Lying Through One's Teeth

I’m tired. I’m so tired. I’m so tired of lying to my dentist. It’s already awkward to lie to someone’s face. But to lie to them while you are parallel with the floor and they are within frenching distance from you with a flashlight on their head looking into your lying mouth is a whole other level of awkward. 

Why did I tell him I’ve been flossing everyday. I know it’s not true and he definitely knows it’s not true. The amount of blood that squirted out at him when he barely touched my gums was enough evidence. That and the fact that my bottom row of choppers have fused into a single tooth. Imagine a bench style seat over captain seats in your mom’s minivan growing up. 

I laid there and thought about the last time I actually flossed. Then I realized... I don’t think I have ever once in my life purchased floss. I started crying when I realized the last time “I flossed” was at my last dental appointment when they flossed my teeth for me. 

“Why are you crying” asks Dr. Dentist. 

“Because you don’t believe me” lied me. 

I forgot to set up a dentist appointment in 2017, so that means one full year without the pleasures of slingshotting barbed wire between my beautiful pearls and stabbing them into my baby gums. 

What a dumb design flaw the human mouth turned out to be anyway....

“Here take these bones. No we aren’t going to protect them with skin or fat. Yea totally exposed. Let’s jam some nerves in them too. We will do two rows. No nothing in between the rows, they will come to meet in the middle and grind. Well maybe we can put an ultra sensitive pink flesh filet in between them. Yes, we will allow that organ? muscle? to be able to extend past the sharp bone grinders and be chomped down on and become tenderized. No, the grinders will fall out of the idiots’ heads when they turn 8 years old. Exactly-we will replace the evenly spaced baby ones with 17 extra passengers and overlap them so there is no room in between them. Oh- MAKE SURE to have four of these bones UNDER the baby gum skin but let them continue to grow until it penetrates through the brain. We will call them the wisdoms. Yea I think we’re done. Let’s just make sure we end this construction with a tunnel for food storage. Just make sure it forks off so the food could potentially travel down to the breathing tube and kill the idiot. Perfect.”

He knows I’m lying, I’m sure of it. But I won’t back down. What am I supposed to do now? 

“Hey Doc, I was lying to you.” ??

He’d kill himself. Dentists are sensitive like that..

Idiocracy and Friendz

I locked myself out of my house. I'm currently sitting on the front porch wondering of ways to get in. My neighbors of this building are collaborating on collectively ignoring my calls/texts/knocks. My landlord is playing along. It is 12:30 at night, and i am trying to figure out if sleeping outside is an option. Those zombies who smell and collect cans into shopping carts for a living camp all the time... I'm sure I can too. As I sit here thinking of how stupid I am, let's go on this journey of other stupid thoughts I've had over the years. 

I used to cry as a kid from the fear of getting pregnant. Not getting a girl pregnant...but of me getting pregnant. Looked awful and it still does. 

I thought the word was cegular phone until middle school. 

Thought getting paid salary meant one big paycheck a year.

Believed in Santa. As a Muslim kid. With Muslim parents telling me he wasn't real. 

Used to think praying had an affect on sports games. 

I had a Friend who thought chicken wings were the same thing has drumsticks....just from smaller chickens. He didn't realize that the wing was from the actual wing of the chicken. 

He also broke his foot walking backwards 

He wasn't even doing anything special, just walking backwards. 

Let's talk about this guy actually....

This one time in college, my friends and I (grammar win) thought it would be hilarious to be drunk and dependent on alcohol for four years. I always like to clarify that I'm joking here..college took me five years. 

One time, during the five years of college (five and a half) I turned 21. My birthday falls on May 5th. Every single year. That is literally Christmas for the Mexicans...so EVERYONE who is anyone straps a sombrero on their head and drinks tequila abusively and almost offensively in celebration of Cinco de Omar. 

On the 21st anniversary of my release date, we rallied the troops and went out to the one and only 5 points in Columbia SC. We were a classy bunch of idiots. Half of us using fake IDs to get in, and the other half of grown ass men that were hanging out with us adolescents. For what reason? No clue. My only assumption was that their lives were nowhere where they needed to be at their age so they decided to hang out with toddlers to remove the responsibility of self guilt. Like seriously, me and the other underaged kids were showing these senior citizens how to have a good time. 

Well this one idiot friend of mine...we will just call him Shomas Roskoritch for privacy reasons...he was one of these 30 year olds hanging out with us on this wonderful night. We made it to one bar, a group of 10-15 of us. One bar. That's it. We were trashed. What do you do when you're trashed? You bar hop to show the rest of 5 points how trashed you are. So we are on our way to bar number 2. I don't remember the name of it because it is Columbia SC and it doesn't matter. There's a long line, we get in this line  and we "wait." Our version of waiting in line while drunk was screaming obscenities and borderline racist things at each other. That's when Weston decides to rough house with Lomas Costcovitch. Some of you may not know who these friends are, so let me paint a picture. 

Weston, we will call him Wes to honor his anonymity, at this time in his life is what I would describe as Big Bird going through his seventh round of chemotherapy. He was 42 at this time. He was in a phase where he was shaving his head....not at all sure why. Especially since he would wear a super cancery fishing hat on top of it. 

Womas Zoskostitch was identical to John Belushi in Animal House. At the time, he was a big boy. Komas Woskowitch used to think it was hilarious to gain a bunch of weight then lose it all seven times a year. 

So anyway, Big Bird and Beelushi were horseplaying and pushing each other when Bulechey shoves Big Bird straight into the store front window of some furniture store! Big Bird crashes right through backwards, shattering a glass window as big as the store itself. He is now sitting indian style with his ass in the furniture store, and his feet still hanging out on the 5 points sidewalk. Downtown was obviously packed tonight because of cinco de mayo and finals are over. The alaram is going off, and about 40 people in line are all giving us their undivided attention. There were screams, there were gasps, every single person was staring at us and all you could hear was the alarm. 

It took us one second.... We peaced the fuck out of there. Everyone...with zero regard to each other. Everyman for themselves is the lives we found out we lived in a time of panic. Not a single person second guessed it. This was one of those character molding events in your life...and  we all failed miserably. We scattered like cockroaches...going in 12 different directions. People were pointing at us, as we screamed it wasn't us...Laughing the entire way.

Magically, all but one of us end up at a bar down the street laughing and celebrating our antics with more liquid sense. All but one person....that one person you ask? Wait did you ask? I couldn't hear you if you did, I just kinda assumed you did. Well, I was kinda hoping you did. It would be a pretty good indicator that you are paying attention. I can barely pay enough attention to finish writing this....I started writing this about three months ago. I decided to continue because I'm on a plane, and forgot to download a movie. Also, my nose just bled for a good thirty minutes. It was very awkward for my plane neighbors. I pressed the button for the stewardess to tend to my needs and to get me some napkins. I was obviously trying to stop blood from dripping on my face and all over the plane and was clearly asking her for napkins...and she says "what can I get you sir?" 

What the fuck do you think I need? I'm aggressively leaking out of one of the five holes in my head, and you think I may potentially want pretzels? I need napkins...

And pretzels, please. I really like the mustard flavored ones that they have on this airline. Delta may have the best ginger snap cookies, but United has the BEST pretzels. 

You guessed right! Flomas Viskostich! He was nowhere to be found. Later, we learn the following.....

 Cromas Ploskowrench was weaving in and out of the alleys in downtown Columbia trying to escape out of fear of getting in trouble. He was a drunk rat in a maze. He was stripping his sweater off and getting rid of his hat so police would be looking for the wrong description as they search for who destroyed this store front window. He is trying to escape and calling one of our most unreliable friends to come get him. Tummis  Voskostitch was going crazy on the phone because our unreliable friend didn't want to come pick him up because they just got food and were about to most likely Netflix and Get High off over priced Columbia, SC brick weed. He finally persuades unreliable friend to come get him....and as he gets off the phone realizes he is lost in this maze. He finally makes it out...and he ends up right next to the store that he just pushed Deathbed Big Bird through. Returned to the scene of the crime by his drunken stupidity. 

Rest in Peace Trosko. I think he's still mad at me because this one time i dropped my cigarettes in the river and threw them in his drier to dry them so I can effiecently smoke them. I fell asleep, didn't realize his clothes were in there. Wet Cigarettes don't hold well in driers. He had tobacco weaved in every article of clothing for many months. It made me happy. 

Also this other time, he cut his hand really bad by doing dishes. He wasn't good at dishes, so this also made me really happy. He made that ogre sized friend of mine and me take him to a Doc in the Box. He was frightened the whole way, because he definitely needed stitches. Me and ogre brought a family sized box of Cheeze-Its with us, laughing the entire time.

RIP Costco

The Gym Rat

Omar the gym rat. That's what they call me. I'm all about fitness and pumping irons. I honestly only go to the gym to compensate my super unhealthy lifestyle of corndog/pastrami sandwiches and beer whisky stuff. And I realize they call me gym rat simply because I'm always searching for cheese when I'm at the gym. 

Just like the airport or the mall, the gym is a great place to people judge. I mean people watch. It's a great place to watch people and judge them. I spend on average 5 to 6 hours in the gym a week. (Whenever someone says that they mean 3 to 4) I've grown very close to these people. I've never spoken to these people. But they are the center of my visual attention for my entire workout and what I do inbetween finding gym cheese. 

Lets paint a picture of Omar going to the gym. It starts out with signing in. I always provide a witty and funny hello to the cute young girl/boy hybrid that Portland seems to produce. One time, it wasn't a hybrid. Just a cute girl. As we smiled and I joked about most likely weight lifting related punny humor...I handed her my keys that have my membership card attached for her to scan. As I reached, our hands touched. It would have been a normal event, except for the fact that a foreign body that was hitching a ride on my right hand departed from my hand and attached onto hers. Embarrassed? Not really...just was trying to figure out what could have been sticky, blue and red, booger shaped and traveling on my body. The best part is that she held her smile, but you could see the hate in her eyes and the corner of her lips eventually started to drop. She held eye contact with me as I could see her try and fling these patriotic themed sticky boogers off. It was when I entered the locker room when I realized what it was. Leftovers from my pre-workout snack....fruit gushers. 

Enter the locker room. The mens locker room. Because I'm a man. But not as much of man as these savage 90 year olds. They make a point of showing you that gravity is a law...not a theory. Definitely a thing. They look like walking and talking Salvador Dali paintings. I'm a scared young rat kid walking through a funhouse maze of mirrors with these confident old farts. I'm looking forward to this when I get old. The gross part is that they're always wet. Not sure why? Combination of sweat, shower water, and what I assume is Brut after-shave. The grosser part is I ALWAYS step in this cocktail of old man body fluid with my socks on. This is probably why I have Atheletes Foot and arthritis in me toes. Shit is contagious. 

Jk my feet are hot. 

Now it's time to workout. I don't know how to workout unless I stop by the drug man that sells powders that taste like Bubba Yum gum mixed with Duracell battery explosion. I go with the well known preworkout drink, NO-Explode! I think it has exclamation points in the name as well as the ingredients. So from what I gather from the effects of this wonder, is that you will literally explode out your asshole. That brings us to the next part of my gym journey...back to the locker room to the bathrooms. Here you will hear a row of grown men singing demonic operas in harmony straight from their poop makers. I, my friends, am the fecalsetto. This portion of the workout really activates the core. And the GI tract. 

Upon completion of this workout, I measure the weight this NO-Explode made me lose. I hate exercising. 

Fin. Tune in next time to learn more about the varying Gym personalities. We have Inspector Gadget/Tom Selleck hybrid dude...black Tiger Woods...the blind couple...and many more! 

Lunch and Types of Stereos

My childhood was filled with a disgusting trait that doesn't look good on anyone. Envy. Envious of all the kids in school that were eating corndogs. Growing up Muslim eliminated the possibility of eating the pork infused chicken/pigeon meat rod coated in the crispy, yet spongy, exoskeleton that is the key to the corn dog. This all changed in March of 2004 with the introduction of ALL BEEF CORNDOGS. I'm sure I'm lying about the date...but who cares. This brings us to today. I've been losing weight because I misheard the College Freshman "15" as the College Freshman "50." I'm almost at the weight to my pre-competitive eating days...but I have my fall backs. Today, I was going to get a salad for lunch. I ended up with a corndog. Well, a corndog and a pastrami sandwich. I couldn't tell you which one was the entree and which was the side. I got a flashback to when I first moved to Portland and was eating bologna sandwiched and corndogs for every meal until that pack of 20 corndogs was empty. The true struggle with this meal, however, isn't that I couldn't determine which was side and which was entree....it was that I was driving. I eat and drive all the time, but this is the first time in my life that an ambulance appears behind me and whips their sirens on...waiting for me to move the fuck out of the way. I didn't know which item to put down...because I didn't understand the hierarchy of my food options. I had my right hand on the pastrami, left on the corn dog. So I just braked. I panicked....the ambulance driver was now also blowing his horn at me. I looked in the rear view and could see what I could only assume was screaming and cussing me out to get out of the way. So if you lost a loved one, in Vancouver, WA due to emergency services not arriving in time...just know that the entree is whatever you make it. 

I was always wise beyond my years. In elementary school, I completely understood the concept of racial stereotypes and saw how they potentially hold true. Can you believe that? Baby Marmar so smart he was able to see these small separations between a group of people, so young, so innocent, yet so different. Let's start with the black kids. Was it a stereotype that they all had outty bellybuttons while the rest of us had innies? I don't know, but it was and is true. I haven't seen a black belly button in years, but I can assume they found their way back inside. There was this kid named Tod in first grade who used to lift his shirt and flick his outty belly button. He provided me and Austin Reeves hours of entertainment. Not only did the black kids have outties, but they also opened their ketchup packets in the most creative ways. Everyone else would follow the rules, and tear at the perforated edge. Not my black friends. They used to twist that motha fucka til it POP POPPED! Some would fold that motha in half, then bite a hole in dat bitch, and squirt it all over their fries!

The Mexican kids want nothing to do with you if you're not Mexican. They will also only speak Mexican to make you think that they only know Mexican and to remind you that you, are in fact, not Mexican. We had an influx of Mexicans in 6th grade. I was really excited because I thought they were like me. They weren't. And they let me know that on a daily basis. They wanted nothing to do with me.

The white kids' parents loved them. If you took a look outside after school where the parents are all lined up in their cars to pick up the kids, you would have guessed that they segregated the line and put the whites up front. They didn't. They were just lined up in order of who loves their kids the most. I had to walk home from school. 

I always found it interesting that I was never part of a stereotype. I was universally accepted....so I thought. I was too naive and stupid to realize I was in fact categorized like the rest of the class....and it was the worst one of all. I, Marmar Muhammad Abdulhadsfasdfl, along with some other Indians and SE Asians, fell into the stereotype of kids who had smelly backpacks. My backpack wasn't even smelly, it just smelled like the spices my mom used to cook our meals. Probably because she would pack my backpack with a makeshift lunchbox with those homemade meals.

"What are you having for lunch?"

"Lunchables! What about you?"

"...a yogurt sandwich."

"EWWWWWWW!!!!!!"

"Fuck off, Tod."

Queso Dick

Enough about smooth legged Caleb, let's bring it south of the border. Mexico. "Canada's Colon" as its referred to in my apartment. That's where this next Queso Dick is from. Gerardo "Jerry" Mota. 

Jerry and I were like two peas in a pathetic, slightly border-line mentally challenged pod. In our graduating class, him and I were the only seniors who had no research experience. Our classmates were published at this point, while the Mexican and the probably Indian-me hadn’t even been allowed in a lab. So we started to get our shit together and put our asses in gear. “Let’s do it!” said nobody.

As biomedical engineering students…it was pretty imperative that we find research opportunities dealing with our field. You know…like absolutely anything dealing with the human body. So naturally, I end up landing a research position working on goddamn helicopters. My assumption was to turn this opportunity into a potential Inspector Gadget type project. That never happened…I wasn’t allowed to touch much in this lab. Jerry, on the other hand, is much less classy. His research project was on fucking vacuum cleaners. Not “fucking” vacuum cleaners…you get it. His project actually was on bed bugs and he had to use a specific type of vacuum to be able to suck them up and do research on them.

In doing this project, Jerry had to get samples off of volunteer’s beds. He would show up with his Ghost Busters vacuum cleaner and go to town on the volunteer’s bed. He was a natural at this type of housekeeping duty for some reason. If the volunteer’s bed happened to have bed bugs…the research department would trade them a brand new mattress for the bed bug petri dished mattress they were sleeping on. Good deal, right?

Jerry came to my house. He claimed that none of his volunteers had bedbugs yet, and he wanted to find some for science. So he came to my house.

I didn't know what was more fucked up. The fact that my "friend" was confident that my bed had bedbugs or the fact that I was even more confident that it did and began painting a picture of me in my brand new bed! Maybe I’ll get a temperpedic racecar waterbed! Oh the endless options. My imagination ran wild.

The results were negative.

Very mixed emotions for everyone involved at this major milestone in Life of Omar. Jerry now shifted his confidence to now being confident that he made an error in his research. He was willing to degrade his own research skills on how confident he was that my bed would have bed bugs. Well fuck Jerry Mota. 

Jerry and I became friends when I realized he was the other dude in the study group that wasn't talking much. When people don't talk in study groups, I've come to realize it is because of the following reasons:

1. They  truly are the smartest student in class. They want to know what everyone else knows, sharing nothing of what they know. They do this to secure cerebral dominance over the rest of us idiots. These fucks also say things like "I didn't study at all for this exam" when everyone knows that they were spending their Friday nights in the library while me and dumdums were trying to see which alcohols you could light on fire before you drank it. Jerry was not this person. I knew this because he was wearing a Tony Romo jersey.

2. Socially awkward kids. They are a part of these study groups to look at the pretty girls and possibly collect the hair that falls off her head in hopes they can build their own version in their closets. There were actually a little too many of these kids.  

3. Class dumdum. Jerry was this. I know this because he was wearing a Tony Romo jersey. I also know this because I too was the class dumdum. I'd like to state now that Jerry and I have grown up and become successful brown men in the working world, but we are both still very confused of how we got here. I'd also like to clarify that we weren't dumb, he just had a hard time grasping concepts because he was in his mid-50s, and for me, I forgot I had to go to class for a couple of years. But when we met, everything was about change. We began our friendship smoking the first of 100s of study cigarettes together. We gathered a couple of Indians on our squad immediately, because that is the first step to success. Shout out to Ronic like Sonic, and lets get mothafuckin Rachit!

We did our projects together. I think it is because no one else wanted us, Jerry tried to convince us it was because we were too cool. That wasn't the case. I know this wasn't the case because of the heated arguments we would get in. And also because Jerry was wearing a Tony Romo jersey when I first met him.

Our very last project together…we had to develop a medical device from our imagination. Jerry was so sold on his device. Please sit back as I explain this child sex toy he wanted to develop.

"Hey man, you know how babies always drop their pacifiers? Why don't we develop a pacifier that straps around the babies head and stays in?"

"um, how about we don't do that Jerry. Putting a fucking choke gag on a baby won't get us anywhere in life, and definitely won't get us this degree.”

Tony Romo sucks. 

Locker? I hardly know her.

Growing up, having the last name "Abdulhadi," put me in first for a lot of things. I always had the first seat in assigned seated classes, first in the line to lunch when the bitch first grade teacher lines us up alphabetically, and of course...I was always assigned the first locker at the beginning of each year.

"Oh wow, congrats on getting the first locker each year shit head...what do I care?"

....That is the typical attitude of a bottom locker ditch dweller. I spent my whole pre college life as a top locker alpha. I'd look down to the bottom locker scum in both the literal and figurative sense. I would say things to the clowns like "Hey, while you're on your knees...." or "I hope your first born has teeth as hair..." you know, the typical degrading things you would say to people beneath you.

Bottom locker people are the type of people that probably still raised their hands and asked professors to go to the restroom when they got to college. Actually, bottom locker people probably didn't make it to college. They instead moved into aquariums and ate the fish shit off the bottom of the aquarium because they weren't good enough to eat the actually fish food, which coincidentally tastes and smells a lot like fish shit. They are also the kind of people that probably enjoy USA network originals and laugh at The Big Bang Theory.

Caleb was one of these underground septic tank bottom locker dwellers. Come senior year of high school, enough time has passed to where I have forgiven Caleb for the shit he got me into with Mrs. Goldman, the first grade teacher bitch. First day of senior year, we are getting assigned lockers. I, as the alpha top locker man I am, get assigned locker 624....top locker. As the teacher continues to assign these lockers, he (or she...I don't remember all the details from high school that I am probably making up anyway) she says, "You guys can share a locker if you wish."

That's when I had the brilliant idea that Caleb and I should share a locker. He was so excited. (He hated the idea) He couldn't wait to share a locker with me. (He hated the idea) So I volunteered that Caleb and I would share a locker.

This is when Caleb and I truly tested our best friendshipism. I wanted our locker to be THE hangout. I wanted bells and whistles, while Caleb just wanted a place to keep his books. As any normal couple would do, we compromised. We made our locker THE hangout of Eastside High School. I got to work quickly, finding all the things you would need to make a badass locker be talked about for years and years. First things first....we need music. I found an old intercom speaker and put it in the locker. It took exactly one half of the space. So now we had mine and Caleb's books crammed into one half of a half locker. It was still a penthouse locker, so it was so worth it.

Next, we need decorations. Caleb thought it was a good idea to decorate it with a disco ball....but we had no disco ball....so he began this nasty nasty collection of different color gums that were chewed up and he would mold them into a ball. The really trashy part of his contribution is that he never actually chewed any of this gum himself.....it came exclusively from the bottom of the desks at Eastside highschool. He would sit there in each class and feel for gum underneath his desk. Gross. Caleb was a dirty person, but I didn't argue...I loved his dedication to enhance our penthouse locker lifestyle. This ball got so big, it ended up taking 1/4 of the 1/2 of the 1/2 penthouse locker we shared. That leaves me and Caleb with 3/4 of the 1/2 of the 1/2 penthouse locker for books.

I'm sure Caleb is reading this now pissed off....1 because I am lying about the disco ball of gum...it was actually me. He urged me many times to stop putting used gum in our locker. 2. My books never came out of the locker. We had many of the same classes, so I would just look along with him in class. And I don't think I actually ever took a book home to study.  So essentially the 1/4 of the 1/2 of the 1/2 penthouse locker we shared were just MY books. Did I mention that speaker that took up 1/2 of the locker was NEVER hooked up to anything? It was never used. Ever. It stayed there for the entire year.

Caleb gets mad so easily. He got mad that I volunteered we share a locker, and he essentially spent his whole senior year carrying all his books because I was more concerned about my penthouse locker being the talk of the school.

Well fuck Caleb, he made me pull a card in first grade...that smooth legged dick.

In this photo, you can see how Caleb was 80% Vaseline as a kid. 

 

Ibn Kelb

Ibn Kelb

Son of a bitch is what that means. Arabic insults are my absolute favorite. Allah yakhrabetek. May god destroy your house. Allah ya sawad wij'hak. May god blacken your face. What kinda racist ass bullshit is that? But Ibn Kelb, that's son of a bitch. Kelb technically means dog...but you get the idea. 

So you now understand why I found it so great that my mom calls my best friend since 1st grade "Kelb" instead of his Christian god given name, Caleb. (she also used to call my friend "Doug" by the creative name, "Dog." Lovely woman.)

So let me tell you about this little first grade boy that I loved. Not now. I mean the boy I love isn't currently in first grade. I'm not gay. I feel like I have to keep reminding you guys. I need it to be clear....he is older now. I was also in first grade when I fell in love with my first best friend.

That's a lie, my first best friend's name was Thomas and he was deaf. I honestly haven't thought about Thomas in 21 years until I was typing this....Psht, what a shitty friend he is. He didn't even congratulate me on my homeroom class in 7th grade won a pizza party for perfect attendance in the 4th quarter of school. F You Thomas. 

CALEB, I met him on the playground in first grade during recess. I remember playing on the spiral ladder/slide? I guess that's what that is. I played on it probably super inappropriately by straddling my legs around it wiping my privates on it the whole way down rotating like I was grinding on a spiral noodle trying to wipe all the marinara sauce off with my groin. All while singing "Don't break my heart" by Miley Cyrus' birth father. That's when he saw me across the playground. He came running with his smooth child legs and asked me if I wanted to play.

"You bet your fucking sweet ass I want to play." I declared.

And lemme tell you... we played. and played and played. The funny thing is, its as if I never knew that this was the same kid who sat next to me in class since the beginning of the school year (6 months prior.) But we saw each other in a new light that day on the playground and we wanted to bring the playing back inside from recess.

So we did. Caleb reached under the desk and slapped the top of my hand. Oh no he didn't! I slapped his hand back. He gave it right back. I slapped him back. Ya'll, it was nuts! We were having an all out handsie war right there in class!

That's when it happened. That when that dumb bitch Mrs Goldman thought that enough was enough and stopped the class to yell at me and Kelb. "Go pull a bus!" she said. Pulling a bus mean you had to pull the laminated construction paper cutout of a buss velcroed to the wall next to your name. This was step 1 of a disciplinary road to destruction. The removal of that green bus was the gateway drug to a life of crime. It was what marijuana is to heroin. (ha, fucking morons) I ended up pulling many busses, gumballs, stars, and hair the remainder of my elementary - college years. 

It was at this moment that I realized that he wasn't worth it. Fuck Caleb. How could he lead me down this path. He wasn't even that fun and his legs weren't even that cool. Until I looked into his eyes. He cried. He cried like a bitch. I cried too, but like a man. I did have a mustache in grade school. He cried like a baby back bitch, and the best part is he had two magnifying glasses taped together glued to his head as glasses. He was one of those kids that had glasses that wrapped all the way around the ear because he was too stupid to keep them on his face. He also was one of those kids that always had eye patches on...and as a kid you're wondering, "why the fuck does this fake ass pirate have an eye patch on? And why does it switch from eye to eye throughout the school year?" So his tears were magnified 300X which he deserves for getting me into trouble. I hated Caleb. 

Well that's how it all started. Stay tuned for part II. Caleb hates this story, and claims I add more details each time I tell it. I feel like I tell him the story more than anyone else, just to remind him of the events that lead to....THE LOCKER. 

A few notes from tonight's blog, this whole time I thought the word "laminated" was "elaminated".