Tales from Carolina
I moved back to the town that I grew up in North Carolina for about three months a few years ago. I will always have a fond place in my heart for Winston-Salem, but that spot is reserved for my childhood. As an adult, Winston doesn’t offer the type of action and entertainment that I have become accustomed to in Boston and Minneapolis.
So what do you do in a town that has passed legislation against cruising Stratford Road? This is the most retarded thing ever by the way. Kids think that they are going to meet people as they wait at stoplights. Fights break out, people drag race, brainpower shrinks, pant meat swells, you know the deal. So what do you do as a 28 year old? You drink. You drink a lot. Sometimes you drink at Applebee’s. How retarded is that? Fucking Applebee’s. It got to a point that I just didn’t give a shit about what I was doing. I barely avoided getting my ass kicked by a chain-smoking soccer mom when I repeatedly asked her if she liked anal.
I worked in the worst job ever. I was a car salesman. You are a third class citizen in this job, and the only people that seemed to pay you any respect were fourth class citizens. If I was flying on a plane, I would be in cargo or a dog cage, or maybe clinging to that netting like Harrison Ford in Air Force One. I hung out with two guys from work, one of which used to be a Hells Angel, and the other who carried a pistol in his car and sometimes on his person, at all times.
From what I was to understand, you never really leave the Hells Angles. At any point, the “club” could come in and beat my colleague to death. He repeatedly warned me of this and told me that if it ever happened, to say that I had never met him. This is who I spent my time with. It kept life interesting, but certainly did not set a standard for quality of life.
One night after work, as usual, a few of us hit sweet sweet Applebee’s. I don’t know what I drank, but by the time I left, I was pretty drunk. I had a short drive home, so I wasn’t worried, but still I shouldn’t have been driving. I got home and made it up to my room. The last bit of booze that I had was beginning to catch up with me. I was pretty wobbly. Like the fucking parachuting elephant in Operation Dumbo Drop, the need to shit hits me.
I run into the bathroom and sit down and get down to business. The toilet is right next to the tub where I keep my reading material (shampoo bottles.) As I am leaning to the left to clean myself up, I lean too fast and ram my head into the wall. At the same time, the toilet seat comes unbuckled from the commode and shoots off. It blasts through the shower curtain and lands in the tub. I have now found myself wedged in between the wall and the shitter. My pants are down around my ankles so I can’t get any leverage to get back up. I eventually struggle my way out, yelling at the damn toilet. I finished up and went to bed. I used the downstairs bathroom the rest of the time I was there. I bet that toilet seat is still lounging where it landed. I became accustomed to stepping around it every morning as I took my shower so I never bothered to move it.

I have more retarded stories from living down there if there is an interest...