Blake had to have revenge on Krystle. In all his years in the porn industry, he had never been humiliated during a scene. She had been giving him a blowjob and right before the money shot, she had slipped a greased finger in his anus, causing him to explode out his back end in a shower of shit from the noxious Mexican joint she had taken him. The entire crew had stared in horror for a second before getting out their phones to take pictures. Blake had purpled with rage and stormed off the set, hearing Krystle’s peals of mocking tintinnabulation. The following day, he was ready: douched, shaved, and with balls rumbling with anticipation. They replayed the scene. Right at the money shot, Krystle tugged hard on Blake’s testicles, causing an eruption. The stench of Blake’s pre-scene salad exploded. Krystle’s eyes bulged right before her violent vomiting commenced and Blake smirked, enumerating the ingredients: vinegar, Limburger cheese, asparagus, sardines, anchovies, pickled ginger, wasabi, endives, and lutefisk, followed by a heavy vanilla custard.

A stunt pilot has decided to attempt the most legendary, mythical, dangerous stunt ever imagined. No one has ever achieved this before; no one has ever dared to try. They say it’s impossible. He says it can be done, and he’s the one to do it.

He gets in his plane, starts the engine, and takes off. He makes sure to gain the altitude and velocity necessary for this trick. He checks the readings on his control panel: perfect conditions. He breathes in and begins the trick. Soon, he is in the midst of a breathtaking sequence of twirls, spins, loops, rolls, and dives. To his amazement, he completes the stunt flawlessly.

When he lands the plane, he expects to find a cheering crowd to greet him and congratulate him. It seems that nobody cares, or they didn’t notice. He finds everyone gathered in a circle farther down the runway. He rushes over to them and asks if they saw the trick. They apologize and say that they missed it. They were distracted by a mother duck and ducklings walking across the air strip. They ask if he can do it again. The pilot gets back in his plane and does the trick again. He has now completed an impossible stunt twice in one day.

On his drive home he notices great billows of smoke pluming in the air. He decides to check it out and finds a house ablaze. He slams on the brakes and gets out of his car. A woman is standing out front crying. She tells him that her baby daughter is still stuck inside. He tells her not to worry, and sprints into the burning home. The heat is agonizing, the smoke is suffocating and blinding. Somehow he manages to find the baby girl and bring her to safety. The mother is relieved and grateful, but is still sobbing. The man asks her if he can do anything else. She tells him that her pet cat is still trapped in the fire. Again, he battles the flames and the smoke, and just barely makes it out alive holding a trembling orange cat.

When he finally gets home, he immediately finds his wife and gives her a kiss.

“You won’t believe the day I’ve had,” he says.

“Where’s Ralphie?” She asks.

“How should I know? I just got home.”

“It was your turn to pick him up from band practice.”

“Again?!”

I was hungover when I got hit with that hot grenade. There was nothing to drink but the hot dog water in the cooler. Even the beers were wiped out.

Camping with these older guys, Don LaRue and his friend—Don’s the older brother of Kenny’s girlfriend; Kenny’s our fishing buddy; he's a dick; he gets chicks; not us.

It was an accident how we got hooked up together, how we went camping with these two older guys. These guys had it all together in life. They were fricking COOL. And they were hanging out with US. It just sort of started by accident when they were playing the Violent Femmes out of their car when dropping Kenny off at our house. Dude, we’re ALL into the Femmes for years now, we told them. I think that impressed them. Then we told them about our lake. Lake Zeecans. It’s our secret spot right off the freeway.

Then it just sort of happened. Grab your stuff and hop in. Let’s do it. Beers were had. Blankets forgotten, mainly. Hot dogs were had. Dewey was there. He got the cooler and offered to drive us all. Dewey Strox. That's what WE called him. His driving skills were a thing of legend.

Those older guys were way cool. They knew Kenny. Kenny was boning Don’s little sister, so yeah, I guess you could say they were cool with each other. Now they met the rest of us.

We listened to that Violent Femmes cassette all the way up there in Dewey’s truck, and the next day all the way back down. We sang it together, harmonized with the Femmes, all of us piled in Dewey’s truck, and because it was the Femmes, our shitty voices matched the Femmes guy’s voice so perfectly, when we got back the next day and were hanging out, all of us out front, Mom came out and yelled for us to stop our damn singing. But it wasn’t us. That was the Femmes playing in Dewey’s truck right then. This was right before seat belt tickets. All of us had piled into the back campershell of the legendary Red Ox’s red truck, there and back, sticking our heads through the back window into the cab so we could sing along with the Violent Femmes together with these older guys who were riding shotgun and bitch up there with Dewey and were cool.

We never did do any fishing. Just camping and drinking beer and bullshitting, us young guys and these two guys that had been seniors at our high school when we had just been freshmen still.

At one point in the middle of the night the beers ran out. I won't tell you what our friend Dewey did. Stupid ass teenagers. We thought we lost him. Thought we were stranded out there. He made it back, though. We heard him before we saw him. He was blasting MAY THE ROAD RISE WITH YOU by P.I.L. in his own truck that he also drove up there. Johnny Rotten was his hero. And that night, Dewey was our hero. He became legendary in our collective memory of what happened, all that we did, and how many beers we drank and slammed and belched after.

Then it was morning. Should have told Dewey to get some water. How dry I am. How dry are all of us.

"What water we got?"

“Jack diddly.”

Only water is what's left inside the cooler, the melted ice that had the hot dogs in it. Hot dogs had been opened. Floating before they had even got eaten. Melted ice hot dog water. Yum.

"Want some hot dog water?"

”Shit.”

Somebody screwed up here.

"You gotta be shitting me. Hot dog water is all we got?"

F-ck it. Water's water. We were only camping one night anyway.

Don's friend Clint sat next to me the next morning by our almost extinct campfire from last night‘s adventures. We're all gathered around it, next morning, shooting the shit before we gotta get up and get out of here. Clint's the other older guy who went camping out here with us. Looks like he’s got it all down pat; here's a guy who came prepared. These older guys, they really got it down in life. Check it out, he brought a can of chili. He'd set it by those few, still-orangey, ashy parts on the outskirts of our mostly dead fire when he‘d first got up before us that morning. Damn. Chili sounds good. This guy's a veteran. Knows what he's doing. Alls WE brought were those damn hot dogs.

He takes out a knife he also brought, and he flicks it at the top of the can of chili to get it out of the fire, rolls it over to himself between his legs on the dirt. Nobody says it, but all of us are jealous, gathered around, watching him and hungry as hell. Here the can stands on the sand right before him. He puts the knife tip to the top-center of the can with one hand, picks up a big rock with the other hand, and bangs on the butt of the knife with—

BOOM!!!

"Shit! Oh, SHIT that's hot!"

Five teenagers scatter in all directions and one man down. Or so I though; that’s what my burns on me were telling me. Each of us hit by bits of molten hot chili to varying, burning, scarring degrees and hissing and howling.

"Oh, shit, that's hot! Oh, SHIT, that's HOT!"

Shaking off limbs, wiping off faces. Some of us on our knees, rubbing dirt on our wounds. I was blown backward off my log. My cheek, chin, and both forearms burned. For a moment I'd thought I'd got it the worst, since I’d been sitting next to him.

But when the smoke all cleared and the shock wore off, I saw that Clint had flecks of smoldering chili spotted all over his arms, hands, legs, and face. He sat motionless, still with the exploded can of chili between his legs. I thought he was still in shock. But nope. He knew how to handle it. Didn’t even flinch, this guy.

"Fuck," he says. And then he just says, "Fuck," again. Like it was nothing.

Dude, I hope I'm that cool when I'm his age.

Have you ever received so much ice cream that you had to change your clothes? Because I have.

One sweltering summer day, I decided as any other lower middle class American with minimal disposable income would to beat the heat with a frozen treat. I got my shoes on and off I went to my local ice cream vendor. It was just half a mile away, most of which was on a biking/pedestrian path, so I decided to walk. The smothering intensity of the heat became apparent as soon as I stepped out of my building. The sun beat down and seemed to stay there with no clouds to offer any relief. All I needed was some sour cream and chives and I would have known exactly how it felt to be a baked potato. What I didn't notice at that time was just how windy it was that day.

When I made it to the ice cream place I encountered the next dilemma of the day: what flavor to get. There were about fifteen to choose from all with unique zany names that sounded more like cocktails and didn't really tell you anything about the flavor, forcing you to read the descriptions of each one before you could make a selection.

Midnight Sunrise? That doesn't even make sense.

Snoopy's Day Off? How is that ice cream?

I decided to get a cup with half strawberry cheesecake and half zanzibar chocolate. I ordered a single serving and expected to get two half-size scoops in a single scoop cup. What I was given was two colossal scoops in a single cup. I had also grossly overestimated the size of a single scoop cup. The disproportionality in the sizes between the amount of ice cream and the cup it was crammed in could be visualized by imagining what it might look like if you tried to give a St. Bernard a bath in the kitchen sink.

My original plan was to get the ice cream and walk home as fast as I could to limit the melting and enjoy it in the comfort of my apartment while watching a movie. I intended to stick to that plan. After grabbing three napkins as a precaution I started my return journey. I'm not sure if the cup was even visible to other passersby; they may have thought I was bare-handing the ice cream like some kind of maniac.

My hopes to avoid excessive melting proved to be foolishly ambitious. The sun went to work immediately and droplets of chocolate ice cream were soon running down my fingers. I had no choice but to start frantically licking the sides while I walked, otherwise the comically large pile of ice cream might just slide off and splat on the sidewalk.

To add to the issue, I was walking directly into the wind, which caused the drops of melting ice cream to be blown onto me and splatter on my clothes. The coordination of the sun and wind's efforts made it feel like I was getting picked on by two schoolyard bullies. It was mother nature's version of "why are you hitting yourself?" The result was that I experienced the highest level of frustration that one could reach while holding an enormous stack of ice cream.

By the time I made it home my hands were covered in chocolate drippings and my clothes looked I had been standing behind a revving dirt bike in a patch of mud. It took me a couple minutes to turn the doorknob and get inside because my hands kept slipping, but when I finally did I rushed the remaining soupy ice cream into the freezer. Then, I changed my clothes.

"Hey, Diego, I'm bored," I said, turning to my friend. He and I have known each other for years, but most of our friendship consists of insults and arguments that neither one of us take seriously. We technically have something we should be doing, we are in our psychology class, and we haven't done any of our work in the past two weeks, but it's not like we plan on starting now.

"Go cry about it; I'm busy," he replied.

I look over at his screen, and he's in the middle of reading part 7 of Jojo's Bizzare Adventure. I have no clue how; almost every comic site on the internet is blocked on the school Chromebooks, but I don't question it.

"You aren't fucking busy; stop lying." I turn my screen to him. I have a writing website opened. I don't enjoy writing all too much, but it gives me something to do. I click under the challenges tab and ask him to pick a prompt. After scrolling through for a while, he clicks on one.

"Do that one." I look over at the prompt and immediately shut him down.

It read Spaghetti juggling.

"I'm not going to do that one; it's stupid, and what would I even write about?"

"Dude, it literally says that it could be anything as long as someone juggles spaghetti."

I laugh. I can't even imagine a way to work that into a story.

He clicks 'enter' and turns the screen back to me.

"You should just write that you went to the new Mario movie and started passing out spaghetti to everyone."

"What about the juggling part?"

"Walk to the very front of the theatre and just start juggling that shit."

One thing that I admire about Diego is that he is such a shameless idiot.

I laugh, telling him that I wasn't going to write to that prompt and return the screen to him so he can select a different challenge.

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Twas no ordinary

travelers penknife

that was retrieved

from the center

of the general's

waistcoat

at the scene

of the global crime

No sir, the whole

Swiss intelligentsia

had put powdered

gold and cocoa

in a pocket watch

to form

the most timely

Survival Weapon:

It shone light

It sustained &

It did one in...

all at the same time!

Make funny... hehee @CrispyHD

What? The fuck did you just say?

Motherfucker, does this look like a game to you?!

Got me out here wilin' out, hollerin' like I'm Sam motherfuckin' Jackson...makin' my blood pressure spikin' n' shit. Too damn old for this nonsense.

Quit the hustle ten damn years ago and these buckwild ass young bloods wanna bring their bullshit up in my driveway...

What yo little punk ass mumbling about over there? You gon' say it, say it witcha chest, lil' homie!

Boy, I done told you I moved out the hood for a reason. You think these bougie white folks ain't gonna notice yo raggedy ass stompin' through the azealeas?!

Uh-uh, don't be runnin' your mouth 'bout my Prius. It's economical, and y'all could learn somethin' about practicality, runnin' around in a pair of Jordans but can't keep ya damn lights on...

Don't test my gangster. I'll shove these Crocs square up yo' ass.

Go on now. Pull that hooptie up in the garage. 'Fore the neighbors start snitchin' to the HOA. What is that? 1998 Honda Ain't-Shit?

I think I got a tarp and some ammonia in the shed.

We got an hour before my lady gets back from Pilates.

She gon' be mad as hell if she catches me on this shit again.