  “I didn’t know how many of them it would’ve taken to kick my ass, but I knew how many they were going to use… That’s a useful piece of information right there.” -Ron White Now it’s time for a story kiddies: It all began on a February evening in 2004, easily one of the coldest nights of the year. My friends, John and Kris, and I decided that it would be fun to go bowling. So, contrary to our more conventional procedures, we decided, probably because the roads were icy, that I was not going to drive. Instead, it would be John’s dad who would chauffer us to the lanes. John, not wanting to be bothered the rest of the night (I assume), chose to leave his cell phone at home…Flash forward 15 minutes—We’re at the entrance to the lanes, each of us waiting to get inside and warm ourselves with a small portion of $5 cheese fries. The doors open, and to our amazement, we were struck dumb by the glory that was EXTREME BOWLING NIGHT!! !® For those of you who are unfamiliar with EXTREME BOWLING NIGHT!! !® I shall briefly explain: EXTREME BOWLING NIGHT!!
!® Is when the bowling alleys cater towards the lesser white trash that would otherwise not be found at a bowling alley. Lights are turned off and replaced with black lights, leaving just enough light for suspicious activities to take place, but not enough to spot it unless you’re looking for it. Here you can find the bottom of the social barrel. Everyone seems to be stuck in the early 1990s “Thug” phase, where shirts are ridiculously large, pants are found around the knees, and I’m sure you’d be able to spot at least one tuff wigger sporting a gold alarm clock on a chain around his neck.
Girls trip on Ecstasy, white guys try to out-thug each other, and the black guys, who seem to be the only semi-respectable group of people there, just go to hang out and talk; not one of them bowls. With at least 300 people crammed in there like Mexicans under a tarp in the bed of a truck on the Tex-Mex border, we decided it would be best to find something else to do. Lets leave… Oh… Wait… I didn’t drive. John… Call your dad…Oh… You left your phone at home?! Ok. There’s a Wal-Mart close by.
We can go there to use a payphone. Now, I told you that story to tell you this story: I must harbor some sort of homosexual gene, because I have, heterosexually speaking, an unhealthy obsession with shoes. I look at them in catalogues like I’m looking at porn. So I see a really nice pair of Merrell chukkas in my Orvis catalogue so my dad and I go to the Orvis store in Media to see if they have them.
I didn’t find the chukkas but, while routing through the $300 fishing vests and packable felt hats, I did manage to find one glorious piece of apparel—a worn-out leather aviator’s cap with fuzzy leather earflaps… It fit… It was comfortable… It was $35… I had to have it. Back to the bowling alley. My new hat seemed to draw some attention as I entered the bowling alley. I knew it was negative attention so I took it off… Then we left. As we walked out to the parking lot I found it was still bitter cold, so I donned my aviator cap and pulled down the flaps. Unbeknownst to Kris, John, and myself, was that we were being followed. The two large 20-something-year-old wiggers approached us from about twenty paces away, slowly advancing toward my posse. Being the ass that he is, John started jumping on the rails of the shopping cart station in the Wal-Mart parking lot, explaining how—like we gave a rats ass and a half—he wanted to make a “Jackass™” movie. The wiggers had seen and heard enough. They shouted something to the effect of “Get the fuck off that thing you fucking faggot! That kid’s a pussy!”—Anything to sound intimidating. The second I heard them and turned to see them I knew what they wanted. They didn’t care about John being a douche bag, though that was an incentive to start something—They wanted my hat, and I’d be damned if I was going to give up my new $30 leather aviator cap with fuzzy ear flaps.
It was just too cool. So, being the non-confrontational person I’ve grown to be, I told my friends not to acknowledge them and continue walking towards the Wal-Mart, which, to my dismay, looked deserted… What the hell?! I thought those places never closed! The wiggers fell back as the audibly planned what they were going to do to scare us or get my hat.
Then they started getting closer again, now at about 50 paces, and John and Kris made their way to the little corner containing the payphone… That’s right folks; they cornered themselves. Since I am not a dumb-fuck, I continued forward through the parking lot, without breaking stride, to the Super Fresh about 200 yards away. Looking back on the situation I feel I should have approached the Super Fresh with a smug smirk of half-laughter on my face, but, at the time, I was worried for my friends.
Neither of them knows how to handle themselves in a fight, nor do they know how to talk their way out of anything or operate smoothly in any manner. Considering all of this, I ambled toward the market. I wasn’t “going down with the crew.” Meanwhile, as I made my way toward the market, Kris and John were wedging themselves between a rock and wannabe-black place. As one of the two reached for the payphone one of the wiggers shouted something like “Those phones don’t work.” So of course the jackass, whoever it was, gave up with the payphone. “Do you guys have any money,” queries wigger #1? “Uuuuhhhhhh…No…” Kris replies, loudly crinkling the wad of bills in his jeans with his pale clammy hands. “Well, if you guys let me hold on to a dollar I’ll let you use my cell phone” the wigger says, obviously trying to get one of them to pull their wallets out and expose their cash to see if the white suburban boys were worth their time. John hands the Wigger a buck from his sparsely funded wallet and uses the guys cell phone. He gets some automated message on the other end instead of his mommy… The phone must have been stolen or inactivated… The wigger gives John his dollar back and inquires about his friend who just kept walking—me.
Me, my $80, and my leather aviator cap with fuzzy earflaps make our way to the Super Fresh and, thankfully, it’s open. I step inside the automated doors and take a breath of warm, stale air. I still feel like I’m being followed, and I can hear the wiggers getting closer. I walk into the market just in time. As I hear the wiggers step onto the door pad I disappear into a group of Asian females who, for some odd reason, are grocery shopping at 10pm.
I pull some stealthy ninja moves and manage to make it out of the market, all the while eyeballing the wiggers who have now split up and started searching the isles. I meet up with John and Kris in the parking lot and we rush to the payphones…Yes, of course the payphones worked! We called my sister and she said she was on her way. The lumbering footsteps of Timberland boots and Nike Airs approached as the telephone conversation ended, so we decided to rush back to the lanes…the wiggers wouldn’t try to start shit in a crowded public place, right?
We’re in the bowling alley waiting for my sister and ogling a girl who’s obviously on some kind of depressant drug. Finally, after waiting for what seemed like an hour, my sister showed up. We get in her car and I go over the story with her. “and then we went to Wal-Mart, and it was closed so I kept walkin’. Then John and Kris corner themselves at the Wal-Mart entrance like fucking idiots” I explain. To which John replies in 100% seriousness, in a completely and utterly delusional brain-fuck of a claim, “I planned that. I did that on purpose. Yeah, that’s what I wanted to happen. I wanted them to corner us. I had a plan. I knew what to do. I knew how to handle it” … ugh [The above story is as unembellished as possible, except for the quotes, everything is pretty much as accurate as it can get. ] Goodnight everybody. I hope you enjoyed the story. 
