Boredom

At no point in my life did I have any urge to participate in any of these activities. In fact, I would say that they would account for a good portion of my urge to move to NYC. But that's another story altogether.

A friend of mine named Charles and I had a very different outlook on the world than did the plebeians surrounding us. Though, with the gift of vision comes the cruel price of boredom. And boredom is a blade that cuts deep and makes people do strange and unexplainable things.

Our outlet was the Rental, Viewing and Critique of the Worst Movies we could get our hands on. On an average night, we would rent as many as four choice films such as, Food of the Gods, Ghoulies Go To College, The Reanimator, Octaman, Lair of the White Worm, and other movies that cost more to rent than they did to produce. We were both night-owls and would often stay up watching this garbage until nearly dawn. Every night I felt like I was about to have a stroke from laughing in hysterics at the unbelievably bad ideas that people decided to shamelessly put on film.

Our hunger for trash cinema was not easily quenched, however, and soon we had exhausted the video stores near our houses. Seeking new dogshit to view carried us to video stores all the way across town (though, in Kentucky that means 9 miles away). One night, we went to a video store that was open until 1am on the far side of town. We chose this store purely because.. it was open. I was driving the car that was formerly my mother's. A fine work of American Engineering indeed! The Oldsmobile Cutlass Cruiser Station Wagon. 978 tons of metal pulled by a tiny, straining four cylinder engine. As we were leaving the video store, I decided to stop for snacks and time-wasting at a huge grocery store nearby called "Mega Market." In Kentucky, they fill the empty spaces with strip malls that run for blocks and grocery stores the size of Aircraft Hangars. Bored as ever, we wandered around the store finding things to buy based on their unintended humor value. I bought some Circus Peanuts, just because Charles had said he would punch me if I got them near him. I also bought an Old Lady Mask that has been a treasured possession ever since.

Upon leaving the store, I noticed that it was cool and silent outside. Way out on the road I could see cars driving by, but they were too far away to be heard. We were the only things moving in the huge parking lot. I got in the car and started the engine, still threatening to touch Charles with the Circus Peanut. I looked out the front window, and saw a lone shopping cart standing like a shiny metal island in a sea of asphalt. The idea was born in an instant. Without saying a word to Charles, my boredom had ended.

As I crept up on the cart, Charles guessed my plan. Slowly, I snuck up on the cart, like a cat on an unsuspecting 150 pound chrome steel sparrow. Then, with a clink and a rattle, I heard the front bumper make contact with the cart.

My foot plunged to the floor and the cart leapt forward, urged on by the heaving of four cylinders of uncapped rage. The clatter of the cart made me afraid that it would flip over the hood, or go under the car. Onward! Faster! As fast as the Oldsmobile Juggernaut could push! Charles was wailing. The rattling of the cart was growing in anger and intensity. With the parking lot nearly empty, we reached over 50 miles an hour! As we neared the end of the pavement I slammed the brakes and turned to the right to avoid hitting the curb, which was flying at us at freeway speeds. The cart left the bumper, rattled away, hit the curb violently, and flipped three times in the air at a height of six feet and down into a deep ditch below.

Evil Dead 2 could not possibly make us laugh as hard as we did as we sped out of the parking lot... followed.

The light at the end of the side road was green and we made a right onto the main road. I had still not noticed, but a car behind us was weaving between lanes to catch up to us. I then saw someone behind me flashing his high-beams and immediately thought of how painful it would be to explain what was going on to some smug, redneck cop, who was enjoying badgering "some punk, faggot kid with funny hair." As the car pulled up next to me, I was relieved... somewhat. A little man was shaking his fist at me and pointing at me as his puckery buck-toothed mouth screamed, in a shrill hillbilly twang, "Y'ALL BE SORRY WHEN THE LAW COMES A-CALLIN'!" He had a bristly mustache, such as only a grocery store manager could have. The years of toil and anger at a life of item scanner carpal tunnel syndrome and double coupon day was about to be released on me, and I deserved it. He kept trying to pull behind me to get my plate number, and I kept slowing down to prevent him from doing so. As we neared the exit to the main thoroughfare, I pulled to the far left lane, away from the exit. When he took the bait and followed, I ran a red light and flew off the exit to the right over three lanes of traffic. Yes. I am stupid.

As we drove off, there was a feeling of relief and the laughter came back in full force, though I kept eyeing my rear view mirror for signs of the police or the Dreaded Grocery Weasel.

As the weeks went by, I figured that I had gotten away with it, though when I went to return the videos, I took another car to avoid being recognized in the area. My Dad had asked me a few days after the incident why there were little dings and scratches on the front bumper. They weren't very severe. I said that I hadn't noticed and guessed that they had been there before. He didn't press the issue.

Over a month passed and I had nearly forgotten all about it; complacent in the idea that it was over. Then one day around dusk, I was watching TV when my Dad came into the living room. As he tried to be stern, I could tell he was putting every ounce of strength he had into not laughing.

"I guess we can assume that's where the scratches on the bumper came from. They want 300 dollars for the cart or they're going to go to court."

At this point we both had the same growing smile and were on the edge of laughter.

It was an easy decision. There was no way I would come out of court with an intact driver's license and it would definitely cost more than 300 bucks. I went to the store and was escorted to the manager's office by two of his floor managers. It felt as though they were ALL expecting me and were quiet and somber as though they knew I had committed some horrifying sin. They all knew that I was guilty. CART-O-CIDE! I was hoping somehow I could see what I had done to the cart, just for my giggling enjoyment. I met the man who had chased me that night. He sat behind the desk and accepted my 300 dollars bitterly as though he wanted to make me pay with a pound of flesh and he was not placated. I took my receipt and went out the door. One of his managers walked me all the way to the sidewalk out front. I got in the car and my Dad was smiling.

On a side note... Troll 2 surpasses all horrible movies by leaps and bounds. Let's just say... she doesn't do what you think she's going to do with the corn cob. It's worse than you could possibly imagine... no... seriously.