Throughout the summer of '02, I spent most of my days with a group of close friends that have become known as The Boys. I'm not sure if that's supposed to be capitalized or not, but that's what the girlfriend and I called them when we argued about how much of our time I spent hanging out with them.

The boys consisted of a motley gaggle of somewhat shaggy, gruff mountain types; but we were pretty good natured. There was Monkey Boy, who was the core of enthusiasm. If Monkey Boy got excited about it, it would happen. Monkey Boy lived at the Branch, along with Joe, Carl, Jeremy, and sometimes Tatum. Then there were the peripherals: Vern, myself, Gary, Jim Bob (sort of); hell, there were like fifty other people around. Joe, who took care of most of our collective shaggines; was very boyish, almost naive; willing to try anything and everything. Sometimes he said the stupidest things, probably because he smoked the most pot. Carl was (and still is) the Zen Master. We were the wildest people we knew; and yet Carl is one of the most cautious, serene individuals. Jeremy was a bearded, beer drinking paddler from bumfuck Tennessee. For a guy with an imposing and intimidating presence, he could really make you laugh. Tatum, the photographer, was the 2nd shaggiest of us, with this mop of dark brown hair that he was always trying to keep out of his face. Good kid though, a fugging riot to be exact. Vern was in ROTC, and it made him insane. Well, maybe he was insane to begin with, but I guess the whole lot of us had accumulated a preponderance of evidence that there was at least something very wrong with each of us. Not scary in a militant way, just scary enough to remind you that he knew how to kill you with a flick of the wrist. Last but certainly not least was Gary. This kid could tell some whoppers. Like the one he told about the fairies who controlled the tide, or that cows have shorter legs on one side of their body than they do on the other. I have a sinking suspicion that he smoked more than Joe.

The funniest times we ever had were when we got bored. We'd all be sitting under the chillport, drinking ice cold beers, trying to figure out whose turn it was to go get the second round out of the fridge. It was inevitable one of us would come up with a great idea. There was 'pockets camping'; which (as you can imagine) meant taking whatever you thought you might need to spend the night in the woods, stuffing it in your pockets, and hitting the road. The only rule was you had to be able to fit it in your pockets or carry it in your hands. Except for beer. If you needed a backpack to carry a case of beer, that was allowed. It sounds like a great idea until you wake up in the dirt at six in the morning, and it's beginning to drizzle.

Another time, we came into about three gallons of mildly used peanut oil. We had a slip 'n' slide at the Branch that used periodically to break the monotony. Well, on this particular evening, someone (I won't say who) decided it would be a great idea to combine the two into one of the most disgusting spectacles I have witnessed in my whole entire cursed existence. I was burning with a blue flame, so I don't remember exactly how it all got started, but there were naked people covered in peanut oil and stinking of friend chicken running around the yard. Did I mention that our neighbors really loved us?

However, the mother of all the great (and by great I mean utterly stupid) ideas we ever had, was running Monkey Boy over with a car. Joe's Kia to be exact. It really makes sense if you let me tell the story. We were hanging out at this lame party in downtown. It was such a lame party, as a matter of fact, that we figured we'd spice it up a little. Mind you, this was initally Monkey Boy's idea. 'Let's get this party goin guys. We need some kind of catalyst, something crazy.'

'Well, we could pull some kind of stunt.'

'Oh! I got it. Run me over, I won't get hurt. I know how to fall.'

And of course Joe volunteers "Let me drive! I'll only go 5mph, I swear dooood."

Then it was on. Joe jumped in the car and drove back up the street, while Monkey Boy milled around nonchalantly. A few minutes later Joe comes cruising down the main drag and Monkey Boy perfectly executes the Oblivious Jaywalker. It was beautiful. There was a dull thump as Monkey Boy bounced into the dent resistant (those Kia guys are sharp) hood, a rather real-sounding shatter as his shoulder hit the windshield, and a perfect roll off the side onto the wet pavement. This was about the time that all motion at the party ceased; except for the guy throwing up in the dumpster. All eyes on Joe, and he just drops it into first and flies around the block.

Of course Joe's exit created an uproar in the drunken mob. Girls we swooning over Monkey Boy, frat guys were making pacts with the gang-bangers to find the prick who did this and tear him limb from limb. Meanwhile, we're standing in the back stifling laughter because those two dumbasses just shattered the windshield. We grab some ketchup out of the kitchen and hobble Monkey Boy into the bathroom. We're taking it to the next level.

'Here, smear this on your arm, then wrap a t-shirt around it. You've been seriously injured.'

Monkey Boy's laughing now, this is classic. He walks back out into the party, and people mill around him, shooting questions, stirring the pot, turning the rumor mill. Then Mark comes over and acutely observes aloud, "It smells like hot dogs." Shit, busted by the only smart guy for five square miles.
We skip the party and meet Joe back at the house. The windshield is 86'ed, spider-webbed from seam to seam; there's even a dent where the brunt of Monkey Boy's weight hit the glass. Perfect. I think in the end they split the cost fifty-fifty, since neither wanted to take full responsibility but both could not deny their collective negligence.

It's all fun and games people, until the bills start stacking up.