Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.


Still More Inexhaustible Historical Indignities
Age 3: I become enraged upon meeting another kid named Patrick. Soon after I become completely inconsolable when it’s pointed out to me that he’s older than me, and therefore has an original claim to the name, which I cannot legally challenge. Bitter feelings of resentment toward my parents that stem from this unfortunate situation linger on well into the 21st century.

Age 7: Oh, that nickel I swallowed? I did it to impress a girl who told me I was “almost as funny as Paul Lynde.”

Age 9: Desperate for attention, I pretentiously decide to start using my full name on class assignments. It’s only after taking a few papers home months later that I learn I don’t actually know how to spell my own middle name.

Age 13: Get sent to live with my dad, and have to transfer to a school where I know no one. While waiting for the bus on the first day of school, a guy named Mike Morakis, who is a junior but already has a beard, takes a look at the Black Flag and Dead Kennedys logos on my folder and starts calling me Tom. After a day or two of Morakis loudly exclaiming, “Hi Tom!” whenever he sees me, the entire bus starts chanting, “Tom! Tom!” at me every morning. I’m kind of mystified by this, but don’t really find it offensive. Until someone tells me that Tom is a married, middle-aged guy living in our subdivision who drives around with a 12-pack of beer in his car trying to lure high school guys into make-out sessions. This experience is somewhat mitigated a full year later, when Morakis (who might still be in 11th grade for all I know) takes pity on me and decides a kid named Pudgy is the “new Tom.”

Age 14: Tisza Langford comes over to talk to me while I’m mowing the lawn. She’s wearing a bikini, and I get a hard-on. I have to turn my back to her because I’m wearing these stupid little soccer shorts. She continues trying to chat with me, and moves to face me while I keep turning away from her. After a few minutes of staring at my back she gives up and pretty much quits talking to me altogether.

Age 15: If you have heartburn and decide to take some Alka-Seltzer, it’s important to wait for the tablets to completely dissolve before drinking ‘em down. You should not swallow them like huge aspirin. Extreme discomfort and forceful projectile vomiting may ensue. Let me stress this: Wait for the tablets to completely dissolve.

Age 16: My foofy new-wave bangs catch fire when, stoned, I lean just a little too far into the stove while lighting a smoke.

Age 17: I get kicked out of the house for getting two Cs on my report card (really) and movie into an apartment with a guy named Dirty Mike. Dirty Mike takes a lot of drugs and sells my beloved Samhain tapes for crack money. I learn that a mutual love for Naked Raygun should not be used as the only criteria for choosing a roommate.

Age 18: I meet Mike Watt. Well, by “meet,” I mean, “scream because I looked over in the parking lot before the fIREHOSE show and saw a man’s naked hairy ass and he jumped up and screamed too and it was Mike Watt.”

Age 19: Chuck From Hell and I get a couple of cases of beer and crawl through a muddy creek to get into this weird cave under University Avenue to drink. When that gets boring, we go visit Eileen and Tracy. We destroy their apartment and empty the fridge and pee on stuff we shouldn’t pee on and somehow I get to make out with Eileen a little, but we don’t stay long because the sun is coming up and adventure calls. See, Chuck had been in a terrible car accident several months prior, where a guy in another car fell asleep at the wheel, strayed into Chuck’s lane and killed his girlfriend. He wanted to go to Tallahassee and have a look at where she had just been buried. We start driving and I fall asleep. I wake up at a rest stop barely half an hour north of Gainesville, where Chuck had wisely stopped to nap after getting tired. It’s very bright out, and I am half-buried in a pile of empty beer cans, wearing a leather jacket with skulls and spikes all over it and covered in mud and condiments. Families are staring at us. Despite the presence of perfectly serviceable bathrooms at the rest stop, we decide to hit a gas station to clean up. By “clean up” I mean we use an entire bottle of gooey pomade to sculpt our hair-doos into giant, greasy rockabilly pompadours. Fueled by warm beer, we eventually make it to Tallahassee, where we spend 30 seconds looking at Chuck From Hell’s girlfriend’s grave. He pronounces this depressing, so we go to the mall, where he buys a Zodiac Mindwarp cassette and some clove cigarettes and two huge bikers wrinkle their noses at us. Then, after cruising around for a little while, Chuck From Hell remembers he knows a girl in Tallahassee who “likes to get fucked up the ass.” I stand next to him at a pay phone while he tries to track her down. A bum sitting on a park bench and swigging from a brown paper bag looks over at us disapprovingly. A car with two girls in it pulls up next to us. They look over, and I look back and smile. They lock the car’s doors and run the red light.

Age 23: I’m using the bathroom during a Radon show at the Hardback. Clay Smith, musician and reprobate, is at the stall next to me. As I finish and give Lil’ Pat a few hygienic, manly shakes, Clay looks down and comments on the size of my penis. Startled, I look up, and Clay uses the opportunity to smack me right on the head of my dick. Hard. I stand there in shock for a few moments as Clay runs giggling out of the bathroom and onto the dance floor. After gathering my composure, I run out and tackle Clay from behind, inadvertently knocking him completely unconscious. Instantly, six or seven pretty girls run to Clay’s aid, cradling his head, whispering comforts, stroking his brow with their soft, ripe bosoms and feeding him sweet, cold beer. I am not a victim but a bully, and nobody is impressed with my sore pee-pee.

Age 25: New Year’s Eve festivities start early for me and, after drinking just a bit too much, include firing bottle rockets into large, open buckets of house paint, spattering and angering innocent bystanders. Not long after using this same paint to execute a huge pentagram and an anarchy symbol on the host’s garage, I experience a brief moment of clarity and decide that I should head home before I get into real trouble. While stumbling home in a blurry haze, I fall flat on my face at least once. At home, I disrobe, head to the bathroom and begin vomiting. At midnight I shiver, naked, and rest my head on the toilet seat while listening to people celebrating outside my window. “Happy New Year,” they cheer, over and over again. “Happy New Year!” The next day my girlfriend calls me from Tallahassee to tell me she’s in love with some dude. A week later she sends me an invitation to their housewarming party. It has a cartoon of them carrying boxes into their new house together while giant hearts float above their heads.

Age 26-34: Good times.


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