There is a conspiracy within this sentence.
Age 40, Male
Soviet Robot
Dan's Discount Saikyo Dojo
Filthadelphia
Joined on 9/12/02
Posted by Jonas - November 14th, 2008
I am having a special guest this weekend! And this one's a special friend of everyone!
Let's hope for the best.
Anyone wanting a extra neat phone call should be tossing that number in my PM box as per the 'I promise I'll call thread' I started.
Oh ho ho.
We're up for hijinx.
did you call yet?
I keep getting the same error message . You should double check and resend the phone number, because it's strange that it keeps getting that message. Is there some kind of area code or something weird I'm missing?
Call me! 911
ooooo i know who it is! its Luis!!!! lawl :P
wut!!?!?
please put up a new description picture, im going blind!!!
Bobbyballers
Yes, I am such a relic that I can say I was in high school when the "streaking" fad peaked, along with two other unspeakably stupid fads, disco and CB radio. Of the three, streaking was not only the least nauseating, but also had these advantages: It was as fun to watch as it was to do, it got you out of doors (usually), and healthy exercise (running) was involved. It was also the only one of the three I ever participated in. But that was just me and a bud named Ken smoking dope, stripping down to unbuttoned button-down shirt and shoes, jumping on our ten-speeds for a 10 o'clock ride through the suburbs, often screaming. I think everybody did that. Didn't they?
In my favorite streaking story, I was neither the streaker nor the streakee, but merely an amused observer.
I went to an upper-middle-class all-white high school in the suburbs. The only tension that existed between groups in the school was the jocks-vs.-stoners issue, and even that was largely superficial. I had a neighbor my age from a nice, upright Mormon family named Brett. Brett was of the jock persuasion, but after my heathen buddies and I turned him on to dope, he started to come out of it. Years later, he would shoot himself in the mouth. But I'm getting off the subject.
When you're in high school and without either license or car or both, you go with whoever has the wheels. That is how I found myself sharing space in a green Ford Country Squire Wagon with three of the jocular persuasion from my school -- Brett, Kevin Weed (who, frankly, looked like he was 27 or so), and Mike, who had borrowed his mom's land-yacht for a Friday of football and alcohol-based hi-jinx.
Our school's football team had just won a game, and anyone who was anyone was hanging out at the local A&W, as was the post-game custom. That is where I bummed a ride to nowhere in particular with the other three guys, who were drinking Colt .45 malt liquor poured into tall paper cups. The wax of the cup combined with the smell of the cloudy brew to produce an odor not unlike human vomit. But I'm getting off the subject again.
After a couple of well-spent hours driving around and drinking, Brett and Kevin decided to go streaking. But they wanted to go somewhere really public this time. Eventually it was decided that the local Pay-n-Takit grocery store would be the ideal location, it being about the size of a Safeway, well-lit, and still open at this hour.
Mike drove his mom's Ford with the fake wood on the sides around behind the store as Brett and Kevin stripped down to shoes. Mike stopped the car behind one end of the store. The plan was that Brett and Kevin would race around the front of the store, and Mike and I would wheel down to the other end of the store to pick them up as they came around the other end.
So, Brett and Kevin jump out of the station wagon, we're all laughing like hell. They start running and soon disappear around the front of the store with nothing on but footwear.
But before Mike can pull down to the other end, a car slowly drives by, piloted by an elderly gentleman. He is headed to the other end of the store too -- and his car is JUST LIKE OURS, a green Ford Country Squire wagon with the fake wood on the sides! Mike and I are frozen in disbelief as the car slows down and stops exactly where we were supposed to meet them behind the other end of the store!
So Brett and Kevin come flying around the corner of the building, full speed, like a couple of naked track stars doing the 100-yard. They race up to the first green Ford Country Squire station wagon they see, which of course is the old man's. They pull on the door handles, but it's locked! In their exhausted, hyper-drunken stupor they think it's a joke, so they begin pounding on the windows while pulling the car up and down by jerking on the door handles.
Mike and I are frozen in horror/laughter paralysis the whole time. Finally, I see Brett look up at us, then yell to Kevin and point our way. As they now raced to the right car, the old man floored it outta there.
Guess we'll never know what he thought of this streaking fad.