The Tale of B.J. Cohen and His Capgun
When young Patrick Liam was just a wee lad, a kindergartener in fact, we were roaming around our neighborhood, as children are wont to do. We were with this half-retarded* kid named Alex Detarr ("Detarr's a retard!"), and we came across this older, grossly overweight dude named B.J. Cohen. His name is B.J...enough said.
B.J. Cohen is 3 years older than me and thus 5 years older than Pat. B.J. lives behind our house, sorta, and we are over near his house when he comes walking up. B.J. is carrying a capgun! Guns weren't really allowed in our house, and certainly not capguns. Oh, those liberal parents! Pat and I ask B.J. if we can shoot his capgun. B.J. considers this for a moment and says that we can shoot his capgun only if we climb this tree we were standing next to.
Keep in mind. This is a freaking pine tree. And the Lake Tahoe area was in the midst of a long drought, so many trees were dead or dying, and all were very dry and brittle. You can probably tell where this story is going at this point, but I shall forge on.
Wisely, I pass on the offer. Those are little branches, and I was a muscular 2nd grader:
Pat, however, did not have my foresight. And after ignoring my repeated warnings, Pat begins to climb this pine tree, determined to get his hands on the capgun**. Pat was a feisty little kid, and he got pretty fuckin high, truth be told. I'd say he was a good 20 feet up. Maybe 25. I dunno. I mean, I was like 8. But it was really high! I kept telling B.J. that Pat had gone far enough. "No, he has to go higher," B.J. kept repeating.
Suddenly, Pat takes a step and *SNAP*
And down comes Pat. Wisely, although painfully, Pat has the wits about him to hug the tree. Had he fallen backwards, he perhaps would have died had he landed on his head or something. He definitely would have broken bones. Unless he'd landed on that fatfuck B.J. Cohen. That would have been like jumping on a waterbed.
So yeah. Pat is sliding down the tree, hugging it with all his might. Was he shirtless? I don't remember. But his entire torso and thighs are torn up by the time he gets to the bottom. He's like 5 or 6 and he's bloody and crying. Like any good brother, I tell Detarr the Retard to run and get my parents whilst I hoist Pat into my arms and begin carrying him like Forrest carried Bubba.
Oh. And of course that douche bag B.J. Cohen ran home instead of helping me. So Alex, the retard he is, slowly moseys his way ahead of me to my house. My parents would later say that when he got to the front door, he knocked half-heartedly, and slowly said, "Pat got hurt." My parents run out the door and The Retard points them in the right direction. By the time they are to the sideyard, I have carried Pat's bloody, lifeless*** body all the way to the house. My dad grabs Pat out of my arms and I sorta collapse, exhausted from carrying that dude over 100 yards.
Check that scale. A good 100 meters or more! Pat goes to the hospital where he is cleaned up and whatnot. I am given a Congressional Medal of Honor for being such a Good Brother, and B.J. Cohen probably overdosed on cocaine at age 20. So all is right with the world!
*Note: He wasn't actually half-retarded. He was just one of those idiot kids. You will see what I mean as the story unfolds.
**To this day, I am convinced that B.J. Cohen was such a fat asshole that he would not have let Pat shoot the capgun, anyways.
***Ok, not lifeless.
6 comments:
Perhaps you should rename this series "Great Moments in the Life of: Thomas O'Brien," because it would give you more opportunities to post pictures of your ripped little 2nd grade self.
Shoot, that was actually like kindergarten or first grade me. The idea is to post my favorite stories about friends/family. I think Bryan Chackel is next.
I do have to admit im a little nervous leaving a comment on a blog with topless photos of little boys.
But screw BJ Cohen. He just sounds like a cock.
side note: youre doing the *** thing now too? ugh
it's better than having parenthetical phrases every six words.
Complain, complain.
ok hold up, a few corrections/points:
1) Pat had a shirt and shorts on, the shirt was pulled up to his face / chest as he slid down said tree.
2) The gun BJ had was actually one of those plastic disc guns, not actually a cap gun.
3) BJ's name was Bernard... that fat fuck.
4) Mom, Dad, and I were working in the back/side yard on that crappy fence. So subtract a few hundred feet maybe and alex came to the back fence, not front door.
- Other than that I think you're golden.
=]
Whoa whoa whoa. I actually don't remember you being around at all, I'll ask mom.
BUT. There was no real back fence. There was a side fence. Actually, I don't recall a fence at all. And I got him almost to the driveway through the side yard. The entire trip was 100 yds - so about 300 feet. You can't subtract "a few hundred feet" from how far I carried him. Maybe like 20.
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