Almost eleven years ago, my friend Pythagoras pissed in a water bong and handed it to my friend, Fireplug, who smoked it while a room full of people laughed heartily.
“What the fuck is so funny?” Fireplug asked as his friends guffawed relentlessly.
“Nothing,” said my friend, Brickmaster. “They just packed some seeds in there. Let me pack you a fresh one.”
And they all watched as Fireplug smoked a half gram of marijuana via a glass tube filled with Pythagoras' pee.
At this moment, Pythagoras lost it and, laughing in his signature style (which was half boyish glee, half infected mania), squeaked out the following words:
“How's my piss taste, bitch?”
Fireplug tackled Pythagoras, a quick fight ensued, and even though Pythagoras technically won said fight, it was Fireplug's house they occupied, so Pythagoras had to leave.
That was more than ten years ago. Plug and Pags were close friends at the time of the event.
Nevertheless, to this day, Fireplug will not talk to Pythagoras. Hell, Plug won't even entertain the notion of being in the same room with Pags.
Last summer, Plug and I had the following conversation.
Me: You want to hang out with me and Pags?
Plug: Fuck no. That dude ain't my friend.
Me: Why not?
Plug: He pissed in my bong.
Me: Dude, that was like ten years ago.
Plug: Whatever, dude. He pissed in my bong.
I like to picture Plug as an old man on his deathbed with friends and family visiting him in the hospital. I like to picture Old Man Plug smiling and ruffling the hair of his great grandchildren. And then, I like to imagine Pythagoras walking into that hospital room with a dozen roses under his arm.
And I like to picture Fireplug looking up at Pags, pointing a finger at his old friend from high school, then using his last breath of air to say, “Get him out of here. He? pissed? in? my? bong?” before closing his eyes forever.
Because I like to think that some people never change.