“OE 800 cause that’s my brand, take it in a bottle, 40, quart or can.” At least that’s the mantra of dead rappers from Compton and poor college students. See I went to a rather unremarkable state school in an even more unremarkable small town lying on the outskirts of a tired, worn out little city in western New York, and having spent virtually my entire life in the area, have developed an appetite for altering my reality experience. Now being someone with little means and less ways to waste it, I was limited in methods of execution. Sure you could save up all your money and go out all fancy once in a while, but in the face of the stresses of daily existence one tends to want to get twisted more often than the once a month date night to Apple Bees. How then does one achieve their optimal level of reality in the most cost effective way possible? Well in my case it was the smooth refreshing taste of a $2.50 40 oz. of Olde English Malt Liquor. Indeed, when one is properly acquainted with 40 delicious ounces of high gravity malt liquor, it is as if one is living inside a beer commercial -replete with beautiful people, unlimited good times, and zero concerns.
But all these good times come at an unfortunate cost: a staggering amount of empty bottles piling up everywhere, attracting fruit flies and random street people. So what do a bunch of drunken idiots do when faced with all these rotting glass corpses lying all over the porch…and yard…and sometimes road? Recycle them you say? Nonsense! If we wanted to save the environment we would have let the homeless have them. A much more sound (albeit alcohol influenced) idea is to designate a particular patch of overgrown grass in the backyard as the final resting place for our deceased protagonists of excitement, and (as in the true spirit in which they have inspired) to launch them from a predetermined distance in hopes of causing some glass on glass annihilation. Now, just in case there is any doubt as to the seriousness with which we took this endeavor, there are two things which I can say in our defense. First, in the truest sense of despair felt at the constant loss of our little glass friends, for each and every bottle tossed, we played taps. Second, in keeping with the joyous mood imparted upon us by our crystalline comrades, we developed a point system where differing amounts were given based on various categories such as glass breakage, making contact with the tree behind the graveyard, and…well…fuck I don’t know, we were trippin’ off that 8-ball yo.