Here are some photos
Andy preparing to attempt to insert this parking meter into his anus:
I used to be really, really obsessed with the shitty little Windows OS pinball game. It's so simple and unrewarding at first but then you start to figure out the launches and rockets and blammo, you've got six hundred thousand points and three x-tra balls and you can't stop playing. This was around the time I was drinking 6 cans of Pitch Black a day and trying to write a zombie story (which turned out really crappy).
Wes looking aloof:
This is my first fucking day off and man, so far . . . it's not a disappointment. The only bad part (and it was fairly bad) was waking up at 7 to Sarah telling me her car had been egged in the night. She went off to work and I went outside and inspected the road and Andy's car was okay, as was a green car down the street, but Sarah's and Kevin's had been hit. Kevin's was in worse shape, actually. It got the most brutal Wrath of the Unborn Chickens.
So at 7:30 on my first day off, the first day that I'm supposed to be sleeping till 10 so that I can roll out of bed, pour a bowl of BooBerry and write a masterpiece, I found myself standing in the basement, at the foot of my mattress, telling a sleepy Kevin about his car. He was pretty cool about it, but then, he was running on about 4 hours of sleep.
Goathead advised that we report it to the police, to see if they'd caught anyone or heard any other egging reports, so I spent about ten minutes trying to find a working non-emergency number, then trying to get hold of someone on the other end of the line. I kept imagining the conversation: "Sir, we'll put every man we've got on the trail of those egg-chucking bastards." But no, it would be futile--sometimes your car gets egged and then you or your boyfriend stands in the driveway in rumpled pants and smudged glasses and glares at the sky and then you realize that the cops can't really do anything, since the yolks and whites are dried dried, solidified into ridges more permanent than mountain ranges, and whoever put them there is way the fuck gone.
This is the face that convinced Amish to do the Worm on the tile-on-concrete floor of our basement bar (you can guess how well that went):
So Kevin and I, too awake to go back to sleep even at 8 in the morning, walked down to BK for some soul-soothing breakfast sandwiches. Then he bought his mom a gift card to a massage parlor and drove us through one crazy fucking Disney ride of a carwash. I highly recommend the carwash over on Valley West Drive, because it does this hot wax drop, all different colors, all over your windshield. One second there's nothing there but beaded water and the next metallic purple and red and green is all over the glass.
But the car wash failed to remove all of the egg.
I used to be really, really obsessed with the shitty little Windows OS pinball game. It's so simple and unrewarding at first but then you start to figure out the launches and rockets and blammo, you've got six hundred thousand points and three x-tra balls and you can't stop playing. This was around the time I was drinking 6 cans of Pitch Black a day and trying to write a zombie story (which turned out really crappy).
Wes looking aloof:
This is my first fucking day off and man, so far . . . it's not a disappointment. The only bad part (and it was fairly bad) was waking up at 7 to Sarah telling me her car had been egged in the night. She went off to work and I went outside and inspected the road and Andy's car was okay, as was a green car down the street, but Sarah's and Kevin's had been hit. Kevin's was in worse shape, actually. It got the most brutal Wrath of the Unborn Chickens.
So at 7:30 on my first day off, the first day that I'm supposed to be sleeping till 10 so that I can roll out of bed, pour a bowl of BooBerry and write a masterpiece, I found myself standing in the basement, at the foot of my mattress, telling a sleepy Kevin about his car. He was pretty cool about it, but then, he was running on about 4 hours of sleep.
Goathead advised that we report it to the police, to see if they'd caught anyone or heard any other egging reports, so I spent about ten minutes trying to find a working non-emergency number, then trying to get hold of someone on the other end of the line. I kept imagining the conversation: "Sir, we'll put every man we've got on the trail of those egg-chucking bastards." But no, it would be futile--sometimes your car gets egged and then you or your boyfriend stands in the driveway in rumpled pants and smudged glasses and glares at the sky and then you realize that the cops can't really do anything, since the yolks and whites are dried dried, solidified into ridges more permanent than mountain ranges, and whoever put them there is way the fuck gone.
This is the face that convinced Amish to do the Worm on the tile-on-concrete floor of our basement bar (you can guess how well that went):
So Kevin and I, too awake to go back to sleep even at 8 in the morning, walked down to BK for some soul-soothing breakfast sandwiches. Then he bought his mom a gift card to a massage parlor and drove us through one crazy fucking Disney ride of a carwash. I highly recommend the carwash over on Valley West Drive, because it does this hot wax drop, all different colors, all over your windshield. One second there's nothing there but beaded water and the next metallic purple and red and green is all over the glass.
But the car wash failed to remove all of the egg.
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