9:44 PM: Gothic rancor and you.

Holy shite. What a weekend.

Where to begin, where to begin...

A great synopsis of my friday night can be found here.

I'll just add that I'm a freak on the dance floor, especially when the dance floor is an empty grass field ajacent to the city pool. I came up with many catchy dances, such as optimistic cancer, the reluctant photographer, and the metaphorical palace of love.

As for Saturday night...wow.

A timeline:

6:45: rollie comes over, we go pick up some pizza at hungry howie's, where we see stoned rednecks (the best thing...ever). after pizza, and some shitty comedy central movie, we head to bowden park, to meet up before meeting up at hastings to get ready to go to the party*(!)

7:30: Bowden Park! I pick up Sean A. on the way, and when I get there, who do I find? Why, Madison and Dex, the park historians. Madison was obsessed with trying to get high off resin, and dex was suspiciously smirking, which always leaves me unsettled. Honore shows up, so Honore and I go to Hastings to get some coffee, then Kroger to get some Ginger Ale, then I get dropped off at Bowden, and pussy Honore goes home for the night. I head to hastings, the other cars follow.

8:15: HASTINGS! we arrive, and meet Richard, a 9th grader named Bruce Robinson, and another 9th grader from Huntsville named Pate there. The two 9th graders were pretty cool, especially for their age. We make a few calls, ditch Madison and Dex, and head to Conoco to attempt to buy beer.

8:45: CONOCO. We get there, and I have an ingenius idea: I should take a cell phone in, pretend to be talking on it, so when I put the contraband on the counter, I can just throw the money at the guy and pretend to be too busy to be carded. Unfortunately, Bruce was the only one with a cell phone. So, being the domino effect effect go getting guy I am, I make it work: I call his sister (Lindsey), and talk to her answering machine. It didn't work. I was carded after he had rung me up, and was handed my money back. Bullshit. We gave up, and headed to Sean C.'s house for the big party, but found noone there. at all. not even sean or alex cobb.

Here, Richard Patterson, guest contributor to social retard, will take you through the rest of the night, starting at our arrival at Sean Cobb's house:

The arrival was wicked suck. We found an empty house complete with lights on and an open front door. We did not take advantage. We stood in the cold. Thanks the heavens there was no chicken cow! Whilst the crew was waiting an old people car arrived simultaneously with a drunk driven truck. The peeps had arrived and we could enter. It was possibly symbolic of intercourse.
Within moments there was trampoline time. We could not believe the lack of spring support. We could not believe the smell of petrol. They would both combine for Matthew’s demise. A heathen appeared from the homely house with a bottle o’ gas and some flame devices. He quickly put them to use and started a concrete inferno. The blaze scared the blazed. Matthew attempted to scamper away from the pyrotechnic pornography but the trampoline would own him. He was sucked beneath, head first into the wet earth. Definite laugh riot lol :) hehe!!:O
Minutes passed and guests arrived. They were greeted by a three hundred-pound, drunken penguin boy. Wrestling ensued; a real barn burner! Then the “freak show circus” found the residence. Most were your run of the mill Beuaragard trailer goths. No real story there (except for that stench). But one fellow looked like the results of the Insane Clown Posse raping an 18th century French fag pie. In addition to his leather trench coat, claw, and swashbuckler shirt, he rocked an enormous top hat with a velvet ornament. Matthew, having just suffered a blow to the head, greeted him with pointing fingers and laughing like a school boy. The gothcore pirate of the Renaissance was not impressed. He threatened to unleash the Satanified powers of his crow bar upon Matthew’s skull. Matthew continued to chuckle and mock him. The dark prince of the paupers subsequently exited.

Matthew wins.

Within the hour, alcohol arrived. We began with a shot each. Another lad decided to take about six. Inebriation was certain. With the body of an AIDS mangled baby and the alcohol tolerance of, well, an AIDS mangled baby he was bound to get poopy. He took more shots. His next few hours contained crying, vomiting, and kazoo sounds in his sleep.
Everyone else just got jolly. In a drunk way, not a Santa one. Hee haw! You know that story quite well!
The next happy fun jam occurred at 6 AM. The penguin child took a cum shot that would drown a horse, well, if you substitute tomato ketchup for ejaculate goo. He was enraged and he galloped around the house, cursing and punching things. The night was over.