Undisclosed - Zach Bo1inger
Humor Archive
This one, I actually wrote. It is non-fiction about an event inspired by Tob Wood's writings. You can see some of Tob's stuff here.
We were just sitting there. Lured under false pretenses. "Yeah, uh, a bunch of are going to hang out at Matt's. I took this to mean that something fun was going on at Matt's, but there wasn't, we were just sitting there.
The whole big bunch of us were extremely bored. In extreme situations I often think "What would Tob do in this situation?" I wasn't sure, so I asked Christine, "What would Tob do in this situation?"
She paused. It was a pretty long pause. The she finally said, "I'm not sure, but you know, we still don't have cones."
"My God! You're right!" I realized. And the events for the night were decided. Matt wouldn't go with us. He said taking cones was highly illegal, and besides he was too busy getting ready to spray-paint his name on an underpass at 4:00 a.m. (4:00 dark).
We entertained ideas about taking two cars and having a contest to see who could gather the most cones in three hours, but only one of us was willing to drive (all my spineless friends were afraid of somebody seeing us stealing public property and writing down liscense plate numbers). I was all to willing to drive because I had my sister's car.
We piled into my sister's beat up little Camaro. Me, Megan, Justin, Christine and Matt's little brother, I can't remember his name. We were all excited because this was definitely cone season. All of us remembered seeing about 5,000 cones scattered about the five surrounding towns. The first stop was the center of Wrentham, MA. There were two there. We only took one because we didn't want anyone to get hurt in the hole that they were guarding. After the first one, everyone drew a blank on where else to find cones. Was it possible that instead of each seeing about 5,000 cones, each of us saw the same cone 5,000 times. Why do ask I such a silly question? Because Megan's little Camaro used eight gallon's of gas to cart us around for two hours, not yeilding any of the coveted cones.
There we were barreling down a backroad in Norfolk, MA (they're all backroads in Norfolk), considering the possibility that a trek for campaign signs would have been a better plan. Let me tell you, them campaign signs were everywhere. Suddenly, coming around a corner, we almost ran into a big swamp-like, no ocean-like puddle of mud. We probably would have still been in that mud if it weren't for the warning of 25 little TRAFFIC CONES. The sound inside the beat up Camaro was indescribable. First, squealing of tires, then fear in the hearts of five teenagers (which is silent, but you can hear it), then screams of five teenagers with fear in their hearts, then an almost orgasmic exclamation of "Cones! Cones! Cones!" from five teenagers with cone-caused extacy in their hearts.
The cones were well-lit, with houses all around. Norfolk is a townful`o'yuppies who often call the police when they see beat up Camaros driving around, whether the drivers were doing anything illegal or not. We were hoping to take 12 cones (following the "half of the cones" precedent) so that there would still be cones to protect the innocent from ocean-like puddles of mud. Unfortunately, we only took three for fear of the Big Brother type neighbors our cones had to put up with.
Upon driving away with three muddy cones and one clean Wrentham-center cone in a beat up Camaro, we realized that we were one cone short "of a cone each" and our trek for cones continued, avoiding the temptation to return to the cone haven where undoubtable some yuppie is itting in his silk pajamas saying to his wife "Buffy, I knew there was going to be trouble when I noticed such a roguish car in our neighborhood. I should have called the police when I had the chance. Now there is a car full of rufians driving around with our cones."
After driving around for an hour or so, we didn't see any cones and so we decided to go home. On the way home Matt's little brother saw the mother of all trafic cones. This thing was three and a half feet tall. This cone was guarding the corner of a building which housed a drive thru ice cream shop. This presented quite a dilemma. There were not two cones, so we couldn't take half of them. Actually that's not true. we all agreed that this was a stupid waste of a cone. We tanksed it. (Hey Zach, where did that slang "tanksed" come from? After you steal something you feel that you are entitled to, you quietly say to yourself, "thanks" or "tanks" for short)
Next stop, Wrentham's parking garage. This is where the real problem comes in. Wrentham doesn't have any parking garages, or anything taller that three stories. Nearest parking garage was thirty miles away in Boston. Since we had a cone each, we just decided to take home our cones. Mine's in my room, with a little sign on it that says "Cone" just so no one gets confused.
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