One day when I was at Root (an ITB elementary school, please stop reading if you didn’t already know that), putting the finishing touches on my paper mache model of Raleigh that excluded the shitty parts, the principal came on the intercom for the afternoon announcements. He informed the latchkey kids that their bus number had changed and that they would have to wait outside in the rain until another bus from Lacy (the other ITB elementary school) could pick them up.
Sitting next to me, Forrest asked, “Who are these Latchkey kids? I’ve never seen them at the club or anywhere outside of school. They never come to Rootin’ Tootin’ Night either.” (Note: Rootin’ Tootin’ Night is a celebration of all things ITB. All the ITB moms work hard to turn the school into a Haunted House full of “fun” activities that are supposed to entertain the children. We normally got drunk at it.)
“Forrest, we each had like 3 beers and were hammered drunk at Rootin’ Tootin’ Night, you wouldn’t remember if Zach Morris was there. I’m not sure who they are, but they must be a huge family. Look at how many kids leave each day when the principal asks all the Latchkey kids to leave,” I replied.
“Yeah, why do they ride the bus instead of having their Mom sit in traffic for an hour before driving them back to their house that’s two blocks away?” asked Forrest.
“Well, it’s obvious that their parents can’t afford cars, or at least a car big enough for all of them. Also, they definitely don’t live two blocks from school like we do,” I said as I added more paper mache to the ITB landfill that covered up the Trailwood of Tears.
“I don’t think it’s a family, sure they all smell bad, but those kids all look different from each other. Why are they all wearing keys around their necks?” Forrest continued.
I don’t know why he was so interested in these Latchkey kids. Our parents had told us dozens of times that these clearly were not people that we needed to associate with.
“And why do they eat that free shit they call “lunch” in the cafeteria instead of having their Mom pack a lunch full of name brand foods for them?” he continued.
“Look Forrest, you’re pissing me off. I only have fifteen minutes to finish the moat that extends from Lassiter Mill to protect the newly annexed North Hills from the commoners on Six Forks. I don’t give a damn about a bunch of retards that wear keys around their necks, eat the shitty cafeteria food, and go to some place called ‘latchkey’ because their parents hate them. Just drop it,” I demanded.
I arrived home that afternoon, dropped my L.L. Bean bookbag in the foyer so Rosa could take it to my room, and went to the kitchen to get some Hi-C. Upon entering the kitchen, I was shocked to find one of the Latchkey kids standing there, dripping wet. It suddenly dawned on me that this was what my mother was trying to explain to me when I wasn’t paying attention on the SUV ride home. She had said, “Now, don’t be alarmed, Rosa’s son, Jose, missed the bus because he doesn’t speak English and didn’t understand the principal on the intercom. He walked over to our house in the rain and is going to stay until Rosa leaves.” Why didn’t I listen? I could’ve planned for this. I could’ve avoided him completely if I’d just gone in the second kitchen in the basement to get my Hi-C.
So there I stood, across from the latchkey kid, afraid for my life. Rosa entered the kitchen and saved me from this awkward showdown. She said something in Mexican to Jose that I translated as “Wait here and do your homework on the expensive marble kitchen counter”. Damn right, I thought. He better not scratch up our dining room table with one of his poor ass non-mechanical pencils, it’s worth more than his life.
Afraid to be left alone, Jose followed Rosa out of the kitchen to get some of my dry clothes to wear. Unacceptable. Yeah those clothes were from last season, but still, they were MY clothes. I wasn’t going to stand for this. I grabbed his K-Mart brand bookbag and shoved a Smirnoff Ice from the fridge in between his ESL books. Choke on that Jose, I thought, as I placed the dripping wet bag back on the counter. (I knew about icing years before it became famous from the internet.)
Jose returned from the laundry room wearing a crisp pastel polo, khaki shorts, and topsiders. He sat down at the counter, unzipped his backpack, and started to reach inside. Hiding around the corner, I waited for the perfect moment. The look on his face let me know that he’d found something foreign, almost as foreign as he was. As he pulled it out, I jumped from my hiding spot and yelled, “HA, you got ICED bitch! Get on one knee and take that ICE to the face!”
Clearly confused, Jose replied, “Por que?”
“You just got ICED. Rule number one of icing is you can’t refuse an ICE. Drink up,” I explained.
Rosa ran in screaming, “ICE, where is ICE?!? Immigracion?!?”
“Boom. Right there, he didn’t even see it coming,” I said as I pointed to the ICE that Jose was holding.
Rosa didn’t seem to understand this. She grabbed all of Jose’s things and kept talking fast in Mexican, saying something about “No mas, ICE!! No green card! No pay taxes! Can’t be finded by ICE!! Rapido! No ICE!”
I was confused as to why Rosa hated Smirnoff Ice so much. Yeah, it tastes like shit, but Mexicans will drink anything. Before Jose could even start to chug the ICE, Rosa hurried him out the back door and into their non-SUV.
As I stood there in the kitchen confused, but glad that they had left, my mom came in and saw me with the Ice.
“William, what are you doing?” she asked.
“I just iced Jose and Rosa flipped her shit. What’s the problem?”
“Watch your mouth, William. You can’t go around icing everyone, especially the help,” she said.
“What if someone saw us conversing in the same kitchen? What if they thought that I’d actually invited a latchkey kid over? What is a latchkey kid by the way? I had to show my dominance by Icing him.”
“Latchkey kids are children that have to go home to an empty house and unlock the door using a key worn around their neck because their parent is away working a second job. I understand that you felt the need to Ice him but to them ICE means a group of people that are going to make them leave the US, or get green cards, or pay taxes.”
“Interesting… How can I join this ICE group you speak of?” I inquired.
“You can’t. They’re government workers. You’re above that. The point is, you have GOT to stop icing people,” she demanded.
I was tired of being lectured, so I did the one thing I knew to do, “Sorry for partying, Mom,” I said as I took a drink of the Smirnoff Ice.
Turning red, she yelled, “You can’t drink that!”
“But Mary Ivey Laura gets to,” I complained.
“Yes, but your sister is 15 years old, she’s allowed to drink in our basement with her friends. You’re 10, you can’t do that,” she explained.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered as I took another swig, just to piss off my Mom, and left the kitchen to begin giving her the silent treatment in my room. To add insult to injury, Rosa hadn’t even put my stuff away.
This was my first run in with what some call “diversity”. I didn’t dislike these latchkey kids based on their ethnicity, I disliked them because they weren’t exactly like me. I’d gladly shun a white kid if he didn’t have a new Trapper Keeper at the beginning of each school year. Call me a segregationist, an elitist, or whatever you want, but there was a lot to be afraid of back then. At the time, Magic Johnson had just caught something called HIV, which I just assumed all of them had (“them” being basketball players). Since our school was somewhat (barely) diverse, we had several basketball players from poorer neighborhoods in our class. Forrest and I worried about catching HIV from these basketball players. We decided our best option was to avoid touching the same basketball they were using, sit at different lunch tables, use different water fountains, and so on. To this day, I blame the fact that I never got any scholarship offers to play basketball on my fear of catching HIV from the other kids in 5th grade. How was I supposed to develop my game without touching the ball? I know, it’s tragic. We eventually learned that you can’t get HIV from basketball players, and that you were more likely to get it from prostitutes, hypodermic needles, and coming in contact with people who shop at Food Lion.
Now that you all know the history of diversity inside the beltline, let’s address the current “busing problem” that everyone is protesting. When I heard the commoners complaining about busing, I just figured they were upset about having to bus tables because they were too stupid to work their way up to a wait staff position. Basically, the School Board said, “we aren’t going to bus poor kids in to nicer schools”. Then all the poor people got pissed, along with the normal quota of rich people who “care” about the poor and protest on their behalf whenever they can.
The leader of this pack of retards is Reverend William Barber, a morbidly obese guy that gets arrested at most of these meetings and protests. Because of his protesting, Wake county has spent $16,000 to hire security for all of these school board meetings.
Barber commented on the decision, “Your plan is wrong. It’s wayward. It will make things worse, and you know it. It doesn’t matter if you are white and support it, this is bad policy. It doesn’t matter if you are black and support it. The data doesn’t support it. Morality doesn’t support it.”
What does morality have to do with our school system? Everyone knows you’re supposed to go to school to socialize all day and then “learn” all the stuff you missed from the private tutors that your parents hired.
“During one of the meetings, Barber asked the board for 45 minutes to present information and data about what could happen if the school system moves away from the diversity policy. He says research shows schools with large majorities of poor children fail because they are underfunded, have a high teacher turnover and low student performance.”
No shit, poor kids have the attention span of me when I’m not on adderall. Add on the fact that they don’t have private tutors and of course they’re going to underperform. I don’t need a bunch of “data” to tell me that. It’s not fair to bring others down just because these kids are retarded due to the fact that they’re raised by BET, MTV, UPN, and Univision as soon as they get home.
Barber said he would be watching the school board’s proceedings closely. “We are here. We are not going anywhere,” he said. “We are not turning around. Don’t you be fooled. We may not sit in tonight. We may not go to jail tonight, but if it comes to that, we’re going to draw attention to this nationwide and we’re going to do it together.”
Yeah, well he went to jail a few weeks ago when he took his protest down to Fayetteville St. The video below shows that he couldn’t fit into a police car when he was arrested, so they had to use an ambulance (aka am-bah-lance) to take him to jail. He’s obviously had a few too many free lunches, which, thankfully, we won’t need at Broughton anymore.
Even more ridiculous is that the majority of rich protesters aren’t even from Wake County. Most of these protesters are hippies from Orange County, not the one with the cougar housewives, the one in North Carolina with the hybrid driving, Birkenstock wearing, Prop-8 overturning, martyrs for diversity. Half of them are gay and can’t even have kids, so I don’t understand why they have a problem with this decision.
Then there’s this tool from some OTB school named after a creek, who gave a speech about how awesome diversity was (yes, I’m using “was” because diversity is gone, get over it). Try to watch this without laughing, especially when he starts chanting “justice….now…….justice……now” while he begins to cry like the little bitch he is. This is unbelievable…
A commoner protestor whined, “54% of minority students do not graduate.” So what? That’s 54% of the MINORITY students, not 54% of the entire class. Here are the statistics for the 2,122 students that went to Broughton last year.
60% white
40% black
10% Mexican
1% other
So 40% of the diverse population equals 848 students. 54% of that is 458 students. Spread that out over each grade and you get 114 poor kids who aren’t going to graduate each year. Cry me a river. It’s not like these 114 kids, or roughly 3 Mexican families, aren’t going to survive. They’ll find plenty of jobs washing dishes or building houses, all while getting paid under the table. We should actually be trying to deport these 114 kids, because if there’s one thing worse than not graduating high school, it’s getting a job and not paying taxes.
I don’t have kids (that I know of) so I don’t really give a shit about this whole debate. My only issue with segregation is how it impacts our athletic program. If we segregate our schools, the Broughton athletic programs will basically fall to the level of Ravenscroft. “What’s Ravesncroft?” some of you are wondering. It’s a “private school” so far outside the beltline that some say it doesn’t even really exist. I’ve never seen it, but I’ve heard it’s miserable. If we don’t have diverse athletes that draw attention to our sports teams, how will the hard working, scrappy, white players that have “a lot of heart” get noticed and offered scholarships (that they don’t need) to Division III schools?
(Note: While trying to come up with the typical adjectives used to describe white players, I asked for Forrest’s input and received the following e-mail: “White people are always described as having “a lot of heart”, “scrappy”, “team leader”, and the only award they ever win is the “coach’s award”. How do I know this? Because I won the coach’s award for our basketball team in high school. I played about 7 minutes a game behind those who were more tan than I was, and who eventually went on to play in college.”) I don’t know the answer to this, but we do need to ensure that our athletic program remains dominant. Maybe Reverend Barber has some ideas.
If you enjoyed reading about my childhood, and want to read more of my thoughts on diversity, you’ll probably want to buy my autobiography that I’m currently about to start thinking about writing someday. I’ll keep you updated as it develops.
As you all know, I don’t care about the environment because it doesn’t care about me. Have I ever been saved by a whale after almost drunkenly passing out in the water at Masonboro during Memorial Day last weekend? No, I haven’t. So I’m not wasting any of my time or money trying to save those selfish bastards from this BP oil spill. Until this oil starts making me sicker than the food at 42nd Street Oyster bar normally does, I really don’t care. I haven’t been paying much attention to this “disaster” because it happened in the Gulf of Mexico, which I assumed was nowhere near the U.S. until I heard liberals whine about how close it was to New Orleans. I still didn’t really pay attention, or care, when they reported on a growing black mass that was ruining the gulf coast. I just figured it was a local YMCA summer camp on a field trip to the beach (because the kids were using black inner tubes, racists). After being told that this was actually a massive oil spill with far reaching economic and environmental implications, I immediately became interested…in profiting off of this gold mine.
This is great news! Tons of oil is being “wasted”. This causes a decrease in the oil supply which increases demand, which increases the price, which decreases the amount of poor people driving on the road. Maybe this will finally clear up some space in the Cameron Village parking lot that’s been packed recently because of that retarded going out of business sale for Swoozie’s. On that note, Swoozie’s will you please close your shitty store? I’m tired of seeing your huge yellow signs as I drive by Cameron Village on my daily ITB lap that goes by Broughton, the Club, and Cameron Village. This isn’t a flea market. I’m tired of having to pull over and throw up after hyperventilating because there’s a “Clearance Sale” sign scarring the façade of such an elegant upscale destination retail center (it’s not a shopping center, those are for the poor).
I’ve always idolized the robber barons of the early 19th century and was worried I wouldn’t be able to amass a fortune as large as theirs using “unfair” business practices. Well I’m proud to announce that I’ve made a killing from selling short on tons of shares of BP stock. The more oil that spills, the more money I make. Once I saw the live feed of the spill, I was even more amazed. It’s like watching underwater fireworks, that never stop, and can’t be contained or cleaned up.
I’ve already got a guy working on an iPhone app that shows the live feed along with this map which shows you how large the spill is getting. I tried profiting off of Katrina by purchasing a ton of land in New Orleans with the hope of one day building a Hurricane Katrina theme park that would be fun for the whole family. Think about it, the lack of infrastructure is already there. Possible rides include: Sit on the Roof of Your Flooded House for Three Days, Loot the Wal-Mart, Escape the Broken Levee (a water ride where park-goers sit on the rusted roof of a flooded 1989 Cadillac and ride the waves from the broken levee), Wait for the Government to Rebuild Your House (a slower ride that’s geared towards the elderly), and The Ruins of the Lower 9th Ward (which would be similar to the Temple Run from Legends of the Hidden Temple). Thanks to the oil spill, I can combine the two “disasters” or possibly open two parks. It’ll take time, but remember, Disney World wasn’t built in a day.
I do realize that this spill can’t go on forever though and that I can profit just as much from stopping it. BP has tried a “top hat,” “dome”, “junk shot”, “top kill”, and “cut-and-cap” with no success. Once they called in James Cameron, I knew it was serious. Since I’m also opposed to James Cameron making any more money for coming up with shitty ideas (Avatar, Titanic, etc.), I’ve decided to come up with my own solutions.
How to stop the spill
1. Light the ocean on fire. Eventually, the oil will burn up, or the gulf will explode.
2. Use all the gel heads in Raleigh to clean the spill. First, we’ll lure the gel heads with coupons to the tanning bed. Then, we round them all up and transport them to the gulf using a helicopter. This way if they try to escape they’ll fall to their death. We then create an ITB oil boom* by tying them together in the shape of the beltline (for purposes of irony). Their hair will absorb the oil since they’re accustomed to using 10 gallons of petroleum based product before going to the newest downtown bar that will stay open for less than a year.
3. Get some maids to clean it up. Maids are Mexico’s 2nd largest export and they’re right next to the spill. If my maid can make my house look brand new after a late night there’s no reason they can’t get some oil out of water.
4. Drown everyone from New Jersey in the gulf and hope that they absorb the oil or plug the hole. Similar to solution number 2, but involves significantly more time and effort to transport such a large number of commoners. We could tell them that oil is a self tanner and they’d probably jump right in, but it may prove to be too much of a logistical nightmare.
I know that stopping the leak will ruin my plan of selling short on my BP shares, but I’ll just buy them back at bargain-basement prices. The spill will stop and I’ll make a fortune when BP recovers. Everyone knows America loves to forgive and watch a comeback story (ex: Charlie Sheen, Kobe Bryant, Bill Clinton, possibly Lindsay Lohan if she doesn’t die first).
Aside from making money for coming up with a way to end the spill, I would like to put a stop to this disaster since it has started to personally affect me. At least a dozen of my sport fishing tournament trips have been cancelled. The spill is even affecting my prejudices, since all the Mexicans that swim through the gulf in to our country will be covered in oil. Since they don’t shower, I won’t be able to tell them apart from other minorities. Now I can’t play pick up basketball for fear of picking a 5’ 4” Mexican who I assume is a black guy that can dunk. Sure, I’ll be able to tell as soon as Miguel starts trying to dribble with his feet, but by then it’s too late. Another win for the Man. Also, I’m fine with paying $4 a gallon for gas, but once the price of gas gets up to a jager bomb, I might have to start SUV-pooling to the bar, which is unacceptable.
Since this has affected me negatively, it’s time to figure out who to blame. I’m positive that this is an act of terrorism planned by the British. We all know they’re still pissed off that we’re independent of them. What better way to get back at us for the Boston Tea Party, where we protested taxation of stamps or some shit by dumping all that tea in the Boston Garden, than to ruin our oceans when we need them the most? You think it’s a coincidence that British Petroleum “spilled” all this oil right when summer is about to start? No one in America would give a shit if this happened in November, unless the oil was spilling out of the ground making it impossible to tailgate (that would cause World War III). This was a strategic move to ruin my Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and any other weekends that I wanted to spend at the beach. Now, I’m not spending any time at the beaches in Louisiania, I’m not retarded. But this has an affect on everyone in the U.S. The “spill” will cause people from Florida to migrate north to the next closest beach. They’ll skip Georgia because it’s a shit hole and South Carolina because they don’t want hepatitis, and go straight for our NC beaches. There were too many gel heads in Wilmington last weekend. I can’t take the thought of adding a bunch of northerners from Florida to the mix.
Don’t think you’re getting away unscathed, Obama. Karl Rove and I are positive Obama’s working with Britain to get back at all the Tea Bagger Party members who have been protesting his policies by holding rallies all over the country. Maybe BP stands for Black Power, I’m just sayin’… Everyone knows Obama doesn’t care about the oil spill ruining his summer since a.) he’s not even American and doesn’t celebrate July 4th 2.) he vacations far away from the oil spill in Hawaii because that’s “where he was born”. I’ve never been there, so I’m not sure if Hawaii is even a real place.
It’s obvious that Barak Obama cares even less about white people than George Bush does black people. How am I supposed to go on my yearly Riverboat gambling trip off the coast of Lousiana if that huge Riverboat wheel is spewing oil all over me? All the politicians and residents of New Orleans are claiming the spill is Bush’s fault because they don’t want to blame Obama and they couldn’t find Great Britain on a map if you paid them (hint: it’s an island). If Bush really hated New Orleans don’t you think he would have just spilled a ton of oil everywhere instead of making a hurricane come through? Obama’s even been meeting with the BP Investigation Team to cover up the conspiracy. Regardless of who’s at fault (Britain, Obama), I’m looking at the bright side of this great opportunity. Feel free to contact me with any ideas on how we can profit from this modern day gold rush.
*Doesn’t “Oil boom” sound like a shot that would get you totally wasted face? Obviously, it should contain jager and red bull, so maybe we can just rename jager bombs and call them “oil booms”. Example; “I’m gonna ask the bartender to make me a ton of oil booms tonight so I can blackout before I realize I’m at a lame ass “15 year” (you actually have to stay open for 15 consecutive years for it to count) anniversary party for Felson’s.” Thoughts?
On Saturday afternoon, I was in Charlotte’s buying my mother a Mother’s Day gift. As I waited for the girl to wrap the present that I had randomly picked out after being in the store for two minutes, I noticed a Broughton student and his grandmother on the other side of the counter. How did I know he went to Broughton? Because I was in Cameron Village and also because an older woman who worked there looked at the kid and said, “Hey! Me and your mom (she should have said “your mom and I”, idiot) are planning Prom next year! It’s going to be so exciting! We don’t know what the theme is yet, but we’ve got so many ideas! We’re meeting at the Club to discuss it over brunch sometime this week!” (Note: To the kid that was in the store, good call on taking your grandma and making her pay for the gift.) Her excitement for an event that was almost an entire year away made me realize that such devotion to Broughton and all things ITB should be recognized more than one day out of the year. Since they are in a league of their own, ITB mothers should have their own day of recognition. Why should they share their day with all the other mothers in the world? Gel heads don’t celebrate Mother’s Day because most of them don’t know who their mothers are (mainly because they were dumpster babies). I propose that the Tuesday after normal Mother’s Day be reserved for such recognition. I’ll begin this new holiday with a tribute to ITB Mothers.
Happy ITB Mother’s Day to all you ITB mothers out there. Some of you are trophy wives, some have “jobs” “volunteering” at some pathetic charity (you all know I hate charity because I don’t like helping people who can’t help themselves), and some of you are simply hard working women that contribute to the wonderful bubble that we live in. Inside the beltline wouldn’t be ITB without those of you who devote your lives to constantly perpetuate the reputation that is passed on to the next generation of future trophy wives. I’d like to thank all of the ITB mothers for the following…
Thanks for planning all that crap we did in high school. The Queen of Hearts and Broughton Prom would be nothing without your incessant and neurotic planning that results from your desire to live vicariously through your children, since you recall high school as the best time of your life. Thanks for renting the limousines that we could get hammered in and for making reservations at restaurants that commoners couldn’t afford so we could eat in peace.
Thanks for lying for me on my community service requirements when I was at Broughton. Wasting three hours selling baked goods on a Saturday morning at White Memorial to raise money for some stupid Junior League crap was unbearable. I can’t imagine having to do that shit for the full 25 hours that Broughton required.
Thanks to the mothers who attend Book Club and Garden Club, even though some of you can only read on a tenth grade level, and all of you have Jorge do your gardening for you. The gossip wouldn’t be the same without these regular face to face meetings, since most of you don’t know how to use e-mail.
Thanks to Forrest’s mom, who graciously opened her house to all of us and her legs to our one friend who was drunk enough to do her.
Thanks for being an interior designer/boutique clothing store owner/insert your own “career” here, despite having no formal training, so that you can have something to take your mind off the fact that your husband doesn’t look at you the same way that he used to. Hint: It’s because you aren’t as hot as you were when he met you at that 80’s mixer when you were a freshman and he was a 7th year senior. Maybe if you spent more time in the gym and less time picking out fabric samples he wouldn’t take so many “business trips” on the weekends. The last thing I want to see is an obese wife asking me if I want to recover a chair that she can barely fit in with fabric that’s $700 a yard.
Thank you to the mothers that actually got drunk at Deb parties. The mothers that were naïve (stupid) enough to think their daughters didn’t get hammered every weekend were so strict regarding alcohol at the Raleigh party. These mothers, you know who you are, would go on an all out man hunt for anything that contained alcohol, including mini-bottles, cough syrup, Listerine, hand-sanitizer, etc. It’s easier to drop off a suspicious looking package in Times Square than it is to sneak in mini-bottles on the night of the Raleigh party. (For you underage kids: Going to lunch at the Club the day before the Raleigh party and hiding alcohol somewhere (not the bathroom) is the best chance you’ve got against these Nazi mothers.) We probably wouldn’t have terrorism anymore if these Nazi Deb moms were in charge of national security. But thank you again to the mothers that actually enjoyed themselves and got shit faced at these events.
Thanks to the cooler ITB moms that let us get hammered in your basement when we were in high school and when we moved home after college.
Thanks to the ITB mothers who tried to make their children child stars. If only American Idol was around when we were children, we’d have more than just Clay Aiken to claim as our own (I’m not claiming him). Your children are now off on their own making a difference in the world by living in New York trying to “make it” as an actor/singer/comedian/entertainer.
Specifically for my mother, thank you for favoring me over the other children that lived in our house growing up. I know you’d prefer for me to refer to them as my “siblings” but I’m not comfortable using a term of endearment when describing the only opponents I have when it comes time to divide up your assets. Sure they’re siblings now, but they’ll be my enemies some day.
Thanks for always accusing and blaming others for things that were 100% my fault. It was always reassuring to know that I could retell the events of a story and have you believe every word, knowing you’d go on a smear campaign to protect me. The time you robocalled every ITB mother to blame Forrest for me cheating on my AP US History study questions was especially touching.
Thanks for having a lawyer on retainer to handle all of my speeding tickets, assault charges, vandalism charges, DUIs, drug charges, and arson charges. To date, I have a spotless criminal record.
Thank you for forcing me to attend play groups, church functions, and play on sports teams with your friends’ children. How else would I have known not to socialize with people who weren’t exactly like me if it weren’t for you? (I’d like to think I would have figured this out on my own, but thank you nonetheless).
Thanks for being so disillusioned about Mary Ivy Laura’s underage drinking that you refused to believe she had gotten plastered at a concert. Thank you for attempting to maintain her innocence by e-mailing all the other ITB moms that totally fabricated story about how one of my friends roofied her. Thanks for thinking that including the story about how another one of my friends got roofied his freshman year of college would add credibility to your accusation. I’m sure he didn’t mind that you shared that story with all of Raleigh without asking him about it. You’re the best.
Thank you for teaching me to have children four years apart from each other so that we can maximize the amount of time I have a child attending Broughton. I know the last twelve years of being involved in Broughton has been as glorious for you as it has been for me, Mary Ivy Laura, and our younger sister (who refuses to be named on this blog, another reason I don’t particularly care for her). I’ll be sure to make my wives (not a typo) follow this pattern.
Feel free to add anything else in the comments section that recognizes the importance of all the ITB mothers in our lives.
William Needham Finley IV was found dead in his home inside the beltline this morning. Authorities say that Finley IV died at approximately 4:15am from a deadly cocktail of ecstasy, HGH (human growth hormone), Red Bull, and Jagermeister.
Authorities have found evidence that Finley IV had returned from New Jersey earlier that day. Records show that on his 7 hour flight from the Jersey Shore to RDU he consumed upwards of 24 liquor drinks, before being cut off by the Air Marshall. Finley IV arranged for White Horse to pick him up from the airport, at which point he went directly to a bar called Felson’s and began drinking by himself. One bartender who witnessed the downward spiral said, “Yeah, he’s in here every weekend, so I didn’t think it was strange to see him on a Wednesday night. He kept muttering something about the guidos coming and how he needed to build a “real wall, not like that lousy Berlin Wall shit” to keep out the commoners. I just kept serving him because he usually tips me 100%.”
Authorities searched through Finley IV’s home, inside the beltline, and found maps of Raleigh, bottles of hair gel, graphic t-shirts, and printed out Wikipedia entries on tanning beds, electric fences, raves, house music, and chloroform. Finley IV’s most recent Google searches revealed the following, “how to kill guidos and get away with it”, “flights to New Jersey”, “why did the Berlin Wall fail?”, “DJ Pauly D’s home address”, “does liking Dancing with the Stars make me gay?”, “when is the Chick-Fil-A in Cameron Village going to fucking open?”, “how to do a guido or gel head genocide”, “hotel Rwanda”, “why does Facebook keep changing their layout”, “when is the Saved By the Bell reunion?”, “how to make guido internment camps”, “William Needham Finley IV”, “did Snooki kill someone in high school?”, “how to get into sex rehab with the hottest celebrities”, “what are guidos allergic to?”, “do guidos have souls?”, “why do people think World Beer Fest is fun? It sounds hella gay to me”, and “how many jager bombs does it take to kill a guido?”.
Police also found hand written letters, addressed to a “DJ Pauly D”, that professed Finley IV’s obsession with “beating up that beat” and included an offer of $50,000 for one night of “DJ Pauly D’s spinning services”. His iTunes playlist was set up to repeat songs by the artist Girl Talk, a semi-famous DJ who’s songs resemble that of an 8th grade cheerleading routine, which is also similar to Jock Jams.
“Yeah, this shit is straight outta A Beautiful Mind. Kid thought these “guidos” were coming in from the North to take over “his” city. From the crap we found in his room, most of the Google searches, these weird letters, and the maps of the beltline, it looks like he wanted to set up some sort of trap and had a plan to get rid of these people,” noted one Raleigh police officer.
Childhood friend Forrest F. Forrester III was reached for comment. “William had spent the last four months undercover on the Jersey Shore, doing research for a book that he said was, “gonna blow the fucking lid off these fuckers”. In order to learn as much as he could about these guidos he had immersed himself in a world of GTL’n, going to clubs every night, experimenting with steroids, referring to certain nights based on the food he was cooking that night (Tuesday was Surf n’ Turf night), and determining the exact amount of Jager and Red Bull a guido could consume before blacking out. He had a paranoia that guidos and gel heads were trying to take over the world. He thought if he studied everything about them he could find a weakness and put a stop to it all. He was amazed at the success of the MTV reality show “Jersey Shore”, and was furious that MTV had turned him down time and time again after he pitched various reality shows, all based on life inside the beltline. I really don’t know what I’m going to do without him. He used to always make me hook up with the grenades (ugly girls) of the group. Now I guess I’ll get to hook up with hotter girls. Now that I think about it, this is kind of awesome.”
A funeral service will be held Saturday night at White Memorial. In lieu of flowers, please send donations, via Paypal, directly to William Needham Finley IV at raleighitb@gmail.com.
April Fool’s, shitheads. I may or may not have spent the last few months in sex rehab with Tiger. But once I realized that sex rehab is no different than a three night stand at Felson’s, I just came back ITB. Every socialite or famous person has to go into hiding or have a reclusive period in order to make an even bigger comeback. Bob Dylan after his motorcycle crash, Spencer and Heidi after last season of The Hills, Michael Jackson after he molested that fourth kid, and now me. There’s a lot that needs to be addressed around here, namely, the awesome decision to segregate our ITB schools again, the horrendous decision to remove the “inner” and “outer” signs from the beltline, how fucking stupid Bonner Gaylord is for letting Google name his kids (who cares if Raleigh gets this “super high speed” internet? I’m fine with paying more money so that only I can have this service. It’s not nearly as cool if everyone has it. That’s why Blackberrys aren’t cool anymore. They pretty much give those things out in cereal boxes now), the book deal I’m signing, and possibly the movie rights to my life story that I’m selling. The Lifetime network has been all over me for those movie rights, but I’m pretty sure they’ll just portray me as some sort of egomaniacal self-centered asshole that treats women like objects and is completely detached from reality, which I’m totally fine with. I’m heading to the lake with Forrest to get blackout this weekend. Check back next week for more updates.
Everyone calm down. Your second favorite Bayside High Schooler is not really dead, but he may as well be. I was channel surfing last night and stopped when I saw AC Slater (Mario Lopez for those of you over the age of 33 and under the age of 18) standing on stage with a microphone. Was this the long awaited Saved by the Bell reunion? Was he at least hosting a marathon? Was the episode where Jesse overdoses on caffeine pills about to air? Unfortunately, none of the above was true.
I had accidentally tuned in to the Season 5 premier of America’s Best Dance Crew, also known as “ABDC”. Aside from referring to itself by using an acronym that makes me feel dyslexic, this show has made me lose every ounce of respect I’ve ever had for AC Slater. The first time I saw the show a few years ago I wrote a eulogy for AC on Brahsome. I thought it wouldn’t last, yet 5 seasons later the show is more popular than ever.
Before I get to some unbelievable news about AC, let me first explain this shitshow. If you’ve never seen ABDC, it’s basically about a bunch of dance “crews”. We are told about the unique style of each crew’s “routine” and why we should be excited to see them “perform”. The crew then runs out on stage in the same way cheerleaders would at one of their retarded “competitions” (Note: cheerleading is not a sport, don’t even start with that bullshit argument. No really, if you’re going to try to defend it as a sport just stop reading. I don’t like you at this point). Each crew then gets interviewed by AC Slater and they generally make asses of themselves, while displaying the results of a K-12 OTB public education, capped off by a few semesters of community college. The crews perform a routine that showcases their “original flavor” and highlights their “sickest moves” while some shitty song you hear at Felson’s plays in the background.
The crews are then judged by former N’Sync member JC Cha-gay, Lil Mamma, and Omarion. Yeah, I don’t know who the latter two judges are either. They provide insightful commentary on the routines, using terms that I’m positive don’t exist in the dictionary. JC Cha-gay approved of one crew by saying, “your isolations were very nice”. However, Omarion wanted that crew to “push their isolations a bit further”. Not knowing what the fuck an “isolation” was, I continued to watch as the next crews “performed”. I still had no idea what was going on.
According to AC, the last four seasons of this show has “sparked a movement in the streets in every city across the nation” which resulted in “new crews going harder than ever before.” So now they’re holding three regional competitions, to determine which group of commoner community college drop outs is the best at flailing around on a stage in the same way that Helen Keller would while trying to fight her way out of a wet paper bag. The competitions began in the “Dirty South” where the Jungle Boogie crew introduced “crankin’”, a new dance style where five idiots, wearing what appear to be windbreakers from the Jamaican Olympic team (think Cool Runnings), run around on a stage like jungle animals. More about Jungle Boogie, from their bio: “When twin brothers Anthony and Antwain quit college to pursue dance, their family shut them out. The twins’ family still has never seen them dance but they are hoping to win back their love and support.” Why am I paying (through the taxes my parents pay) for these assholes to follow their dreams? Here’s a dream; get a fucking job, pay your fucking taxes, and stay out of Felson’s. The judges critiqued their performance. I didn’t listen.
I thought about the good ol’ days when I idolized AC just for being AC and also for being married to Ali Landry for two whole weeks.
Some of you are thinking, “Two weeks? What the hell happened?” Well, Ali Landry annulled the marriage because AC cheated on her a few times, really close to, or possibly on their wedding day. After the annulment, AC went on to host random television shows and appeared on Dancing With The Stars. I thought he had already hit rock bottom, but I was wrong. AC Slater went from Ali Landry, to this…
Meet the Ghost crew, who resemble a group of Mexican gangster lumberjacks. Their bio, “A crew that has faced a lot of adversity in life, crew member Patrick decided to better his life and leave the rough life of gang banging with the Crips behind him. The crew would break into a local apartment complex gym room to practice dance.” How can AC go from Ali Landry to hosting a show featuring former gang members who leave a life of drive-bys and gang bangin’ to perform isolations (still don’t know what that means) with their crew? Hosting this show is even worse than his decision to play Greg Louganis in “Breaking the Surface: The Greg Louganis Story”.
I understand why shows such as American Idol, Making the Band, America’s Next Top Model, etc. exist. American Idol has a clear winner that receives a recording contract. Making the Band follows a similar format, but the difference is that no one watches this show. What does a dance crew do when they become America’s Best? Are there dance crew contracts? I began to pay attention to the show again and saw the losers leaving the stage, tears streaming down their faces, as they realized they had to go back to their miserable lives not being me. Note: The amount of hot girls in the audience rivals that of Felson’s, when people actually went there. For some reason, they love this shit.
While AC Slater is not actually dead, he’s been dead to me for the past few years. That was until Forrest showed me some stunning new information regarding AC and the rest of the Saved by the Bell cast. Not only did AC (and Zach) bang all the girls on the show, but in 1993 he even had his way with some random chick. By “had his way” I mean “raped”. No, he didn’t rape some chick from Valley in a Saved by the Bell episode that focused on violence against women. He raped an actual person, allegedly. Now we all know rape isn’t funny. Except when it happened to Forrest at Camp Sea Gull during that game of capture the flag with a……I can’t go any further into that due to a 15 year old lawsuit that’s still tied up in court. From this news article from May 11th, 1993, we can see that AC was accused of rape. Normally, I would assume the male was innocent, just like the Duke Lacrosse players. However, AC is sort of a Mexican, which means he’s probably guilty of this, or some other, crime (most likely drunk driving, being an illegal immigrant, not paying taxes, abusing our nation’s healthcare system, overcrowding our school systems, not learning English, or ruining perfectly good American made vehicles by lowering them, tinting the windows, and covering them with retarded decals from Auto Zone). Apparently, NBC paid the girl $50,000 to keep it quiet. We all know how ITB that is. This story was corrobarted by Screech, in his tell-all book “Behind the Bell”, which I’ll be reading and reviewing soon.
This shocking news has made me rethink my love (no homo) for AC. He obviously did whatever he wanted in the 90s by banging a lot of hot girls and doing drugs on set (even during the “No Hope with Dope” episode). But I just can’t get over him hosting this ABDC atrocity. So, RIP AC Slater, you’ll be missed. Goooo Bayside.
