E R N I E ' S   H O U S E   O F   W H O O P A S S

So, there was this rich, snobbish girl in high school that I had a major crush on. Our lockers were close together, and when she couldn't avoid it, she would look at me, smile in a strained sort of way, and say hello. I found out that her parents were throwing a birthday party for her one night, and that the whole "in crowd" had been invited. (Yours Truly was not one of the illustrious guests on the list.)

But what the hell, right? So I finished up my part-time job at the liquor store that I was working at, having also "requisitioned" a couple of pints of apricot brandy. (Apricot brandy is made by the demons in Hell. Trust me on this.) I walked across town and found her basement doors standing open, through which, I could see that the party was in full swing. The guys, (mostly asshole jocks) were all dressed in slacks, shirts, and those gay-assed knit ties that were hip in the 80's, and the girls were wearing gowns and dresses. It looked like something out of a bizarre 50's prom.

Anyway, having imbibed one pint of apricot brandy on my way across town, I was feeling pretty damn good, and no longer even feeling conspicuously underdressed. (Levis, boots, and a faded Motley Crue concert t-shirt) I saw her, and was riveted to the spot. She was beautiful as always, and dressed in a flattering strapless gown with a plunging neckline. Her boobs were nearly hanging out of the gown.

A slow song came on, and she took one of the jocks out on the dancefloor and spent most of the dance making out with him. Feeling really miserable at this point, I ducked back out of the doorway and quaffed the other pint of apricot brandy. I was going for broke!

I guzzled the fucker. Anyway, the dance ended and Mr. Jock and she were standing behind a long table that held a crystal punch-bowl, cups, a cake, long platters of cookies and brownies, and plasticware. People were all coming to the table to help themselves when I found myself standing in front of the happy couple, the table between us. Both of them were looking at me as though I were something that they had scraped off of their shoes, and the music was suddenly a bit too loud, the room a little too warm, and everything just slightly tilted out of whack.

Before I could stop it, I spewed a perfect stream of sour brandy and nachos at a high velocity, the stream arching and almost all of it splatting perfectly between her breasts. Then, trying to turn away and overcome with abdominal distress, I proceeded to barf in the punch, on the cake, on the cookies, on the plasticware, the brownies, and all over the rest of the table. I was spewing chunks like a revved-up woodchipper.

What happened next was kind of a blur. Superjock leapt over the table, spilling it to the floor, bellowing like a sodomized water-buffalo. He grabbed me by the neck, dragged me outside, and proceeded to beat the fucking dogshit out of me.

I began the long walk home, my face bloodied and throbbing, and (Oh, thank you, God) it started to rain. Meanwhile, I'm horking up bloody loogies and splacking them into the road. I tried to hitch a ride, but no one is going to pick up a stumbling, bloody kid, weaving through the streets in the middle of the night in a rainstorm. I finally made it home without further incident.

She never smiled at me, looked at me, or acknowledged my existence again.

I hurled a sponge loaded with paint-thinner on the hood of Jock-boy's parked car a few weeks later. So much for his beautiful, metallic, midnight-blue paintjob...

Crunchy Frog