There are moments in life that occur only for the sake of being a good story to tell later. Some of the most fascinatingly awkward situations I have had eventually become friend-unifying stories. With knowing that terrible experiences have the potential of becoming high quality entertainment, comes a bizarre form of optimism that encourages me to get into questionable situations (within reason). No, I am not sucking dicks for crack cocaine or assisting criminals in bank robbery's but I am a little less hesitant to do something boring or time consuming if it means I can make me the center of attention later.
Last night, I went to a friend's house with the purpose of minding my own god damn business with pals. But fate had other plans. As I sat with 3 other friends of mine in an Otaku-swagged apartment living room (an awesome one), there was a knock on the apartment door. Realizing that it was 1 am, the host approached the door with extreme caution. We stood not too far behind him. But we were definitely behind him. When we got close to the door we heard:
"Hey man, it's your neighbor."
When the door opened the room filled with the aroma of alcohol and...well...ass. The kind of ass smell you smell when someone has whipped there ass one time less than they should have and then proceeded to jog in shorts. THEN, tried to cover it with Axe but didn't have enough so he became depressed and drank. That is what it smelled like. I'm serious.
It wasn't a neighbor at all. It was a guy that stank and was sweating. Before the host could ask "Um...what do ya need," the stranger(who was not a neighbor at all) interrupted with
"Hey man, don't be scared because I'm black, man. I'm in desperate need of a ride. They took my car and, man, I got the sheet right here man. My car got towed man. I need a ride man. Please, I'm begging, man. I don't have any weapons man."
The room was uncomfortably silent. Then I volunteered to drive him, under the condition that someone comes with me (because I was actually kind of scared). I put on my shoes and then, as if he forgot I agreed to drive him, he began to sell us his story again, adding more plot--which no one asked for.
"Hey man. Don't be scared because I'm black, man. I don't got weapons man. I just got my ass whooped by some white boys man. Then this [other] white dude gave me his bicycle to ride because he felt bad for me man. I appreciate ya'll mo' fuckaz, man. Ya'll mo' fuckaz really came through for me."
I replied, " Dude, you don't have to do that. I'm gonna drive you. No worries."
As we walked to my car, he told me to take him to University Gables, an apartment not to far from where I was at that time. I began driving towards our destination and the man began talking even more and more circular than before.
"Man, my dad's gonna whoop my ass man. Them white boys kicked my ass man. But that white dude gave me his bike man. Ya'll mo' fuckaz really came through, man. I'm not from around here man. I'm from Clarksville."
Something was odd about this young man besides his endlessly outrageous storytelling style. His stories were becoming more and more paradoxical. For example, he said he wasn't from around this area, but gave me extremely accurate directions to two different places I could drop him off at--all in the dead of night. Also, the white dudes and daddy's that were all conspiring together to whoop his ass was a pretty big pill to swallow too. However, the strangest part of the whole ordeal was his continuous referral to us (my friends and I) as mother fuckers.
When were almost to Gables, he began praising us in the most absurd way possible:
"Man, thank ya'll mo' fuckaz. Man, Ya'll mo' fuckaz really came through man. Thank you so much. Man, Ya'll mo' fuckaz are some good people."
When he left the car, he took his smell of sweaty, alcohol covered ass-farts with him. I got a story and did a good deed, despite my mockery of the man nullifying my good deed.
Whatever,
Villainy.
