37
I'm finally home from my usual yearly trip to Chad's house for the fourth of July, where much fun was had by all, or everyone but the kid in the orange shirt as the case may be. The overall atmosphere was immensely toned down this year as nobody got drunk save Mike Viera (or Nutrageous, as some know him) and there was no air castle, and there were only about a hundred people and change, unlike the 250 plus from last year's mayhem, who in their large quantities made great shields from rogue horizontal fireworks shooting up the lawn. I arrived to Chad's empty house the day before, and after knocking on the door, his sister let me in in her towel, immediately followed by Chad's mom walking down the stairs and peeking around the corner, compelled to ask if anyone was on the other side. This gesture, in fact, I am very grateful for, as for some reason she was completely in the buff, and her asking if anyone was in the house saved me my eyesight and embarrasing things to tell Chad later.
The rest of the fourth went smoother than most years, with games of frisbee, Chad's band, and perhaps best of all, Chad's dad mowing the lawn on the tractor. Chad's dad was wearing a wife beater and a straw hat from Mexico at the time, and in combination with his mustache and the ride-on mower, he rather resembled a Southern plantation owner. As such it was only appropriate to belt out "Swing Low, Sweet Charriot" every time he made a pass by our spots on the deck.
We had no fireworks light the trees ablaze, and there werent massive crowds of underage kids who nobody knew trying to get soused. Except for this kid in an orange shirt. He showed up last year and had one beer, after which he acted very drunk and made quite an ass out of himself for attention. This year was not too different for the little douchebag, as Chad's sister came to Chad later in the evening to ask him to remove the kid, who was coincidentally again in the orange shirt. Chad asked him to leave politely, though should have picked him up by the seat of his pants and tossed him from the lawn since we found out the next morning just how much worse he had gotten in a year, as the kid was apparently dropping weed from his pockets "accidentally" and repeating how much he "needed to get laid" for the time he was there. He also stole Bacardi-infused gummy bears from Chad's fridge, which also earns him a killin'.
Finally, that night after everyone left, Chad's cousin Ben discovered the most cracked out electronic puzzle game ever, which had 100 puzzles on it utilizing color patterns, voice commands, math problems, and a plethora of wacky sounds that it would let out at random times confusing the fuck out of whoever was trying to solve the problems presented. One of the problems required trying to reach a number through multiples of numbers 1 through 5, or by subtracting the number 6. We were stuck for about a half hour on how to reach the number 37 in this way, and we had to skip ahead and move on in the puzzles. This morning, however, after everyone left and Chad and I were picking up fireworks, Ben calls with Andy and without saying hello, spouts off a two minute long process of how to get the number 37, ending the conversation before hanging up with "and THATS how you get 37 mutha fuckas!"
So there you have it.
That's how you get 37.
The rest of the fourth went smoother than most years, with games of frisbee, Chad's band, and perhaps best of all, Chad's dad mowing the lawn on the tractor. Chad's dad was wearing a wife beater and a straw hat from Mexico at the time, and in combination with his mustache and the ride-on mower, he rather resembled a Southern plantation owner. As such it was only appropriate to belt out "Swing Low, Sweet Charriot" every time he made a pass by our spots on the deck.
We had no fireworks light the trees ablaze, and there werent massive crowds of underage kids who nobody knew trying to get soused. Except for this kid in an orange shirt. He showed up last year and had one beer, after which he acted very drunk and made quite an ass out of himself for attention. This year was not too different for the little douchebag, as Chad's sister came to Chad later in the evening to ask him to remove the kid, who was coincidentally again in the orange shirt. Chad asked him to leave politely, though should have picked him up by the seat of his pants and tossed him from the lawn since we found out the next morning just how much worse he had gotten in a year, as the kid was apparently dropping weed from his pockets "accidentally" and repeating how much he "needed to get laid" for the time he was there. He also stole Bacardi-infused gummy bears from Chad's fridge, which also earns him a killin'.
Finally, that night after everyone left, Chad's cousin Ben discovered the most cracked out electronic puzzle game ever, which had 100 puzzles on it utilizing color patterns, voice commands, math problems, and a plethora of wacky sounds that it would let out at random times confusing the fuck out of whoever was trying to solve the problems presented. One of the problems required trying to reach a number through multiples of numbers 1 through 5, or by subtracting the number 6. We were stuck for about a half hour on how to reach the number 37 in this way, and we had to skip ahead and move on in the puzzles. This morning, however, after everyone left and Chad and I were picking up fireworks, Ben calls with Andy and without saying hello, spouts off a two minute long process of how to get the number 37, ending the conversation before hanging up with "and THATS how you get 37 mutha fuckas!"
So there you have it.
That's how you get 37.