Friday, March 28, 2008

Space Boots

A terrible scream,
the cloak of failure beckons
you must not succumb!

Space boots.

So the time finally came when I had to buy my own school clothings. I had enrollified at Northeast, the school of champions (if by "champions", you mean "drug dealers"), and walked onto the football team, which was not all that hard since there were only 26 total football players; coach would have gladly taken homeless people and meth addicts to fill his ranks. It was at football practice I met Antonio, who ended up being one of my best friends at that dump. He lived a few blocks away from me, and we drove to and from school every day I bothered to get up in time to go.

Anyway, back to the clothings. Smeagol made it obvious he had no intention of helping me purchase any of the stuff I needed for school, being jealous that I had made it farther in school than he did (he was an 8th grade alumni from Westport) and being a money hungry raptor was not known for his generosity. "That's your problem niggie! I don't have time to be helping you out; I need to get a new engine for my remote control car!" Smeagol said as someone shut our gas off outside the window that needed to be replaced because Mystery's inner queefjuice had turned it a crusty yellow and then obliterated it much as the German Panzer tanks did in the Blitzkrieg of 1939. I kid you not, they claim it was because our great uncle did not do proper maintenance on the house, but the window did not turn yellow and break until Mystery and Smeagol started sitting right beside it every day, and that is too much for a coincidence.

So I took a field trip down to the Landing, a beautiful vista of shops and eateries in beautiful South Kansas City, across the street from Cash America Pawn, 2 bail bond places, and a liquor store next to a school. I moseyed into Harold Pener's and spent my vast wealth of 80 dollars on what I assumed was the flyest gear this side of the Mississippi. I would soon find out why shirts and other accessories were so cheap there.

At school, I wore this pair of grey on darker grey Lugz, that admittedly did not look as cool as I thought but were in my price range (I think they were 20 dollars) and not Prowings so I bought them. Antonio saw them and remarked that they looked like gay ass space boots. I informed him that he was gay and if he did not like my boots he could jump out of a moving car again.

This is a long lead up but this is the good part of the story. When we left football, I was usually too lazy to change back into my school clothes and just wore football clothes home. We tool 71 highway home from 31st street, because it was not finished at that time, and every day as we would turn left on 31st street to get onto the highway Antonio would yell out insults and throw glass bottles, school books and various other things at some hoodlums who stood on the corner every day at that time, telling them things like "Get a role model, BIIIIIIITCH!" or even funnier "Me, your mom, and a brewski BIIIIIIIITCH!"

On this particular day, Antonio was out of schoolbooks to throw at these young lads, and had already lost 2 pairs of his shoes from throwing them at people as we drove by. I was quietly confident he would have to simply hurl insults on this day when he lit upon an idea I cannot in good conscience say I agree with. He grabbed my Lugz, informed me that since they were "space boots" that they would probably knock the ruffians out, and leaned out the window to launch them.

Well for a week or so up to that time I had had some trouble with my car, with it dying at random times and the like. This was one of those times, and as the boot left his hand, Antonio yelling out "Eat that BiiIiIIiIII-" The car cut out. He turned and looked at the wheel and the speedometer as the car gently rolled to a stop 50 feet short of the onramp to the highway. The ruffians noticed out predicament and started moseying over, presumably to help get the car started; nevertheless, Antonio was less than happy about the current change of events.

"Bitch that ain't funny start the car! Your mom has scabies on her cheeks (?) start the car you fuckin' fag!" I finally got the car into gear and peeled out in time to spray a fine mixture of shitwater and rain and mud onto the closest ruffian, who was taken aback and soaked all over his white sweatshirt, good times.

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