I was very adept at having a great time without getting caught. I was well into my 30's and still checking escape routes every time I went to a house party. When we would get caught with beer in HS, the cops would put us through the ringer...cuffs, in the squad car, phone numbers asked for to call parents, a lot of shit talking...aaaand, then pour the beer on us, and tell us to go home. My best friend's dad was a cop, and he would show up if on shift to add to the terror. It was how I learned to do laundry...CSB
Super long reply, mostly a rambling waste of time, you’ve been warned.
It’s always good to know the escape route, every fire marshal would approve. That was the closest I’ve come to having my teenage fun end with a ticket, I would usually take off. The one time I tried and couldn’t run away was not my own doing, but the fault of one of my good friends.
Another rager out in the boonies, except for not as rural. This is a place you could walk into town from without being The Revenant guy. Some kid had his car do the type of flips that the Romanian gymnastics team would want to steal for their floor routine. Cops showed up, but luckily I was in the field behind the house where people had parked, selling a dub bag to some hot chick. I was not planning on investing in bitcoin, as that wouldn’t exist for some time, but I was hoping that the bong wasn’t the only thing she’d be putting her mouth on. All of a sudden there’s a cry of “cops” or 5-0 or some shit and blue lights, and everyone not in or near the house takes off.
I have about an ounce of weed on me, mostly weighed out in dubs. Pretty simple, sprint through the field and vault a 5 foot tall fence. I’m well beyond it, with the previously mentioned hot girl and a dozen other people when I hear my name being whimpered in the saddest possible fucking way ever. My cat sounds about the same when his real owners forget to feee him. It’s my buddy, one of the people who came there with me. Dude was a whiner; one time he was crying, and I demanded to know why. When he told me I laughed so hard I drove off a cliff. But that’s a story for another time.
I had to go back to get him. You see, this whimpering fucker couldn’t clear the fence although he’s about 6’2” and everyone did it easy peasy. The problem is he’s build like a stoner Yogi Bear, see picture for visual:
I tried to boost Yogi over this mild inconvenience for a normal 18 year old male, female, or Galapagos tortoise. But he’s straight up having a panic attack and begging me not to leave him. I’m going to look like the bad guy, although it’s his 8 blunt a day habit and a diet consisting of melted cheese holding us back while I’m literally wearing delivery of a controlled substance.
I stay they with him, we hide near a grove of trees for like two hours. I can’t take it anymore and throw my jacket over the fence where I’ll be able to find it, make us go back to the house. I don’t care if I get an MIP, I can’t take this shit anymore. I pretend like we just got there, and since cops are letting people leave I walk up to one and bullshit that I came here to pick up my diabetic friend. They know who he is, he’s been trying to convince them he’s sober enough to drive but he didn’t say anything about being a diabetic. Cops give me his keys once I promise I’m sober, and I get to take him, Yogi, and a fourth friend who has been passed out in the cab of a truck. Earlier someone gave him a beer bong - but with SoCo, stole his shoes, and laid him to sleep in a Tacoma.
I get the drunks in the car, roll away, hop out to get my jacket full of weed. The shoeless one keeps calling a girl he saw there, confessing his love and asking for sexual favors. She’s on speaker phone and declines the invitation but promises him they can hang out when he’s not drunk enough to be de-shoed. I drop him off at his parents at 2am, in a quiet upper middle class cul de sac, where he stumbles around trying to find his shoes, and then yells back at the car: “I’m getting a hand job, you pussys!” As lights go on inside the house I peel the fuck out of there.
I’m still friends with stoner Yogi Bear. He has a 10 year old kid and an 8 year old. He still smokes a lot of weed, but is in better shape now. Last year I got really drunk in his garage and fell asleep, with nothing but a thin blanket and his flatulent elderly lab to keep me company. In his recollection that fence was 20 feet tall and all of the Mongol horde’s siege machinery would be useless against it. The guy trying to convince the cops he could drive is my best friend after a decade hiatus. He remembers everything nearly perfectly, maybe he’s just so goofy looking everyone thought he was drunk when he wasn’t. They both remember “I’m getting a hand job, you pussys!” like it was yesterday. As for shoeless? I don’t think he ever got that specific hand job. The last time I saw him was a few years back, not even him but a picture - I went into a pawn shop looking for a little tiny guitar amp and saw his picture on the list of people banned from said pawn shop. Hope he’s doing okay and on the receiving end of those handys although I doubt it.
The way we did it back before the dark web and their fancy markets was to buy a real ID off someone who looks like you. Doesn’t even have to be all that similar. Example:
I was very adept at having a great time without getting caught. I was well into my 30's and still checking escape routes every time I went to a house party. When we would get caught with beer in HS, the cops would put us through the ringer...cuffs, in the squad car, phone numbers asked for to call parents, a lot of shit talking...aaaand, then pour the beer on us, and tell us to go home. My best friend's dad was a cop, and he would show up if on shift to add to the terror. It was how I learned to do laundry...CSB
Super long reply, mostly a rambling waste of time, you’ve been warned.
It’s always good to know the escape route, every fire marshal would approve. That was the closest I’ve come to having my teenage fun end with a ticket, I would usually take off. The one time I tried and couldn’t run away was not my own doing, but the fault of one of my good friends.
Another rager out in the boonies, except for not as rural. This is a place you could walk into town from without being The Revenant guy. Some kid had his car do the type of flips that the Romanian gymnastics team would want to steal for their floor routine. Cops showed up, but luckily I was in the field behind the house where people had parked, selling a dub bag to some hot chick. I was not planning on investing in bitcoin, as that wouldn’t exist for some time, but I was hoping that the bong wasn’t the only thing she’d be putting her mouth on. All of a sudden there’s a cry of “cops” or 5-0 or some shit and blue lights, and everyone not in or near the house takes off.
I have about an ounce of weed on me, mostly weighed out in dubs. Pretty simple, sprint through the field and vault a 5 foot tall fence. I’m well beyond it, with the previously mentioned hot girl and a dozen other people when I hear my name being whimpered in the saddest possible fucking way ever. My cat sounds about the same when his real owners forget to feee him. It’s my buddy, one of the people who came there with me. Dude was a whiner; one time he was crying, and I demanded to know why. When he told me I laughed so hard I drove off a cliff. But that’s a story for another time.
I had to go back to get him. You see, this whimpering fucker couldn’t clear the fence although he’s about 6’2” and everyone did it easy peasy. The problem is he’s build like a stoner Yogi Bear, see picture for visual:
I tried to boost Yogi over this mild inconvenience for a normal 18 year old male, female, or Galapagos tortoise. But he’s straight up having a panic attack and begging me not to leave him. I’m going to look like the bad guy, although it’s his 8 blunt a day habit and a diet consisting of melted cheese holding us back while I’m literally wearing delivery of a controlled substance.
I stay they with him, we hide near a grove of trees for like two hours. I can’t take it anymore and throw my jacket over the fence where I’ll be able to find it, make us go back to the house. I don’t care if I get an MIP, I can’t take this shit anymore. I pretend like we just got there, and since cops are letting people leave I walk up to one and bullshit that I came here to pick up my diabetic friend. They know who he is, he’s been trying to convince them he’s sober enough to drive but he didn’t say anything about being a diabetic. Cops give me his keys once I promise I’m sober, and I get to take him, Yogi, and a fourth friend who has been passed out in the cab of a truck. Earlier someone gave him a beer bong - but with SoCo, stole his shoes, and laid him to sleep in a Tacoma.
I get the drunks in the car, roll away, hop out to get my jacket full of weed. The shoeless one keeps calling a girl he saw there, confessing his love and asking for sexual favors. She’s on speaker phone and declines the invitation but promises him they can hang out when he’s not drunk enough to be de-shoed. I drop him off at his parents at 2am, in a quiet upper middle class cul de sac, where he stumbles around trying to find his shoes, and then yells back at the car: “I’m getting a hand job, you pussys!” As lights go on inside the house I peel the fuck out of there.
I’m still friends with stoner Yogi Bear. He has a 10 year old kid and an 8 year old. He still smokes a lot of weed, but is in better shape now. Last year I got really drunk in his garage and fell asleep, with nothing but a thin blanket and his flatulent elderly lab to keep me company. In his recollection that fence was 20 feet tall and all of the Mongol horde’s siege machinery would be useless against it. The guy trying to convince the cops he could drive is my best friend after a decade hiatus. He remembers everything nearly perfectly, maybe he’s just so goofy looking everyone thought he was drunk when he wasn’t. They both remember “I’m getting a hand job, you pussys!” like it was yesterday. As for shoeless? I don’t think he ever got that specific hand job. The last time I saw him was a few years back, not even him but a picture - I went into a pawn shop looking for a little tiny guitar amp and saw his picture on the list of people banned from said pawn shop. Hope he’s doing okay and on the receiving end of those handys although I doubt it.
One more, I could spend a week on these situations...Party at a girl's house, her dad just happened to be our athletic director. I do the escape route scan, as do several of my comrades, except for one. We hear COPS!, hit the back door running. I was first, ducked the clothesline, hit the 6 foot fence, up and over...another one right on my tail. As he was about to hit the fence, the one who didn't scout it out (who happened to be our 6'2, 230 pound all state running back), LITERALLY is clotheslined...the guy behind me hears it, instantly knows what happened, and as he is beginning to laugh, loses the pep in his step and face-plants into the fence, almost knocking himself out. No arrests. This was 40 years ago, and was revisited in a phone call last week with face-plant dude, whom I haven't seen in about 30 years. ISYN, CSB
Comments
It’s always good to know the escape route, every fire marshal would approve. That was the closest I’ve come to having my teenage fun end with a ticket, I would usually take off. The one time I tried and couldn’t run away was not my own doing, but the fault of one of my good friends.
Another rager out in the boonies, except for not as rural. This is a place you could walk into town from without being The Revenant guy. Some kid had his car do the type of flips that the Romanian gymnastics team would want to steal for their floor routine. Cops showed up, but luckily I was in the field behind the house where people had parked, selling a dub bag to some hot chick. I was not planning on investing in bitcoin, as that wouldn’t exist for some time, but I was hoping that the bong wasn’t the only thing she’d be putting her mouth on. All of a sudden there’s a cry of “cops” or 5-0 or some shit and blue lights, and everyone not in or near the house takes off.
I have about an ounce of weed on me, mostly weighed out in dubs. Pretty simple, sprint through the field and vault a 5 foot tall fence. I’m well beyond it, with the previously mentioned hot girl and a dozen other people when I hear my name being whimpered in the saddest possible fucking way ever. My cat sounds about the same when his real owners forget to feee him. It’s my buddy, one of the people who came there with me. Dude was a whiner; one time he was crying, and I demanded to know why. When he told me I laughed so hard I drove off a cliff. But that’s a story for another time.
I had to go back to get him. You see, this whimpering fucker couldn’t clear the fence although he’s about 6’2” and everyone did it easy peasy. The problem is he’s build like a stoner Yogi Bear, see picture for visual:
I tried to boost Yogi over this mild inconvenience for a normal 18 year old male, female, or Galapagos tortoise. But he’s straight up having a panic attack and begging me not to leave him. I’m going to look like the bad guy, although it’s his 8 blunt a day habit and a diet consisting of melted cheese holding us back while I’m literally wearing delivery of a controlled substance.
I stay they with him, we hide near a grove of trees for like two hours. I can’t take it anymore and throw my jacket over the fence where I’ll be able to find it, make us go back to the house. I don’t care if I get an MIP, I can’t take this shit anymore. I pretend like we just got there, and since cops are letting people leave I walk up to one and bullshit that I came here to pick up my diabetic friend. They know who he is, he’s been trying to convince them he’s sober enough to drive but he didn’t say anything about being a diabetic. Cops give me his keys once I promise I’m sober, and I get to take him, Yogi, and a fourth friend who has been passed out in the cab of a truck. Earlier someone gave him a beer bong - but with SoCo, stole his shoes, and laid him to sleep in a Tacoma.
I get the drunks in the car, roll away, hop out to get my jacket full of weed. The shoeless one keeps calling a girl he saw there, confessing his love and asking for sexual favors. She’s on speaker phone and declines the invitation but promises him they can hang out when he’s not drunk enough to be de-shoed. I drop him off at his parents at 2am, in a quiet upper middle class cul de sac, where he stumbles around trying to find his shoes, and then yells back at the car: “I’m getting a hand job, you pussys!” As lights go on inside the house I peel the fuck out of there.
I’m still friends with stoner Yogi Bear. He has a 10 year old kid and an 8 year old. He still smokes a lot of weed, but is in better shape now. Last year I got really drunk in his garage and fell asleep, with nothing but a thin blanket and his flatulent elderly lab to keep me company. In his recollection that fence was 20 feet tall and all of the Mongol horde’s siege machinery would be useless against it. The guy trying to convince the cops he could drive is my best friend after a decade hiatus. He remembers everything nearly perfectly, maybe he’s just so goofy looking everyone thought he was drunk when he wasn’t. They both remember “I’m getting a hand job, you pussys!” like it was yesterday. As for shoeless? I don’t think he ever got that specific hand job. The last time I saw him was a few years back, not even him but a picture - I went into a pawn shop looking for a little tiny guitar amp and saw his picture on the list of people banned from said pawn shop. Hope he’s doing okay and on the receiving end of those handys although I doubt it.
The way we did it back before the dark web and their fancy markets was to buy a real ID off someone who looks like you. Doesn’t even have to be all that similar. Example: