Shimmering Wang Gets Hit by a Car
This blog entry shall be in 2 parts, in reverse chronological order.
PART I-
Okay, so I officially live in the most ghetto part of Western Michigan. Here's the most recent example.
I was walking back from the Oak Street market (aka, America's Top Bum Destination), carrying a recently procured Diet Mountain Dew, listening to The Hold Steady, when I approached the intersection a block from my house at the same time a Deuce and a Quarter rolled up, its turn signal indicating it was going to make a right turn in front of me. It paused for a moment, so- assuming the delay was an acquiesence to the "Pedestrians Have the RIGHT OF WAY" standard- I raised my hand in the universal gesture of "I acknowledge and appreciate."
As I usually do in these situations, I put my head down and started trotting across the street as a sign of respect and gratitude. Why be a dick and walk when you can be polite and speed the process up for all involved? Right?
Suddenly, a headphone bud recently pulled from my ear, I hear an engine that sounds suspiciously like it had been given a little gas. I look up and towards the sound, when: WHAM. I'm clipped in the right thigh, knocked off balance, and nearly spun to the ground.
When I looked up in complete disbelief, the tinted window rolls down.
Passenger: (laughing) "Yo, Bra. You aight?"
Wang: (not laughing, and confused) "You hit me."
Passenger: (suppressing smile) "My bad, G. You aight?"
Wang: "You... You hit me. With your car."
Passenger: "You're aight." Not a question this time.
Wang: "But... Motherfucker. I just got clipped by a car."
At this point the driver opened his door and stepped out. The car was blocking much of his body, but my conservative estimate was about 6'2" 240. He was a very large man. He was wearing a doorag and had a blunt hanging from his lip. I'd say the odds are 2-1 against that the blunt was packed with its original tobacco contents.
Driver: "Why you in the intersection, bro?"
Wang: "Because... you stopped, an-"
Driver: "'Course I stopped. Whatchoo do at a mothafuckin' STOP SIGN?"
Passenger: (laughing hysterically) "He said, 'You stopped.'" When he got to the part where he was quoting me, he did it in the Dave Chappelle "White Guy" voice. It was a pretty good impression of my admittedly uptight/stilted speech pattern.
Wang: "Yeah, but.... you didn't have to, like, hit me. With... with your car."
Driver: "We cool." Again, not a question.
Wang: "Yeah, I think I'm okay. I'm just... I'm a little confused, and my leg hurts."
Passenger: " 'My leg hurts.' " Laughter from both parties.
Driver: "Get your ass out of the intersection, nigga."
The passenger then highfived his partner as they both got into the car before driving away.
The whole exchange probably lasted a minute. Maybe less. I stood on the street corner in complete bafflement for at least twice that long before I shrugged and limped home. At least nobody was getting assaulted in my parking lot like a month ago. Or robbed in broad daylight across the street like 2 weeks ago. Or leaning on my car and puking in front of 3 police cruisers after being arrested for Driving Under the Influence while Drug Dogs were searching his car and flipping out at what was likely a few bricks of coke/crack/meth/whatever 3 nights ago.
Kalamazoo: I love this town!
Part II-
My other housemate was reading my blog recently and approached me. "Derek, I'm a little offended. Are my antics not hilarious enough to warrant an entry of mine own?" It was either that or "Bitch, put me in your blog! I'm wasted!"
So, without further ado, meet my trusted friend and accomplice, the legendarily sweet "Jeremiah Crunkington" (JC).
Sir Crunkington has what we in the industry refer to as a "Blackout Problem." It happens to me, I'll admit, occassionally. Usually I just pull a Gray Davis, Fmr. CA gov. (D) and brown out a little, forgetting portions of the evening until I'm reminded the next day. Well, Jeremiah Crunkington blacks out nearly 100% of the time he drinks. He's not a lightweight by any stretch. Quite the contrary. He can booze with the best of them (us?), he just happens to lose conciousness relatively easily. It's my working theory that he's developed a very sophisticated defense mechanism of which I'm very envious.
I stayed in the other night to get a little work done (read: drink alone and play poker), but I heard about the man's antics from Greg, housemate #3. Usually I don't stoop to hearsay, opting instead, unlike some bloggers (I'm looking at you, Matt Drudge) to protect the integrity of my blog. I did some research, though, and have multiple sources for almost all of this, however, and feel comfortable publishing it.
Well, Jerry drank some absurd amount of liquor in a disgustingly short period of time (SOP) and headed with Greg to a party. Here's a brief synopsis of his relatively uneventful evening:
- He made out on the dance floor with a girl yours truly, ahem, recently did the same with. If you're a regular reader, you may remember her from the Mustache Makeout incident.
- The next day, he readily admitted that he had flashes of making out with somebody. After a few minutes of interrogation, it came to light that he believed it was a DIFFERENT girl, who just happens to be Greg's ex-girlfriend. Nobody is sure if he made out with BOTH girls, or was just too bombed to know who he was locking lips with. It should be noted that MustacheLover happens to be at least 3 inches taller than Jeremiah Crunkington.
- When he returned to the house that night, he demanded that he be driven to McDonald's. Nobody else wanted to go, so he made the logical decision to walk to McDonald's. The nearest McD's is probably 1.5 miles away, conservatively.
- When he reached his destination, he was promptly told that it's company policy not to serve walkthroughs.
- JC then proceeded to stake out the drivethrough window and solicit a ride through the drivethrough. He offered the first car that came up a free meal if he'd just take him through the window. Shockingly, the330AM customer agreed.
- JC then proceeded to request a ride home. Equally as shocking, the driver agreed.
- Mr. Crunkington, feeling grateful and happy to have made a new friend, invited his new pal inside for a drink or two. Completely unshockingly, his new buddy declined.
- Jeremiah Crunkington scarfed down 5 breakfast burritos and proceeded to sleep for 3 hours until he had to get up for his morning class. Unshowered, he rode his bike to class "reeking of booze" (his words). Upon arrival, he saw that class had been cancelled. Undaunted by the public location of the classroom, he unsaddled his backpack and took a 30 minute nap. In the hallway. Of a major university. He's 23.
My friends, ladies and gentlemen.
PART I-
Okay, so I officially live in the most ghetto part of Western Michigan. Here's the most recent example.
I was walking back from the Oak Street market (aka, America's Top Bum Destination), carrying a recently procured Diet Mountain Dew, listening to The Hold Steady, when I approached the intersection a block from my house at the same time a Deuce and a Quarter rolled up, its turn signal indicating it was going to make a right turn in front of me. It paused for a moment, so- assuming the delay was an acquiesence to the "Pedestrians Have the RIGHT OF WAY" standard- I raised my hand in the universal gesture of "I acknowledge and appreciate."
As I usually do in these situations, I put my head down and started trotting across the street as a sign of respect and gratitude. Why be a dick and walk when you can be polite and speed the process up for all involved? Right?
Suddenly, a headphone bud recently pulled from my ear, I hear an engine that sounds suspiciously like it had been given a little gas. I look up and towards the sound, when: WHAM. I'm clipped in the right thigh, knocked off balance, and nearly spun to the ground.
When I looked up in complete disbelief, the tinted window rolls down.
Passenger: (laughing) "Yo, Bra. You aight?"
Wang: (not laughing, and confused) "You hit me."
Passenger: (suppressing smile) "My bad, G. You aight?"
Wang: "You... You hit me. With your car."
Passenger: "You're aight." Not a question this time.
Wang: "But... Motherfucker. I just got clipped by a car."
At this point the driver opened his door and stepped out. The car was blocking much of his body, but my conservative estimate was about 6'2" 240. He was a very large man. He was wearing a doorag and had a blunt hanging from his lip. I'd say the odds are 2-1 against that the blunt was packed with its original tobacco contents.
Driver: "Why you in the intersection, bro?"
Wang: "Because... you stopped, an-"
Driver: "'Course I stopped. Whatchoo do at a mothafuckin' STOP SIGN?"
Passenger: (laughing hysterically) "He said, 'You stopped.'" When he got to the part where he was quoting me, he did it in the Dave Chappelle "White Guy" voice. It was a pretty good impression of my admittedly uptight/stilted speech pattern.
Wang: "Yeah, but.... you didn't have to, like, hit me. With... with your car."
Driver: "We cool." Again, not a question.
Wang: "Yeah, I think I'm okay. I'm just... I'm a little confused, and my leg hurts."
Passenger: " 'My leg hurts.' " Laughter from both parties.
Driver: "Get your ass out of the intersection, nigga."
The passenger then highfived his partner as they both got into the car before driving away.
The whole exchange probably lasted a minute. Maybe less. I stood on the street corner in complete bafflement for at least twice that long before I shrugged and limped home. At least nobody was getting assaulted in my parking lot like a month ago. Or robbed in broad daylight across the street like 2 weeks ago. Or leaning on my car and puking in front of 3 police cruisers after being arrested for Driving Under the Influence while Drug Dogs were searching his car and flipping out at what was likely a few bricks of coke/crack/meth/whatever 3 nights ago.
Kalamazoo: I love this town!
Part II-
My other housemate was reading my blog recently and approached me. "Derek, I'm a little offended. Are my antics not hilarious enough to warrant an entry of mine own?" It was either that or "Bitch, put me in your blog! I'm wasted!"
So, without further ado, meet my trusted friend and accomplice, the legendarily sweet "Jeremiah Crunkington" (JC).
Sir Crunkington has what we in the industry refer to as a "Blackout Problem." It happens to me, I'll admit, occassionally. Usually I just pull a Gray Davis, Fmr. CA gov. (D) and brown out a little, forgetting portions of the evening until I'm reminded the next day. Well, Jeremiah Crunkington blacks out nearly 100% of the time he drinks. He's not a lightweight by any stretch. Quite the contrary. He can booze with the best of them (us?), he just happens to lose conciousness relatively easily. It's my working theory that he's developed a very sophisticated defense mechanism of which I'm very envious.
I stayed in the other night to get a little work done (read: drink alone and play poker), but I heard about the man's antics from Greg, housemate #3. Usually I don't stoop to hearsay, opting instead, unlike some bloggers (I'm looking at you, Matt Drudge) to protect the integrity of my blog. I did some research, though, and have multiple sources for almost all of this, however, and feel comfortable publishing it.
Well, Jerry drank some absurd amount of liquor in a disgustingly short period of time (SOP) and headed with Greg to a party. Here's a brief synopsis of his relatively uneventful evening:
- He made out on the dance floor with a girl yours truly, ahem, recently did the same with. If you're a regular reader, you may remember her from the Mustache Makeout incident.
- The next day, he readily admitted that he had flashes of making out with somebody. After a few minutes of interrogation, it came to light that he believed it was a DIFFERENT girl, who just happens to be Greg's ex-girlfriend. Nobody is sure if he made out with BOTH girls, or was just too bombed to know who he was locking lips with. It should be noted that MustacheLover happens to be at least 3 inches taller than Jeremiah Crunkington.
- When he returned to the house that night, he demanded that he be driven to McDonald's. Nobody else wanted to go, so he made the logical decision to walk to McDonald's. The nearest McD's is probably 1.5 miles away, conservatively.
- When he reached his destination, he was promptly told that it's company policy not to serve walkthroughs.
- JC then proceeded to stake out the drivethrough window and solicit a ride through the drivethrough. He offered the first car that came up a free meal if he'd just take him through the window. Shockingly, the330AM customer agreed.
- JC then proceeded to request a ride home. Equally as shocking, the driver agreed.
- Mr. Crunkington, feeling grateful and happy to have made a new friend, invited his new pal inside for a drink or two. Completely unshockingly, his new buddy declined.
- Jeremiah Crunkington scarfed down 5 breakfast burritos and proceeded to sleep for 3 hours until he had to get up for his morning class. Unshowered, he rode his bike to class "reeking of booze" (his words). Upon arrival, he saw that class had been cancelled. Undaunted by the public location of the classroom, he unsaddled his backpack and took a 30 minute nap. In the hallway. Of a major university. He's 23.
My friends, ladies and gentlemen.
posted by Derek at 3:30 PM
2 Comments:
Nice story. I have a friend who claim to have slept in an elevator after class. I don't believe him.
I really want to tell this story, but it's not really FCP-style, and I want to keep it a little below Dutch Factor radar, so I'll tell you here:
One of my better friends, Kevin, has a younger brother, still in high school, who's pretty sharp and likable. Sometimes Kevin lets him hang out with us; get him drunk, whatever. The other week Kevin showed him my blog and he was a fan. He told me he writes for his school paper and wanted me to write a “piece” for him. Having no life, I agreed. The topic was: A Critical Opinion Piece on a Popular Celebrity. I summoned all my powers and delivered a surprisingly insightful essay titled: Regress with the Best...
Everyone loved it, everyone laughed, everyone found it oddly accurate and identifiable. Kid turned it in Thursday of last-late week (new expression). The next day the teacher in charge gives it back, along with a note, telling him why it won't be going in. The note said that the piece was “entirely subjective,” and “overly critical.” I have about thirty problems with that statement, the least of which is not that that it was supposed to be a “Critical Opinion.” I guess she wanted an objective opinion? She's an English teacher! Then, there's the matter of the actual content. You're probably assuming that, given that this is coming from the man who wrote... all of the things I write-- that I wrote some kind of foul put-down piece, containing an elaborate comparison, complete with illustrations, between the Seventh Ring of Hell and Hillary Clinton's vagina. This is tragically not the case. In fact, what I wrote was tame, amusing and somewhat intelligent. Furthermore, I never even criticized anyone. The essay was mostly about how I sat down to write it, immediately started in on my beloved Natalie Portman, realized that she's always my target in such cases, purely because I have such a huge crush on her, and that I'd regressed to the level of a second grader pulling a girl's hair. It had two siteable(sp?) flaws: it was way off-topic, and it was comically narcissistic (think Woody Allen-style). Neither were ever even mentioned. I hope he lets me do his next one, which I'll title: Subjective? Yeah, Subject to My Infallible Opinion!
DUTCH-
I have enough commentary on your comment such that I'll save it for its own blog entry. I've had a pretty interesting story to tell about my days on the highschool newspaper staff brewing for awhile, and your anecdote fits almost perfectly.
RENAE- When Jeremiah Crunkington heard what happened, he said: "Hold on a second. I've got some medicine upstairs."
He came down with 1 and 1/2 vicodins, a 40 of malt liquor, and dime bag. God BLESS you, you angel.
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