29. Cook’s tour

Yeah, so this is where I grew up, babe. Not much to show or tell, but I’ll hit the sweet spots – I mean, I always do, right?

Oh! Here we go: coming up is the stop sign my boys and I used to chuck bottles and rocks at. See that big dent in the center of the O? Yeah, that was me. Levi said I couldn’t hit that bull’s-eye, but I totally did. He owed me 3 bucks and his copy of Varsity Blues for that one. I mean, it was taped off TV, but whatever. I mean, Varsity Blues is Varsity Blues, ya know?

Coming up on your left is Old Man Charleston’s mail box. We used to smash bottles and shit on that too. One time we were cruising by on our way back from a pumpkin patch, and I was like, fuck it, I’m not carving this shit, so I just totally destroyed the mailbox with it. Pumpkin got pretty fucked up too. It was so dope, babe. God, I wish you coulda seen it. I mean, fuck…

Goddamn it! I really wish you were there to see it! Sucks, but whatevs. We’ll just have to make some new memories. You, me, and the baby you’re cookin’ up.

Oh, yes! Yes! This is like the stop. The old satellite! Fuck yeah! So bomb. Every weekend, we’d come out here with beers and liquor that’d we’d all ganked from our dads – just me and the boys – and we’d sit under that little tree over there and whip our empties at Old Satty – that’s what we used to call the satellite.

I mean, sure, we’d always end up just hitting the fence. Whatever. But we never stopped trying to get one over, hoping it’d totally shatter on Old Satty.

Damn, that’s got me all sad and shit, babe. Thinking about that shit. Diggin up the past. Big Steve used to love chucking cans and bottles at Old Satty more than any of us. It was his favorite thing in the world. May he rest in Peace.

Yep, one night he threw one too many cans at Old Satty. All drunk and pissed, he stuffed a beer in one of his cargo pockets, straight up determined to get a direct hit on Old Satty, and he starts climbing the fence, right?

And we’re all like, “Do it, pussy!” And he’s like, “Fuck it! This night’s never gonna end! I’m doing it!”

He made it over, but fell on the way down. Landed on his head, fucked his neck for good, and that was it. Gone.

Every couple years me and the boys come back here and tell our favorite stories about Big Steve – oh yeah, we called him Big Steve because he had a small dick – but we all get drunk and toss empties at the fence in his honor.

Shit, babe, I want you to know how fun that shit is. I mean, I can’t invite you out with the boys, because, like, you’re a chick and it’d be weird, but… But shit, my parents can wait an extra hour or two. We’re gonna go get a bottle of Night Train, we’re gonna kill it, and I’m gonna let you do the honors of tossing your first bottle at Old Satty. You’ll finally learn so much about who I am.

Oh, right – you’re right. Well, wait: didn’t your gynochiatrist say one glass of wine occasionally wouldn’t probably do shit to the baby? I’ll drink most of it, and you can just take a couple small chugs.

Alright! Christ! I get it! No wine until you shit the baby out your front-butt. Damn, girl. Slow your roll. Fuckin’ buzz kill.

Oh, speaking of baby stuff, if you can do everything you can to make sure that spermazoid in your gut comes out with a dong and not roast beef curtains, I swear I’ll love you forever, because that’ll mean I can take him out with the boys one day and show him what friendship, brotherhood, and throwing shit at other shit really means in this life.

What? But, babe, we’re almost there…

Jesus! Fine! I’m pulling over, just stop screaming. Where do you think you’re going?

Get back in the car! Get back in the fucking car right fucking now!

Ah, fuck that, fuck off, and fuck you! You can walk!

Bitch.

 

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