Epic tales of adventure (all true)

When I was in high school I knew this dude who lived in the laundry room of his girlfriend’s apartment. He’d call me from the payphone in the parking lot nearby and I’d ‘come over’ to his place, which was about ten by ten and consisted of three coin operated dryers and three washers. He slept on the bench that was provided for people whose lives were so lame that they just kicked it in the basement of their apartment building and waited for their socks to dry. When you think about it, he really took that bench’s potential to the next level…You thought it was a sign of a pathetic life to chill down here for the whole spin cycle? This motherfucker LIVES here! Anyway, eventually, people got wise and he was forced to vacate the laundry room. So, what did he do? He moved in under his girlfriend’s bed. You heard me.
I know, I know…What? How’s that possible? Well, hear me out. First of all, this guy was the type of dude that you really don’t want fucking your daughter. I mean, he lived in the laundry room, for fucks sake (and he smelled like a weekend-long German-French cheese symposium conducted entirely in a Sauna/pay toilet, and he always wore the same clothes, and he had a rotten tooth [no offense, Nadie] and generally, he was gross) and the results were that his girlfriend’s dad didn’t allow her to see him, much less let him in the house. So, my creepily intrepid associate hatched a plan so genius, so creepy, so unbelievably impossible to pull off unless you’re a robot, that it boggles my mind to this day, a decade and a half later. Every day, before his old lady’s dad got home, he’d slip in the house and hide under her bed. He’d stay there until the dad fell asleep, and then he’d crawl up, bang his girl, crawl back under the bed and wait until the dad left for work the next morning, at which point, he’d kick it around the various parking lots of the neighborhood, eating fruit roll ups, bumming smokes and singing Pearl Jam inspired songs to himself until it was time to repeat the whole David-Blainian experiment again. Sounds perfect, right? They had it all worked out, except for one thing….
He knocked her up.
I mean, who writes this stuff? Really? A pregnancy? Jeez. So this guy went from being the monster in the house (“Daddy, there’s a gross, smelly thing under my bed/in the basement”) to the father of the grandchild of a very, very disappointed Baby Boomer…that is, unless…
To Planned Parenthood! They caught this one early and it was pretty easy to uh…cure, I guess. So he sold some stuff that he had stolen to pay for an abortion and then…and this is the part that’s so great, he took his girlfriend, day of abortion, immediately following the procedure, to his three hour long band practice, and made her sit through that. Apparently, he didn’t want her to remember the abortion as the worst thing that happened to her that day, which is pretty cool of him if you think about it that way, I guess.
Man, so guess what? She dumped him and a few years later, he started dating this other girl who would just wait in his car while he would stop by my friend Chris’s place and drink beers and watch movies. Let me repeat this. She would wait in the CAR while he would go upstairs and WATCH MOVIES. I guess, compared to making someone suffer through the stress of harboring you under the bed, carrying your devil spawn, ridding yourself of said devil spawn, and sitting through your horrible band’s 3 hour practice, making the bitch wait in the car is down right chivalrous. He’s probably still out there. I think he wanted to be an actor…maybe he’s famous by now.

I’ve got this other friend who has a band, and they practice every day. I live a thousand miles from this guy, and the last time I was at his house (just for one evening) he just up and left because his band had to practice. They, I’d like to re-iterate, practice EVERY day. So, my one night only appearance at his place, not a big enough deal to cancel band practice. Pretty sweet.
So, yeah, band practice is one of those things that you feel is important, I guess. Sometimes it’s like “Hey doc, you wanna hurry up down there? I got band practice! And sometimes it’s like “Hey, I’ll just catch you next time you’re this particular thousand-mile-away trajectory, cuz man, I need to rock (again).”
Me, I’m in a band. Without trying to get all dick thumpy about it, a band that is vastly more popular than either of the bands in question above, and you know when we practice? Never. That’s how we maintain our sloppy charm. It’s hard work not practicing…just ask the guys from these bands that I’m talking about here. BUT!!!!! Yesterday, not one, but TWO of my bands practiced. Both practices were fun, and I was tired at the end, and as a result, I didn’t get to fill in the September 22 Bad Sandwich Chronicles entry…sorry everyone, but it’s not like I ditched you or took your post surgery ass to practice with me. I guess what I’m saying is, it really could’ve been worse, people.

Oh, yeah. It's come to my attention that it's not really clear what's going on with the deleted posts in the 'comments' section. I don't delete posts. It's the author of the post who can choose to delete it. I've never deleted anything down there, just so you all don't think I'm some sort of Hitler/Palin type who doesn't support the blanket of expressive rights granted to us in our first ammendment...it ain't me deleting posts. My guess? It's people who write things and then go, 'that's kind of dumb.' So yeah. There's that. Okay, get out there and live, people!