Gimme a Fucking Break #4

Gimme a Fucking Spring Break #4
Rating: 7
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Despite flunking out of six of the most prestigious institutions of higher learning in New Jersey in less than three years, I never got to experience the crazy beach rompfest marinated in cheap beer that is spring break. I do recall an instance, long after I dropped out of college, when a pack of four young sorority chicks tried to thrust some spring break spirit onto me, only to have it backfire on them miserably.

At the time I was hooked to the gills on pharmaceuticals and living on 31st and Crenshaw in LA, so my recollection of that period is rather numb and foggy. I don’t remember exactly how they ended up staying at my house for a week, but the leader of their pack was the younger sister of a friend of my little sister. I recall my sister’s friend being hot with big tits, so when her little sister Facebooked me asking if she and her three classmates could come stay at my place, I allowed my mind to paint a body with big tits underneath her profile picture. Sadly, my painting art elective was just one of many classes I failed, and her tits, if she ever had them, were left in New Jersey.

Their knock on my door came far too early on a morning when I was already far too late for work. It was frantic and didn’t stop. I knew what it meant. I’d heard that knock quite often in the year I lived on my all-black block that was run by the Crips; my visitors were shit-scared of getting raped, killed, or maimed by the gangbangers who leaned on my front fence morning, noon, and night.

I slipped my sweaty, bloated, and constipated frame of pure sexiness into an expired pair of boxer briefs—nothing more—and walked out to greet them. They raced past me to “safety” without so much as a hello, like dogs who couldn’t hold their piss a moment longer. The Crips outside looked at me inquisitively. I nodded, acknowledging them: “Gentlemen.”

Once inside, the four girls seemed unsure whether they were any safer. Back then I’d keep handguns strewn about my coffee table in various states, from loaded and ready to completely disassembled for cleaning. Usually there’d also be a number of different-colored anthills peppered around them: crushed pills ready for snorting.

“We thought you lived in Hollywood,” their titless leader said.

“I did. Had to move out because of all the goddamn vampires,” I replied.

“Where the fuck are we? ARE WE GOING TO GET KILLED?”

“You’re in my home. Act accordingly, and you’ll be fine. I just wouldn’t go outside wearing a red dress.”

My words didn’t seem to comfort them, but my beer did.

“So what are we going to do first?” the redhead asked.

“Well, I am going to finish this beer, do a line, and go to work. I don’t know what youse guys are doing.”

“I thought you were going to show us around,” their leader said.

“I never agreed to that. I don’t even know you. I thought you had bigger tits.”

They looked at me stunned. The mousy one started to cry: “I knew we should have gone to Cancun!”

“Listen. Help yourself to the beer and drugs. You’re free to use the shower or crash in my bed. But I have to go to work.” And I did.

When I returned home that evening they were gone. “Those bitches split,” the tallest of the gangbangers told me. “They left your front door wide open. I shut it for you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I really appreciate that.”

More stupid can be found at Chrisnieratko.com and @Nieratko on Twitter.

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