Suburban Debauchery

Arvada, Colorado is the place where I grew up, attended school, played little league baseball, rode my bike to the swimming pool during the summer and went to Cub Scout meetings. Arvada is also┬áthe place where I developed a penchant for whiskey, made a living on girls with low self-esteem and watched alcohol-fueled punks fight almost every weekend. It is the same place where Silvia Johnson, self-proclaimed “cool mom,” just got busted for providing teenagers with drugs, booze and sexual favors.

Yeah. That’s my hometown.

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A Vast Wasteland

My weekend was filled with disturbing programming flashing across the vast wasteland of television. On Friday night Monica brought over her fella and some Chinese food over and we all watched Monster. I thought Charlize Theron engaging in lesbianism would soften the disturbing nature of the film (even if said lesbianism was with Christina Ricci who is hot if you are into elf sluts with big foreheads) but I was dead wrong. I have three words for you: tire iron sodomy. (I was guilty of this hot-chick-doing-an-uncharacteristic-sex-act fallacy during Requiem For A Dream, too. I heard Jennifer Connelly took a double ended dildo up the chute and that sounded like something I would enjoy watching. First, I had to endure a smack addict’s arm amputation (his limb became black and gangrenous due to his love of the vein candy) and an old woman being committed to a mental health facility for her eating disorder and addiction to diet pills. When the scene finally arrived, it was more disturbing than hot).

Saturday morning I made myself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and turned on the Olympics in the hopes of catching some Women’s Beach Volleyball (Holly McPeak. Yummy). Instead I get the a broadcast of the Gymnastics Trampoline. The competition goes as such: an athlete (use the term athlete loosely) does tricks on a trampoline for an Olympic medal. We need an international competition forum for this? There was a kid named Jimmy in my neighborhood who would have dominated this event in the early eighties. That fucking kid was a wild man on the trampoline. His signature move was jumping off the roof and going into a double flip. I was waiting for a tandem Gymnastics Trampoline event when two competitors had a seat war or played a game of crack the egg. You know this event is not taken seriously when commentators had this exchange:

Announcer #1: Oh! That miscue on the back flip there is going to cost him.
Announcer #2: Yes. What kind of experience do you have with this event?
Announcer #1: Well, I have been jumping on trampolines since I was eight years old.

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The Participation Ribbon Generation Is Soft

Kids are such pussies nowadays. All I know is if I would have seen a severed arm in the fifth grade, it would have changed my life.

Dad: We bought you a new bike. One of those BMX jobs with the cool racing checkerboard frame guards and back wheel pegs.
Me: Cool. Can I get a severed arm with it, too?
Dad: Only if you fuck around and ride it like a jackass.

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Cheap Backyard Thrills

One of the greatest summers of my young life was when Mom bought us a Slip ‘N Slide. My sisters and I were happier than a naked priest at a Boy Scout jamboree. For those of you unfamiliar with the amazing goodness that is the Wham-O Slip N’ Slide, here is a brief explanation: A giant yellow plastic sheet is placed on the ground. A hose is turned on plastic sheet to lubricate the surface. A slider takes a running start (preferably from three blocks away). Slider dives head first down slide. Sliders ride is over as they reach the end of the slide and get raspberries on their stomach from skidding across the grass at ridiculous speeds. Slider giggles like a middle school girl at a slumber party and repeats the process.

My childhood Slip N’ Slide experience ended when my sisters and I attempted to rig it to the top of the fence, climb to the top and slide down (Needless to say, the Slip N’ Slide ruptured under our weight but produced one hell of a ride). I am kicking myself for never Slip N’ Sliding with Wesson oil.

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Disappear To The Bottom Of The Thames

My friend Tyler likes David Blaine. That makes my friend Tyler stupid. This is all you need to know about David Blaine: he is a poor man’s Harry Houdini. Tomorrow, Blaine will begin 44-day stint of isolation without food, suspended over the Thames River in a clear plastic box.

I hate magicians and endurance artists. They are attention whores that remind me of a pathetic kid I grew up with who always had the coolest toys and nobody to play with. I would go over to his house, endure his incessant whining, play some Nintendo, eat scrumptious snack food that his mom made and then peddle my Huffy home. That kid is now in jail for dealing drugs. Little FYI.

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Kids Dabbling In Evil

When I was a youngster, my mom would always encourage me to go outside and play. I usually complied and got my bike out of the garage to ride around or met up with the rest of the neighborhood kids in the area vacant lot for a game of baseball. One a hot summer day, a neighborhood kid thought we should get a game of Dungeons and Dragons going. We briefly read the rules, made up our characters, rolled the 12-sided die and got our geek on. Within the hour my avatar was slain and I was out of the game. Two neighborhood kids proceeded to play that game for another three weeks. Little did we know at the time we were fucking around with dark forces, Satanism and the occult. Coincidentally those two kids grew up to be the biggest drug dealers at my high school. The dark influences of DnD or absentee fathers with a penchant for hardcore pornography and liquor? You be the judge.

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