This is a sort-of-true account of a partially real Scranton-Lifer. This person is fictitious in as far as whom he is doesn't matter because he isn't real. He is the shadow or an echo of a real person and what he does is nothing more than afterthoughts in a huge, scrambled mess of mishaps in tragic decision making. He is a real life Scranton Dirtball in a completely fake, but totally genuine way. Take from this what you will but don't take it too seriously. So without further ado:
I’m cruising the Mulberry strip, acting righteous and partying hard, searching for a place to rock it and blur the lines a little more. I'm well on my way to never remembering this night or any of the stupid things I am only likely to do once. I can't be held responsible for doing them. I have been in every odd-numbered house on Taylor tonight and if you asked me to distinguish between them, I could only tell you what the basements smelled like, and God knows that won't do any good.
This is how I roll in the Electric City—a heaven on earth buried in potholes and flanked by garbage piles. I am in the North-East's Hub-O-Fun and on the best of nights I rock it as a black-out style hobo searching for my next fix of warm Natty Ice. All my clothes smell like stale beer and weigh on me with a musty thickness from whatever basement I just stumbled out of. If I am lucky, which I rarely am, I've left the party because some obnoxious drunk who lives in the scum-hole untapped the keg to clear the place out, or because they have yelled "Cops!" and everyone has scrambled. If I'm not lucky, I had to leave because I swallowed some asbestos that fell in my beer and puked black death-vomit in the washing machine. Puke and rally—somebody help me find Goodfellas.
Speaking of which, that chick that just stumbled past me chomping down on a Goodfellas Grease-Triangle the size of a Star Destroyer should not be wearing a belly-shirt. Usually I'd vomit in her general direction, but everything I had in my stomach is settling into a crusty solid at the bottom of some poor person's washing machine with their socks and halter-tops. Besides, I took a few shots of Triple-Distilled Potato Vodka so I'd kick it with her—I won't remember in the morning.
Forget it, I'll leave her for the Abercrombie Brigade strutting their way down the street. They're wreaking of pomade and obnoxiously expensive cologne, yelling "Holla!" while flipping open their $500 supercomputer cell phones that could bomb Iraq or run most of the computer systems at NASA—all this just to call some fellow Guido at a late night 80s-theme private party.
Speaking of theme parties, I think I was supposed to be at a "Ghetto" party tonight, but I just can't swallow my pride and pretend I'm anything other than a putridly white suburban kid that has no association with an urban culture whatsoever. Honestly, just because you wrap a bandanna around your thigh and wear a couple necklaces your parents bought you for Christmas that say "Princess" on them doesn't mean you look "Ghetto" or are blinging properly.
Whatever, that's not important right now. What is important is that I'm walking some half-conscious girl I don't know (and never will since I cannot remember the last hour of my life) back to her room 'cause she has a belly shirt and a tongue ring. I'm praying to God I get out in time tomorrow morning 'cause her roommate will probably watch us have dirty sex while she tries to sleep. If you ask me how I found her, I couldn't tell you, and neither would I try; she is here now and, hopefully, tomorrow she'll never be around ever again.
This is Scranton; We're dirty to the core and no one cares; we're stereotypical and that's fine with us cause we're not pretending otherwise, so take your black-tie, martini-in-one-hand-wine-in-the-other "social" events, and your swank downtown bars that only accept credit cards, and stick 'em up your ass. However, before you do, get me another warm Natty Ice from the J.O.P. or Guido working the keg and filling only his friends. We're not swanky, we're seldom pretty, we're alarming rude, mostly lushes, and rarely interesting to talk to; but we rock it hard and you wouldn't keep up. This is Scranton, whatever and ever amen, rock and roll, puke and rally. Cut us and we'll bleed beer.