Let’s get away from all the drama shall we…
From the chronicles of a complete college dumbass.
For those of you who don’t know… I was your typical college stereotype. I was usually out all night, could sleep until noon (or at least five minutes until class), get up and eat McDonalds, call around to see where the next party was and do it all again.
For about a year, my best friend and I lived in an apartment that qualified as “section 8 housing”. Section 8 housing was for a special class of folks whose income amounted to nothing more than a few frozen green beans and some stale Ritz crackers. Unfortunately for us, these folks usually found a way to trade in their green beans and crackers for baggy jeans, stained NFL coats, stolen cell phones, guns and crack.
This transformed them from just being poor to “gangstas”.
When we originally moved into the apartments, our leasing agent was nice enough to house us in a building with a bunch of other people fitting our “poor college student” demographic. A “poor college student” is nothing like a “gangsta” insomuch they desire not to “cap” anyone or they aren’t “GONNA MAKE YOU BLEED SON!” They really are just trying to make it through college so they can graduate, put in their hard work and pay their taxes so they can support the “gangstas” and their inability to take care of themselves.
An example of what we had to deal with…
In our quest to obtain the American Dream, we chose this section 8 housing because it was cheap and the leasing agent put us in a building adrift from the “gangsta” riff raff.
Alas… that leasing agent moved away and was replaced with another. As our friendly college neighbors graduated and moved to nicer complexes complete with swimming pools (no dead bodies!), rotundas (no gun fire!) and free Sunday morning continental breakfast (no dirty crack whores!) our new leasing agent replaced them with aspiring rappers, aspiring drug dealers and aspiring uninspired wastes of space.
In order to get to our cars each morning we would have to run in a serpentine fashion so as to avoid being a target for an early rising “gangsta” who got bored sniffing paint long enough to want to shoot something.
My roommate and I were especially annoyed at the constant disturbance these “gangstas” were causing and after numerous complaints to the leasing staff had done absolutely nothing (we fear their lives were more than likely threatened) we decided to take action.
But that idea for action was quickly squashed because we realized that we enjoyed living more than the momentary satisfaction we’d get out of screaming at Tupac’s brother and his emaciated Snoop Dogg look-alikes which would result in the complete separation of the skin from our bodies.
So… as I would try to sleep at night and the Bloods would talk about what they were going to do the next day to the Crypts right outside my window… I lay there wishing for one moment I could harness the power of lightning to fry them all. That never happened… but something just as empowering did.
One particular early morning after a full night of partying and on my assent back to the third floor where our apartment was located, I strolled past the door of a known “gangsta”, one who I knew in fact frequented my window at all hours of the night. As I glared at his door through my faded eyes hoping that I somehow might be able to channel the ghost of Genghis Khan into his bedroom… I noticed his shoes laying at his doorstop.
I stopped because I had a brilliant idea. Mind you… a brilliant idea to an individual who’d just drank his weight in Keystone Light (the college drinker’s beer of choice: 30 ‘stones for fifteen bucks!! Couldn’t beat it!!).
A college boys dream…
How could I get back at these “gangstas” and stay undetected? How could I fulfill my dream I’d had many a night as I listened to them caterwauling outside my bedroom window? How could I inflict some kind of miniscule aggravation to the individuals who’d made me contemplate learning the fine art of torture?
Well… to pee in this guys shoes of course.
It was no earlier than 4 A.M. and not even “gangstas” stay up that late so I lowered myself to my knees (as to prevent any unnecessary splashing) and began the extraction of the processed beer that was already banging against the wall of my bladder. I proceeded to fill the shoe and start on the other when I ran dry.
I stood up and nodded my approval at my handiwork.
I then walked the few short steps to the door of my apartment, walked in and passed out on my bed.
It wasn’t until the next morning, over a morning hangover, that I realized the severity of what I did. I wasn’t upset at myself for peeing in a “gangstas” empty shoe, quite the contrary actually… I was feeling pretty good about it! I envisioned the look on his face as he stuck his foot into that shoe and *squish*… “What the ‘bleeeeeep’?” HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. It would have been divine to see that look. But when I sat and thought about what could have happened…
I could have been mid-pee and the “gangsta” could have opened the door. Despite the fact it was 4 A.M…. anything was possible. Then at that point it wasn’t me envisioning was his face looked like sticking his foot into a shoe full of pee… it was my face looking down the barrel of a shotgun, or the end of a machete or a syringe full of drain-o.
I shuddered at the possibilities of what could have happened. I shuddered that I could have died last night! All for peeing in a shoe!
Then I realized… I didn’t and the story was really funny. So I told everyone.
I may not be able to cap someone… but I can discretely pee in the shoes of a “gangsta” when they’re not around. I think that automatically makes me a “gangsta” right?