Once upon a time there was a retarded boy living in Texas. He lived on his own in an assisted living community, had a nice job wiping tables at the local Burger King, and had his family close by to check on him a couple of times a week. One day his mother received a phone call from her son, and he excitedly told her that he had something important to tell her. Having gone through this routine of dealing with her son's highly overactive imagination, the mother said patiently "Okay what is it this time?" He proceeded to tell her that he had, just that afternoon, captured a "chocolate dwarf" and that he needed her to come look at it. Knowing that this meant he had probably sculpted another humanoid figure out of his melted Snicker's bar and spent all afternoon playing with it in the park, she said that she was busy that day but would come by tomorrow. She got to the boy's house in the late afternoon, parked her car in the usual spot and rang the doorbell to her son's apartment. No answer. She knocked and called out his name. No answer still. Becoming worried she used her key to unlock the door and went inside. There she found all of the apartment's furniture piled up against one of the closet doors, apparently barricading it shut. Shit, she thought, I'm going to have to clean up whatever kind of mess he's made in there (still assuming the Snicker's man theory to be the case). She quickly moved all of the furniture back to its proper place and set the room back in order. Finally, she opened the closet door, broom in hand, to find... a black midget bound and gagged lying on the floor surrounded by half melted skittles. Apparently her son had not been kidding when he said that he had "captured" a chocolate dwarf, (who turned out to be a U.S. Census employee going door to door) and had attempted to keep him alive for a day and a half by slipping him skittles underneath the door. I wonder if at some point in the long hot hours on the closet floor, if that man had to come to terms with the fact that he was going to die there, bound and gagged in a mentally handicapped man's closet? Not that I'm planning on dying a noble or heroic death (trying to unwrap a cupcake while driving most likely), but that would have been about as inglorious a way to go that you could find. As the great Satchmo once said, "What a wonderful world".
Now to my crap. I'm guessing that some of you are curious about the name I put into the title of this post. Let me explain. My fraternity held its annual spring formal in Hilton Head, North Carolina last weekend, staying both Friday and Saturday nights. The whole setup involves the guys awkwardly asking a girl they think will look hot in a low cut dress, and then if the girl accepts, because she wants a free trip to the beach with minimal sexual commitment, then she is in charge of supplying the booze and snacks for the weekend, usually presented in some sort of cooler. Two couples typically share a cheap hotel room, and the fraternity usually gets one floor all to themselves and subsequently ruins the weekend of any poor soul who happens to be within a one mile radius. My car arrived early on Friday evening and began taking shots of tequila and Jack Daniels to get the night going. Gradually all of the other couples started arriving and the partying ensued. For dinner we ordered pizza from a local shop, a large "hot sausage" at my vehement request. At dark a bunch of us "dudes" went down to the pool and played the classic "throw me a ball while I jump in the pool" game. Unfortunately, there was a young family with their baby in the shallow end, trying to enjoy a family trip and after tempting the fates one too many times an errant football landed square between the mother's fleshy shoulders with a satisfying "schlap!" We all apologized profusely, offered to leave the pool until we annoyed them enough to leave themselves, and then laughed about the whole thing. Eventually our posse stumbled over to the beach and proceeded to hold what would appear to the average human as a heathen orgy festival celebrating our great moon god "Moon." We splashed around the water and hugged and told each other how much we loved each other and how "no, really, man, we really have, you know, a connection or something! I fucking love you dude!" So sweet. Somehow we wound up back in our beds and passed out for the night. A group of the guys got up at 830 to go golfing, but I could not be persuaded to join because I don't know how to play golf (maybe because I haven't come to resent my wife and kids and job yet?). So instead I awoke still drunk at 10 a.m., threw on a tank top and some flip flops and went to breakfast at a local diner with all of the ladies, where we received a lot of dirty looks from the locals. I think it had something to do with my tank top, or the fact that I kept referring to the girls as "my bitches". The day was spent frolicking at the pool, once again we ran off a young family trying to enjoy an afternoon at the pool. Goddamn squatters. At some point the conversation turned to my intense snoring habits the night before, which was likened to a freight train. I then dubbed myself "Daddy Freight Train" and refused to answer to any other name for the rest of the trip. Glad I didn't have to name myself "Night Terror Willy," like in middle school. The actual formal itself was held a lovely restaurant and bar in the area, complete with steak dinners and open bar. Bad idea. At some point I was standing outside breathing heavily to try and not throw up my nice steak dinner after a shot when the crowd moved to the dance floor. Jello shots, ice luge, body shots, and a Sublime cover band. What more could a white kid ask for? The night included getting into a fight with my date where she wielded the band's didgeridoo mistaking it for a big stick and trying to beat me to death with it. I told 2 or 4 girls that I thought they were "buutifal" and tried to make out with their face, but to no avail. But I'm 87% sure that someone grabbed my dick at some point so it wasn't a complete loss. The night ended with my room yelling at me to shut up as they tried to go to sleep while I howled the repeated question "Kelly!! Where's our baby??" No one we know is named Kelly. At the next fraternity meeting it was revealed that we did not get our security deposit back because a couple of guests witnessed one of our brothers engaged in "sexual activity" on the balcony of the room, but no one knew who. I decided to fess up and told them that I had indeed masturbated on the porch both nights, but turned out they meant sexual activity with a girl, not alone and sad. That's what you get for trying to be the hero these days I guess.
Still only replying to:
Daddy Freight Train
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