Crotch Rot Blog Post…Finally

Regarding the Importance of Abstaining from Improper non-conjugal genital relations, or, how best to promote the cessation of the dread “Crotch Rot”

Professor Emeritus Daniel Robeson, Liberty University Press.

As you are surely well aware, there is an immoral sexual epidemic grabbing hold of this nation. This is no longer my father’s America…The so-called “sexual revolution” destroyed that sanctimonious way of life with their bra burning and their free love and their God-forsaken faggotry. It was this outburst of sin and debauchery that would have made the harlots of Sodom and Gomorrah, this opening of the flood gates of un-Christian behavior that has led to the times we live in today. A friend of mine who teaches Creationist Theory at Liberty showed be some alarming statistics from the Center for Disease Control. This study showed that one in four young girls in this nation have a sexually transmitted disease. That means that about 3.2 million girls in the United States are infested with these satanic viruses, and while I’m quite positive that all of these girls are Jews, Muslims, Pagans, and Queers, I feel the pressure they are putting on our moral majority. I can feel the heathens breathing down our necks, banging on the walls of our gated communities, flinging their syphilis and AIDS at us like little globules of corruption and unbelief.

However, my friends, there is hope. There is a way, a way to end this onslaught of hedonism and vice. Seven years ago, our fine and Christian President enacted his Community Based Abstinence Education Program to be taught in all of our nation’s public school’s. For it is well known that the only way to ensure a woman’s purity and grace with the Lord is to have her put her desire in her hope chest at the foot of her bed and to instruct her over and over and over, never to open that chest until she enters into Holy Matrimony. Unfortunately, despite decades of research here at Liberty University, we have found it to be impossible to physically remove the young woman’s vagina for preservation in the hope chest until marriage, and for this we apologize to certain female biology majors who are now barren and have severe gangrene of the nether regions.

While I do agree with the central tenets of the CBAE program, namely the chastising of pre-marital sexual relations, contraceptive use, and the promotion of marital sexual activity being the only appropriate sexual activity, I simply don’t think they have done enough. Our children have not adequately gotten the message that having sex before marriage can and will kill them (the facts bear this point out). And so, in the interest of the preservation of our nation’s Christian youth, I have a few suggestions for the improvement of Abstinence only sex education:

1. Shock Therapy: If you will remember, shock therapy has been clinically proven to be the only effective cure for the sin of faggotry. What I am suggesting may seem radical, but in fact is merely pre-emptive treatment, and I think we can all agree that when it comes to a woman’s chastity, it is better to be safe than a slut in the eyes of God. The boys and girls will (of course) be put into different rooms and will have electroshock pads placed upon their genitals. The pads will go directly onto the boys’ scrotum and will be placed upon the entire surface area of the girls’ vaginas, as I don’t know any of the details of the female genitalia, like any good Christian. In point of fact, I’ve seen my wife’s holy box but once, on our wedding night, and was so appalled that the subsequent two times that we had intercourse I was sure to do so in pitch darkness while closing my eyes and chanting psalms. But, back to the treatment, the boys and girls will be shown clips from particularly sinful and salacious films like Footloose and Bring It On. When the film reaches a particularly steamy section it will switch over to the final scenes from The Passion of The Christ while simultaneously shocking their genitalia. In this way, youth will realize that every time they even think about coitus they are further driving the stakes into the hands of Our Lord and Savior.

2. Photographic Recreation and Chemical Alterations: While I fully endorse the screening of photographs and videos showing the ravages of syphilis, genital warts, and other sexually transmitted diseases on exposed genitals, this act seems a bit too tame to get the point across to today’s youth. This current generation is a product of the digital age and needs interactive material to truly grab its attention. The chemistry department at Liberty University has devised a series of topical creams and chemical compounds that recreate the physical appearance and pain of sexually transmitted diseases. Students will be forced to apply these creams to their own genitals to feel what it would be like if they ever had sex. I imagine that swelling students urethras shut so that it burns with the fire of hell when they pee will sufficiently scare them off of sex until marriage. With the same tactics in mind, I would recommended handing out condoms for the boys in class to try on, but covering them in a rather caustic acid beforehand. This way the boys will think that all prophylactics cause their genitals to catch fire and will never have “protected sex.”

3. Sexual Demonstration: In my opinion, the most underutilized tool in abstinence only education is that of promoted misinformation. If our children don’t know what sex actually is, then they can never actually perform it. In this vein I suggest that all abstinence only sex educations give “sexual demonstrations” to further confuses their adolescent students. I would recommend the teacher bringing in a partner of the opposite sex to illustrate “what sex actually is” in the most unappealing light possible. My own suggestion is to have the man stimulated until his flag is at half-mast (all while still clothed to best of your ability) and then to have the woman repeatedly slam the classroom door on his phallus while he screams out in excruciating pain. If children believe that this act is sex, then they would never actually commit it. An important corollary to this plan is that all pastors would have to present a pamphlet to couples on their wedding night so that they actually had God-approved sex rather than smashing their penis in a door.

Those, for now, are the recommendations I have for Abstinence only sexual education in this country. But, my individual lesson plans and ideas are not important. The crux of the matter is that we instill a system that teaches youth that sex is a wholly destructive, painful, and sinful act that will ruin their entire life. As long as we stay true to this central theme, Abstinence based education cannot fail and can only enrich the soul of this Christian nation.

The First Kiss Of Spring Training

Let me preface this story my saying that:
a) This is creative non-fiction, but not “James Frey creative non-fiction.” I don’t even think I took poetic license with a Goddamn thing.
b) All names (except one…can you spot it?) have been changed to protect anyone who wouldn’t want to be written about my yours truly and posted about the internet…If you recognize (or think you recognize) any specific person, please don’t divulge their real name. Contact me privately if you really want to know.

Ok…enough of that crap. It’s storytime:
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The First Kiss of Spring Training

When I was in grade school, the only TV I was allowed to watch after dark was the programming on Nick at Nite. This was due to my parents’ fears that modern prime-time television would warp my impressionable pre-adolescent mind and because it was on right after Nickelodeon’s original programming, which was all I ever watched in the afternoons aside from Cubs games on WGN and NOVA specials on cool stuff like sulfur-spewing volcanoes or killer Tiger Sharks. Throughout much of my childhood I would stay parked in front of the TV after Doug or Rocko’s Modern Life had wrapped up to watch the shows of my parents’ youth. I’m actually glad that my folks forbade me from watching primetime TV because Nick at Nite acted as a sort of cultural history primer for the last half of the 20th century. As a kid I watched the I Love Lucy with Vitametavegemin, the Happy Days where Fonzie jumps over a shark pool on water-skis, and learned that being stranded on a desert island isn’t so bad if you get to bunk with Ginger and Mary Ann. However, the show that I watched with the zeal of a Billy Graham devotee was The Wonder Years. For me, and countless other slightly awkward, unremarkable looking pre-teens, Kevin Arnold was the small screen manifestation of myself. We dealt with the same insignificant, yet important problems about school, friends, siblings, and most notably, girls. From the time I was ten years old on, I yearned to find a girl like Winnie Cooper. Winnie had everything: She had the always enticing girl-next-door quality, was smart enough to help you out with your homework, was good-looking without being unapproachable, and wanted Kevin, i.e., me. In the fourth grade I watched the episode during which Kevin and Winnie have their first kiss, sitting on the neighborhood swing-set in the twilight, locking lips with about as much sexual tension as is possible to show on network television between two prepubescent kids. From that moment on I wanted my first kiss to be like that one, which didn’t seem too hard to duplicate. The only problem arose from the fact that Kevin put his New York Jets jacket around Winnie to warm her up after they kissed, and I didn’t own a New York Jets jacket. However, I did have a Cincinnati Bearcats Starter jacket that I figured would work just as well.

By the time sixth grade rolled around it seemed like everyone had begun dating and, on a not entirely unrelated note, had been rammed by the puberty bus. In sixth grade I was running with the “popular crowd,” which really didn’t count for much at my tiny private school. The popular crowd would have been more aptly named, “the crowd most likely to throw their virginity away and get substance abuse problems first,” but I guess that would’ve been a bit to cumbersome to say. Despite its relative lack of import in middle school culture at large, the popular crowd did have looking pretty as a prerequisite for membership. At least, that was the case for the girls. A less-than gorgeous guy could still hob-knob with the pretty people if he was funny (read: class clown), really good at sports, or had parents that were loaded. For me, the combination of being humorous and just good enough at sports not to ride the pine resulted in my inclusion. Being a part of this semi-elite society of beautiful folk made me a desirable bachelor by association, and since everyone had to date in the 6th grade, I soon found myself with a girlfriend.

The dating scene at my school was pretty much illusory. At that age kids “date” because it’s the cool thing to do and because they’ve just discovered they have hormones. Kids could ask one another out, not talk to each other during the subsequent three weeks, and still be “in a relationship.” It was a lot like spring training in baseball. Nothing anyone did actually counted and people just dated to get a little practice in fooling around so that they wouldn’t get sent down to AAA ball when the regular season actually started. Sadly, I never understood that these relationships were supposed to be ephemeral and pointless. When I asked out Laura Kelly at the beginning of the year, I actually expected the thing to last and she most certainly did not. A good indicator of this was the Christmas gifts we got each other: I used my allowance money to buy her a pair of diamond earrings. She got me an ‘Nsync record. It’s bad enough that Laura’s Christmas gift to me was an album made by a group of whiny teeny-boppers, but the juxtaposition of the saran-wrapped CD cover and the black-felt covered box I gave to her was what killed me. It was like telling a girl you love her and getting a pity hug in return. Hindsight being 20/20, I probably should have seen her break-up coming from a mile away. Instead, I simply listened to that wretched ‘Nsync album on loop for a month straight.

If you look back at the first few seasons of The Wonder Years it’s striking how much older Winnie looks than Kevin. It’s one of the cruel tricks of adolescence that girls’ bodies develop about two years before boys’ do, but everybody’s libidos kick into overdrive at the same time. In the pilot episode of The Wonder Years Winnie is a slender girl on the threshold of womanhood and Kevin is a squat boy who still has baby fat in his cheeks. In my case, Laura had breasts that made jogging a hazardous activity and I was still looking under my arms for any sign of follicle life. To this day I have no valid explanation as to why Laura agreed to go out with me. I asked her out right before my school’s homecoming bonfire and was ecstatic until I got home that night. When I went into the bathroom I remember staring at my reflection, wondering what could have possessed this girl to make her want to date me. I was a skinny little, five-foot-nothing kid with a comically bulbous nose and nappy brown hair that frizzed out like the bottom half of Albert Einstein’s afro when it was humid. I guess it goes with out saying that I was horribly self-conscious as well. For the entirety of our “relationship” I felt like there had been some sort of clerical error wherein I got placed with the wrong girl, and that in some other high school there was a little GQ-model-to-be who was dating the average girl I was supposed to be with. In my defense, it’s hard to be confident in a relationship when your voice hasn’t dropped yet.

Over the course of the four months that we were together, I did everything in my power to be a good boyfriend to Laura, only to be smote by her overbearing parents. When I asked Laura to come down to the haunted steamboat on the Ohio River with a group of friends, her parents nipped the plan in the bud because it was too “inappropriate” for their daughter. In place of the haunted steamboat–a date sure to frighten Laura enough so that I could at least cop a feel when an out of work actor jumped at us covered in stage makeup–I went on their suggested date for us: a parent-student hoe-down held in the middle school gym. Instead of holding Laura for an hour in the cramped quarters of a dilapidated riverboat, I found myself going to what was widely acknowledged as the lamest event ever. I only brought my mom along with me because my Dad had the antisocial savvy to stay at home and watch The McLaughlin Group instead of attending dosey-do hell. Once we got to school, I immediately began speed-walking from our new Plymouth van to the gym doors in an attempt to make it clear to any passers-by that I didn’t know the woman following me in an embroidered Halloween sweater with little black kitties and pumpkins on it. However, when I walked into the gym and saw Laura surrounded by her nuclear family, I knew nothing good would come of the evening. The “MCs” consisted of a geriatric couple both sporting black cowboy hats, with the husband wearing an outfit that was about 80% denim along with one of those hideous string neckties worn my used car salesmen in Texas and the wife wearing a floral dress with a hoop skirt that could have doubled as a family-sized tent.

The actual events of that evening have evaporated with the passage of time into a blur of horrible country music and humiliation. Laura and I tried to avoid the festivities by sitting on the plastic blue bleachers and speculating on how much fun our friends were having aboard the haunted steamboat, but her mom kept on sucking her away like a maternal black hole. Whenever this happened my mom would feel compelled to grab me as well and make me line dance with a bunch of aged boomers and their miserable children. Every time my mom saw my scowling face she would put her hand on my back and say, “It isn’t that bad now, is it honey?” But it was that bad. When you’re 12, square dancing with your girlfriend’s mother in front of said girlfriend is about as traumatic as being forced to sing “I’m a Little Teapot” buck-naked in front of your entire class. Laura’s parents, on the other hand, were having a fantastic time. This was probably because they would be able to rest safe and sound for another week with the knowledge that their daughter was still unsoiled by my grabby adolescent hands.

The hoe-down was only part one of her parents’ nefarious plan to turn me from boyfriend to best friend. Apparently, even though she was twelve, Laura wasn’t allowed to see PG-13 rated movies, something that came as quite a shock to a kid like myself, whose father had sat him down on the couch and made him watch Alien when he turned ten. This meant that I was only allowed to take her to movies that were rated G or PG and resulting in us going on dates to Babe: Pig in the City and I’ll be Home for Christmas. Aside from Schindler’s List, I can think of few films that would make worse date movies than one starring a talking baby pig. As for I’ll be Home for Christmas, it was a Jonathan Taylor Thomas vehicle (JTT to the well initiated) and was therefore not only a shitty film, but one that attracted an audience of screeching nine year old girls hopped up on Sour Patch Kids and Slushees. I think it goes without saying that I got no ass during these outings.

As pathetic as it may sound, I never got so much as one kiss from Laura during the four months that we dated. The most intimate we ever got was a sock-clad game of footsie during English class, while the teacher read from Where the Red Fern Grows. In retrospect, it seems a tad twisted to be fooling around underneath a desk while listening to a story about a boy’s prized bloodhounds slowly dying, but what would you have done? After paying for dates for over three months and not getting so much as a peck on the cheek, I jumped at even the smallest opening to get a little lovin’, and if any guy out there says they would have done different…well, they wouldn’t have. I think it’s physically impossible unless you’re a eunuch or something.

That January, Laura broke up with me the only truly proper way a 12-year-old girl knows how: by spreading a rumor around school that she was going to break-up with me, letting it circulate until my best friend Matt heard about it and instant messaged me to see what was going on, thus causing me to call her on the phone to see if she was really breaking up with me. When Laura told me that we were breaking up, I choked up and had to do that guttural hiccup trick to stop her from knowing that was I crying over the phone. When she hung up on me I spent a good 15 minutes in my dad’s study crying until my tear ducts were dry heaving. It might look like I was just being a melodramatic kid who didn’t know any better, but to this day I really think I was in love with her. I mean, I went to see Babe: Pig in the City and saved up my allowance for 3 months to buy a Christmas present for this girl without receiving so much as a goodnight kiss over the course of four months. If that’s not a 12-year-old’s version of love, then I give up.

Tragically, this isn’t the worst part of the whole ordeal. At this point I could delude myself into thinking that Laura was just a prude who didn’t give it out to anybody. But low and behold, a couple of months, later she got caught by her parents getting felt up by Nick Strotz on their living room couch with her shirt off and her tongue so far down his throat that it was using his uvula for a punching bag. Where was this when we were going out? And why did it have to be with Nick Strotz, who was a notorious perv? I mean, just say his name out loud. It even sounds like the name of a kid who’d be charged for date rape by his sophomore year of college. I would’ve beaten the ever-living crap out of that kid if he hadn’t outweighed me by a good 50 lbs.

It was at this point that anxiety about losing my oral virginity began to set in. If I didn’t kiss a girl soon, I’d be branded as a loser and sent to the Siberia of our middle school social hierarchy with all the other social lepers. Then and there I made it my mission to kiss a girl before the school year was over or, if I failed, move to a different state where I could assume a new identity–preferably an identity that had already gotten to second base. It no longer mattered if it was that “perfect first kiss.” I just wanted to avoid being relegated to sitting at a table with kids who played Magic: The Gathering during lunch and smelled like my gym locker. However, despite my increased efforts, I managed to make it to the last day of school without getting a single girl to make out with me. Thankfully, there was the end-of-year pool party.

The party to kick off summer vacation that year was held at the house of Erica Weber for the sole reason that her garage was larger than the local branch of our public library and her house proper was a super sized McMansion. She had an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a two-story glass-encased patio, and a log cabin playhouse equipped with a TV and air conditioning. Calling her parents rich would be tantamount to calling Stephen Hawking smart or Malcolm X black. After swimming for a little while and getting a hamburger along with some corn on the cob, all of which was prepared by a catering staff, I paraded my half-naked bony ass down to their pool house.

Now, when I say they had a pool house, don’t get some half-baked idea in your head of a smallish shack for housing pool-cleaning equipment, inflatable rafts, and water noodles over the winter. Erica’s pool house was as large as my actual house and came complete with a fully stocked kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, and a newly refurbished basement. This was where the family’s “help” lived when they weren’t busy catering to the whims of Erica’s mother during cocktail hour or polishing the hood of Mr. Weber’s Rolls Royce. I entered the pool house with a small group of my friends and headed upstairs to the master bedroom, where it was decided that we would play Truth or Dare. Here was my shining moment. The only reason Truth or Dare exists among teenagers is to either make your peers do stupid shit naked or to get them to make out. I suppose it was the easiest way our forefathers found to break down the oppressive puritanical values that dominate our society. Why we had to be the nation founded by prudish zealots who thought that their testicles were instruments of sin is beyond me, but I’m sure karma had something to do with it.

Once the game of Truth or Dare got started, it took a couple turns for us to get warmed up, giving out tepid dares like, “kiss Mike on the cheek” or “scream penis as loud as you can,” which my friend Ryan was more than willing to do with or without being dared. This stuff is kind of like Truth or Dare foreplay, because if you just jump right into “take your swimsuit off,” you’re liable to get the same response as if you’d propositioned a woman with, “You’re cute, let’s fuck.” Eventually I was signaled out for a dare by Carolyn Bennett, a girl who was universally acknowledged as the most ridiculously beautiful person in our grade and a woman who was about half a decade more mature than anybody else in the room. I really wish I could tell you that my first kiss was with her. I also wish that I owned 1985 DeLorean that took me backwards in time once I hit 88 mph. I received neither of these wishes. Carolyn, who was reclining on the guest house’s queen size bed, sat up and placed her hands in her lap: “I dare you to make out with Amy in the closet for a minute.” The Amy she referred to was Amy Frey, a girl who stood about 4’ 10” with her shoes on and had a very Muppet-like facial structure. Her head appeared to be slightly wider than it was long, with a bob of jet black hair hanging above a face-splitting smile that was punctuated by a nose so angular that it could probably pop a balloon. I wasn’t particularly enthused at the prospect of having my first kiss come with a girl who looked like the offspring of Cher and Ernie from Sesame Street, but I couldn’t say no to the dare. This was the first legit dare of the afternoon. If I didn’t accept it my friends would think I was a total pussy and I would have to face the terrifying possibility of entering the 7th grade without having kissed a girl. Oh yeah, and it probably would have hurt her feelings, but that didn’t really enter into my thinking at the time.

There were only about six of us in the guest house, so our dare was met with awkward fanfare. Carolyn got off the bed and picked Amy up off the ground by her arm-pits while Ryan proceeded to scream “ow-ow!” and mimic that “bow-chicka-wow-wow” baseline that you hear in pornos. After a moderate amount of this poking and prodding, Amy and I got up from the pow-wow on the floor and walked over to the bedroom closet to consummate our dare. We stood outside the door for a good 15 seconds flashing sheepish smiles and expelling air out of our noses in short, forceful bursts until Amy finally mustered the courage to walk into the closet. I followed her in and Carolyn flashed a demonically angelic smile as she shut the door and told us she’d start counting when she screamed go. It was pitch black and reeked of moth balls. I knew that Amy was in front of me somewhere, but exactly where I didn’t know. I started to get a little pre-kiss anxiety and worried that I would lean forward and kiss her on the eye by accident or that I wouldn’t do it right, whatever that meant. I heard Carolyn yell “go,” and did nothing. I just sat there, cross-legged and petrified, afraid to make any advance: Did I really want my first kiss to be with Amy Frey? I didn’t even like her as a person, much less think she was hot. Plus Truth or Dare is a really lame way to get your first—and there was now someone else’s tongue in my mouth. Amy began attacking my face with her gaping mouth, shoving her tongue so far into my mouth that I gagged and had to compose myself before going back in to kiss her again. Amy was going at my mouth like Mike Tyson went after Evander Holyfield’s ear. She was pressing her mouth against my face at an angle that caused her little thumbtack of a nose to dig a crater in my cheekbone. In addition to that, Amy was pushing me backwards with the force of her face so that my back was getting skewered by a high-heeled shoe that Mrs. Weber probably wore once in 1983 and then forgot about. My lower back was being gored by a shoe, Amy’s nose was in the process of piercing on my left cheek, and she was trying to asphyxiate me with her tongue. It was all viscous and slimy and I didn’t know what else to do but timidly swirl my tongue around hers and count the seconds until it would be over. Worst of all, the Webers, in their infinite wisdom, had decided to fill every room of their house, tree house, and pool house with snacks. And, apparently, Amy must’ve owned significant market shares of Frito-Lay because she had devoured about three bags of Nacho Cheesier Doritos over the previous hour. Anyone who has ever eaten a Dorito knows that they leave a very potent aftertaste in your mouth. Kissing Amy was like having that nauseating Dorito aftertaste swabbed on the inside of my cheeks with her tongue. It was during that minute, with the taste of rotten Doritos invading my mouth, when I sat and prayed for those closet doors to open so that I could go eat an entire canister of Altoids.

Eventually the Gods showed some mercy and ended our impromptu make-out session. I walked out of the closet, faked a smile, and proceeded to brag to all my friends that I’d just made out with a chick so that no one would think I was queer. When I got home I sat on my couch watching TV and downing a 2 liter of Coke in a futile attempt to get the grody Doritos aftertaste out of my mouth. All I could think about was how awful making out with Amy had been, and I tried to convince myself that I just hadn’t done it right. I mean, guys wouldn’t do so much stupid shit to get a girl’s attention if that was the reward. The more I thought about it, the more I knew that it went awry because a kiss wasn’t supposed to be forced and timed like some erotic laboratory experiment. I knew that Kevin Arnold never would’ve made out with a random girl because his friends told him to. Then I remembered that there was an episode where Kevin had to play Spin the Bottle at a party and he felt awkward, too. He was luckier than I was because Doritos weren’t around in the 1960’s, but the overall experience was similar enough. I guess that’s why I identified with him so much; because most of his experiences were my experiences, only mine happened thirty years later and weren’t produced on a Hollywood back lot. The main difference between us was that he had a Winnie Cooper and I didn’t. I always knew I should’ve bugged my parents to buy me a New York Jets jacket.

The Final Scene of The Four Year Hole

Scene 3

About three hours have elapsed since the end of scene 2. Colin is lying down on the couch with a Rolling Rock balanced on his stomach, looking at a copy of Vanity Fair that is about two inches from his face. The only other visible person in the room is Beth, who is passed out in the plastic cooler of Keystone Light, with her body precariously perched like William Howard Taft in the White House’s old bathtub and her limbs are dangling over the sides. Some odd, metallic rustling sounds are coming from behind the bar. Colin lets the Rolling Stone rest on his chest and looks around the room.

Colin: Jess! [pause] Jess! What the hell are you doing?

Jess pops up from behind the bar with an unlit, half smoked cigarette hanging from her lips. She takes the cigarette out of her mouth.

Jess: I’m looking for the shot glasses!

Colin: And why would that be?

Jess: For the shots!

Colin: You need more shots like Friedman needs more weed.

Jess: Oooooo! That’s perfect. We totally need to get some pot. Do ya think Friedman would let us have some?

Colin: That wasn’t my point. Friedman doesn’t need more weed because he’s already smoked so much that he’s only capable of reading at a third grade level. Likewise, you don’t need any more booze because you’re about a shot away from getting intimate with our toilet.

Jess [wobbling towards the back of the couch]: That’s not true. I’m sober as the day I was born.

Colin: Which was?

Jess: Was what?

Colin: What day were you born on?

Jess [triumphantly]: Eleven, Twenty-Seven, Ninety-One.

Colin: Sweet Jesus…You were born in the nineties!

Jess: Yeah?

Colin: God, you were born two years after the fall of the Berlin Wall.

Jess: Yeah, but we studied it in modern European history last year.

Colin: You studied it…

Jess [spotting the shot glasses on the coffee table]: Got ‘em!

Jess hops over the back of the couch couch, landing on Colin’s thighs and almost spilling his beer. She slides off the couch, grabs two shot glasses from the coffee table, and runs over to the bar where she begins to pour the shots.

Jess: Come over here and do a shot with me!

Colin: No more hard liquor for me tonight little lady, but by all means you go ahead…give your gag reflex a nice workout.

Jess: Shut-up Colin…[Jess spills some vodka on top of the bar] AHHHH!!!!!

Colin [popping up from his prone position on the couch]: Jess?! You alright?

Jess [laughing hysterically]: Nooooooo!!!! Vodka flood!

Colin: All that was because you spilled some cheap-ass vodka?

Jess: Don’t call it cheap! You’ll hurt the vodka’s feelings.

Jess bends down and begins licking the spilled vodka off of the table.

Colin [standing up]: What are you doing?

Jess: I’m using my tongue to save any innocent bystanders from dying in the vodka flood.

Colin [walking over to Jess]: I think it’s about time we had a lie-down.

Colin picks up Jess and carries her in his arms over to the couch

Jess: But what about the poor…the poor people in the vodka flood?

Colin: Don’t worry. You did everything you could. Plus, FEMA would have ended up fucking them over anyway,

Colin sits down on the left edge of the couch and props Jess up so that her body is lying diagonally, with her head resting on his shoulder. Slowly, Jess crawls up Colin’s body in an attempt to be sensual, but fails rather miserably, groping much more than gliding. She tries to kiss Colin three times, with Colin reeling his head back away from her mouth each time.

Colin: What’re you doing there kiddo?

Jess [playing with his collar]: I’m gonna kiss you.

Colin: No you’re not.

Jess: What’s the matter? I’m not pretty enough for you?

Colin: No, it’s not that.

Jess [whispering in his ear]: Then why won’t you kiss me?

Colin: Well, for starters, you’re too drunk to know what your doing.

Jess: Oh, I know what I’m doing. And I’m not drunk.

Colin: You were just lapping up vodka off the bar with your tongue.

Jess: I didn’t want to waste it.

Colin: You were babbling about imaginary people dying in a vodka flood.

Jess: That was just a joke.

Colin: Ok, let’s say for the sake of argument that you’re not drunk.

Jess: I’m not drunk.

Colin. I know you’re not, but you are sixteen.

Jess: I’m very mature for my age. I took college courses over the summer at NYU.

Colin: I’m glad you’re so scholastically active, but you’re sixteen and I’m twenty-one. If you kiss me I could spend the next few years making shivs out of toothbrushes in order to protect my anal virginity.

Jess: But I want to kiss you.

Colin: And when I was nine I wanted a one of those mini-Jeep Wrangler 4-x-4’s, but I got over it…actually, I still really want one of those. They even had real walkie-talkies in them so you could talk to your…

Jess grabs Colin by the back of the head and kisses him for about five seconds before letting go of him.

Jess: How was that?

Colin: Surprising and a little illegal.

Jess: So you liked it?

Colin: Yeah, I liked it.

Jess: Good…

Jess lays her head down on Colin’s chest and passes out. Colin looks around for a little while trying to find his beer and wrangles his arm away from underneath Jess to grab it from off of the coffee table. He takes a couple sips from the beer before he hears some noise coming from Luke’s room.

Claire [off-stage]: Get off me!

Luke [off-stage]: Just give me a second.

Claire [off-stage]: I’m leaving!

Luke [off-stage]: You’ll leave when I tell you to leave you stupid bitch!

Claire hops out of Luke’s room, pulling on her jeans with her shoes in her hands while she’s moving. Luke appears in the doorway with a white t-shirt covering his crotch She turns around towards Luke’s door while putting on her shoes.

Claire: You move one step closer to me and I’ll scream rape.

Luke: Fuck you!

Claire: Like you could you impotent prick! [she turns toward Colin] Tell Kirsten I had to go okay?

Colin: Sure.

Claire walks out the door and slams it behind her.

Luke: Fucking bitch!

Colin: What happened there stud?

Luke: You saw it, man. The whore bailed on me.

Colin: Why’d she bail?

Luke: I don’t know. She’s just a fucking cock tease. Never trust a redhead, man.

Colin: Whatever you say, Bruiser.

Luke: Are you calling me a fucking liar?

Colin: What was that “like you could” shit about?

Luke: What are you talking about?

Colin: After you screamed, “fuck you,” she said, “like you could.”

Luke: So?

Colin [after a pause]: I’m just saying it’s not a big deal. A lot of guys have trouble when they’re blitzed out of their skulls. You’re not Bob Dole yet.

Luke: If you’re saying what I think you’re saying I’m gonna stick my fist down your fucking throat.

Colin: Tell me I’m wrong.

Luke: Fuck you! [they’re both silent for a few seconds] Did you fuck Kirsten’s sister?

Colin: Nah, I’m just kinda babysitting.

Luke: Babysitting, huh?

Colin: Only you could turn the word babysitting into innuendo.

Luke: She is lying on top of you.

Colin: She just passed out that way.

Luke: Sure [Luke sees Beth over in the corner]. How long has she been like that?

Colin: Her? I’d say about an hour. She danced around to “Cotton-eye Joe” for a while and then kinda slumped over there in the corner.

Luke: If I take her back to my room, is that rape?

Colin: Yes!

Luke: Isn’t it only rape if the girl says no?

Colin: The girl’s passed out in the beer bucket for fuck’s sake. She couldn’t say no if you asked her if it was okay to stub cigarettes out on her arm.

Luke: So, you’re saying it would be rape?

Colin: Yes!

Luke: Sorry! Didn’t know I touched such a nerve.

Colin: Would you just go into your room and put some fucking pants on!

Luke: Only if you say it.

Colin: Why do you want me to say it? There’s no one to hear it besides you and me.

Luke: Say it or else I drop the shirt.

Colin: Alright, alright…I acknowledge that I, Colin Anthony Hayes, am now and forever Luke’s bitch, and am in awe of his incredibly large cock.

Luke: That’s better… You’re so queer.

Luke walks back to his room. Almost immediately afterwards, Jess begins to gag, looking as if she ‘s going to vomit. Luke props her upright on the couch and reaches for the trashcan by the coffee table. He holds it underneath her mouth.

Colin: Okay, there we go. Just puke it on up. You’re gonna feel a lot better when you do. We’re gonna go walk over to the bathroom, okay? [Jess gives a big dry heave] Or maybe we’ll just stay right here. [Colin grabs her hair and holds it back]. Nice and easy now. Don’t force it or anything. Have you ever drank so much you puked before? [Jess nods her head back and forth] Well, there’s a first time for everything. [Jess lets out another dry heave] That didn’t sound too encouraging. Let me see this for one second. [Colin looks into the trash can and then hands it back to Jess] Fuck. Nothing’s coming up. [turning to Jess] I’m going to go get your sister, okay?

Jess nods her head and Colin heads back to Friedman’s room off-stage. There is the sound of knocking on his door.

Colin: Kirsten! Kirsten!!! Your sister’s dry heaving up a storm out here! You better come out and make sure she gets home alright! [nothing but silence] Kirsten! Friedman! Fuck! [Colin walks back on-stage for a second and heads right back off-stage towards Luke’s room. He knocks on his door] Luke!

Luke [voice only]: What the fuck is it?!

Colin [voice only]: Where’s Friedman and where’s his worthless piece of shit girlfriend?!

Luke [voice only]: I don’t know! I’m not his fucking secretary!

Colin: [Colin walks back on stage and goes to the fridge for a beer] Shit! Who the fuck gets their sixteen year old sister shit faced and then leaves her alone with a bunch of random guys. I’m going to lynch Friedman when he gets back. [He walks back over to the couch and sits down next to Jess, who is still dry heaving] I’m going to call the health center now, ok? [Colin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cell phone. He stands up and dials the number for the health center, pacing back and forth. While the phone is ringing he takes out a cigarette and begins smoking] Hello? Is this the health center? Good, we have a bit of an emergency over here…Of course I’m sure… Yes it’s serious. If it wasn’t serious then it wouldn’t be a fucking emergency now would it?… Yes, I’ll calm down…Well, we had a little party and…My roommates and I. We live in Scribner Village, Dogwood #3…Anyway, a girl had a bit too much to drink and now she’s dry heaving…for about five minutes…no I don’t know how old she is, I assumed she was twenty-one…Well, we put the “under 21 no drinking” sign by the bar. What more do you want us to do?…No, I can’t verify how old she is…I’m not digging through this girl’s purse! Look, it’s your fucking job to make sure kids don’t die on this campus so get your lazy asses over here before this girl pukes up a lung…No, I will not watch my fucking language! Now, you get over here right now and pump her stomach or give her some ipicack or whatever the fuck it is you do before I have a dead girl in my dorm. Then, when she’s no longer blacked out, you can ask her how fucking old she is!…Alright, fifteen minutes. Fantastic.

[Colin hangs up the phone and sits back down on the couch next to Jess]

Colin: Great party huh? God, all I wanted was to have a few beers and watch some TV by myself, but instead my apartment is filled with hay bales and two unconscious girls. Jess, you need to do me a favor for me, ok? Don’t come to this fucking college. Alright? Just don’t. As a matter of fact, don’t go to college, period. Maybe that’s asking a little too much, but at least take a year off. You’re sixteen for fuck’s sake…You’re sixteen and a senior in high school. You can take a year off and still be younger than half the kids in your freshman class. Go to Europe and take the grand tour or something. Head to Nepal and go on your Razor’s Edge experience in the Himalayas with a bunch of sherpas. Maybe you go to Africa and swat the flies off of malnutritioned babies or build a hospital in Guatemala… What? You don’t want to leave the country? That’s cool. You could live in New York City or Chicago or San Francisco for a year. Get a shitty job at Starbucks or something…no, fuck Starbucks…make sure your shitty job isn’t at a chain. But just go to city and fucking live. If you don’t like cities just take a bus to the middle of Iowa and shuck corn…it doesn’t matter ‘cause it’s better than this shit. I’ve been here three and a half years and all I’ll have to show for it when I graduate is a stupid fucking piece of paper and forty grand in student loans. I’m a philosophy major. What the fuck can I do with a degree in philosophy? That’s right, nothing. Absolutely nothing. Maybe I’ll just find me a sugar mama. Some desperate fifty-year-old divorcee with 10,000 dollars of collagen injections in her face and a miniature poodle named Foofie. I could be a trophy husband. A degree in philosophy would certainly be good for that. I could wow all her billionaire, Yale-educated, blue-blooded friends with my knowledge of Kant and Wittgenstein. Then, after I’ve explained to them the intricacies of Nietszche’s theory of eternal recurrence, they can pat me on the head, hand me a scone, and send me off to the master bedroom to wait for post-supper coitus…God, you’re so much better at this life direction stuff than my guidance counselor. All she said was “Go to college”…

Friedman and Kirsten come barging into the apartment, laughing and fondling each other for a while until they see Jess passed out against Colin’s side.

Friedman [giddily]: What’s up brougham? Looks like somebody had a little too much Jaeger tonight.

Colin [not turning towards Friedman]: Get out.

Friedman: Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?

Colin: Get…out.

Friedman: Hey, this is my apartment too. I don’t have to do shit.

Colin: No, you don’t. You could stay here and when Health Services comes in about ten minutes you can join Jess in the ambulance.

Kirsten: Jess is fine…She’s just a lightweight. [Walking over towards the couch] Come on Jess, let’s go back to my dorm.

Colin: Kirsten, you can come pick her up in the afternoon. Now you two kids run off and do some coke off each others asses, fuck each other in the middle of the academic quad, I really don’t care as long as I don’t see either of your faces for another twelve hours.

Friedman: Man, you’re kinda overreacting to this whole…

Colin: Twelve hours.

Friedman [to Kirsten]: C’mon, lets go back to your room.

Kirsten [to Colin]: Alright you fucking psycho, we’re going. You happy now?

Kirsten and Friedman leave the apartment

Colin: Yeah…I’m ecstatic.

Colin reaches over to the coffee table, grabs his beer, and takes a big gulp. With his other hand he holds Jess’ head to his chest and strokes her hair as the lights fade out.

The End

The Four Year Hole Scene 2, Part 2

I’m re-posting the last lil bits from scene 2, part 1 so that it flows a little bit better.

Scene 2 — Part 2

Friedman: Why do you have to be so confrontational all the time?

Colin: Because you insist on bringing Ugg-boot wearing space cases to the dorm all the time. [to Jess] No offense.

Friedman: [putting ice in the rum and diet coke]: You’re just getting all pissy because for once I’ve found a woman that actually makes me happy and you’re stuck here twiddling your dick.

Colin: That’s some saccharine-covered happiness you got going there Friedman.

Friedman: [walking towards his room]: I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, but I’m pretty sure it’s bullshit, so I’m gonna go check on Kirsten.

[Friedman retreats back into his bedroom]

Colin [to Luke]: Was my line of thought really that hard to follow?

Jess: Their relationship’s saccharine-covered, like the stuff that makes Sweet ‘N Low taste like sugar. So, like Sweet ‘N Low, anything that seems to be real between that guy and my sister is fake.

Luke: Holy Shit! She talks.

Colin: Shut-up douche-bag. She just said something more insightful in five seconds than you’ve said in the three and a half years I’ve known you.

Luke: You’re only saying that because she was talking about something that came out of your ass.

Colin: That may be, but I have more grey matter in my ass than you have in your brain.

Luke: All you’ve got in your ass is brown matter.

Colin: And with that perfectly timed poop joke, the conversation is dead. Jess, come over and pop a squat on the couch. [Jess doesn’t say anything] Come on. You don’t seriously plan on spending the entire night standing by the bar?

Luke: Yeah. Come let Colin get his mack on.

Colin: Get my mack on? I’m not Don “Magic” Juan. I don’t have a ho under each arm and a goblet of cognac in my hand.

Luke: You don’t have to be a pimp to mack.

Colin: Yeah, but you do have to be an unscrupulous ass-clown. Plus, [facing Jess], no offense honey, but you’re jailbait and I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.

Luke: More like a two-inch pole.

Colin: That was a real zinger there Bruiser. I mean, my ego is so bruised I don’t know if I can ever mack again. [turning back to Jess] And, since my days of macking have come to such a tragic and unceremonious end, would you come have a seat on the couch?

Jess: Okay.

Jess walks from in front of the bar down stage and sits down in the middle of the couch between Colin and Claire. Everyone is silent for a few seconds

Luke: This is kinda gay. Who wants to play a drinking game?

All except Colin and Jess: Me!

Luke: That’s a majority. Now, the beer pong table’s in Friedman’s room and I think we can all agree that no one wants to walk in on whatever they’re doing in there, so we’re gonna play Fuck the Dealer in my room, because I’ve got some Goldshlaeger in there.

Colin: Nothing says class like Cinnamon Schnopps with flecks of gold in it.

Luke: You’re damn right it’s classy, and, it’s gonna get me crunk as hell. So, everybody get off their ass and head to my room. For all the ladies here, I would like to give you a friendly reminder that this event is clothing optional. And, [talking to Tyler] freshman bitch, grab a couple bottles of soda for mixers and the handle of Captain just in case.

All the freshman girls pick up their drinks and follow Luke back towards his room while Tyler shuffles along towards the bar and begins picking up the drinks. Colin and Jess stay seated on the couch. Luke turns back towards the couch.

Luke: C’mon pussies, let’s get moving.

Colin: We’re just going to chill here for a little while.

Luke: Let the girl speak for herself. Jess, you gonna come back here or what?

Jess: In a little bit.

Luke: Okay, but if more than five minutes goes by and you two are still out here I’m going to assume that Colin’s doing terrible things to your young body and I’m going to have to come out here and watch.

Colin: I hate to disappoint, but there will be nothing happening out here to put in your spank bank. So, just head on back and start the drinking without us.

Luke: Alright, but I’ve got my eye on you two.

Colin: That’s a comforting thought.

Luke heads back to his room with all of the freshmen trailing behind him.

Jess: Would you mind getting me another drink?

Colin: No problem, but only under one condition.

Jess: What is it?

Colin: Tell me how old you really are.

Jess: My sister already told you, I’m a senior in high school.

Colin: That’s not an age. It’s a grade. I saw something on 60 minutes about a kid who was so smart that he graduated high school when he was twelve.

Jess: So you’re saying I look like I’m twelve?

Colin: No, I’m saying that your sister’s eighteen and that at the very oldest you could be seventeen, which I highly doubt.

Jess: Why is it so impossible to think I’m seventeen?

Colin: Because that’s not how families work. You never see a mom pop out kids two years in a row. There’s almost always a two-year gap.

Jess: That’s a bunch of crap.

Colin: Is it now? Ok then, imagine you’ve got an infant in the house who cries incessantly, demands 24 hour attention, and allows you to get on average about three hours of sleep a night. On top of that you might be feeling symptoms of post-partum depression, you’re self-conscious about your body because of all the weight you gained during pregnancy, and your nipples are sore because of breast-feeding. Do you think sex would be in the least bit appealing?

Jess: It could be…

Colin: How old are you?

Jess: Fuck! I’m sixteen and I’m a senior because my parents made me skip the fourth grade. Now go get my drink you asshole.

Colin: Yes, ma’am. [Colin walks over to the bar] What were you drinking?

Jess: I was drinking a rum and coke.

Colin: Well, Luke absconded with the rum; is a jack and coke alright?

Jess: That sounds fine.

Colin makes Jess’ drink and picks up another Rolling Rock from the fridge before walking back over to the couch.

Colin [handing Jess her drink]: Why didn’t you dress up like a bucktoothed yokel with your sister and her friends?

Jess: I could ask you the same question.

Colin [opening his beer]: Well then, I’ll answer first. I’m not dressed like a hillbilly because this is my dorm everybody’s chilling in and it is my booze that everybody’s drinking. You’re lucky I’m even wearing pants…What’s your excuse?

Jess: I’m not a giant slut like my sister.

Colin: So much for a night of family bonding.

Jess: You saw her come in here and beeline straight for your friend’s bedroom. It’s been like that ever since she was in eighth grade.

Colin: Why eighth grade?

Jess: That was when she realized that guys would give her things and be at her beck and call if she flaunted her tits at them.
Colin: Tits can have that effect. 

Jess: Why is that?

Colin: Why is what?

Jess: Why do breasts have the ability to turn otherwise intelligent men into slobbering idiots?

Colin: I’m a proponent of the “Jerry West Theory.”

Jess: Who’s Jerry West?

Colin: He was a basketball player for the L.A. Lakers in the 70’s and he’s that little silhouette that you see on the NBA logo.
Jess: Okay…continue…

Colin: Guys love sports and in most sports something, usually a ball, bounces. All this bouncing leaves men entranced. They pack 70,000 seat stadiums all across the world every week to watch a ball of one type or another bounce.

Jess: So far you’ve proved that men like things that bounce.

Colin: Stay with me for a moment. Men also love women…well, statistically speaking only 90% of men love women, but there’s always the exception to the rule. So, to recap: men love women and things that bounce. Breasts are things that bounce that are a part of a woman, thus making them incredibly desirable and endowing them with the ability to turn men into total imbeciles.

Jess: That’s your theory? That guys like breasts because they bounce?

Colin: Yes. And why do most guys like bigger breasts? 

Jess: Because they weigh more and as a result bounce more.

Colin: It’s that simple. No more Freudian mumbo-jumbo about Oedipal complexes and whatnot. 

Jess: You think the concept of an Oedipal complex is mumbo-jumbo?

Colin: Yes, on the basis that my mother is too good-looking for my psyche to bear the idea of an Oedipal complex being real.

Jess: Your mother is that attractive?

Colin: Yes.

Jess: She’s so attractive that the mere idea of a subconscious desire to sleep with her and kill your father has to be denied because it might exist inside your head.

Colin: Stop it. I have no subconscious desire to sleep with my mother, plus my Dad left us when I was a kid so I can’t even find the man, much less kill him.

Jess: Oedipus didn’t set out to find his dad and kill him. He killed him thinking he was just another asshole stranger on the road to Corinth. You could be driving home one day, get rear-ended, and in a fit of road rage beat your dad to death without even knowing it was him.

Colin: While that is remotely possible, I do know what my mom looks like so I can’t go home and accidentally marry her like Oedipus does with Jocasta.

Jess: Well, I don’t know what your mom looks like. Maybe we could split the work 50-50: you accidentally kill your dad and I accidentally marry your mom.

Colin: It doesn’t work like that. You’re not even related to her.

Jess: Well, I could be bribed into marrying her on your behalf.

Colin: Sounds like a deal.

Luke bursts out from his room and quickly adopts a look of disappointment when he sees Colin and Jess simply talking.

Luke: Nothing? Not even a little tonsil hockey?

Colin: Luke, for whatever is left of your dignity, I’m going to act like I didn’t hear you say the phrase “tonsil hockey.”

Luke: Shut up faggot. Now, if you’re not fucking, you’re drinking, and if you’re not drinking you’re a pussy, so get your asses in here.

Colin: Be there in a minute, honey.

Luke flips Colin off and walks back into his room

Colin: You want to see a picture of my mom?

Jess: If you’re that concerned about this Oedipal thing, then I don’t think you should have a picture of her around with you.

Colin [standing up]: It’s beyond my control. [He helps Jess up off the couch]

Jess: How is it beyond your control?

Colin: Her picture is plastered all over the walls of Luke’s room.

Jess: How did he get pictures of your mom?

Colin: He backordered 25 copies of the March 1984 issue of Penthouse online.

Jess: Your mom was in Penthouse?!

Colin: Yeah, but luckily for yours truly Penthouse wasn’t as risqué in the 80’s.

Jess: I’m sorry…I mean, that really sucks.

Colin: A job is a job, right? She teaches kindergarteners now; she worked in porn then. No big deal.

Jess: No big deal?

Colin: It’s taken about ten years for me to delude myself into thinking its no big deal, so let’s just leave it at that and get shit faced. 

Jess: Okay.

Colin and Jess walk back into Luke’s room leaving the stage empty. Only voices are heard.

Jess: So, which one is your mom?

Colin: She would be the one covering Luke’s entire back wall.

Luke: Oh man! That shit never gets old…

The Four Year Hole — Beginning of Scene 2

- That is if anyone’s still reading:

Scene 2

It’s about 9:00 at night and time for the party to “officially” start, even though few people will show up before 9:15 or 9:30. A blacklight has been turned on to give the party some ambiance and enhance the effectiveness of beer goggles. There are now two huge blue Tupperware bins in the near right corner of the stage in front of the wicker chair, which hold about 40 Keystone’s each after the ice has been dumped in. Bottles of Jaegermeister, Jose Cuervo, Captain Morgan’s, Three Olives, Smirnoff Raspberry Vodka, Jim Beam, an assortment of mixers, and about a hundred red solo cups line the bar. Luke is now dressed in a wife beater and jeans, drinking on the couch. Colin walks in wearing what he wore earlier and heads for the fridge and grabs a beer 

Colin [grabbing a beer]: Have you moved since I left?

Luke: Nope.

Colin [Heading over to the couch]: You’re truly an inspiration.

Luke: I do what I can.

Friedman comes out from his bedroom at the end of the hallway straining to carry a large turntable in front of him. He walks over to the bar and places it at the only available space on the far left end. He is also dressed in a wife beater and jeans.

Colin: Oh God. Could we have just one party that doesn’t have the decibel level of the front row at a Ted Nugent concert?

Friedman: Don’t be such a pussy. What’s a party without music loud enough to drown out all the awkward conversation?

Colin: Here’s an idea. How about we really stick to the white trash theme and pretend we can’t afford four thousand dollar stereo systems that make the windows rattle?

Friedman [pulling speakers out from behind the bars]: Dude, all white trash trailers have this shit in ‘em.

Colin: When have you ever been in a trailer park?

Friedman: I haven’t, but I know those guys have ‘em.

Luke: How do you know that?

Friedman: I’ve seen 8 mile. I know what’s goin’ down.

Colin: The extent of your sheltered existence never ceases to amaze me.

Friedman: Hey man, I lived right next to the ghetto.

Luke: You did not, you trust fund motherfucker.

Friedman: How do you know that?

Colin: Because you live in a brownstone on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, that’s how. Maybe you can see Spanish Harlem from the top of your building, but that’s not living “right next to the ghetto.”

Friedman: No man, I do. The Barrio is, like, 10 streets up from my house.

Colin: Yeah, and you live two houses down from Katie Couric.

Luke: Seriously? 

Friedman: Both of you guys shut up. I’ve got to finish setting up the speakers.

Luke: How do you know Friedman lives next to Katie Couric?

Colin: He let me stay with him in Carnegie Hill last year when I didn’t feel like having Thanksgiving with my Mom and Brad.

Luke: The step-dad?

Colin: Hardly, the man’s 7 years older than me. It’s like my Mom’s married to an older brother I never wanted.

Luke: Sorry for bringing it up…Hey, I thought you said he lived in the Upper East Side?

Colin: Carnegie Hill is on the Upper East Side. It’s just a neighborhood of ritzy, overpriced boutiques and townhouses. If you walk the streets wearing anything less than Armani or Vera Wang a cadre of riot cops bludgeon you to death.

Luke: How’d you make it through the week without getting the piss kicked out of you?

Colin: Friedman’s family gave me a black suit and I was the family’s chauffeur over the holidays.

Luke: Really?

Colin: Yes, Luke. And after I finished driving them to Saks I drove back to their street and made sweet love to Katie Couric in the back seat of her limo.

Luke: You are so full of shit.

Colin: I’m just brimming with it.

There is a loud series of knocks on the door. Colin gets up from the wicker chair, but instead of going over to open the door he goes to the far left side of the couch and sits down. 

Friedman [to Colin]: Aren’t you going to get that?

Colin: No, I really don’t think I am. As a matter of fact, I have no plans that extend beyond going to the fridge to wet my whistle.

Friedman: You’re an ass.

Colin: I’ve been worse.

There is now violent knocking coming from outside the dorm. Friedman jaunts over towards the door to let in the guests.

Friedman: Coming!

Friedman opens the door and a stream of five people come into the room, led by Kirsten who gives Friedman an overzealous hug and a kiss upon entering. With her are two other freshman girls, a freshman guy, and a younger looking girl meekly bringing up the rear. All the freshman girls are dressed in tight white shirts and daisy dukes, the freshman guy is in a wife beater with jeans, and the younger girl is wearing jeans and a maroon v-neck t-shirt.

Friedman [to Kirsten]: Hey there. Who are your friends?

Kirsten: Well, [pointing to the taller, blonde girl] this is Beth.

Beth: Hey guys

Friedman and Luke: Hey.

Kirsten [pointing to a shorter, redhead]: This is Claire.

Claire: Hi

Friedman: Hi Claire.

Luke: What’s crackin?

Kirsten: This is Tyler

Tyler: Hey.

Friedman: Hey.

Beth [pointing to the girl in back]: And this is my sister Jess.

Friedman: Nice to meet you Jess.

Colin: What is this, day care?

Kirsten: Jess is old enough to take care of herself. She’s a senior in high school and she’s just checking out Skidmore to see if she likes it.

Colin: Let me put the poor girl out of her misery. [to Jess] You won’t like Skidmore.

Kirsten: Shut the fuck up Colin!

Colin: [Staring down the bottleneck of his now empty beer]: Yes ma’am. Anyhow, I can feel my BAC reaching a dangerously low level, so I’m going to get another beer.

Colin gets up off the couch and heads back to the fridge.

Friedman: That’s actually a really good idea. Would any of you like a drink?

Kirsten: I would love one.

Friedman: Well, alright then.

Kirsten walks with Friedman over to the bar with the rest of the guests following behind in single file. Colin has already opened up another beer and grabs another one for Luke before walking back over to the couch. Colin hands Luke the beer and sits down on the right side of the couch. During the following conversation Friedman can be seen frantically pouring drinks for the girls. 

Luke: Thanks, man. By the way, I call dibs one the hot one.

Colin: Which one’s the hot one?

Luke: The redhead.

Colin: Ok, then you have “dibs” on the redhead.

Luke: Good deal. You can totally have first go at the blonde chick or the sister.

Colin: Christ, man. The girl’s probably not even eighteen yet.

Luke: So?

Colin: What do you mean so? I really don’t feel like spending five years upstate for one night of drunken and wholly unsatisfying sex with a minor.

Luke: So you’re going to fuck the blonde chick.

Colin: You know, there are some of us in this world who are capable of keeping their libidos in check for a period of more than 24 hours.

Luke: So, you’re not going to fuck the blonde chick?

Colin: No, Luke. I’m not going to fuck the blonde chick. There isn’t enough whiskey in Ireland to get me to fuck the blonde chick and from here on out I’m going to be calling her…wait a minute…[turning back to the bar]…Hey! Kirsten, what’s the name of your blonde friend over there?

Kirsten: Her name’s Beth.

Colin: Thank you…[turning back to Luke]…from now on I’ll be referring to her as Beth and not “the blonde chick,” because that’s just a tad too misogynistic for my tastes.

Luke: You’re a fucking queer.

Colin: Because I want to be courteous and call a woman by her first name instead of by her hair color?

Luke: It’s not that. I don’t give a flying fuck what you call her. You’re a fag because you never sleep with chicks.

Colin: That is not true. I have every intention of getting some sweet, sweet loving from a pretty little lady tonight.

Luke: When’s she coming over?

Colin: She’s already here.

Luke: Wait a minute. If I’ve got the redhead, you don’t want the blonde chick, and you don’t want to sleep with Kirsten’s sister, then…Holy Shit, man! You’re one two-timing son of a bitch.

Colin: What can I say?

Luke: Man, Friedman’s gonna freak when he finds out you’re sleeping with Kirsten.

Colin: Who said I’m sleeping with Kirsten?

Luke: Well, she’s the only one left for you to sleep with.

Colin: Not so my friend. I’ve got her stashed away in the pantry.
Luke: The pantry?

Colin: Yes sir. After I get a couple more beers in me I’m gonna go back there and get busy with Mrs. Butterworth.

Luke: You’re going to fuck a bottle of maple syrup?

Colin: Hey! Just because she’s an inanimate object doesn’t mean she doesn’t have feelings. She’s very giving and the syrup works as a fantastic lubricant. Plus, I’ve always had a thing for dark-tinted women.

Luke: You are a sick fuck.

Colin: Why, thank you.

Friedman: [screaming]: JAEGER-SHOTS!!!

All the freshmen and Friedman let out a big “WHOOOO!” and pound back a shot of Jaegermeister. Luke, upon hearing the cry for Jaeger, jumps over the couch and runs over to the bar.

Luke: What the shit is this?!

Friedman: What?

Luke: Starting Jaeger-shots without me?

Friedman: Sorry, man.

Luke: You’re damn right you’re sorry. [looking at Tyler] And you let the frosh faggot have some?!

Tyler: I’m not a fag you fucking queermo!

Luke: What the fuck did you just call me?

Colin: [picking up a magazine from the table] I believe the word, and I use that term loosely, was “queermo,”

Friedman [to Tyler]: Why don’t you go get a beer from the cooler.

Tyler [staring down Luke]: What?! I’m supposed to be scared of this cocksucker?

Colin: Kid, do you value your life?

Tyler: What kind of a question is that?

Colin: A very pertinent one, because you’re about one homoerotic insult away from having your lungs punctured. 

Tyler: What’s he gonna do? Stab me?

Colin: Nope. Doesn’t need to. When he busts up your rib cage bad enough one of the ribs will eventually poke a hole in ‘em.

Tyler: He can’t really do that? Can he?

[everyone remains silent for a few seconds]

Friedman: Will you just get the fucking beer already?

Tyler walks over to the cooler up right and grabs a beer.

Colin: I’m proud of you Luke-boy. [to Tyler] You’re one lucky son of a bitch. If you did that a year ago you’d be in an iron lung. But, ever since D-III schools started testing for ‘roids, our friend Luke here’s been a bit mellower.

Luke: Fuck off Colin. I never used that shit.

Colin: I know, I know. All that back-nee and the mood swings were because of those wicked shellfish allergies.

Friedman: How ‘bout we all do another shot.

Kirsten: Who wants JAEGER-SHOTS!

Colin: Fuck. I don’t mind you children drinking our liquor and all, but could you do it without shrieking like a goddamn banshee before every shot?

Kirsten: What flew up your ass?

Colin: A proctoscope.

Kirsten: A what? 

Colin: A proctoscope. My physician was in the middle of an examination when he found out I didn’t have the cash on me for my co-pay, so he just left the damn thing in there.

Kirsten: You’re disgusting.

Colin: Not at all. Routinely visiting a proctologist is necessary to ensure sound rectal hygiene. 

Luke: Just finish pouring the shots already Friedman. I don’t know how much longer I can hear Colin talk about his ass.

Colin: Honestly, I could go on all night.

Friedman: Done. Drink up everybody.

Everyone by the bar downs a shot of Jaeger and Friedman begins passing out drinks.

Friedman: Okay now…We’ve got two gin and juices; one for Beth and one for Claire.

Beth & Claire: Thanks.

Friedman: For the lovely Kirsten we have a Raspberry Vodka with Sprite.

Kirsten: Hold on…did you make my drink with that? [she points towards the bottle of Three Olives]

Friedman: Yeah. Is something wrong?

Kirsten: I don’t drink that penny-pinching Three Olives crap. I only drink Stoli.

Colin: What the fuck are you talking about? The entire point of those flavored vodkas is to mask the taste of the alcohol so you can’t even tell that it’s vodka you’re drinking.

Luke: Plus, you’re mixing it with Sprite.

Kirsten: So, what’s your point?

Colin: Never mind…How about this: If you can actually spell Stolichnaya for me, I’ll go to the liquor store right now and get you a bottle myself.

Kirsten: Bite my ass, Colin! 

Friedman: Woah, everybody calm down. Kirsten, I’ll just give your drink to Jess and we can get you a new drink.

Kirsten: Fine…I’ll just have a rum and coke.

Colin: Haven’t you had enough coke today?

Kirsten: FUCK OFF!

Friedman: [to Colin] Shut up, man. [to Kirsten] Kirsten, why don’t you go back into my bedroom while I make your drink, and we’ll chill out together for a bit, okay?

Kirsten: Alright. Just as long as I don’t have to stay out here with this asshole any longer. [Kirsten leans over and kisses Friedman, then turns towards Beth and Claire] Watch my sister while I’m gone.

Colin: Hold up, so she’s old enough to drink, but she needs to have a babysitter around when you’re gone?

Kirsten: AAAAHHHHH!!!!

[Kirsten storms off to Friedman’s bedroom. Luke, Beth, and Claire circle around and sit down on the couch while Friedman is frantically trying to get Kirsten’s drink ready].

Friedman: Why do you have to be so confrontational all the time?
Colin: Because you insist on bringing Ugg-boot wearing space cases to the dorm all the time. [to Jess] No offense.

Friedman: [putting ice in the rum and diet coke]: You’re just getting all pissy because for once I’ve found a woman that actually makes me happy and you’re stuck here twiddling your dick.

Colin: That’s some saccharine-covered happiness you got going there Friedman.

Friedman: [walking towards his room]: I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, but I’m pretty sure it’s bullshit, so I’m gonna go check on Kirsten.

[Friedman retreats back into his bedroom]

The Four Year Hole – Installment 2

Here is Scene 1, part 2:

Luke goes back to the fridge and grabs two beers. As he comes back to the couch he hands one to Friedman and sits down just as someone knocks at the door.

Friedman: I got it.

Friedman jumps up and goes towards the door.

Colin: Friedman actually locomoting his lazy ass off the couch.

Luke: Can only mean one of two things.

Friedman: Shut the fuck up.

Colin: I’ve got five bucks on drugs.

Luke: That’s not fair. Jerry Garcia over here gets laid once every full moon.

Friedman: I get more than your ‘roid raging ass.

Colin: Ok. You pay me five if it’s about drugs and I give you ten if he’s getting some ass.

There is a second round of knocking.

Friedman [to outside]: Just a second!

Luke: Alright man. We’ve got a deal.

Friedman opens the door and lets in Kirsten. She’s an 18 year old freshman at Skidmore who grew up in Upstate New York just 50 miles outside the college. Kirtsen’s relatively short with a ok figure, but is a bit top heavy. She has dirty blonde hair that is cut right at chin level. Kirsten’s wearing a tight pink cotton spaghetti string top, with a white lace bra barely visible at the shirt’s neckline. She sports a pair of gray short-shorts that say Skidmore on the back and a pair of Asics. The “freshman fifteen” endemic to many 18 year olds is already showing in the fullness of her face and the tire around her waist.

Kirsten: Hey Friedman!

Friedman: Hey there.

Kirsten: Are these your roommates?

Friedman: Yeah. This is Luke.

Luke: What’s up?

Friedman: And this is…

Luke: A man who owes me 10 bucks.

Colin: Hold on. The jury’s still out on this one.

Friedman: That is Colin.

Colin: How do?

Kirsten: O…K…Do you want to head back to your room?

Friedman: Sure. Do you want a beer first?

Kirsten: That sounds great.

Friedman and Kirsten walk back to the fridge. Friedman opens the fridge and hands her a Rolling Rock while grabbing another one for himself. Friedman puts his hand on the small of her back and they walk back to his room.

Luke: C’mon man. Fork it over.

Colin: I’m not giving you shit yet. I refuse to believe that the president of the Ziggy Marley fan club is getting some from that girl.

Luke: They just went back into his room for Christ sakes. What do you think he’s doing?

Colin: Probably selling her a little nose candy.

Luke: Bullshit!

Colin: Where does Friedman keep his stash?

Luke: In his room under the mattress, but that’s beside the point.

Colin: No, that is the point. Do you think Friedman could ever get a girl like that into his room if illicit substances weren’t involved?

Luke: Sure he could. Plus, she’s only a freshman.

Colin: I don’t care if she were a member of the janitorial staff. No one that attractive would enter Friedman’s boudoir unless she were under the influence of or promised some substance.

Luke: But what if she’s exchanging sex for the coke? 

Colin: Well then neither of us wins the bet.

Luke: Shit…How do you know she’s buying coke?

Colin: Look at the girl. Slutty WASPs like her never buy reefer. It’s always simply given to them by guys like Friedman who want to seduce women, but don’t know how to mix up a proper batch of rufies. Coke, on the other hand, is too fucking expensive to just hand out gratis to whatever girl you happen to fancy. And I think it goes without saying that our friend Kirsten isn’t in the market for psychedelics.

Luke: She could be getting some Adderall.

Colin: Not likely. I’d bet good money at least three of her friends have prescriptions that they dole out like Skittles. The only wild card is that she wants some E, but why would you take that shit at a White Trash Bash?

Luke: What makes you think she’s coming to our party?

Colin: When do you think she’s going to pay back Friedman?

Luke: I don’t know…maybe right now!

Colin: Come on bruiser. If you were her, would you fuck Friedman sober?

Luke: Good point.

Friedman comes back out of his room with Kirsten. He’s holding his beer in one hand with the other draped around her waist. She has both hands sheepishly hid in her pockets as they walk towards the door

Kirsten: Thanks Friedman. So, I’ll see you at the party?

Friedman: Sure thing

Kirsten: Cool [she gives him a peck on the cheek]. Bye.

Kirsten leaves the dorm and Friedman floats over to the wicker chair and plops himself down, sipping his beer. Luke and Colin stare at him in silence for a few seconds until Friedman notices.

Friedman: What?

Luke: Did you fuck her?

Colin: Your tact is astonishing Luke.

Luke: Thanks.

Friedman: No, I didn’t fu-…We just went into my room for a little bit.

Luke: To do what? Look at your record collection?

Friedman: I actually did show her my original issue Japanese release of “Dark Side of the Moon.”
Colin: So, she came all the way from the freshman girls dorm on the other side of campus because she just had to see your old, imported 45’s?

Friedman: Yeah.

Luke: Bullshit. You just fucked her.

Friedman: Are you insane?

Colin: I gotta side with Cheech over here on this one. They were in his room for, like, two minutes. I mean, Friedman’s not exactly an expert on Tantra, but it’s impossible to have sex that quickly.

Luke: I’ve done it before.

Colin: Are you bragging?

Luke: No, I’m just saying. Remember that girl Jenna Reynolds that I was banging sophomore year.

Friedman: Refresh my memory.

Luke: You remember her. Huge fucking tits–I mean like, 34DD, two handfuls and you still can’t grab all of it so there’s like a little area on the side that you can’t cup…

Colin: Stop it, because this could go on for days. Describe this Jenna Reynolds without writing a fucking sonnet about her breasts.

Luke: Don’t shoot the messenger. She just had really nice tits. It really doesn’t matter if you know who she is or not. I brought her up to prove a point.

Colin: Let’s have it.

Luke: Well, this girl was a fucking horndog. I mean, she wanted it 24/7. But we both had classes all afternoon on Tuesdays and Thursdays…

Colin: You actually went to class?

Luke: Fuck no, but she was all studious and shit. Anyway, she had a 15 minute gap between her classes, after biology or whatever the hell she was taking. We’d meet in the guys bathroom on the third floor…You know, the one no one goes to because only, like, one of the stalls work…and I’d zip down my pants, get Mr. Happy out, pull down her sweats…she never wore panties…and prop her up on the sink. When we were on we’d be done fast enough to get her to her next class early.

Colin: You really are a romantic. Minute-long sexual romps in the nastiest bathroom on campus; it’s like a Danielle Steel novel.

Luke: Hey man, she wanted it. But my point is that it is possible to bang a chick in two minutes.

Colin: But Friedman didn’t “bang” Kirsten in the couple of minutes she was here. Did you hear any shrieks of delight coming from back there? 

Friedman: Will you two stop talking about my girlfriend like that?

Luke: Say what now?

Friedman: You heard me. Kirsten is my girlfriend.

Colin: Friedman, buddy. Let me just ask you one question. Aside from displaying your record collection, what did you and Kirsten do in your room?

Friedman: Nothing. She just came by because she wanted a gram or two for the party tonight.

Colin: Did she pay for that gram or two?

Friedman: No way man. I’m not going to make my girl pay for coke.

Luke: She’s not your girl.

Friedman: How the fuck do you know?

Colin: Anyone who isn’t on a strict regiment of three bong hits an hour could figure that out. This is not a relationship. It is a business transaction.

Friedman: What’s that supposed to mean?

Colin: It means each of you has something the other one wants, so you have come to a mutual agreement to exchange these goods for one another. It’s like barter economies in civilizations that don’t use any abstract currency.

Friedman: And what exactly are the goods that we’re exchanging?

Colin: Jesus…could you spell it out for him Luke?

Luke: She wants blow and you want pussy.

Friedman: You guys are both cunts.

Colin: Look Friedman: we just don’t want you to delude yourself into thinking you have something real with this girl and then find out that she’s just using you.

Friedman gets up and starts walking to the door.

Friedman: Fuck both of you guys. I’m going to get some more shit for the party and when I get back I don’t want to talk any more about this bullshit. Kirsten’s my girlfriend and you’ll just have to learn to deal with us.

Friedman walks out and slams the door

Colin: Well, it looks like our bet is a draw.

Luke: Alright, I’ll buy that.

The two shake hands and Colin gets up to pick up his backpack located behind the couch.

Luke: Where you going?

Colin: Class. I have an exam in Criminal Psychology so I have to go.

Luke: I thought you were a Philosophy major.

Colin [downing the rest of his beer]: I am, but they make everybody take at least one science course and it was either cutting open pig fetuses or this so…I’ll see you later.

Luke: Peace out bitch.

Colin puts on his backpack and walks out of the dorm. Lights go down. End of Scene 1.

 

The Four Year Hole

So, during the fall semester I wrote a play that Xavier decided not to put on in the spring because they’re all a bunch of puritanical Catholics (I realize the theological contradiction in that statement, but nonetheless it is true). In lieu of getting to put on the play, I am going to post it in easily digestable serializations here on Diabeetus Mustache Rides. I personally enjoy reading plays, and if you do as well, I’ll continue posting further installments.

The Four Year Hole

Scene 1

The play opens in the living room of a dorm at Skidmore College in upstate New York. Colin is lying on the left side of a hunter green corduroy upholstered couch, undecided as to whether he wants to sit upright or splay himself out. Colin is 22 and a senior at Skidmore, where he has a full-ride. He’s of average height, but is built in the Bowie/Jagger mold of obscenely skinny men. However, unlike Bowie, Colin actually has some pigment and retains the tan he got over the summer. He is reading a copy of “Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung” by Lester Bangs. Colin grabs a pack of Winstons from a beat-up, rectangular coffee table in front of the couch, it’s cherry finish obscured by a mosaic of beer bottles, ashtrays, old essays, and back issues of Rolling Stone. Up-left is a shoddily hand-made bar. Up-center is “the kitchen,” and slightly down-right is a light-brown wicker chair with a heavily stained black futon cushion on it.

Luke [off-stage]: Hey douche-bag! Open the fucking door!

Colin: It’s unlocked…you’ve got opposable thumbs…what’s the problem?

Luke [off-stage]: I’ve got shit in my hands you prick! Now come over here and open the door.

Colin: Here’s a novel idea. You put down the shit in your hands…you open the door…and then you pick your shit back up.

Luke opens the door to the dorm room and begins pulling two bales of hay towards the empty space around the wicker chair. Luke is a big guy. He’s about 6’ 2”, spends 90 minutes a day in the weight room, and eats more in one meal than your average Vietnamese family of six consumes in a week. Had he been born in Nazi Germany, Luke would have been shown in newsreels as the ideal of Teutonic manhood. Short-cut blonde hair, blue eyes, and dumb enough to blindly follow orders.

Luke [while carrying a hay bale]: Dude, give me a hand over here.

Colin: Hold on. When did we decide to turn our living room into the set of Hee-Haw?

Luke: What are you talking about?

Colin: I’m talking about those sopping wet hay bales that are going to make our apartment smell like a stable.

Luke: They don’t smell that bad.

Colin: It smells like mildew and horse shit.

Luke: Hold on…I can fix this.

Luke runs back into his room up-right and disappears for a few seconds.

Colin [as Luke’s running]: Wait! Don’t fix it…Fuck…

Luke runs back into the room holding a can of AXE body spray and begins to spray it wildly about the room and on the hay bales.

Luke [while spraying]: See? Problem solved.

Colin: No. Not problem solved. Now it’s just going to smell like somebody’s keeping pigs in a middle school locker room.

Luke: You’re fucking crazy. Now the place smells like…(looking at the spray can) “Essence.”

Colin: Essence of what?

Luke: I don’t know. The bottle just says “Essence”

Colin: You’re a moron.

Luke: You don’t know what you’re talking about. This shit is like catnip when it comes to pussy.

Colin: Oh, is it now?

Luke: Hell yeah. A couple pumps of this shit and you’ll be up to you elbows in females.

Colin: So, what your saying is, if I use “essence,” women will find me irresistible and will drop whatever they’re doing, be it homework, yoga, or horseback riding, because they’ve become so wildly attracted to me?

Luke: That’s about right.

Colin: You’re an advertising executive’s wet dream Luke.

Luke: Whatever, I’m getting a beer. You want one?

Colin: Sure.

Luke goes back to the fridge and grabs two Rolling Rocks. He walks back down, hands one of the beers to Colin, and sits on the right side of the couch. They both open their beers and take a couple of sips in silence.

Colin: You still haven’t told me why we have a mini-barnyard in our apartment.

Luke: It’s for the White Trash Bash tonight.

Colin: Son of a bitch!

Luke: What?

Colin: Do you know what day it is today?

Luke: I dunno, but I think we’re still in mid-September.

Colin: No fuckmook, the day of the week. It’s a Thursday.

Luke: So?

Colin: Can we go one night without having a shitty theme party in the dorm room?

Luke: Hey! Our parties are not shitty.

Colin: Granted, they weren’t shitty freshman year, but after you’ve been to the same fucking party three nights a week for four years…

Luke: All our parties aren’t the same.

Colin: We had three White Trash Bashes last year.

Luke: And they were all kickass. Plus, this one’s already guaranteed to be different.

Colin: How’s that?

Luke: We’ve never had hay bales before.

Colin: You frighten me.

Luke: I try.

Colin: OK, I’m cool with having this little shindig here tonight, but don’t delude yourself into thinking I’m putting on a fucking wife-beater.

Luke: Dude, you have to rock the beater with jeans.

Colin: I don’t have to rock anything.

Luke: But that’s a major party foul. At least wear a pair of overalls or something.

Colin: Do I look like I would own a pair of overalls, much less wear a them in public?

Luke: I don’t know what’s in your closet. All I’m saying is if you don’t dress for the party, then any bitch that wants to is totally free to pour a beer on your head.

Colin: If a woman pours a beer on my head tonight I might have go Ike Turner on their ass.

Luke: Who’s Ike Turner?

Colin: He’s Ted Turner’s younger brother.

Luke: What does that have to do party fouls?

Colin: I need a fucking smoke.

As Colin grabs another cigarette, Friedman comes in the dorm room with a 30-case of Keystone Light underneath each arm. Friedman is a 21 year old junior, and is the only student in Skidmore history to be put on Triple Disciplinary Probation. He would have been kicked out his first semester if his Dad wasn’t a CFO at Pfizer who has already paid for a new swimming pool and girls dormitory to be built on campus. Friedman looks like he a groupie for Umphree’s McGee: nappy brown dreadlocks, a blue and yellow knit-wool hoodie, and cargo pants that are about 3 sizes too big. He’s short, but is so lacking in musculature that he appears almost lanky. He brings the cases over to the fridge and begins to unload them.

Friedman: What’s shakin’ kiddies?

Colin: What did you just bring into our dorm?

Friedman: Just a few beers for the party.

Colin: I hope you don’t expect me to drink that swill.

Luke: What’s wrong with Keystone?

Colin: It tastes like tobacco chew and piss, that’s what’s wrong with it.

Luke: It gets you drunk doesn’t it?

Colin: Yeah, and so does Aqua Velva, but you don’t see me guzzling it down.

Friedman: Will you two girls stop your bitching already? This is just for the beer pong and freshmen.
Luke: Fresh-women…I don’t want a bunch of horny 18-year old boys running around the apartment and puking in our toilet.

Colin: But it’s ok for 18-year old girls to puke in our toilet?

Luke: As long as they gargle some mouthwash before they suck me off.

Colin: Thanks for that wonderful visual.

Friedman pulls a monster bong from behind the bar and sits down on the couch in-between Colin and Luke. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a baggie of weed as he talks.

Friedman: Will you two chill out? No one is going to puke in our toilet.

Colin: You’re probably right. They’ll most likely make it halfway down the corridor and spew a Jackson Pollack on the wall.

Friedman [packing the carb of the bong]: Man, you know what your problem is?
Colin: Enlighten me Cheech.

Friedman: You’ve just got a negative attitude. You’re always thinking the glass is half empty.
Colin: And what? I should be thinking the glass is half full?

Friedman: No, you should be thinking that the sooner you drink the rest of that glass you can go to the bar and get yourself another drink. We’ve got, like, two handles of Captain back there.

Colin: You’re truly a philosopher king Friedman.

Friedman: Why thank you. [Friedman takes a huge bong rip and passes it to Colin}

Luke: What is that shit?

Friedman It’s some Afghan herb I got from Joel.

Colin: Joel? As in used record store Joel?

Luke: Joel who’s thirty-five and still lives with his parents?

Friedman: Hey, don’t knock the man. He’s good people.

Colin: [after taking a hit]: Damn, my eyes are watering a little bit.

Friedman: Good shit, isn’t it?

Colin: Well, now I know what Joel does with the money he doesn’t have to spend on rent.

Friedman [picking up the bong and passing it to Luke]: You wanna go for a test drive?

Luke: How many times do I have to tell you burnouts? I don’t smoke that shit.

Friedman: Your loss man.

Luke: I’m getting another beer. Y’all want one?

Colin: Nah, I’m set.

Friedman [exhaling after another hit]: Fuckin’ A man.

Luke goes back to the fridge and grabs two beers. As he comes back to the couch he hands one to Friedman and sits down just as someone knocks at the door.

More to come…