Dirtbag

Hanson is the maker of all plans. I think he designated himself this only because Fergus always suggests lighting up a bowl and I never respond. I’m not one for planning ahead of time.

“So,” he—he being Hanson—begins planning out our Wednesday night, “I think we should go to Raine for the evening, boys.”

“That club is always packed with skanks,” Fergus groans. He’s smoking pot, as always, but Hanson and I stay far from that shit. Hanson has a basketball scholarship he doesn’t want to throw away and I think it’s stupid, plain and simple. Fergus starts to have a coughing attack, which leads to him drinking water and sputtering it all over the red shag carpet of Hanson’s apartment. I laugh. This is a reoccurring act.

“Skanks are gold!” Hanson cries. “They always put out. I’m sick and tired of chicks that play hard to get. Who the fuck says I should chase them around?”

“Becky is going to kill me,” I hear Fergus mumble. Becky is Fergus’ bossy pothead of a girlfriend. She always wears flannel shirts—even in the middle of the summer. I think even Fergus could do better than Becky.

“Fuck Becky,” Hanson says. “Becky is always on your nuts. Dude, I don’t even understand why you’re in a relationship. Those things are an inescapable bear trap in disguise.”

I input, “Except bear traps can kill you.”

“Jack, my man,” Hanson says in between his chuckling. “That’s what you don’t understand, my man. With a simple bear trap, there’s always a possibility that you can escape. With relationships, there’s absolutely no way out.”