STORY TIME


So I woke up one Friday morning and it was 1992. I was in 9th grade and covered in sweat (from my god-damned second hand waterbed that was always 107 degrees), and acne from my god-damned teenage hormones which to this day have still utterly failed to lower my voice in the slightest. I climbed out of bed and, after toweling off, got dressed in my requisite cut-off sweat pants and T&C Surf T-shirt, and headed out the door to catch the bus.

Which I didn't.

But that was OK, let me explain.

You see, my house was located right smack in between two different bus stops. One stop came twenty minutes earlier than the other, but it was worth getting up early to have first crack at the illustrious back seats, which for some reason black people don't like, but I fucking love.
There was nothing worse than climbing onto a bus when it's already achieved full anarchy mode, and the kids are just seething for something to make fun of. Lucky for them I wore a bright teal and orange Miami Dolphins Starter jacket that they could throw stuff at. But it wasn't all torture, all the time. Our bus driver was a half-senile old man named Dick and you can imagine the hilarity that came along with that.

"Nice driving, Dick!"

"Well, thank you son."

Cue the laughter.

You see what I mean, hilarity.

This particular Friday I was on my way to Olympic View Junior High in Mukilteo, Washington, home of The Pirates. I was in 9th grade and there were only a few weeks left of what I thought was Hell, but that was before I went to High School.

At the time we were having a canned food drive to help the homeless. Students were to bring canned food to their second period homeroom classes, and whichever grade (7th, 8th, or 9th) collected the most got some sort of pizza party or something AWESOME like that. My homeroom teacher's name was Mr. Nickerson. He was a 30 year old white guy with a mustache and he looked a little like Larry Bird to me. This may be because he had a life-size poster of Larry Legend hanging on the wall, and nothing to do with how he actually looked, but who's to say?

Mr. Nickerson was a great teacher. He taught English and was one of a very small minority of teachers that command both your attention and respect by simply being a normal human. And that's what he was, as long as you don't count the large steel filing cabinet that stood in the corner, dented all to hell, as a solemn reminder to all who chanced to look upon it that Frank Nickerson was really not to be fucked with. I once saw him hurl a dictionary across the entire classroom with astonishing accuracy at a student that had interrupted his lecture to ask how to spell something. Whoa whoa whoa, before you freak out, it was only a paperback.

I was the A.S.B. representative for Mr. Nickerson's class and that meant I got to leave class all the time to attend to "A.S.B. business". It was a sweet deal. I'd go shoot hoops with the P.E. classes or hang out with the smokers at the far edge of the football field. All I had to do in return was handle things like The Canned Food Drive.

The Food Drive lasted a week, and it was my job to count the food items in our cavernous cardboard "collection bin" each morning and report the total to the Front Office, The results would be read by the principal over the loudspeaker at the end of each day so we would know exactly which grade loved homeless people the most. Turns out it was the 7th graders, by a lot. On the first day, their total was more than 8th and 9th grade combined. And it just got worse. Every day they would more add to their total and threaten to puncture our bubbles of apathy. But as much as we wanted to, as 9th graders, we just couldn't care.

Then came the friday morning when I missed the bus. As I ran down to the next bus stop I had no idea that in two short hours I would be adding a thrilling new chapter in the lore of Olympic View.

I walked into Nickerson's class and he said, "Finally, Dobosh." This was due to the fact that I was late, and also because he never used anyone's first name.

As I entered the room and he said those words, he motioned for me to come to the front of the class. I braced for whatever unimaginable horror that he had concocted and was instead surprised to see that he was smiling and he put one hand on my shoulder as he addressed the class:

"Alright shut up. I have been watching you guys lose this Canned Food Drive and I am really impressed with how you've managed not to care at all about the fact that the 7th graders are making you chumps look like chumps! You guys are supposed to be kings of the school, it's embarrassing! And in my wisdom, I've decided to help you build some class pride today."

With that he turned around and took four paper grocery bags and a roll of masking tape from his desk. He gave them to me and said, "Dobosh, I want you to take three other guys and go to Mrs. Tawlkes' class."

Her class was the leading can-getter for the 7th graders, and we knew this all too well. I then looked down into my hands at the bags and noticed that there were eye-holes cut into each bag and his plan became apparent to my stunned freshman brain. I chose three other guys and we put the bags over our heads and used the tape to fasten them securely on, all while the class murmured in excitement, and Mr. Nickerson watched us while sitting on his desk. When we were sufficiently disguised, he barked out a command that was only seven words long, but conveyed perfectly every nuance of his wishes.

"Don't come back here without the food."

We sprinted from the room. As we charged full speed down the quiet hallways of our Junior High, I was filled with the primal excitement of hunting in a pack. We were on a mission, we were wearing masks, and we wouldn't let our General down. When we reached Mrs. Tawlkes' classroom, we threw the door open and swarmed.

"We're here for the food!" I yelled, and my eyes fell on the paper bags stuffed with cans in the corner. We grabbed all we could carry as the petrified seventh graders looked on. We sprinted out of the room cackling like the hyenas we were and raced back to our Homeroom to count the spoils. Upon our arrival, the cheers were loud and genuine, and I felt like a conquering hero.

Then Mr. Nickerson told us to sit down and get our homework out, we'd wasted enough time already. We thought he was kidding at first, but he motioned his head towards The Filing Cabinet and we knew the party was over.

We never got into any trouble for our little stunt, I think Nickerson may have even set the whole thing up, but for the rest of our time in Junior High we were spoken of with reverence for our deeds, and we walked a little bit taller that whole summer.

Then we got to High School, and life sucked again.

It occurs to me that I've missed the entire month of July, and for that I am truly sorry. The following is a post that was started on July 18th. Some of the jokes aren't as funny as they used to be, but hey, it was a different time then.

Sit down. We need to have a talk.

Now, when I say "we", I mean you need to listen to me talk, so shut up.

I feel that it's time that we discuss Pepsi Edge.

I was shopping at my friendly neighborhood grocery store (and you know how those can be) when I happened upon this magnificent product. It gleamed at me from off the shelf as if it had a light of it's own buried deep inside it. The light of Heaven? Perhaps.

I thought to myself, "At last, we oppressed millions have somewhere to turn when we can't stand the ad campaign for that motherfucking Coke C2."

I didn't actually drink any of it, I was just glad it was there. I was glad for several different reasons, but before we go on, I should tell you that I am 100% positive that it tastes just like shit.

But some people like shit, and I'm not one to judge, but I will. You nasty fuckers are nasty.

Anyway, I was glad to see Pepsi Edge because I was wondering whether Coke was going to be able to claim this summer as the Summer Of C2. You'll remember last year it was Pepsi Twist, and back in the good old days of '02, it was Vanilla Coke. Ah, vanilla flavoring and cola, how I loved thee, for a time.

And now we're smack dab in the middle of this decade which no one can seem to come up with a clever nickname for, and look at what they're giving us, half the carbs. Halle-fucking-lujiah.

What the fuck is going on in this god-forsaken country? Carbs never threatened to attack us. Sure, there were some reports linking carbs to Al-Queda, but everyone knows those reports are just worthless (or is it just the "intelligence" people who read them?). Please people, Atkins is dead. Let it go.

I'm waiting for the anti-anti-carb backlash to begin, where people will again celebrate the joys of pasta, rice, and (gasp) bread. But in this volatile time in history, there needs to be a bad guy to defeat for the good guys to feel good about themselves. Or should I say, there needs to be a dastardly horrible guy to defeat for the bad guys to feel less-bad about themselves.

What was I talking about?

Oh yeah, soda.

I've got a question. How come there aren't any restaurants that serve Grape Soda? It's obviously the best soda there is, and anyone who can't admit that is fucking bread to me. (As the Anti-Carbies like to say)



Don't you fucking look at me like that, I told you it was no good. I promise to do better next time...whenever that is.