternoon. People used to build walls to stop people from walking on their shit. Then sharpies were invented. Pylons are the sad leftover, gay orange excuse.
So naturally, Mat and I booted over every single pylon and knocked over every sign. These are things everyone does once in their life. Mat went home immediately after, so I went home myself, which happened to be through ground zero. As I was walking, some old haggard woman walks up to me and starts telling me to pick everything up. She lived in the house directly beside the pylon massacre, so I guess she had reason to be upset. Mainly because she was really old. Old people are angry creatures. I know I'll be an angry bastard when I'm 80 and I have to tuck my balls into my socks. I'll be the guy sitting on his front porch throwing jars of his piss at children.
Anyway, I distinctly remember thinking, "Why should I?" Setting up pylons is the only thing people in the trades actually do, excuse me for getting them to work a little. It was my duty to boot those pylons over, not my job to pick them up. Mat kicked over far more pylons than I did anyway. When I refused to do it, she started asking me piercing personal questions. "Where do you live? Who are your parents? What's your phone number?" I told her that I didn't know anything, except that I lived on the moon. Have you ever seen Scooby Doo? Sometimes it's the old person in the lizard suit who stole the gold and threw the guy off the cliff. I don't want this lady to know where I live.
Then I began to consider who this woman was. I had no idea, so it stood to reason that she had no idea who I was, thus had no way of tracking me down. She was also extremely old and likely couldn't run very fast, so I decided to book it mid-sentence. I remember her yelling, "Come back here!", but I didn't. I ran my ass off, and I laughed my ass off. I also remember stealing a pylon and promptly booting it into a tree, rugby style. Talk about adding insult to insult. After a few seconds I turned around to notice that she didn't bother chasing me at all, so I laughed at her and then just walked home. Sickening, yes, but a victory nonetheless.
Now that I'm older and realize the error of my ways, I'd like to extend my apologies. I'd like to, but I'm still not sorry, and that lady is probably dead. My only regret is that I didn't manage to snag a second pylon to keep as a trophy.
1. I threw a spear at someone
Just to clarify, I hated this person, and the spear in question was a make-shift spear I crafted out of a broom. Originally I considered a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire, but that seemed a bit overkill.
When you were a kid, do you remember being friends with random people for a short period of time, then never seeing them again? I certainly do. I can think of at least ten people I was good friends with at some point who I ended up hating, or lost contact with, or in this rare circumstance, stopped being friends with after I threw a spear at them. The friend I'm referring to, I'm just going to call him Trevor. Trevor was an asshole.
I was over at Trevor's house one day with one of his friends from out of town. We were playing Final Fantasy or something, I can't remember. All I remember is that my character had blue hair, a sword the length of the Bering Strait and I beat cows to death a bunch. At a certain point in the day, Trevor and his friend became bored and decided to start beating the shit out of me. After attempting to suffocate me to death with a pillow, they threw me outside without my jacket and shoes, then went the extra mile to stomp on my bike and roll it into a giant prickly bush. They locked me out of the house as well. It was raining.
I walked home after that, and Trevor's house was a fair ways away from mine, about 30 minutes walking distance, so it was a journey at age 9. My mother was less than pleased when I walked up to the house freezing cold, dripping wet with a broken bike and no shoes. I would say that Trevor's parents were equally upset, but his mother was a raging alcoholic, and I'm pretty sure his father actually lived in a tree. My dad ended up retrieving my stuff from Trevor's house. How Trevor walked the earth a normal person ever again after that ordeal, I will never know. All I was told upon my dad arriving home was that I was forbidden to see Trevor again.
Now, I suspect my parents had their suspicions that I was plotting swift, terrible revenge that day, given that I was a sick child in that regard. At a certain point in my childhood, my brothers cut their shenanigans out, unless they wanted to wake up bald and locked in their rooms while I pissed under the door. I only ever managed one out of three, sadly. But I don't think my parents could have predicted what happened soon after, nor did Trevor and his friend. It was a severe oversight. My capacity for twisted revenge is endless.
Behind Trevor's house was a badass hill, and at the bottom of that hill was a prickly bush made of nightmares and the broken dreams of children. What kind of stupid bush grows at the bottom of a hill? It was also routinely filled with extremely aggressive wasps, just to dot the exclamation point of horror. Those fucking things lived through the winter. Bears don't even bother to do that, goddamn. Also, at a certain point in this paragraph, I'm not sure if I was describing the bush or the hair in the crack of my ass.
Anyhow, one day Trevor came up with a great idea. He would have his imaginary father build a ramp, which he would place by the bush. He would then ride his bike down the hill at top speed, hit the ramp and clear the bush. There's already a lot of things that can go wrong with this. Someone could roll their baby into the path of your bicycle, for example. Not a lot of people expect a spear flying at them to be a legitimate concern. After the industrial revolution, it's fair not to be overly worried day to day. Spears are dead weapons technology. But that day, it was Easter. If I've offended someone's personal beliefs with that joke, I apologize. I cross my line of decency from time to time, it lets me know I still have one.
So the big day finally arrived. Trevor had gathered an audience for this endeavour, me and three others people. I had of course disobeyed my parents wishes to never see Trevor again, and Trevor made the grave tactical error of believing me to be his friend. Trevor and his friends began hauling the ramp out to the field while I stayed behind, found an adequate broom and stomped off the broom part. I now had an amusing penis extension and spear. I don't think his parents cared too much that I broke their shitty broom. The worst they could have done was thrown a bottle at me or attempted to haunt me, respectively. I stood by as they set up the ramp, then it was time. Trevor ordered us to stand back, not even curious why I had a spear in my hand, and he began his rapid descent down the hill.
My goal was simply to throw a spear at his bike, the objective being to get the spear stuck in the spokes of his tire. This way the wheel would jam and the bike would flip over, either launching Trevor a significant distance, or burying him a few feet in the ground. I never considered exactly when I should throw the spear. I wasn't sure of my accuracy either, having never thrown one before. But the moment I released the spear, was a moment of absolute clarity and focus. It sailed through the air majestically. An absolutely perfect throw. The spear failed to jam itself in Trevor's tire, of course, that would have been fucking ridiculous. But the sight of a jagged piece of wood soaring at him and simply colliding with his bike was enough for him to lose control and get body slammed into the heart of the prickly bush.
Strangely, I don't remember much of what happened after. I remember Trevor eventually managing to claw his way out of the gnarled mess of unwanted accupuncture and run home covered in angry wasps. Then I went home and had a sandwich. His mother had enough alcohol to disinfect the porcupine that was now her son, but I can only assume that looking at junipers causes him severe discomfort to this day. As for Trevor's friend, I dealt with him separately. I won't go into detail, but I will say that he suffered greatly at the hands of a grenade made of leaky, baked dog shit. Yes, it was as horrible as you are imagining it.
To end this article, I found this quote about growing up. "We grow neither better nor worse as we get old, but more like ourselves." In that spirit, I'd like to pose a question. At what age does it become inappropriate to kick someone in the head? What's the cut off age for that? It's cool when you're a baby, but then at a certain point it becomes an issue, or something you get idolized for doing. I'm asking this because if I'm becoming more like myself as I grow older, a grizzly sequel to this article is sure to follow. I'd like to kick someone in the head to push my material in the right direction. I'd like to discuss whether dropkicking someone in the neck would be grounds for leniency to an arresting officer, since the head wasn't specifically targetted. Perhaps I'll play this one by ear.
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