I spent this many hours this afternoon enjoying the rainy weather by laying on my bed jawing on the phone like a sixteen year old lady with a boy crush. Who was on the other end of the line, was it a hot lady or maybe Hollywood asking to turn this blog into the next “Julia and Julie”? Nope the nasally grown on the other end of my phone was my nearest and dearest friend Paul.
He called me to question my sexuality for maintaining a blog on a website that involves the phrase mushy in the URL (he is what you could call “old school”, or as I call it “bigoted”) but the conversation quickly wandered to old stupid stories that we shared and inspiration struck for my next article (I am starting to like the use of the word blog).
Get ready everyone, it is time for the tale of the greatest stupid story I ever created. Before I re-tell this story as an alternative to going outside and trying to get inspiration for this article (or blog) let me state I am not proud of what I did but this is Paul’s favorite story and his birthday is coming up and I am broke so here is your gift buddy. Now some background; In my teenage years I was not in a group of stoners or drinkers, we were a gang of sober vandals. We spent weekends pissing in odd places, climbing on roofs, knocking over things that were meant to be up right and for a time we stole phones from each other’s home’s only to destroy them while running down the street screaming “Cock”. A great deal of energy also centered around the ancient art of busting each others balls, either pulling verbal pranks, questioning the dick size, sexual orientation or the certain smell of each others farts were constant fodder for passing the time between lighting trash cans on fire. So now without further delay, here is the “Molester Story”:
It was a Saturday evening in early May and I was nineteen and I had minutes before the events of this story occurred had arrived back home to Ottawa for the summer from my first year of University in Montreal. Paul and I were sitting in his van (by “his van” I mean his parent’s van and by “van” I mean weird molester stereotype van (that is important for the visual later on)) outside of our friend Shawn’s (that is his real name but it is spelled differently) job at a strip mall Comic Book Store. I was in an irritable mood because Shawn was taking forever to get out of work and I was fresh off a bus from Montreal and wanted to shower or at the very least, not be in a moving vehicle for a while. So there we sat, chatting while I hatched my plot mentally to teach my dear friend Shawn a lesson for being tardy. Shawn is a rail thin, goateed feller, with a love of pastel colored button up shirts and he constantly wore a fedora at this point in his life which gave him the fashion look of a old timey meth snorting magician. After several minutes he emerged from his nerd cave covered in facts about Magic The Gathering and entered the sliding door of the van that faced the door of the Comic Book store as he turned to close the door, two twelve year old boys exited the Comic Book Store and I sprang into vengeful comedy action. I turned and stated “Hey kids do you know who this is (I point to Shawn, and they shake their heads) Well watch out because (for no reason I clapped twice) he touches kids” and as if on cue Paul hit the gas and the van zoomed away while Paul collapsed with laughter behind the wheel, Shawn yelled at me and I observed that the two twelve year olds were also laughing as if they were in on the prank. So in closing be on time when exiting work or one of your jack off friends will accuse of being a pedophile in front of complete strangers, Cheers John
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