The boy did like to party. He went out every night of the week, and if he wasn't hanging out with his friends he was out dancing, drinking, or maybe going to a basketball game.
The boy might not have done drugs, but he did love to drink Jose Cuervo Clasico Silver tequila. He was probably an alcoholic. But his friends liked him because he was fun, laughed at their jokes, and drove a restored, cherry red '67 Mustang. The boy's friends were good people but shallow.
I'm fucking sorry but can u give me a ride? I don't wanna be taking it up the fucking ass in Mexico. Lately, the boy had taken to calling (or texting) his friends in the wee hours of the morning as he navigated the city's hottest clubs. Because he was always "fucking wasted." Or "fucking shit-faced." Or just plain "fucking drunk." And the boy needed a friend to give him a ride home.
The boy didn't trust taxis (he was afraid he'd wake up in Mexico and be forced into male prostitution), and he was smart enough (but not that drunk!) to not drive himself. So one of his friends would pick him up at 3am and surprisingly, when the boy got in his friend's car, he didn't seem so drunk.
In fact, he didn't seem drunk at all. The boy said it was because he had "like two quarts of fucking coffee." He was conscientious that way; he said he "didn't want to puke all over the fucking car."
Well, this went on for several weeks and the boy's friends started dreading those early morning "Fuck, I'm fucking wasted, man, I really need a fucking ride. I'm fucking sorry but can u do it? I don't wanna be taking it up the fucking ass in Mexico" calls.
The boy's friends were shallow, but they weren't stupid. They knew something had to be done.
So they decided to ignore the boy.
And, of course, late one night the friends got a text from the boy.
"HELP GUYS, I'm soooo fucking wasted! Really really fucking bombed I need a fucking ride! HELP!!!"
But the friends didn't text back.
And then the boy called his friends.
"I'm not fucking kidding, dude! I've been drinking tequila shots and I'm really fucking drunk! C'mon bro, I don't have anybody else to call and I'm absolutely not taking a fucking taxi! Help me out bro! Oh fuck, a couple of Mexicans are checking me out! Probably got a fucking cab out back! FUCK YOU GUYS! I THOUGHT YOU WERE MY FRIENDS!!"
But the friends didn't call back.
Several days later the friends discovered that the boy, terrified of being kidnapped and fucked in Mexico, had actually driven his restored, cherry red '67 Mustang home.
Except the boy never made it home.
The police, with the customary cruiser outside the club, followed the boy and stopped him after he ran over two parking meters and a mailbox. Unfortunately, the boy couldn't walk a straight line and failed the Breathalyzer test.
The boy was actually quite drunk.
And it might not have been so bad if the boy had just shut up. But that, of course, was impossible. The boy was upset and he was very drunk. The police were "fucking Nazis and fucking morons and fucking pigs" and, well…you get the picture.
And the boy had much more to say.
So the boy went directly to the county jail.
The friends wanted to see the boy and apologize for not returning his calls and perhaps, explain why they did so. But the friends weren't allowed to see the boy and were told he was going to be in prison a long time. It seems it was a federal offense to run over a mailbox.
And the boy's friends felt bad.
Because now they knew the boy would be taking it up the fucking ass.
