FEAR and LOATHING IN MT PLEASANT
I wrote a new story! Well, it doesn't really have a plotline, but it's pretty true,and I think pretty damn funny. Feel free to offer an oppinion.
Fear and Loathing in Mt. Pleasant, Kellie Riddell 02/18/05
It was a chilly October morning in the fall of 2004. The sun flooded the horizon as hundreds of hung-over coeds woke from a sleep one can only have after a night of heavy drinking. The trees were bare of their leaves, and the fields of farmland strewn interminably around the campus seemed sad and desolate. If it were warm outside, everything would have burned to the edges of the earth, guided by the gusts of the strong eastern winds. The town did not burn however, and we scampered about trying to locate the vehicles that had been lost in the shuffle of tow trucks, which had come in fleets during the witching hour.
“Dude, put the coffee on.”
“I don’t have a coffee pot”
“Fucking savage. Alright, hit me up with some of that Boon’s”
The packing of the cooler is a science. Line the bottom with beer, as it is not strong enough to be on top. Next, load in the strong stuff to form it’s own bowl around the 140 some odd jell-o shots, which are a particularly friendly breakfast on a chill Saturday morning. Finally, locate some fucking coffee before you insult your host for such a dismal and tragic lack of the life force.
Two very spicy coffees later, we join the parade of circus freaks and revelers. What a fucking nightmare. Charlie and Willy Wonka had Umpa Loompas in tow behind every corner. There were midgets everywhere and six foot tall bottles of Jim Beam and Jack Daniels. Jay and a female Silent Bob with a sharpie goatee were leaning up against the tailgate of the next truck, and as we passed the fifth of Jack amongst friends and strangers, the wind pushed as hard as it could muster against the coifs which had taken so long to perfect, and the lot began to swirl.
The booty booty beat thundered down from every direction. The big penis contest was into full swing, and I grasped a passing ninja turtle before falling headfirst off the massive galvanized holding tank bolted to the bed of someone’s red F150. I scored some dope off the Rasta kid who was visiting Jay and Silent Bob and commenced to Jigglin’.
People shouted patriotic anthems of Cental’s superiority, and I told the myth of the mighty Golden Grizzly as the dark clouds rolled across the sky, slowly surrounding the now puke coated cement crater. Student ID’s were forged and traded for restroom privileges, and Bob stood on a white plastic chair in a sparkly AE shirt so we could grope his ass.
As the clouds circled closer and the hair separated into greasy chunks, the students herded themselves towards the stadium. We stepped over broken bottles and crushed beer cans. We poked a dead Luigi with a shoe, and the crowd was addressed.
“My fellow students and partiers, ‘tis the day before Halloween and it is cold as balls. The State of the Miniskirt is dire. The clones have puffed out their chests and thick black hair creeps from ankle to chest. From between knocking knees, fly skirts of miniscule proportions and patterns to match the oozing ground below. My fellow ladies this is what we have prepared for always and the reason for the existence of legwarmers. Flood ye into the stadium lavatories to comb and primp, miniskirts ablaze in the name of glory! And remember, PAIN IS BUEATY!”
We hooked the leash to our new pet Bob and proceeded to the closest facility and mirror, and as we huddled about the sink taking long thirsty gulps from flasks, candy was given from strangers, and Bob touched up our makeup. Suddenly, from the depths of a stall, emerged the hag with the snake face. She saw not the glitter on the shirt, and instead of washing her hands under the warming water of a faucet, screeched in horror that the man in the flannel shirt filled with glitter had infiltrated the ladies’ compound.
As a crowd of two and twenty girls gathered behind their pet, the hag fled the restroom, perhaps forever. When sobriety came, after Taco Bell and a seedy Irish bar, we imagined that she pulled her freshman daughter immediately from the school forbidding her forever from college, and from that day forward could never use a public restroom for fear of men in glittery shirts lurking behind every bend. Later still, when the rain came down, we chuckled and tried to remember just what Bob’s real name was anyways.
Fear and Loathing in Mt. Pleasant, Kellie Riddell 02/18/05
It was a chilly October morning in the fall of 2004. The sun flooded the horizon as hundreds of hung-over coeds woke from a sleep one can only have after a night of heavy drinking. The trees were bare of their leaves, and the fields of farmland strewn interminably around the campus seemed sad and desolate. If it were warm outside, everything would have burned to the edges of the earth, guided by the gusts of the strong eastern winds. The town did not burn however, and we scampered about trying to locate the vehicles that had been lost in the shuffle of tow trucks, which had come in fleets during the witching hour.
“Dude, put the coffee on.”
“I don’t have a coffee pot”
“Fucking savage. Alright, hit me up with some of that Boon’s”
The packing of the cooler is a science. Line the bottom with beer, as it is not strong enough to be on top. Next, load in the strong stuff to form it’s own bowl around the 140 some odd jell-o shots, which are a particularly friendly breakfast on a chill Saturday morning. Finally, locate some fucking coffee before you insult your host for such a dismal and tragic lack of the life force.
Two very spicy coffees later, we join the parade of circus freaks and revelers. What a fucking nightmare. Charlie and Willy Wonka had Umpa Loompas in tow behind every corner. There were midgets everywhere and six foot tall bottles of Jim Beam and Jack Daniels. Jay and a female Silent Bob with a sharpie goatee were leaning up against the tailgate of the next truck, and as we passed the fifth of Jack amongst friends and strangers, the wind pushed as hard as it could muster against the coifs which had taken so long to perfect, and the lot began to swirl.
The booty booty beat thundered down from every direction. The big penis contest was into full swing, and I grasped a passing ninja turtle before falling headfirst off the massive galvanized holding tank bolted to the bed of someone’s red F150. I scored some dope off the Rasta kid who was visiting Jay and Silent Bob and commenced to Jigglin’.
People shouted patriotic anthems of Cental’s superiority, and I told the myth of the mighty Golden Grizzly as the dark clouds rolled across the sky, slowly surrounding the now puke coated cement crater. Student ID’s were forged and traded for restroom privileges, and Bob stood on a white plastic chair in a sparkly AE shirt so we could grope his ass.
As the clouds circled closer and the hair separated into greasy chunks, the students herded themselves towards the stadium. We stepped over broken bottles and crushed beer cans. We poked a dead Luigi with a shoe, and the crowd was addressed.
“My fellow students and partiers, ‘tis the day before Halloween and it is cold as balls. The State of the Miniskirt is dire. The clones have puffed out their chests and thick black hair creeps from ankle to chest. From between knocking knees, fly skirts of miniscule proportions and patterns to match the oozing ground below. My fellow ladies this is what we have prepared for always and the reason for the existence of legwarmers. Flood ye into the stadium lavatories to comb and primp, miniskirts ablaze in the name of glory! And remember, PAIN IS BUEATY!”
We hooked the leash to our new pet Bob and proceeded to the closest facility and mirror, and as we huddled about the sink taking long thirsty gulps from flasks, candy was given from strangers, and Bob touched up our makeup. Suddenly, from the depths of a stall, emerged the hag with the snake face. She saw not the glitter on the shirt, and instead of washing her hands under the warming water of a faucet, screeched in horror that the man in the flannel shirt filled with glitter had infiltrated the ladies’ compound.
As a crowd of two and twenty girls gathered behind their pet, the hag fled the restroom, perhaps forever. When sobriety came, after Taco Bell and a seedy Irish bar, we imagined that she pulled her freshman daughter immediately from the school forbidding her forever from college, and from that day forward could never use a public restroom for fear of men in glittery shirts lurking behind every bend. Later still, when the rain came down, we chuckled and tried to remember just what Bob’s real name was anyways.