Alright, so, this past weekend has probably been the most bizarre 72 hours of my life... In fact, almost comically... I definitely gained some good writing material, but let me sort of do a very brief recap by calling out the beginning of the weekend.

I'll start by saying that from Friday, 3PM to Sunday, 8PM, I was intoxicated.

So, it starts Friday. My teacher drops dead of a heart attack while doing his daily jog in some sort of freak occurance... In fact, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if, ironically enough, he were listening to his favorite song at the time; "When the World Ends" by Dave Matthews band. Even more ironic, that was set to be his last day of work. A retirement party had been set up for that night. But this was just a mere interlude to obscurity. About 10,000 or more bike enthusiasts had been rolling through town all week long to go spend the week at Lake George, embracing Americade. Now it was the weekend, and Americade was at its climax... So my accomplice and I did the only logical thing. Round up all sorts of weird chemicals and illegal substances, drive up to the Lake in a used Honda SRS (dubbed the Black Raven on account of its color and out-dated design), and spend the weekend in the village, taunting the locals.

So, we drove said black Raven out to the outskirts of town, where housing is very limited, spread out, and horribly... dirty. We'd been told to meet out there with the guy who could get us what we needed for the weekend. I'll spare names, on the basis that I don't want to be gang-beaten, shot, or interrogated. All you need to know is that this guy is overweight, slightly bigoted, smart but not intelligent (how many drug dealers are?), listens to death metal, already has his cards lined up for community college or a blue-collar job, and has a slightly effeminate name. Hell, for reference, we'll call him the Toad.

So, we find ourselves driving along a road that is somehow still considered a part of town, despite the fact that you have to get onto the highway just to get there... And this road is about five miles long, and has about seven really small shitty houses on it. We were told to look on the right side of the road, but after about running three lengths up and down the road, we figured out it was actually on the left of the road. This didn't surprise me much... On a separate occasion in which we met with the Toad, he had told us to keep an eye out for an orange truck, when in actuality the truck was bright fucking red. But that's the Toad for you.

We arrived at the location only to realize we were at the residence of the towns biggest skinhead. No joke, we were in the home of the towns notorious neo-nazi... I'm not too keen on dropping names in this little odyssey, but his name is just such a comedic gem, I can't help myself... We had arrived in the home of John Johnson.

The house itself was just slightly bigger than the two-door SRS. The yard was similar to what I imagine the landscaping at Auschwitz was like. Dry, arid... brown. Immediately when we arrived, the Toad approached the car and hollered, "Jesus! Whose Jap-Trap is this!?"

We didn't really answer him. Not so much as we just chuckled. He lead us to a broken down barn at the back of the premises. The gliding barn door was ready to fall off the hinges, the windows were all broken and covered with black trash bags. On the inside, the dirt floor was scattered with all sorts of trash, and the wall had been decorated with a hand-painted confederate flag. Below that was a painting that looked like a car when viewed in three-dimensions, but looked like a small penis and unusually large set of testicles when viewed in two-dimensions. I'll spare the details to prevent myself from getting lost in length, but to summarize, we had two bongs going before John Johnson walked on in and asked, "Whose Jap-trap is outside?" as if the term were a part of some sort of underground bastardization of English used casually among bigots and racists. Then he made eye contact with me, as if he were just noticing me and said, "No shit..." Then he made it a point to note that he was driving a Jap-trap himself, before moving on to the car of his people, as he had put it; a Mercedes. I highly doubt he was driving a Benz. At least a functional one. But I kept my mouth shut, and soon enough he was gone, the Toad, my accomplice, and yours truly were standing in front of the "Jap-Trap", high and dazed.

The Toad noted two hand prints amongst the pollen on the front end of the car, and asked me, "What bitch you got bent over this car?" I turned and sort of mumbled, confused, and he went on to make a series of gestures to imply I was having sex, doggy-style, over the car. I reminded myself to wash my eyes out with Sodium Nitrate when I got home.

Through all of this, the Toad told us all about how Johnson's German Sheppard, Nick, was a trained attack dog. Then he demonstrated how the dog would run away whenever he jumped out at it, and dubbed it a "pussy bitch".

Then all hell broke loose. "What in the fuck... IT... HOT OUTSIDE GOD DAMN YOU GUYS HOT!?!" I turned, and the mentally handicapped Johnson brother stood at arms length. He looked like the love-child of Dustin Hoffman and Sharyl Crow. "How you guys not hot!? It's fucking hot as fucking fuck in the fucking sun!"

The Toad yelled something incomprehensible, and told him to go back inside, as if he were yielding a trained circus-lion. He proceeded in returning to the house, before his path was disrupted by the most grotesquely obese woman I've seen in recent years emerged throw the narrow doorway, and stood tall, angered and shirtless. Her enormous gut acted like a shelf in which her fat-enhanced breasts rested upon. "TOAD! WHAT THE GODDAMN FUCK SHIT COCK IS THIS FUCKING SHIT!?" she roared as she waved a yellow box in the air. "IT'S FUCKING MUFFIN MIX! I'M GONNA' NEED THAT SHIT LATER! WHIP UP MY SPECIAL FUCKING RECIPE!" he yelled back.

We slowly crept into the car, turned the ignition, and drove away... From there, the weekend just got progressively weirder and weirder. I'm thinking to tie it all together in a more formal piece of writing... Something of a tribute/hommage to gonzo journalism.