| |
Winter of our discontent, literally
Kat Richardson
Staff Writer
This past winter break will mark the first time
in my life that I ever had a loaded shotgun pointed at my face. After
said event occurred, I left the details in an elaborate away message
the following day, to which only two of my 122 supposed "buddies"
replied with concern. I was pissed.
Now, this may not seem like much of a humorous situation,
but I promise to do my best to explain it in such a way that will
leave you amused and chuckling, rather than sweating droplets the
size of quarters and muttering something unintelligible with apocalyptic
undertones. I assure you, I am alive and well. How else would I be
writing this column? Magic? No, sorry.
It happened like this: a girlfriend and I drove
down to Detroit to meet up with another friend, who was waiting for
her boyfriend to be released from the den of slaves, better known
as TGIFriday's.
Let's call the first friend Minerva, the second
Mangolia, and the boyfriend Eric Cartman; not to be confused with
the real Eric Cartman, who does not, in fact, actually exist.
Anyway, Minerva and I received a call from Mangolia,
informing us that her boyfriend had called her to request a ride home.
We waited about 20 minutes before actually leaving, since Mangolia
is known far and wide for only two things: a nauseating addiction
to MySpace and excessive tardiness.
When we arrived at her residence - which is shared
between her, her boyfriend, her father and a black, Goth, homeless
chick nicknamed "Short Cake" - we fully expected Mangolia,
Eric Cartman and Short Cake to be there waiting for us like obedient
(though not quite desperate) housewives.
We parked the car on the street, locked the doors
about six times (reminder: we were in Detroit; it's not exactly known
for its breaking-and-flower-giving), then proceeded toward the house,
where we knocked on the door and eagerly awaited a response.
When the door popped open, we were greeted not by
the smiling faces of our friends, but rather by the threat of death
and dismemberment. Now, I don't know if you've ever stared down the
barrel of a 12-gauge shotgun, but if you haven't, I wouldn't recommend
it, unless you're the kind of person that gets a kick out of hurling
pebbles at napping tigers.
To say we were frightened would have been like saying
that the Reverend Al Sharpton is a somewhat religious man.
As it turns out, our friends had not yet returned,
and Mangolia's father thought that we were criminals coming to rob
him. Because, you know, thieves always knock first. As soon as he
realized his mistake, he put down the shotgun, gave a hearty laugh
and let us in to wait for his daughter.
So, does this tale have a moral? Probably not. Everyone
is still alive, Minerva, Mangolia and I are still the best of friends,
and Eric Cartman still works at TGIFriday's. If I can leave you with
any parting advice, it would be this: stay in Etown.
Tell a friend about this article
|
