Anna Nicole and the Supreme Court

In a bit of news almost too perverse to contemplate Anna Nicole Smith will be appearing before the United States Supreme Court to fight for the inheritance from her late husband. Smith married the former oil tycoon J. Howard Marshal II and stands to reap a $474 million dollar windfall should the Court rule in her favor.

So, in my continued effort to enlighten I bring you Anna Nicole Smith speaking before the Supreme Court…

Chief Justice Roberts-“Do you have any opening comments Miss Smith?”

Anna Nicole-“Wow, this room is pretty! I love what you’ve done with the mahogany and leather.”

Chief Justice Roberts-“Do you have anything substantive to say on your behalf?”

Anna Nicole-“What’s substantive mean?”

Chief Justice Roberts-“Never mind…does the panel have any questions for Ms. Smith?”

Justice Ginsburg-“You posed nude in Playboy, correct?”

Anna Nicole-“Yes, it was nifty.”

Justice Ginsburg-“Are you aware Playboy is an icon of misogyny and chauvinistic idolatry of women and…”

Chief Justice Roberts-“That’s enough Justice Ginsberg, you oraficious twit.”

Justice Stevens-“I’m 85 years old…will you marry me?”

Anna Nicole-“How much money are you worth and do you have a heart condition?”

Chief Justice Roberts-“OK, Justice Stevens, that’s good. Sheesh, why don’t you two get a room and a lubricant and be done with it.”

Justice Kennedy-“Have you ever been Borked Ms. Smith?”

Anna Nicole-“I love big bath tubs…they’re dreamy.”

Justice Souter-“The mountains of New Hampshire are lovely this time of year. Let’s go hiking. I’m single ya know.”

Anna Nicole-“Sorry, I only date men in their 80’s.”

Justice Breyer-“Can you spell inheritance?”

Anna Nicole-“Huh?”

Justice Breyer-“Spell the word inheritance for us…can you do that hon?”

Anna Nicole-“OK…sound it out…I-N-H-A-I-R-It-Ants…how’s that?”

Justice Breyer-Rolls eyes and plays Russian roulette with his thumb and index finger as the gun

Chief Justice Roberts-“Justice Alito, do you have any questions for Ms. Smith?”

Justice Alito-puts down yo-yo…“Um, no…I find the black robes to be very slimming.”

Justice Scalia-“Ms. Smith…over hear dear…stop staring at the flag please.”

Anna Nicole-“It’s very pretty. I like bright colors.”

Justice Scalia-“Mamma mia! Is there one functioning synapse in that peroxide melon of yours?”

Anna Nicole-“What’s a synapse? I like melon, especially honeydew, it tastes sweet.”

Justice Scalia-begins tying hangman’s noose to string himself up

Justice Thomas-“Oh oh oh…I’ve got questions, a lot of questions.”

Chief Justice Roberts-“Oy vay!”

Justice Thomas-“Ms. Smith…over here…I’m the black man.”

Anna Nicole-“These chairs are comfy.”

Justice Thomas-“Have you ever heard of Long Dong Silver?”

Anna Nicole-“Wasn’t he a pirate or something?”

Justice Thomas-“Uh, no. He was an icon of the American pornography industry back in the 80’s. He was hung like a mule.”

Anna Nicole-“Oh, I can spell pornography…P-O-R-N-O-G-R-A-F-F-Y.”

Justice Thomas-“Very good sweetie. Were you a stripper?”

Anna Nicole-“Yes…my nipples got hard a lot.”

Justice Thomas-“Yes, I bet those clubs can be quite drafty. We’ve got a pole if you’d like to demonstrate your…eh hem…technique.”

Justice Ginsburg-“This is ridiculous! I never…”

Chief Justice Roberts-“Shut up Ruth, let Miss Smith have the floor you insipid troglodyte.”

Justice Thomas-“There’s a pubic hair on my Coke…Ginsburg, you little scamp.”

Justice Ginsburg-blushes noticeably

Chief Justice Roberts-“Thank you miss Smith, you can climb off Justice Stevens now. These proceedings are closed.”

Since when has Arrianna Huffington had anything but a passing acquaintance with the truth.

More on this tomorrow. I'm too tired to rail against this feeble minded blowhard.

You Are 70% Evil

You are very evil. And you're too evil to care. Those who love you probably also fear you. A lot.

How Evil Are You?

The real Oscars

Here’s the Academy Awards show I want to see…

Dave Chappelle is host. Instead of a Billy Crystal song-and-dance number we get Chappelle firing up a blunt, inhaling to his heart’s delight, and cracking jokes about Scarlet Johansson’s cleavage, Jack Nicholson’s hair, and Jim Carrey’s dopey grin.

The first award is handed out. Russell Crowe is presenter, handing out the best supporting actress award. Angelina Jolie wins for Alexander, not for her performance but for the way she fills out a toga and because her breasts need more “support” than anyone’s in Hollywood, save the late Marlon Brando. She climbs the stairs and is greeted by a full on tongue filled smooch from the Aussie. The camera pans to Brad Pitt who looks like he wants to kick Crowe’s ass but knows he’d get his face caved in.

Dave Chappelle comes back out carrying a forty. He cracks more jokes about white people, black people, and Hispanics. He looks straight at the camera and tells Comedy Central to kiss his narrow black ass.

The next award is presented. Nicole Richie presents the award for Most Dubious Example of a No-Talent Living off Daddy’s Legacy. Before Richie gets to the microphone she spots arch rival and one time party confidant Paris Hilton in the third row, where third rate celebs belong, and bolts into the audience where an epic cat fight ensues. Chappelle rushes out from backstage, not to break up the fight, to inflate the pool where the lime Jell-O goes for the donnybrook.

As the towel boys clean off Hilton & Richie, Chappelle grabs the mic and jokes about Oprah’s huge head, Lindsay Lohan’s weight fluctuation, and R Kelley’s salacious personal habits. “R Kelley looked for a date for this gig for hours…he was combing the high schools all afternoon.” Rumors that Michael Jackson was seen with a bottle of wine at the elementary school across the street are unsubstantiated.

Kim Bassinger attempts to present the next award but is so incoherently drunk she can barely walk. An obviously flabbergasted Alec Baldwin runs up on stage to carry off the blonde bombed shell.

Matt Lauer of NBC’s Today show walks out on stage with Tom Cruise and Brooke Shields. Cruise professes that he now a born again Christian as he’s seen heaven between Katie Holmes’ thighs.

A camera goes back stage and finds Kate Moss doing lines of cocaine. Dave Chappelle looks a bit bewildered, “Bitch, marijuana’s way better.”

Vin Diesel takes the stage to present the award for muscle flexion but sees that stupid smug look on Sean Penn’s face and immediately flies off stage and sweeps the carpet with Penn’s head just for general principle.

Chris Rock assumes MC duty as Dave Chappelle has apparently disappeared. Rock proceeds with a profanity laced tirade that offends everyone except Collin Farrell, Sean Connery, and Ewan McGregor, because Farrell is Irish and Connery and McGregor are Scottish.

Arnold Schwarzeggar presents the next award for bad actors who should be politicians. The nominees are; Ben Affleck, Alec Baldwin, and Stephen Baldwin. Arnold refuses to relinquish the statuette and no one argues with him.

Eminem takes center stage and busts with a tasty limerick that insults and offends every celebrity present in three minutes flat. The balcony gives a rousing standing ovation while the Hollywood establishment sits in missive disbelief. Eminem gets nominated for an Emmy.

From the wings of the stage Chappelle shows up and does an interview with Oprah wherein he divulges the nature of his disappearance. He said he couldn’t stand the baton waving orchestra conductor and said the little man was stifling his creative juices despite being paid $50 million for the gig.

Richard Gere gets up and says something nonsensical about China then pulls a small furry rodent from his back pocket and stares lovingly at it.

Madonna & Brittney Spears do a rendition of Queen’s “We Are The Champions” then share a lesbian kiss. Every male in the arena is mesmerized because, let’s face it, lesbians rule.

Chappelle informs everyone that the remainder of the show has been canceled because all of the gold statuettes are missing. He then asks, “Has anyone seen Wynona Ryder?”

Hugh Grant takes the stage with the nastiest east Hollywood hooker we’ve ever seen. Turns out they were introduced by mutual acquaintance Robert Downey Jr.

The final award for best picture goes to some independent movie only seventeen people saw and that offended nearly every member of the Republican Party.

I'm so going to Hell

Thing Christ might have said during his last moments on earth…

"Pontius Pilat is an asshole! If I ever get down from here and after my hands heal I'm gonna beat that dego’s ass!"

"Shit that whip stings!"

"Could somebody help me carry this damn thing?!'

"That Jesus Barrabas is a lucky bastard. Mother fucker better go buy a lottery ticket while his luck holds."

"What does a Roman tire do when it goes flat? Wap wap wap."

"Hey you down there, with the spear, I've got this itch here on my rib...YEEOUCH! Dumbass!"

"Man those crows are gonna dig your eyes out. Me? I'm not worried, being the son of God and all."

"Boy, one gust of wind on my loin cloth and those in the front row will get a glimpse of little Jesus and his two disciples."

“If only I’d hooked up with Mary Magdaline when I had the chance.”

“Times like this when I wish my father wasn’t such a big shot.”

“This crown itches something fierce.”

“What’s a stigmata?”

“Boy, you think the King of Kings would get a little more respect.”

“I sure hope you bloodthirsty savages know how to tread water. Can you say deluge?”

“Why was I born in a barn? Because Mary & Joseph had Medicare.”

“Shit, not another nail.”

“Judas, you Benedict Arnold!”

“Hey you, two travelers, how do you get to Jerusalem?”

“I was framed! It was the man on the grassy knoll.”

“Boy, you Romans are sure gonna get it. It’ll take a while but you are so going down.”

“How’s this for irony, I’m Jewish and my people don’t even believe in me. What’s a messiah to do?”

"It'll be weeks before I can eat M&M's again."

A rainbow of colors

I went sailing the other day and was marooned for a time on a strange island. It had white sand beaches, green palm trees, the whole smack. Then I happened upon a village where the people were rather hostile.

“There goes the boy with no color in his name!” The natives shouted. Suddenly I was surrounded by Red Foxx, Jack Black, Scarlett Johansen, Jennifer Gray, Lorne Green, Tom Green, Tiffani Amber Thiessen, Spalding Gray, Sidney Greenstreet, Whoopi Goldberg, Sienna Miller, Goldie Hawn, Ruby Dee, and their president Mr. Green Jeans. There were White Castles as far as the eye could see and everyone was munching on those delicious burgers as well as Green Giant and Bluebird frozen vegetables, Red Devil deviled ham, bread with Blue Bonnet margerine, and they were washing it all down with Orange Crush.

“Death to the boy with no color in his name!” They continued to yell.

Then from their immaculate athletic dorms came Reggie White, Vita Blue, Chad Brown, Darrell Green, Randy White, Red Aurbach, Jim Brown, Red Grange, Pete Rose, Joe Greene, “The Golden Boy” Paul Horning, and team owner Red McCombs. They started chanting, “Death to the boy with no color in his name!”

So I took my case to their Supreme Court where sat Byron White, Hugo Black, and Horace Gray. They asked, “Do you have a color in your name?”

“No”, I replied.

“Stone him! He has no color in his name!”

So they secluded me somewhere I could not pollute their colorfulness. They provided me with reading materials, Where the Red Fern Grows, Old Yeller, Red Badge of Courage, and a collection of fables like Little Red Riding Hood and Little Boy Blue. I was given a DVD player with titles to watch like The Green Mile, A Clockwork Orange, Blue Velvet, Red Dawn, The Color Purple, Black Rain, Red Planet. I also had a stereo that played Black Sabbath, Clint Black, Cream, Roger Greenaway, Deep Purple, James Brown, Barry White, Maroon 5, and Greenday.

I devised to escape and as I was tunneling out I was caught by William Golding who was writing a book about flies, or something like that. With him was T.H. White, who was writing an ode to Kate Moss (OK, that one may have been a stretch).

“Death to the boy with no color in his name!”

Then I saw Red Buttons, Seth Green, Graham Green, Lou Diamond Phillips (OK, another stretch), Ron Silver, Karen Black, Eva Green, Zena Grey, Betty White, and they were all laughing at James Black’s jokes. Then they saw me and chanted, “death to the boy with no color in his name.”

So I ran until my face turned blue. I ran to the Yellow Brick Road and followed it to the Blue Lagoon where I made my escape in a Yellow Submarine.

I traveled for hours and found another island where I was greeted by Michael J. Fox and Peter Coyote. They yelled, “You have no animal in your name!”

After that it just got weird.

I respond

Joel pens an interesting and thought provoking response on my piece about my grandfather…

I came across this blog and this tribute to your grandfather and in many ways, his was a life similar to that of my own father. right down to the fighting on Pacific islands in WW II and working for the USPS after retiring. The thing is, your writing and capturing the spirit and fortitude of the man is beyond measure, far far better than any writing that I could put together to honor my father.Part of my problem is, he bottled all of his war expieriences up, did not convey to us the horrors and death that he witnessed and yet still stood by the government that put him into that situation. I do not want to in any way spoil your tribute by raising the following question and apoligize in advance if it offends you-The magnitude of hurt, injury and death that has been foisted upon young American soldiers, sailors and airmen in the wars from world war one on as shown in your tribute- Has it been worth it for what our Nation has recieved? What I ask is this- has our way of life been improved because of these conflicts? I realize that each war had its own cause and supposed justification. Whole books have been written on the past wars. As the war in Iraq continues on, we, as a people need to have an open, honest discusion as to if we really want our young servicemen/women to suffer as our elders have?

This raises some legit questions. BTW, thanks Joel for the kind words. This piece was written as a tribute to my grandfather and not as a glorification of war. He served with distinction and I’m proud of his record as a soldier and a person.

Were our past military conflicts worth the blood spilled?

In the last 100 years we as a nation have fought in my estimation only two truly justifiable wars. As you might suspect the two biggies, WWI & WWII, are those. In WWI our involvement was spawned by the interception of the Zimmerman Telegram and the sinking of the Lusitania. Keep in mind the Germans were conspiring, by their own admission, with Mexico to form an alliance wherein Mexico would attack Arizona, California, and New Mexico, territory they desperately wanted back, and the Germans would provide arms and cash. With the specter, all be it remote, of a southern invasion supported by Germany we could not sit idly by as those who would destroy our nation set in motion plans to do so. And we all know what a megalomaniacal murdering douche bag Hitler turned out to be, the Nazi shit head.

This leaves at least eight limited and full scale military conflicts this country has entered into without sufficient justification since 1900. Off the top of my head they are: Korea, Vietnam, the shadow war in Nicaragua and El Salvador, Grenada, Panama, the air war in the Balkans, both wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Haiti, not to mention the deployment of troops in 175 countries. Since 1900, the U.S. has lost about 429,000 service men & women in combat, of which approximately 345,000 were fully warranted. Since WWII this country has not fought a single reasonable war. That means, in my opinion, roughly 84,000 of our bravest have perished for a cause that was unjust.

Had we held firm to our isolationist roots in WWI and WWII it’s conceivable that the world would be a dramatically different place today. Imagine the dire consequences had Kaiser Wilhelm II or Adolph Hitler been able to realize their goals of European dominance and capitulation. Had they been allowed to draw upon Europe’s massive man power and cache of natural resources their reigns could have been potentially infinite. And in the case of Hitler, the so-called Final solution may have been realized, the utter annihilation of the Jewish race. Yes WWI made possible the genocide in Armenia, the eventual ascendancy of the communist regimes in Russia, Romania, and elsewhere. And yes, had not Germany’s economy been crippled by war reparations from WWI this proud nation would likely never have embraced the certifiably loony Hitler. And yes, Lenin and Stalin might have never seen the throne in Russia. But it’s hard to imagine the resulting millions killed in dozens of incidents of genocide and war could have possibly been worse than the hell that Wilhelm & Hitler would’ve undoubtedly unleashed on the world. With perhaps very few exceptions these two were the vilest international figures of the 20th century. So in this sense, it was worth every drop of blood spilled to prevent these guys from holding sway over the globe.

The same cannot be said for any military conflict this nation has participated in the last 60 years. Korea and Vietnam were fought to slow the spread of communism with little to no effect. The shadow war in Central America was for the same ill conceived purpose. Panama, Afghanistan, and both Iraq wars were fought to depose leaders we had propped up and supported. The air war over the former Yugoslavia was a function of our planes being assigned to do what the rest of Europe had neither the balls nor stomach for, and those couple hundred students trapped in Grenada needed rescuing. The strategically vital Haiti was and always will be a den of political unrest. What did these wars net…84,000 dead American soldiers; international resentment; the somewhat justified label of the US Imperial Dynasty; billions spent to house over one million soldiers on bases in 175 countries, many of which don’t want us there; and the self-anointed duty of being the moral compass for the entire planet.

Our track record of supporting and turning a blind eye to genocidal regimes is long and inglorious. We didn’t lift a finger to prevent the genocides in Rwanda, currently in Darfur, Uganda, Armenia, the Congo, Croatia, Namibia, Bangladesh, Cambodia (the infamous Killing Fields), Iraq, East Timor, and Tibet. This doesn’t mean that we as a nation are to blame, far from it in fact. It just means our claim at being the arbiters of morality in the world is wholly without credibility.

Having seen the effect that WWII had on my grandfather and others, and knowing literally dozens who’ve served or are currently serving their country I have developed a deep respect and affection for those who make such a sacrifice. Throwing yourself in harms way to protect one’s country is the most inherently noble gesture that one can ever make, and our leaders in DC have been far to aggressive and thoughtless in committing our most precious resource. These impossibly brave youths make it possible for me to sit in blissful comfort in my den typing this piece of convoluted drivel. And for that I give my profound thanks.

In closing I offer up Joel's sentiments as food for thought..."As the war in Iraq continues on, we, as a people need to have an open, honest discusion as to if we really want our young servicemen/women to suffer as our elders have?"

Rest in Pieces

Betty Friedan’s obituary…She was hatched in a sterile, hermetically sealed environment on February 4, 1921. That day the moon turned black as sack cloth and the rivers ran red with blood. She started squawking at the age of 27 minutes. Her first words were, “Susan B. Anthony is my idol”. Graduated suma kum who cares from the infamous Smith College. Married Carl Friedan in ’47 and popped out three demon spawn before, shocker, divorcing her hubby in 69. In 1963, her book, The Satanic Verses, also known as The Feminine Mystique, was published. Her other works include How to Marry Despite Being Frightfully Ugly, Your Vagina & You: An Easy Maintenance Guide to Reproduction, and Men Suck. Co-founded the Church of Satan, also known as NOW, in 66, and helped found the Fetal Dismemberment Society, a.k.a. NARAL. She recently passed away in her crypt on February 4, 2006. Rumors about a wooden stake found plunged in her heart are as yet unsubstantiated. Friedan is survived by three hatchlings.

Anti-discrimination rant

In my ongoing effort to spread enlightenment throughout the world I decided not to discriminate and hold everyone in equal contempt, especially if you’re a nigger, spick, chink, slope, towel head, camal jockey, porch monkey, Uncle Tom, oreo, twinkee, fag, peter puffer, bitch, ho, lawn jockey, beener, wetback, jungle bunny, pollock, wap, kraut, jap, fairy, cunt, sambo, veggie picker, gimp, cripple, tard, retard, mutant, mute, deaf, blind, stupid, ignorant, ugly, smelly, fat, ahhh-jew, Alabama porch monkey, albino, alligator bait, A-rab, Aunt Jemima, bagel dog, bagel roller, Bean nigger, blaxican, boogie, border jumber, brownie, Buckwheat, chicano, chigger, coon, cracker, dago, diaper head, dim-som, ese, Eurofag, garlic eater, goat roper, goober, gook, greasy wop, guinea, haggis muncher, hay seed, hebe, hick, hillbilly, holy roller, inbred, injun, jabonee, jabronee, jack Mormon, jigajew, jew, jewgaboo, jigger, kike, kyke, limey, macaroni nigger, mandingo, mexijew, mojado, monkey, moolie, negro, niggress, osama, pedro, potato eater, prairie nigger, raghead, redneck, redskin, rice picker, rug maker, sand monkey, shiksa, shit kicker, shylock, slant eye, spear chucker, taco nigger, tar baby, towelhead, vanilla bean, vegemite, WASP, wagon burner, wigger, wiglet, zebra, zipperhead. It’s much better if you don’t discriminate.

Stop it right now!

As America recovers from a lack-luster Super Bowl the innevitable second guessing and caterwalling has begun.

Skip Bayless says the Seahawks were robbed.

So does Michael Smith.

Kevin Hench thinks so.

CBS Sportsline has a nice assembly of ref bashing.

Now normally I give a lot of deference to most sports reporters, except for Skip Bayless and Jim Rome who are the two most overrated and clueless sports guys out there, but this is ri-God-damn-diculous.

The fact Seattle lost by double digits has nothing to do with Hasselbeck's two huge interceptions as the Seahawks were driving deep into Steelers' territory. Their loss also can't be pinned on losing their starting safety, cornerback, and defensive tackle to injury; or that Alezander had a grand total of only twenty carries (the dude ran for 1,880 yards so if he doesn't get the rock 25-30 times something's amiss); or Jeremy Stevens' three drops; or Alan Faneca planting Lamar Hill on Parker's 75 yd touchdown; or Holmgren's piss poor clock management; or Tom Rouen's inability to keep the ball in play when he had three chances to pin Pittsburgh deep; or the Seahewks' trouble finishing off drives that were deep in the Steelers' end. Nope, it's all about the refs.

This is like hearing the Patriots' faithful bitch when they lost to Denver four weeks ago. That loss had nothing to do with the five turnovers committed by the vaunted Patriots. Nope, it was all about the refs.

Quick primer for all those whiners who blame officials when their teams loose...SHUT THE *BLEEP* UP! F'ING CRY BABIES!

The Super Bowl Halftime Show We ALL Wanna See

Let's team Justin Timberlake with Lindsay Lohan for another wardrobe malfunction! Or JT and Britney Spears, or Jessica Alba, or Jessica Simpson, or Kate Beckinsale, or Salma Hayek, or Neve Campbell, or Rebbeca Romijn, or Angelina Jolie, or Halle Berry. Long live the wardrobe malfunction!

Let me know what y'all think

This is the first four pages of a book I'm toying with writing. It's about a group of guys who share unforgettable times until tragedy rips them apart. It's an experiment, my first foray into the world of literature. Critiques are welcome.

Chapter One

Chapter 1
A Plan Forms


DING DONG…DING DONG…DING DONG

“All right”, I yelled.

Christ! Ten o’clock and these dumbasses are standing on the damn bell.

DING DONG…DING DONG…DING DONG

“Just a fuckin’ minute”, I screamed. The sound of my own bellowing nearly dropped me on the spot. ‘As soon as I throw up and get dressed, these bastards are dead’ I thought.

DING DONG…DING DONG…DING DONG

“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”

Had it only been four hours since I got home? ‘Man, I need more sleep or less persistent friends’ I thought. Undoubtedly Jess and Jian were at the door waking the living dead known as Brian Halblade, me, in the flesh. And boy
I felt like shit. “Eleven long island ice teas will do that”, I muttered to myself. This was arguably one of the worst hangovers I’ve ever had. My stomach would not stop gurgling and my head felt like earthmovers were hard at work inside my skull. I could still smell the stale beer and cigarette odor from the night/morning before and the alcohol sweating its way out my pores. This is the type of hangover that could be smelled by others the second you got within sniffing distance, hell, the second you walked in the room. The type of hangover where your first thought is, ‘my God, I’m never drinking again.’ When in this condition the body’s first desire is to rehydrate but this can’t be accomplished until you shave the previous evening’s residual festivities off your tongue.

DING DONG…DING DONG…DING DONG

‘My God, are these sheets made out of lead?’ It took seemingly fifteen minutes to accomplish a two second procedure. The covers came slowly off to reveal the corpse called Brian. It was at this point I noticed that my clothes were still on from the night before. Complete with rum & cola stain on the left leg of my favorite khaki cargo shorts and makeup smudge/painting on the chest of a white shirt that had withstood the revelry from the party I apparently went to. Honestly, I was having difficulty remembering my own name at this point, let alone a series of activities I’d engaged in earlier this morning. Alcohol consumption can be a deadly thing.

DING DONG…DING DONG…DING DONG

‘I’m going to fucking kill them. But not before I stop the room from spinning.’

This last manifestation of my body trying to detoxify was the trigger my ailing
stomach needed and quite frankly the only thing that could’ve pried my sorry ass out of bed at that point. I jumped up knowing that Old Faithful was about
to blow. As I rounded the corner and hit the stairs of my basement bedroom
my stomach issued the first grumble. Time was of the essence. I knew I had maybe three to four seconds before the air would be cut by a torrent of most assuredly brown and red vomit. I bolted up the stairs with a speed I thought I was utterly incapable of at that point. My legs took the staircase two steps at a time. As I hit the landing just outside the bathroom door my stomach fire off a test salvo. Warm acidic bile hit the back of my throat. ‘Please God let the toilet seat be up’ I thought. The doorknob turned in my shaky yet desperate hand and I threw the door open revealing my newfound best friend, the Halblade family
throne. ‘Sweet Jesus the lid is up!’ I barely had time to aim. ‘I was right, brown and red’. I had puked into this very commode dozens of times but this was perhaps the most satisfying and urgent. ‘If this thing backs up I’m telling mom to sell the house’. After about a dozen or so heaves my stomach emptied of its
contents.

DING DONG…DING DONG…DING DONG

I had to resign myself to defeat. Jess and Jian would not be denied. Besides I was only a fifteen-foot walk from the front door they so desperately wanted answered. A simple drunken stumble through the living room of my mother’s town house would do the trick. Only if the damn room stopped spinning! A seemingly easy task made near impossible by the crippling effects of the mother of all hangovers. Thankfully for my hyper sensitive eyes the blinds were drawn and closed. If they had happened to be open the blinding effects of the sunlight cascading through the front window would have reduced my stumble to a pitiful mole-like crawl, complete with blind mammal trying to find the entrance to his home.

DING DONG…DING DONG…DING DONG

A simple ninety-degree turn to the right as you exit the downstairs bathroom puts the front door of our townhouse into full view. My stomach tamed and my faculties returning, somewhat, the trek across the living room began. ‘The door looks so far though’. Just a two second stroll across camel colored carpet and passed walls adorned with wallpaper that resembled the inside of a grass thatch hut and two white, round futons with blue frames roughly four feet in diameter. ‘I hate that fucking wallpaper’. My mom often refereed to the futons as papazon chairs. I had no idea. I just knew they didn’t go with the beige two-seater love seat in the opposite corner. Eclectic suburban jungle is what I thought the motif should be called.

My still shaky hand finally grasped the knob of the front door. ‘Shit it’s dead bolted’. The fact I had remembered to lock the door in and of itself was a miracle. My other hand slowly reached up and turned the seemingly impregnable latch on the dead bolt. CLICK. Casa de Halblade was open for business but beware, the owner is near death and in no mood for anyone’s shit. The light flooded in as the door swung open. To those on the outside it would appear as if the door had opened by itself, eerily similar to the invitation one receives when entering a haunted house or mausoleum. This was necessary because I knew the flood of light would’ve blinded me so I purposely hid myself like a vampire avoiding the sunlight. And believe me, I felt like a minion of the undead.

“Hally”, shouted Jian, “get your shit ready and let’s go”. Everything that
came out of his mouth was at a shout but I loved the kid anyway. Hally was
a little knick name I had received months before. I didn’t like it that
much but hey, it sounded cool.

In walked two of my best friends and one forth of the group that formed my inner sanctum that year. These were two of the eight I considered my surrogate
brothers, my circle of friends. Oh sure, there those of us who took more than our fair share of abuse. That’s inevitable. But there existed among us an unspoken bond, a kinship of sorts that tied us together and kept us bound to this grand experiment known as friendship.

Jess was a lanky shit with a quiet air of confidence that bordered on arrogance. He could be a slippery little bastard who always seemed to land on his feet. He was tall, about 6’ with long brown hair that he kept impeccably groomed. Of the group he was the one most concerned about his appearance and the one we all turned to for fashion critique. Jess could be cold and aloof but you always knew where you stood with him. I respected that about him. He was a man of few words and often times fewer morals. He put himself number one and we all knew it. It’s hard to explain why I like him but I knew I did. He always could make me laugh and he was the first one I called if I needed something or got in a jam and he seldom if ever let me down. He bailed me out of more shit than anyone. When the nine of us were assembled Jess usually kept fairly quiet and
kicked back and took it all in. I got the impression he was constantly scrutinizing and sizing up weaknesses. An interesting and loyal guy and
one of my favorites.

Jian couldn’t be more different. He was about my height, 5’11”, and had what a
girl told me once were model type good looks. I didn’t see it but what did I know. Hey, I was a guy after all. Jian was the most outgoing of all of us and was at times obnoxious. He wore his self-confidence on his sleeve. Some perceived it as overt cockiness but I knew it was a mask hiding deep-seeded insecurity. He may have been the most sensitive of us but you would never guess it judging from his outward demeanor. Jian was a deeply emotional guy who had a hair trigger temper and the highest pain threshold I’ve ever seen. I saw him get his nose broke once and laugh off the pain. A complete hot head that adored the attention of girls and sought the group’s approval often times at the expense of his own dignity and credibility. I never understood why he insisted on spinning such outrageous tales for our benefit. We all liked him for who he was.

I was tired, crabby, hung over, smelly (massive alcohol consumption does that),
still half blind, thirsty, slightly queasy, and I was still wearing my clothes from the night before. Even with all this I was still elated to see my comrades, even though they did wake me out of a sound slumber. Had these two been lesser friends or strangers I undoubtedly would have shot them on sight just for general principle. It was almost impossible to stay mad at these guys. They had that power over me, damn them. We seldom if ever remained angry at each other for long.

“C’mon Halblade”, Jess cajoled, “we’ve gotta go. The fireworks are waiting”.

“Gimme a minute”, I begged. “I need a shower”.

“We can tell”, responded Jess. The stench of my obvious hangover had hit these
two.

“Hurry up Hally!” Jian was apparently eager to make our previously planned
drive to Cheyenne, Wyoming to buy fireworks. This trip had been in the making for weeks and was our only opportunity to purchase ammunition for our first annual pop bottle rocket war that was to take place this very evening. nfortunately for us, fireworks of this type were illegal in Colorado so we had to drive about a hundred miles north to the Wyoming-Colorado border to procure our pyrotechnics.

Denver was where we all called home. The southwestern suburbs of Lakewood and Littleton and unincorporated Jefferson County to be more precise. None of the nine of us lived more than a ten-minute drive from Red Rocks Amphitheatre, one of the most famous outdoor concert venues in the world. All in all it was a pretty sweet place to grow up and the setting for most of my childhood. We had all lived in this area for years. I had moved to Lakewood when I was twelve and the rest had grown up here. It was home.

I stumbled my way up the stairs to the shower and closed the door behind me. A nice luke warm bathing sounded really nice. My still shaky hand reached over and turned the faucet to the appropriate setting. The water immediately sprayed out of the nozzle in a fine cone shaped streaming type mist. My oh my did it look inviting. I sat in a sleep-deprived haze on the nearby toilet waiting for the water to regulate temperature. A few cautious temperature checks with my left hand and subsequent adjustments ensured a comfortable setting. The all too important water check done I began pealing off my clothes and then stepped under the luxurious stream of now temped water. I could feel my humanity returning along with desperately needed bodily energy. The once stunning effects of my hangover were now starting to slip away. Amazing how a hangover that would kill the average thirty year old is dealt with and negated in a fairly miniscule amount of time by the body of a nineteen year old. The system of the young human form is an amazing thing. A shower was all it took to fully restore my faculties and I could feel my appetite returning. My sleep deprivation was another matter. I was still tired and would be so all day. The only cure would be more rest but this would have to wait. I had plans. I finished my daily shower, wrapped a towel around my waste and headed for my room.

As I hit the landing on the main floor I saw that Jian and Jess had migrated from the living room to the deck off the dining room at the back of the townhouse. They were talking and laughing about something. I headed down to the basement where my room, the laundry facilities, and my clothes were. I could still faintly smell the undeniable odor of alcohol and cigarettes. The stink had permeated through my clothes and had been absorbed in the air. A charming thought to say the least. I grabbed a pair of off white cargo shorts and a coral colored tee shirt. My shoes were AWOL so I went barefoot. After getting dressed I made my way upstairs and brushed my hair in the previously mentioned downstairs bathroom. I was ready to go.

“All right gentlemen,” I called out.

“Finally”, Jian joked. He knew how important the day after shower was and so did Jess. Neither one of them gave me the ration of shit I so richly deserved and had anticipated. Were they taking pity on me? Were they pissed at the delay? Or were they just glad to do something off the beaten path for a change?

I collected my keys and wallet, the later of which was significantly lighter after last night’s travails, and headed out the door with Jian & Jess. The sun hit my face like a frying pan and I immediately donned my Ray Bans. ‘Thank god for sunglasses’. A look across the parking lot showed me that Jian had managed to finagle his mother’s Ford Tempo for the day. She evidently didn’t know about our little trip. Oh well. No harm no foul. Jess immediately called ‘shotgun’ as we exited my townhouse. This was a little tradition we had wherein the first to say the magic word owned the right to occupy the front passenger seat for the duration of the trip. This privilege evaporated when we would arrive at our
destination and the clamoring for front seat rights would begin all over again. Stupid maybe but what else do you expect from nineteen year old guys. We made our way to the car and I was actually glad that I would have the back seat all to myself. I could nap on the way to Cheyenne. Normally I detested being relegated to back seat duty because it was more difficult to hear the conversation and the coveted car stereo controls were well out of reach. If you wanted to risk a thump to the back of the head you could lunge over the seat and attempt to control the stereo but with two equally controlling guys in the front one was liable to get only a face full of palm or a middle knuckle burrowed into your skull. Usually the risk wasn’t worth it. To be honest I had neither the energy nor the desire to even sit upright let alone controlling a stereo through a gauntlet of Jian and Jess’ flying appendages. I was perfectly ok with sprawling out across the back and the only thing I hoped for was a smooth and uneventful ride. Jian drove, Jess grabbed the front passenger seat, and I literally crawled into the back seat. We were off.

After barely five minutes Jian pulled into a 7Eleven. We all desperately needed caffeine.