Some People Call Me The Space Cowboy

Ten years ago I was sitting on my parent’s couch, watching the NBA Finals and eating a ham sandwich when the broadcast was interrupted to show live footage of OJ’s white Bronco creeping down the freeway with a menagerie of law enforcement vehicles behind it. It is rare when an event freezes in time, embeds itself into your psyche and you can remember the most inane details surrounding that event for the rest of your life. I can tell you, for example, that I was seated in my sixth grade classroom listening to my teacher ramble on about the Philippines and his time in the Peace Corps when it was announced over the intercom that the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded. Or one night in November 1989, when my father interrupted my phone serenade of “Love Bites”Β to my junior high school girlfriend Becky to tell me that the Berlin Wall had fallen. Most importantly, I remember that the Steve Miller Band song “The Joker”Β was playing on the radio and I nearly drove off the road when the girl I lost my virginity to told me she wanted to have sex with me.

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Better Than A Cock To The Skull

When participating in sports at any level, men need to understand hazing is part of the gig and they have to be ready for it; even if it entails a cock to the skull. I still will not fall asleep on buses due to the fact a sick bastard on my high school football team would wake sleepers up with a used, sweaty cup pressed firmly to their nose/mouth region. I still keep my head on a swivel whenever I take a public shower because another dirtbag on my high school football team would sneak up behind people when they were soaping up and piss on them.

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The Hunt-Master Beckons Thee

I have bore witness to some wicked drunks on the Jager and I, too, have succumbed to the unadulterated madness that dwells within the green bottle. One hazy night long ago my brother-in-law bought me seven Jager Bombs while we hung out at the worst strip club in Denver. The night concluded when a patron actually took a swing at one of the strippers. While she was still dancing.

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Cannabis For Jesus

Reporters for High Times Magazine are convinced that Jesus was the ultimate dope pusher of the first century. According to these baked cheeba-monkeys, Jesus and his apostles would heal the masses with an extracted form of cannabis oil. We had a guy that liked to cure the masses with narcotics at my high school. His name was Kurt. Everybody liked Kurt because he always had good drugs and was always willing to share. I am sure if Kurt said he was the Son of God, half of the student body in my graduating class would have agreed with him just to keep scoring free dope. The same situation could be true for Jesus. Picture a group of stoned apostles sitting on a boat on the Sea of Galilee, smearing cannabis oil all over themselves convinced that Jesus was walking on water. “Dude, check out Jesus. He is walking on water.”

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High School Sexual Repression

I played a few sports in high school and was witness to many methods of hazing. There were the classic methods that our fathers and their fathers before them taught us; wedgies, pink bellies, swirlies and the duct taping of an underclassmen to a locker. This was all accepted behavior and usually resulted in the victim being elevated to “untouchable” status after said hazing took place. Unfortunately, there were always twisted bastards that took locker room shenanigans a step too far. My football team was rife with these individuals. Like the guy who took shits in underclassmen’s helmets. Or the guy who wore nothing but his cowboy boots around the locker room and put his dick in your face if you were not paying attention. Thankfully in my experiences, nobody got held down and sodomized with a marker. One of the perpetrators moms stood up for her son claiming the marker incident was blown out of proportion. “My son is a big boy, and he likes to lift people up and let them down.” He also likes to stick things up their assholes.

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Green Road Salt & Tea Bagging

Last night, in midst of an early winter storm, it took me three and a half hours to drive home from Boulder. This drive, mind you, is normally 20 minutes. Apparently, Boulder uses an environmentally friendly alternative to road salt that does nothing to ice when the temperature is below a certain level. The roads out of Boulder were like a hockey rink. During this period of time, I was a seething cauldron of anger. When I got home I wrote this. Enjoy.

The Catholic Church may provide a consequence free environment for pedophiles but it condemns tea bagging. I cannot believe kids get in so much trouble for this nowadays. In the locker room during my high school sporting career, tea bagging was nothing compared to guys pissing on you in the shower or sneaking up behind you and covering your face with a protective cup dripping in ball sweat (a.k.a. the Gas Mask).

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Club Satan

I wish we had Club SatanΒ at my high school because I might have actually joined and formulated a positive opinion about organized clubs into adulthood. Instead we had the garden-variety student council and pep club scene with kids promising another pop machine in the cafeteria should they be elected to a meaningless political post. Someone (read: my buddy Tim) should have dedicated a club to Satan, Lord of the Underworld. It would have been more constructive for me to talk about Lucifer within the safe confines of a high school classroom with a faculty adviser present mediating discussions rather than what I actually did; discussing the Prince of Darkness over a three foot bong in a stoned kid’s basement, listening to Slayer’s South Of Heaven on the stereo, smoking Camel Wide cigarettes and drinking stolen whiskey.

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