sweep the leg, johnny

[secndhandmurder]

the year was 2001. the guilty party consisted of patrick corsetti, nick rodriguez, mike keim, myself, and a few other friendly faces. crazy fingers, the grateful dead cover band, was jammin' out at the pompano beach pier and we were on the prowl. this is the last place a 17 year-old hardcore kid should be, but i was busy taking it all in and enjoying myself. the air was crisp and the ocean reeked of dead refugees. the pier was loaded with characters, specifically these beach bums who had long surpassed the brink of insanity as if they were running a fucking marathon. we would spend the next thirty minutes with these guys, hanging out on the beach. they were drunk and rambling about new jersey and how malt liquor gives them superpowers. one of the wanderers decided he'd teach me a life lesson, you know, as if i needed anymore of those. the result was an incoherent batch of rehashed television sitcom kid sister advice. i was ready to bash myself in the head with a coconut that deviated away from the nearest palm tree with hopes of greener pastures, but fell to its sandy grave only five feet away. i'm becoming desperate and i'm ready to flex on this guy, but then he presented the topper. he told me, with his finger pointing to his friend. "johnny, you see that guy?" to which i responded "your pal?" he retorted "johnny, he's not my friend. he's a fucking toad. do you know what a toad is, johnny?" my best answer was a dumbfounded "it's an amphibian." he says "no johnny, well, yes. but no. a toad is something that shits on a fuckin' log. that guy, he shits on a fuckin' log all day. he's fucking worthless, johnny. a panhandler, a vagabond, a fuckin' toad. he's not my friend." confused, i asked him why he hangs out with him. "johnny, i'm a fuckin' drunk." he then proceeded to tell my friends and i to not end up like a bunch of toads.

moral of the story: don't shit on a log. "this one's for you; never hang up your boots."