Old Skool Mofo: Tales of a Teenage Porn Fiend

by on November 10, 2000 @ 12:00 am

(Note this is a reader-contributed story. Yes, we actually read what you guys send to us, and are more than likely to post it here. So if you have a great story to tell about the good ole days, then send your submissions in.)

I had become quite friendly with my online buddy, Squirrel. We both smoked weed and he was 18 with a credit card, so I asked him if he would be nice enough to get me a bong if I paid for it. He agreed, so my friend Wart and I searched all over the net for an awesome piece with a price that wasn’t too much.

We eventually settled on the Attitude Adjuster made by Thunder Head Glass. 125 dollars, but it was totally hand blown, about 20 inches, thick, and very good looking (kinda like my penis [I think that point is rather subjective, pal. – Jeff]). So Squirrel orders it and it arrives at his house like a week later in a unlabeled brown box. We tried multiple times to get a good time to meet, but he lives like 45 minutes away, so we couldn’t find one. Finally one night I told him to just come over at 3:30 the next day (school ends at 3:00). This was possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever told anyone.

The next day we get home at like 3:15 and my mom immediately calls someone and talks to them for 25 minutes. The second she hangs up, Squirrel calls and goes “Damn it, Roger, your line has been busy! I’m in the neighborhood, so come outside and I’ll meet you by the road.” So while still on the phone, I rush downstairs heading for the door.

Now that was very odd for me. At the time, during school days, I usually didn’t really go downstairs, and pretty much never left the house. So when I came downstairs and my mom goes, “Where are yah going?” from inside the office, I just said I was gonna take a walk around the block.

So here I go. I open the door, walk outside, standing there on our driveway with just socks on and a phone in my hand. Out of nowhere, my mom opens the front door and comes out. She sees me, with just socks on, holding a phone, walking down the driveway to peer around the corner, and she goes, “What’s going on?” At about this exact moment, on the other side of the driveway, Squirrel starts edging his car around our hedge in front of our driveway. So basically I’m sitting here, with white socks on my feet, holding my portable phone from upstairs, with some guy going 2 miles an hour in a car looking directly at me with a cell phone in his hand, and I’m proclaiming that I’m taking a walk because “my ankle is hurting.”

“You aren’t taking a walk, you don’t even have shoes on,” she says. She asks who was in the car, and I say I don’t know what she is talking about. I said I’m talking to my friend Ben on the phone.

After some strange glances and a little more questioning she heads back in the house and I, as nervous as humanly possible, walk around and meet Squirrel. I snatch the bong out of his trunk and stash it under our hedge and throw some leaves on it.

I than head back in the house, close the door, walk two steps, and hear my mom go. “OK Roger, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?” Ouch. Not only did she see all the shit outside, but it turns out she also heard when Squirrel first called and said, “I’m in the neighborhood, come outside I’ll meet you here.” She was listening in on my phone call.

So for like 20 straight minutes I am being questioned, denying the whole thing. She checked my pockets for drugs and stolen items. She was insanely pissed that I was lying to her, because she knew it. Finally, she threatened to tell my dad (he was on the phone with my brother who at a later time asked what happened). Now my Dad would have been smart enough to look outside so it became apparent to me that I better fess up quick or I will get caught anyhow. So I am about to actually admit it when I get a flash of pure genius.

“Mom, I can’t believe I have to tell you this… this is so embarrasing. **pause** Mom…I was buying a pornography tape.” Now this was absolutely brilliant looking back on it, because what can she do? She can’t really get that mad about porn, and at the same time its not something you want to tell yer parents about. However, she was still steamingly pissed about me lying.

So we go in the other room where my dad is sitting on the phone with my brother (who it turned out was paying noticeable attention to what was going on in the house between Mom and I). After he hangs up on my bro, we have this big conversation about lying and I am feeling terrible at this moment.

My dad mentions that he is fine with me getting pornography, and that teens do that type of thing and he understands. However, my mom was not so cool with it.

“Jared! Dont just be so nonchalant with this. You don’t know. I think Roger is addicted to pornography!”

This of course is the normal retarded reaction my mom gives. She is such a media hound that she actually believes that shit like that happens to 16 year olds. I. of course, yell some random interjections that go along the lines of, “What the fuck? I’m not fucking addicted to porn. Jesus.”

Than she turns to me and goes, “Roger, was it child porn?”

I almost shit my self that was so stupid.

“Roger, was it animal porn?”

Ok, that was too much. I just yelled out that it was normal fucking porn. Fucking as an interjection, not an adjective.

They then asked where the tape was. I said I didn’t take it because she had busted me, and I was so scared that I just had him keep the tape so they wouldn’t find out. Good thinking.

So feeling terrible about lying, I said I was gonna go on a bike ride. So I get on my bike, ride out, and smother the box with leaves and branches and stuff. I then ride out and decide I have to do something in order to make an excuse why I was riding my bike for so long. So I bike over the bridge and as luck had it, some woman had just lost her dog and she asked me to bike around five blocks and take it back home. So then I had this solid alibi for my mom when she asked why I was out riding for so long.

After further questioning when I got back in, I called Wart, told him what was going on, and he was very cool about it. He immediatly drove over, put the bong in his trunk, and then got a cd from me (we needed a reason for him to be over), and drove home. He kept the bong in his trunk for a couple weeks, and then he finally gave it to me once my parents had cooled down about the whole incident.

So that is how I got my bong. At a later date as I mentioned, my brother was concerned about what happened. He thought I was buying weed and I said no, it wasn’t that, but was related (I didn’t show him the bong till a few months later, for some reason I was embarassed or something). Also the next day my mom came and sort of as a way to signify that she was alright with me having porn, she said, “I just got back from Blockbuster… I tried calling you asking if you wanted to rent something, like Debby Does Dallas.” It was a joke, but it meant she was cool with it.

Later on, a friend from school named Al had come over and we were gonna head to his house at 11:30pm. She wondered why we were heading out that late. We were gonna go smoke out, but the excuse was that we were gonna work on his spanish video (we had been doing that earlier). I go, “Mom, we are gonna go over to his place so we can finish editing the movie.” She gives me this real nefarious look, pulls me into the room, gets real close up to my ear, and whispers, “Porn?”


Old Skool Mofo: The $50,000 Kryppie

by on @ 12:00 am

(Note this is a reader-contributed story. Yes, we actually read what you guys send to us, and are more than likely to post it here. So if you have a great story to tell about the good ole days, then send your submissions in.)

This little tale begins with two “guys i know” (definetly not me and someone I know) going to the Guttermouth concert that had graced our town that night. My parents were out of town as of 2:00 that afternoon and I was ready to party. I went to the beer spot and picked up a case and a half and invited a few friends over. We spent the day drinking and swimming in my pool until it was time for the show.

So we load up and head out. When we get to the show, the bouncer at the door searches me for the first time in my life and ganks the beer that I was attempting to sneak in right out of my pocket. Anyway, now I have just 5 of my 40 dollars for the weekend remaining. I get inside and meet up with my boys and proceed to attempt to have a good time. Some shit bands played first, and then Guttermouth finally came on. By the time the first song finishes, I’m crowdsurfing, drunk as fuck, and having a blast. Someone steals my shoe (these things happen whilst crowdsurfing) and sends it flying at the stage. Bouncer A (we’ll call him dirty cocksucking asshole, or Jim for short) pulls me down and throws me on the ground, thinking I had thrown it. Apparently these things aren’t allowed to happen at punk shows.

My shoe, just chillin’ on the ground in front of the stage, was right on the other side of Jim. When I noticed Jim wasn’t paying attention, I dipped behind him, picked up my shoe, and put it on. However, Jim notices me and does the whole grab/throw bit again with me and proceeds to tell me to “stay the fuck out”.

Well, what am I supposed to do? Being a member of Mofos Across America, I grab the first object i see a half-empty water bottle and nail that motherfucker right in the back of the head. He turns around and looks quite pissed, so I pretend to be into the show, jumping around and shit. But some fucker with a reddish blonde mohawk sells me right out with a big pointer finger right my direction. I was furious… a bro just sold me out. Fucking poseur.

So Jim wraps me up in the choke hold to end all choke holds and drags my ass out the door with a throw to the ground and a boot to the ribs. Fucker. So now I’m drunk and absolutely furious, $35 in the hole and didn’t get to hear but one motherfucking song! I waited months for this show, godammit! And just when I thought it could get no worse, the cops outside proceed to tell me something to the effect of “get the fuck out of here or you’re going to jail”.

I drop off all the people who rode with me to the concert, finishing up at about 1:30 am. I’ve got close to 15 beers in me and I’m in full drunk driving mode, and suddenly I think to myself, “hey, there’s a huge golf course style development being built right across the street.” And somewhere in my previous drunk driving knowledge in remember that from 6am to 6pm the place is deserted. I mean deserted with a capital D.

So with that in mind, I head over there and proceed to have a hell of a time haulin’ ass through these unpaved golf cart paths and brand new fairways, yankin’ the hand brake at 80mph+ and spinning to no end. Well HELL YEAH.

So after an hour of this I decide to head home only to find that at that same moment my friend “Bob” is being dropped off at his car, which happens to be parked in my driveway. I proceed to tell him of my discovery and invite him to join me for another trip to the course. He, of course, says yes, and we meet up at a construction site a few minutes later. He jumps in my car and we’re off.

I take him around everywhere I just was, spinning all over the place and having a good ol’ time. Bob decides that he loves it and begs me to take him to his car so he can drive the course his own way. I oblige and we jump in his car and do the same. But Bob takes it to a whole new level. You see, Bob drives a much larger, heavier car than me… and has a 6 pack advatage over me as well. He then proceeds to retrack our previous routes only doing tons more damage. I’m talkin’ 30+ donuts with ten foot rooster tails on brand new greens. We’re havin’ a helluva good time, drunk as piss and haulin’ ass.

We decide its about time to get out of there, as it’s close to 3am now. We do a few final handbrake pulls when it hits us the combination of the weight of Bob’s car and the sideways motion at roughly 60 mph causes the grass to do give way like a carpet. We come to rest on a soft, muddy spot and Bob proceeds to floor it. Thus we sink like rocks in water, and rest the frame right on the fairway.

It’s cool though… we are badassmofos, after all. And instead of panicking, we spring into action, digging like some motherfuckin’ gophers in a 3:45-fucked-at-6:30-when-the-workers-arrive last ditch attempt to get the car out of the mud, but to no avail.

Now, in our little spree we managed to get stuck a good four miles from my vehicle on the other side of the complex. So we hoof it to my car, now pissed as hell. We get in and go to my house, get a couple of shovels, a few planks of wood, and anything else that might help us get out of the tight spot we were in. We return and get to work on the car, but still no luck.

By now it’s close to 5:30am and the development is beginning to wake up. We’ve already made trips to numerous windows, but no luck everyone is passed out from the show. That is except for ONE true badass who wakes up at 6am, “Joe”. With two hours of sleep under his belt and god knows what substances in him, I explain to him the situation and he’s on his way.

So now me and Bob are sitting at the entrance to the development, watching the contractors arrive one after another, thinking to ourselves that we were soon to be in jail. Soon Joe arrives in his swank custom redneck-pullin’ 4×4 in all its glory. We proceed to haul ass to the car and yank that bitch out and just in the nick of time, too. Because its now 6:15 and there’s workers everywhere and the sun is well on it’s way up.

So in payment for “pulling” through in the worst possible situation, I gave Joe the only thing of value I had with me one knot of the dankest kryp I’ve ever seen. From what I hear he had quite a nice time with it later on.

As for the course? The 5:00pm news the next day reported that during the night, “vandals destroyed the ‘…’ golf course during the previous night, causing 50k+ worth of damage and pushing the completion date back 3 months.”

Now that’s a fucking night to remember.

Old Skool Mofo: Whistle 2

by on @ 12:00 am

(Note this is a reader-contributed story. Yes, we actually read what you guys send to us, and are more than likely to post it here. So if you have a great story to tell about the good ole days, then send your submissions in.)

The South Jersey Expo Center is 102,000 square feet of arena wasted primarily on sports and the like. But on the weekend of Friday, May 28. there was a much different event taking place Whistle 2, one of the biggest electronic music events ever. Break-beat, the paradigm for techno music, would probably account for at least half the performances. The remaining sets would include everything from speed garage to ambient, from trip-hop to house. All forms of electronica, but all so different through a trained ear. All these different styles under one roof, and to be so close to home; well that just couldn’t be a coincidence, and we were going to take full advantage of it.

Booya is probably the one dude that has been by me all of my high school career. He’s a rotund Asian-Indian kid with a large, Indian-looking hoop in each ear and a large silver barbell through the tip of his tongue (which he naively flaunts by sucking on it out loud and obnoxiously banging it up against the back of his teeth). I was avoiding class one day and he came barreling down the hallway, hoops and appendages flying all over the place, waving a piece of paper in the air.

“This is it, dude man! We need to be at the South Jersey Expo Center at ten o’clock this Saturday.”

“Why, man?” I replied, in a frightened and curious voice.

“I told Trav about it already. There’s a huge rave man, five domes. That’s a lot of domes man.”

I got pretty stoked. I had been a little distressed lately, so I was badly in need of a party like this. A party with five big-ass rooms, each of which had around an eight DJ lineup. That’s a lot of DJ’s. And big-named DJ’s, too not just the usual run-of-the-mill table men.

From prior occasions, big groups had proven to be unenjoyable. We decided it would be booya, Travis, Billy Pod, and me that were deserving of such a festival. This would be kept on the down-low because a certain couple of kids had tendencies to follow us to things like this. But it was these same kids that had driven us to those events. I was the only one of us that had a car; however, the DMV of New Jersey had gracefully dubbed me an unfit driver for the second time, so my driving was out of the question. But I figured, “Hell, one of ya’ll can drive my whip, man!” So that was it, Trav was hit with the driving privileges. He was a fit driver.

Travis is on the skinny side, the really skinny side, but he’s as hard-core as they come. He’s been a self-proclaimed DJ for about a year or two, but doesn’t rub it in though. He’s real modest about stuff like that. His defining characteristics would have to be the little metal ball right under his lower lip and his strange ability to dance like no other. And he’s lactose intolerant, which does affect his daily life.

Now, in the area of our supplies we had to acquire certain necessities one would need in order to attend such a fiesta. Six hits of ecstasy and an assortment of powders and plants was our goal. This was a reasonable recipe for keeping four guys on their toes for a good seven hours. Now these things aren’t vital to the “fun-factor” of a good dance party, nor does the rave scene revolve around them, but they do keep you dancing. We also needed water, lots and lots of water; you tend to get a little dehydrated after dry-humping random people on the dance floor for such extended periods of time.

The day came and my mother decided to take my car keys and disappear for the evening. “Dammit!” I said as Trav pleaded with his father for permission to use his really old Volvo, a 78 Volvo to be exact. Permission was granted and it came time to pick up Billy Pod, so we did that. Billy Pod was probably the biggest raver of our crew; he had all the connections one would need to be baptized into the club culture. He’s the quiet type, the guy that does’t say anything until you get to know him, and then you realize he’s the funniest person you’ve ever met. And to add to the bias one might already have of him, he had his nipples pierced also.

Anyway, we pick him and his many liters of water up and find ourselves at some girl’s apartment. We spent like two hours chilling there waiting for someone to find her damn ferret, which ate up a substantial part of our night. Travis freaked out and made use of a half-pint of vodka, intoxicating himself all over the place. Billy followed the example for no real reason at all; he’s just funny like that. So now I was supposed to drive. Cool.

We got bored of waiting around for some stoned ferret to come out of a hole in the wall, so we made other arrangements; picked up Vid, who soon after, decided he should also follow this precedent of leaving Jay to be the designated-driver-with-no-license. We got more water, which was superfluous at this point considering the amounts that Billy Pod had brought along, and got on the road. It was on the road that I realized that this antique of a car was lacking in some vital areas. There was no radio to be found, but that problem was easily solved by convincing my companions to sing, though I’ll admit I too did my fair share of singing,too.

As it got dark I noticed the panel lights weren’t on. “Trav, how do I turn on the lights for the console?”

“Oh, they only work every once in a while,” he replied as nonchalantly as a person could.

“What? That’s the most retardedest thing I’ve ever heard man.”

“My bad yo. You think we should walk?”


Billy, deciding to be helpful, said, “I got some glowsticks man.”

“Sure that’ll do the trick… shutup!”

“I got a flashlight-type of thing too,” he added.

Well that was something we could use, and in fact we used it good, real good. Whoever was up front had the duty of holding the soft-blue fluorescent bulb where I could see how many miles Travis father had driven since 1978 and more importantly how fast I was going. That was turning out to be the least of our real concerns though. The car was starting to smell rubbery, like that smell when you know you’re pushing your car to its very limit. I couldn’t get the needle any further down than fifty-five. We were behind schedule too.

Out of nowhere, I-95 decided to be a dead end and after crossing the Pennsylvania/New Jersey border for the third time, I figured we were lost. I started to believe that the guy that put these directions on the internet either had something seriously wrong with him or he was a really smart asshole.

“I think the guy that made these directions had a drug problem,” I said waiting for some response. I didn’t get a response, just silence. Actually, I got one of those really long, embarrassing silences cut-off by something totally random and that are only painful because you thought you were saying something incredibly funny.

“Yo, Vid’s asleep man,” I heard someone whisper to those of us that were still awake and thinking about how embarrassed we were.

“Well then do something funny man,” the other voice replied, “stick something in his ear or something man.”

“AAAAAHH! What the fuck man! Spread out!”

The car had a laugh and then it got quiet again except for Billy who still insisted on singing. I was getting overwhelmed with all this driving and still no ruckus. We had no clue where we were, and we all knew it until Vid spotted a couple of kids that didn’t look too threatening. So we decided to stop.

“Hey man, how do we get to Route 7?” Vid asked.

“Can we get a ride?”

“Sure, why not,” I blurted, assuming that they were no threat and knowing we could easily take them if they got out of hand. And with that they climbed in and took up what little room we had to spare.

“Yeah man, we’re just walking back to my car. The cops man, they just arrested us yo. Can you believe that?”

“Took my glass too,” the other hoodlum added. “So where are you guys going?”

booya continued the conversation. “We gotta get to the South Jersey Expo Center Man, and I think we only-”

“You guys are going to Whistle 2? I got a couple of buddies that are there man,” said the one guy that had his bowl taken.

“We’re tryin man, but we don’t know where we are.”

“Guys,” he said in a voice that warned us our night was about to get worse, “they’re sold out, man.”


There was a communal groan, and we dropped these hoodies off at their ride. What an awful happening. booya was chastised for not telling us we could’ve bought tickets ahead of time. We started to head home.

So we knew how to get there, but the doors had closed by now and we would’ve needed tickets anyway. “Whatever man, I still had fun,” I said as I realized we still needed to get home. I decided not to bring this up in fear of receiving the same castigation booya got.

As exhausted as I was, I kept driving, in the general direction of north. The posse had quieted down and I think I was the only one awake when we reached the bourough of Princeton. I really had no clue of what to do with everyone, and cared even less. I remembered that a friend of ours had his house to himself for the weekend. When they woke up I’m sure they were surprised to find themselves still in the car parked outside of our friend Eric’s house. Whatever their feelings when they woke up, I was just happy that it was all over. I decided that was the last rave I’d be going to, or trying to go to, for quite a while.

Old Skool Mofo: Road Rage, Dutch Style.

by on @ 12:00 am

(Note this is a reader-contributed story. Yes, we actually read what you guys send to us, and are more than likely to post it here. So if you have a great story to tell about the good ole days, then send your submissions in.)

I’d only had my drivers’ license for half a year and with every little ounce of money I’d picked up a neat little Honda Civic Coupe. This is in the Netherlands, where you don’t get a license until you’re 18 and if you can buy and maintain anything beyond a piece of scrap on wheels you’ve saved up a LOT of money. It wasn’t too good as a racer or anything (103 hp, 0 to 60 in 10 seconds or so), but it was a sweet looking mode of transportation.

Now after driving for 6 months I was pretty decent, but not a great driver. Okay, truth be told, I was pretty crappy. Not soccer-mom style, but you wouldn’t see me doing handbrake turns or anything. I was driving along the A1, the main two-lane highway running east-west in the Netherlands, and found a truck in my path a fair bit ahead of me. Traffic was non-existent so I moved to the left and accelerated while the truck was still quite far away.

In my rear view mirror however, I see a silver BMW, with German plates even (the Dutch hate Germans on their roads. Don’t ask why. It just is that way), cruise forward at least 40 km/h faster than me and slip into the right lane. He’s trying to pass me on the right and slip into the left lane just before he hits the truck. No way he’s going to get away with that. I drop down a gear and floor the gas and hurtle forward, while the BMW is quickly catching up to me.

By the time he’s driving next to me we’re only 4 meters away from the truck. He starts to pass me, we close to 3 meters. 2 meters. There’s only a 1 meter gap between my nose and the truck now and I’m sure I’ve won, there’s no way he can get through that.

He tries it anyway.

I hit the brakes and find myself missing the BMW by maybe an inch. This really pisses me off. If I had any worse reaction time, I’d be dead. He tried to kill me. I’m not too violent a guy in real life; I do several martial arts but I’ve never used them in any way but defensively. It’s just not me to be like that. But the car is, well, power. I’m pissed off and I’m going to make him pay for it and I have the means to do it, and that’s the only thing that counts. So while the adrenaline rushes into me I drop down two gears and rev my way back up to some speed to gain on him, going 180km/h in a 120km/h zone (in a country where 40 over the speed limit is instant loss of license).

Seemingly oblivious to the fact that he just did his best to kill me, he’s driving merrily along on the right side of the road a trait common to BMW drivers. Arrogant little pricks. It takes a little while (like I said, the Civic is not a racer) but I come up driving next to him and then equal speed. He’s starting to notice this, but doesn’t react yet. Well, then I’d better give him something to react to. So I honk a few times until he looks over to me and I know I have his attention. I smile, and then swerve to the right.

To his credit, he was most definitely a better driver than I was. He reacted immediately and steered into the shoulder and stepped on his brakes, shooting away from me faster then I could compensate for. To the car’s credit, it did so without doing anything spectactularly destructive you know, slipping, rolling over, blowing up; that kind of thing. I’m not sure yet if this is good or bad 😉 Well, yeah, killing someone would have been bad. But he was a German in the Netherlands, so it could’ve been seen as righteous justice.

A klick later the adrenaline rush died down and I realized what a complete idiot I had been. It’s still a really neat story to tell other people though 🙂


Old Skool MoFo: Psycho Indian story

by on July 27, 2000 @ 11:00 pm

(This is a reader submitted story. If you want to see your own old skool shenanigans in this space, submit them.)

It was our standard, warm summer evening. It was about midnight on a Friday night, and me and my prankster pals were just wrapping up the night with our last prank of the evening. We were sitting in the parking lot of a grocery store just chillin’ and snackin’ and trying to think of what prank to pull next, when suddenly a big ass, shitty, rusty boat of a car with reservation plates pulls up along next to us, and shouts something out. I was sitting in the passenger seat with my windows down, and they were right next to me.

Not having a clue what it was they said, I flipped them off and we began to roll. None of us were thinking anything of it, when I looked in the rear-view mirror about a block away from the grocery store, and the same piece of shit car was right on our ass. The thing was JAMMED full of Indians, at least 8 or 9, and one of them was hanging out the front passenger side window holding a hatchet!

“Shit, shit! Fucking go!” I yelled. Everyone turned around and saw what was going on, and all the people in our back seat ducked down. It took us all by surprise.

“CRACK!” I turned around to see a hole in the rear window of our car and a hatchet laying on the floor in the back seat. By this time we were going about 55 MPH weaving in and out of traffic down a busy street, already 20 miles over the speed limit, and the car was still on our ass, and they looked like they were ready to throw something else at us. I saw a giant bald, basketball-shaped head peering out the window of the Indians’ car, and he had a bigger hatchet in his hand. I alerted everybody to be prepared, and everyone ducked down. The light ahead was red, so we ran it (barely avoiding a collision). I looked behind us and the Indians didn’t make it through.

I breathed a sigh of relief and decided that we should all head over to my house to hang out for awhile. I had no desire to be on the streets anymore that night. We decided to take the shortest route possible, which was cutting through the mall parking lot. We were driving through the dark, abandoned lot when out of nowhere the Indians’ car appears up ahead. We were at least a couple miles from where we had lost them, and now they were heading right for us again, brights on and all. Our driver put the car into reverse and floored it. We were driving backwards through the mall parking lot at a very high speed, not really knowing where we were going.

Our driver finally got the car turned around, turned off his headlights, and sped into a nearby residential area. The Indians were again right on our ass. Were were in a Plymouth Acclaim, which had poor acceleration, but luckily their car wasn’t any better. We were weaving in and out of yards, taking turns down other streets without hesitation at well over 50 mph. The whole time I was blinded by the brights reflecting off our mirrors from the Indians’ car. We kept racing through the maze of streets, and next thing we knew they were no longer behind us. We looked around, but saw nothing in sight.

We cautiously drove around the neighborhood trying to find a way out. We finally saw a main road, and headed towards it. We again felt relief, and we decided that they must have given up. And even if they hadn’t, we saw no way that they could find us again.

We were driving down the main road, now several miles from where we wanted to go, when suddenly we saw the car drive past us going the other direction. We all turned around to watch the car slow down…and flip a U. Within minutes they were again on our ass, just as before. We sped through traffic again, weaving in and out of cars, and eventually hit some 2-lane secondary roads. We were scared for our lives by this time and had no idea why they were still after us or what they planned to do if they caught us. And we didn’t want to stick around to find out. We decided to try to lose them in the next town, and then take the secondary road back. We were driving down the highway at about 85 mph, when we saw them gaining on us. They pulled into the no-passing zone and started to pass us. There was a car coming fast right towards them in the other lane, and at the time I was actually hoping for a head-on collision.

Somehow they avoided a collision and passed us and started to pull in front of us. They turned their car sideways, taking up our entire lane and part of the other. We slammed on the breaks and started to flip a U, when a Durango came barreling down the opposite way we had been going, and nailed the front end of the Indians’ car, sending it around in circles several times. The Durango just kept going. The Indians were already stepping out of the car, and one of them had a rifle. Just as we started to speed away back to where we had come from (hoping to never hear about this again), a bullet whizzed by the car and nailed the passenger side mirror, shattering the glass and taking a chunk of the car with it. All only inches from my face.

We got back to my house about 10 minutes later, pulled into my garage, closed the door, and sat in the car in silence for the next 15 minutes. Then everyone just crashed at my place. We analyzed the situation we were just in, realized how crazy it was, and decided not to tell anyone about it for fear for our lives.

We never heard about any of it again. Never read anything in the news, never saw nor heard from any of the Indians again.

That’s my story that started out as a usual summer night. The Indians somehow read our minds, knowing exactly where we were going. Maybe it was just luck, but somehow I don’t see how. It’s one thing to have a car load of crazy bastards chasing you, it’s another thing when they have some bizarre tracking skills. The incident took me completely by surprise, and it’s something that’s I’ll likely never forget. I consider myself lucky that we survived.


Old Skool MoFo: Illicit Behaviour

by on July 20, 2000 @ 11:00 pm

(I love these reader-contributed stories, and apparently you guys do, too, since I’ve been getting so many of them. So keep sending ’em in.)

This tale is one of many from way back in the day when I had (one of) my beloved motorcycles.

The bike in question was a 1995 Kawasaki ZX-7. Ninja to those of you who are curious. 0-60 in under 3 seconds, pulls into redline (12500 rpm) in 6th gear, which equates to 165mph by the tachometer. (If you’re wondering, yes, I *know*.)

Needless to say, this vehicle was a never-ending source of amusement to the local constabulary. When you’re riding a machine designed to leave other machines in your choking dust, you can just FEEL the eyes of Johnny Law burning holes in your back.

Anyway, on to the story. A buddy of mine and I were hanging out at the historic battery of beautiful downtown Charleston, SC, looking for friends of ours. Normally, weekend evenings and the battery meant lots of motorcycles, but this night we couldn’t find anyone. We decided to head to North Charleston and Rivers Avenue, which was the 2nd best option for hooking up with a crowd of hooligans.

We got on the beginning of Interstate 26 and started our ride. Three minutes and 16 miles later (that was fun) we exited I-26 on the river’s exit and pulled up to a stoplight that had a good view of the parking lot where everyone hung out. No one. At this point, the adrenaline from the 120 mph run up I-26 was still kicking, but we were on River’s Ave, which is cop central, especially at 11pm on a friday night. I was thinking “Ok, no call for being rowdy now. I really don’t feel like getting arrested.”

The light turned green, and of course, my buddy has to take off like a bat out of hell. Not to be outdone, I quickly catch and pass him, and for good measure, redline the bike in 3rd gear. This equates to 130mph in a 45 zone. We get about a mile down the road, and the adrenaline rush is so sweet now that i want to pull over and have a smoke. I pull into a gas station to fill the tank, my buddy pulls up next to me, then next thing I know, we’re BOXED IN BY COPS.

Oh shit.

One of the cruisers opens up and a smiling cop gets out. “Good evening, guys, how’s it going?”

“Um, not too good, now.”

“Yeah, any idea how fast you were going?” He’s smiling the whole time, looking at his pig-cop friends, laughing.

“Not really, officer, but it was probably a little bit faster than 45.” Lucky for me, I maintained a straight face through all this, didn’t show too much dissapointment, etc. Knowing I was doing almost three times the speed limit, I was waiting for handcuffs.

“You don’t know how fast? Do you think it was 90 mph?”


“No way officer, I’m sure it wasn’t 90.”


“Couldn’t have been.”


“It could have been 65 mph, though I’m not sure.”

So at this point, one of the other cops retires to his cruiser and starts writing tidings of joy in his little blue book. The other two leave, and this guy comes back with two tickets for 65 in a 45. I asked him how he arrived at 65 mph, and he said we admitted to doing that speed.

Hahaha, whatever, I said “might have been.” My buddy started to speak up, but I effectively shushed him, knowing I could call this cop 4 days before the trial and bargain with him, because he didn’t have a confession like he claimed.

In the end, we settled for a bullshit charge that came with a $100 fine and no points. (S.C. operates on a points system, if you accrue enough, you lose your license.)

Looking back on it, I paid $100 to rocket down River’s Avenue at 130 mph. Sweeet. : p

Peter Ramins

Old Skool MoFo: the Digital Run

by on @ 11:00 pm

(Another wonderful contribution from a faithful reader. Submit your own story and more than likely we’ll post it.)

BITD (Back in the Day) my crew was all about dumpster diving and B&E. It was what we did. We would go anywhere in search of bigger and better dumpsters where we could find bigger and better prizes. It was the order of things and we were happy. One day though, we got cocky. We decided that we should hit something ‘big’. So we scout for a couple of days, and decide that Digital Equipment Corporation is the place to go ‘just think of the dumpsters at that place.’

We pack up the entire crew that could show that night with accompanying womenfolk (about 10 people) and get into three cars and drive out. Now, out of those ten people, mebbe 5 are reliable. We drive out to the industrial park that DEC is in (what I should really say is industrial country this place is huge, about a mile of drive from the main road to their parking lot. The parking lot it self is several acres) and park between two tractor trailers (no cab, just the trailers). I leave 2 of my good guys with the three cars, and we all take off around the edge of the nearest building.

After getting everyone around the building (keeping one of my guys in the back as a tail, and having one on point), we check the dumpsters, find nothing (they’re those big locking compressor dumpsters… no good for diving), so we turn to leave. Just as we’re about to go around the building and head for the cars, my point man comes back.


Shit. We sneak up a little bit and look. Looks like every single cop in this podunk town and the security for the industrial park is grilling the two bastards I left with the cars. And then it hits me. We left three cars. No story they tell is going to work. GAH!

So I start running all of my people through the forest that surrounds the park. We dodge the patrols they send into the woods, and watch as they chase off two cars, leaving the other one still there. Ick. This is going to be messy.

After about an hour of running and hiding through the compound, we come to the forest that borders the road. About a mile through that, and we’ll be on the highway. I grab the keys to the last car from the girl who owned it (she didn’t want to give them up, but was convinced by ‘impound lot logic’) and told my two boys to run them through the woods and I’d meet them by the highway.

I take off back through the compound, creeping through the little forested islands in the parking lot, until I get about 30 feet from the car. The cops are all sitting on the hoods of their cars about 100 feet away chatting with the park security, who are still in their cars and take off to do patrols every couple of minutes. I’d been dodging them and their searchlights for what seemed like days now.

I crawl over to the car. They don’t see me. I open the door. They don’t see me. I sit down and close the door. They don’t see me, but the dome light won’t go off. AGGH! It was a four door Toyota POS, and it had one of those fading dome lights. Grr. So I start trying the keys. Wrong Key. Wrong Key. Right Key.

“HEY!” They saw me.

I start up the car, and take off. The security guys in the Broncos are right on my ass. The cops are scrambling for their cars, but failing miserably. I’m doing like 50 through this industrial park, and I see my turn. I turn down this side street thinking, ‘This is out’ and I see a dead end.

Now I know two things at this point, and they flash through my head. Broncos have a tendency to flip, and this is a four lane wide road. So I do a bootlegger turn at about 35 (managed to slow down at the last second), and take off past them. The security guys have this Boss Hawg ‘I’ll get that boy!’ kinda look on their face, but it’s way too late.

I manage to take off out of the complex and start driving around. No sign of my crew on the highway, so I keep driving. I’m driving back and forth in this town, and surely every cop in three counties is looking for this car right now (or so I was thinking). I just keep driving back and forth looking for them, avoiding cops, and then my windows start to fog. So I pull over onto the shoulder.

Now my friends had just crawled through the woods, which turned out to be a lot of swamp, and ended up on the highway… All they see is some car with their brights on (I couldn’t figure how to turn em off) pulled over in front of them, so they figure it’s the cops. They sigh and wander over to the car.

Meanwhile, I finally find the defroster. My window clears and I see them.

“Get the fuck in the car!”

We take off (8 people in a 4 door Toyota, it was comfy… ) and never return to the town. Actually we did, but that’s another story…

Le Pretre De Voyou

Old Skool MoFo: a Minivan Tale

by on July 19, 2000 @ 11:00 pm

(Yet another reader-submitted story, this time by Crazy Es more-often-than-not partner in crime, Sparky.)

We all understand the beef that mofos have with SUVs, but I have to say… minivan drivers are just as bad, if not worse. Most people driving minivans are “soccer moms” driving their little shits around town, or limp dick fathers who have forfeited the pants in the family to their wives.

So I’m sitting behind one of these aforementioned nutless wonders in the left turn lane during rush hour. The opposing traffic has cleared, and he has ample time to turn. So I wait… wait… and wait. No dice. Finally, fed up with his crap, I just turn from behind him. And sure enough, at this exact time he chooses to do the same. Oblivious bitch. So I floor the gas pedal of my V6 engine and cut him off, as I need to turn into the bowling alley parking lot, the first driveway on the right.

Well, perhaps sacking up for the first time in his life, the cocksmear has the audacity to follow me into the parking lot. As my driving skills often result in my being followed, I take no alarm and begin to have fun with him. Despite the pleading of the apple pie in the passenger seat, I begin speeding up in the parking lot, then slamming on my brakes, taking turns fast but going really slow on the straightaways. Now, I have no problem with a little parking lot fun, but in addition to perturbing me with his stunt in the turning lane, I find out this guy is a middle aged man putting his kids in danger by driving like me. I felt that his actions called for a little mofo enforcement. So I drive more unsafely than he dared, and eventually lose him, but at the same time, keep track of where he parks in the lot. Once I see him walking into the bowling alley, I drive up to his car. I see that the self centered whore took up two spaces.

Now I’m really pissed.

I park my car several aisles away to prevent retribution, and calmly walk to his. I think to myself, “this man most likely keeps a spare tire,” so I release the air from not one, but two tires. This would require the service of the Auto Club, if he was even lucky enough to be a member. In addition, as a crowning triumph and as salt in the wound, I affix a KIIS FM bumper sticker to his hood, which I had perchance picked up at Raging Waters the previous day. I’m confident the afternoon sun made the decal a permanent fixture on his bitchmobile.

And It’s Like That

Old Skool MoFo: Our New Year experience

by on July 18, 2000 @ 11:00 pm

(Listen up. This is a submitted article from a reader, so none of the events herein can be verified by anyone. It may be a lie, but I doubt it. Carry on.)

Our story begins with my friend Steve. Steve is what I would graciously call a weird kid, I assume no more detail is necessary. Hes a rather large kid, 62 260 something pounds, but this comes into play later. Steves parents were gone on this particular day, so we decided to have a little get-together at his house.

The parties in attendance were: Steve, Skinner, Jimmy, a handful of our mutual friends, and myself. We started off the night with some mediocre bottle rockets, the ones you get packaged 50 together for $2.00. Instead of lighting them off individually, we took the sticks off of them and bound them together with scotch tape, one of Steves brilliant ideas. Steve and Skinner were hit by stray bottle rockets a couple of times, so we stopped that.

Steve then told us he had some good stuff, so we told him to go fetch it. Well, Steve comes back in about a minute with a bag full of mortars and a tube to launch them. To us, this was big we live in Florida and good fireworks are hard to come by legally. Steve picked them up on a road trip or something, but we really didnt care. Now we were going to have some real fun lighting these bitches up.

Steve comes up with another Einstein-caliber plan; we should light them from his roof! Skinner grabs a ladder from Steves garage and Jimmy, Skinner, Steve, and myself climb up. The others opted to stay on the ground and watch from there, which was a pretty good choice. Steves roof has no horizontal parts to it; its all slanted. This immediately shouldve told me this was going to be trouble.

I ignored it, and Steve set up the tube and loaded a mortar. After a few botched lights from Steve, the wick finally sparks up and we prepare for lift off. *BOOOOOM* The mortar bursts out of the tube at an exponential rate and climbs for the stars. Then the mortar arcs and *BOOOOOM* it explodes into a dazzling array of color. God damn that was cool, light up another one Steve! I yelled to him from across his roof. So Steve lights up a few more and we start to attract quite a crowd of his neighbors with our bitchin pyrotechnics.

This is when Steve gets careless. He lights another one and turns around to say something to Skinner, while I am watching in stark horror as the tube containing the lit mortar falls over and points its payload of doom straight toward Steves pathetic array of scraggly bushes in his front yard. By the time I yelled out, OH SHIT!, the mortar screams out of the tube heading directly at the bushes. When the mortar came into contact with the ground it exploded into multitude of blinding flashes of color that set my eyes alight with pain. I turned away from the blast to avoid any prolonged exposure and just like that, it stopped. I jerked my head around to survey the situation and I find myself gazing into a twisting helix of amber-colored death. The mortar had sparked off a rather sizeable brush fire in Steves front lawn.

I was dumb struck for a moment, then I burst out into one of the longest and glee-filled tangents of laughter I have ever experienced. Here I am, on my friends roof witnessing a quickly growing brush fire that could very well set the whole house ablaze and all I could do at the moment was laugh my fool head off. When Steve and Skinner saw the flash of lights and heard the explosion they immediately knew what happened. Steve sprang into action, running across his rooftop with the speed borne of a man in a life or death situation. He performs a superhero leap off of his roof that would make even Batman proud. When he lands, he takes off around the house looking for the water hose.

Meanwhile, Skinner dashes off toward the ladder and attempts to scale down it in a timely manner. This doesnt work, his foot slips and he falls to the ground with a large hole in his pants where a seam used to hold them together.

Guess where I am? Still on the roof, still laughing my ass off while the fire continues to grow, consuming much of Steves bushes and small plants in an attempt to reach the house and feed on the ample supply of wood and wonderful items contained therein.

Skinner picks himself up off the ground and grabs an old door that was hanging out on the other side of Steves house; Steves parents were remodeling parts of the house, hence the door. While Steve is still looking for the hose, Skinner runs out from the other side of the house with the door over his head and determination in his eyes. He ran up in front of the fire and tired to smother it with his dull white door of desperation. One, two, three. Skinner slams the door down on the fire. The fire starts to wane, its loosing oxygen and fading fast. Skinner slams the door down a fourth time and leaves it on the ground with the fire hopelessly trying to escape its demise. He then starts to jump on the door; one, two..and on the third try all 63 and 300 pounds of Skinner slips and falls right onto the door. *Whoosh* The fire dies an awful death at the hands, or should I say, from the cheeks of Skinners ass. Steve runs up with the hose and soaks Skinner and the area with water just to make sure the fire was out. I almost fell off of the roof from laughing so hard.

This whole fiasco has taught me but one thing, never let Steve think, period. I hope you enjoyed my recount of our New Years Day 2000 mishap. This is Scrantoine, signing off.

Old Skool MoFo: Two sluts, a badassmofo, and Sparky’s house

by on @ 11:00 pm

(This tale is a reader submission, so pay attention. It is filled with downright nasty situations and is most definitely against the law.)

First we must set the stage: Claire is my ex-girlfriend, and Sally is her best friend. When Claire lied to me, initiating our breakup, I made it my mission to fuck over her and all she held dear. So begins the greatest scheme since Michael Jackson tried to pass himself as a man.

The saga begins as I drive my friend’s borrowed car, drunk and horny as fuck on a Friday night. Now any person with common sense knows that it is damn stupid to be out while you’re drunk and horny. The only thing worse than experiencing beer goggles is hearing the story the day after a drunken romp that you sucked on the toes of a girl that Sparky called “Horse” in grammar school. Anyway, every true mofo keeps a backup slut for just such an occasion, and that night, mine just happened to be this new San Marino slam box, Sally (to call this female a whore is to insult the hard working prostitutes of America).

Here are her stats:

– 15 different dicks consumed by the age of 16
– a request for a cumsicle
– and, because of heavy cocaine usage, a miscarriage to boot.

A class act all the way.

That night I got my poke on with her parents two doors down, and went home. She must have mistaken the dick for friendship, because in the ensuing weeks she began to confide in me, revealing more and more as time passed. Foolish, foolish crackwhore. She essentially set herself up, telling me, “If my parents ever found out what I do, they’d take away my horse and my car and send me away to boarding school, and you know how much my horse means to me.”

*Click* goes the tape recorder, and within a week, I had stories that would make Jenna Jameson blush. I had found a new source of wealth.

In order to prevent her parents, brother, boyfriend, and most importantly Claire from receiving a copy of the tape, Sally merely had to keep me happy with various gifts and keep my and Sparky’s music collection healthy. And the bitch still gave up the nani when I needed it.

To this day, Sally has been an obedient slave, and my CD case has maintainted an entertaining variety. It’s become all too easy, and I’ve grown bored of my game. So with this story, I cut her loose and destroy her friendship with Claire, as they are badassmofo.com readers. Sally and Claire, it’s been real.

Peace Out,
Crazy E