>>> Against Your Will
By staff writer John Marcher

August 1, 2007

Not too long after the infamous Dragon Bong incident, I got into another ridiculous debacle with the holy one. We were out at a party, getting drunk like only high schoolers can, with no regard for life or liver. The get-together was complete with beer-bongs, keg-stands, and Jello-shooters, and when it came time to call it a night, Jesus was piss drunk to the point of not being able to walk.

Now, as I have mentioned before, Jesus is one of those people who likes to get drunk or high to the point of complete inoperability. Simply put, there is no middle ground for him, and this usually results in having to baby-sit him when an event like a party occurs. I have no patience for that kind of shit, and would usually revert to yelling at him until he sobered up enough to maintain some semblance of capability. On this particular night however, there was no helping him out—he was T-K-O.

As the party wound down, a group of my friends, including Jesus, piled into my sweet red Celica and we hit the road. There wasn’t enough room in the luxurious interior of my car for everyone, so we played paper-rock-scissors to see who had to ride in the trunk. As Jesus could not use his hands to make any of the regulation hand gestures, he of course lost, and was henceforth stuffed in the trunk. As the Celica is soooo very sweet, we were back to Jesus’ house in record time, and I was even kind enough to pop the trunk for him. After honking loudly for a couple of minutes, and playing chicken every time he tried to get out byburning out and slamming the brakes so he would fall back into the trunk, I courteously got out of the car to help him out.

“Jesus was the only one packing heat at the party the night before, and things were really dry that week.”

With all the raucous laughter from my friends as a result of fucking with Jesus, I hadn’t stopped for a minute to think about my precious cargo. Turns out all the coarse movement had caused the grimy fuck to puke on my golf clubs. This enraged me like none other and I began screaming at the bastard to get the fuck out of my boot. He continued gargling his own vomit and babbling like Skip Bayless on Cold Pizza so I was forced to pull him out using sheer force. I stood him upright, spun him around ‘til he was facing his front door, and gave him a gentle push. He made it all of ten feet before landing flat on his face, in asoft patch of crabgrass next to some dog doo-doo. Still angry with him about puking on my Titleists, I drove off, never thinking that patch of grass would serve as his bed for the night.

The next day I called Jesus to see if he wanted to smoke. One of the things I forgot to mention was that Jesus was the only one packing heat at the party the night before, and things were really dry that week. He began questioning me about the end of the night and how he ended up sleeping in his front lawn. I told him I had no idea what the fuck he was talking about, and all I knew was that he had asked me to practice his chipping at 2 a.m. and had yakked on my golf bag, and oh, I would need him to clean them up after we smoked.

He told me that was kind of a problem because his mom had found him passed out on the lawn that morning and had to drag him inside and help him into bed. While doing this she had taken his pants off to wash out the grass stains and found his eighth of the diggity-dank. She had brought him breakfast around noon and began questioning him about it, and all he could come up with was it was somebody else’s. This was just great, I thought. Now he had no weed, we had no weed, and fuck man, what the hell was I gonna do on a Saturday afternoon hung over as hell?

At this point we began formulating a plan to get the weed back from Jesus’ mom. And by that I mean, I began screaming at Jesus uncontrollably until I was able to pound through his thick skull what I thought the best plan of action was. We decided to run with his original excuse, that the smoke was somebody else’s. My friend Berg was in town for the week from Maine, and he had attended the party with Jesus and I. Since he was equally interested in procuring some fatty lumpkin (and also would be going back to Maine next weekend), he would make the perfect candidate for our job. Convincing Berg took some serious work, but I kept reiterating those same two facts: 1) He was leaving in a week and would never see Jesus’ mom again, and 2) This was our only shot at smoking. He finally threw his hat in the ring.

After Jesus laid the groundwork with his mom, I drove Berg over to his house under the cover of darkness. We had smoked a resin-ball on the way, so we were pretty blitzed once we got there. I wished Berg the best of luck as he got out of the car, but I could tell he was pretty nervous about the whole ordeal. I told him worst case scenario to just haul ass back to the car and we would blow this Popsicle stand.

I sat back in the Celica, crossed my fingers, and put on some Allman Brothers to relax to.

Ten minutes later the front door opened, and there was Jesus’ mom! My heart skipped a beat as I contemplated what fate would befall me had things gone awry during the exchange. But I was soon reassured as she waved to me and showed Berg out the door politely. She stood there in the doorway as Berg calmly walked back to the car with a shit-eating grin on his face. They had really done it, I thought—they had pulled off the caper of the century.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of olive skin and greasy hair. It was Jesus! He had booked it out the side door of his house, through his garage, and was making a beeline for the car!

“Wholly-whumpus motherfucker!” I thought to myself.

We had briefly gone over a plan to meet out behind his house ten minutes later to hit the road for the ensuing smoke session, but this dramatic dash for the getaway vehicle wasn’t a part of it. By this time Berg caught sight of him, he had increased his pace to an easy trot in anticipation of the fervent pace of Jesus’ exit. He arrived at the car winded from his asthma, chain smoking.

“What the fuck are you doing Jesus?!?” I asked.

D… D… DRIVE!!!” he screamed through gasps of air.

I floored it in the Celica and we balled out of there, my last image of that ridiculous scene being Jesus’ mom, arms crossed, outlined in the doorway by the light emanating from the inside, watching us peel out with a look on her face of sheer disbelief. As we made our way to the broken down SAAB out behind the old church that we used to smoke in, one thing became clear: It was the last time any of us would ask Jesus’ mom for some pot.