>>> Primal Urges
By staff writer Nathan DeGraaf
October 31, 2007

Nathan: I don’t like you in that shirt. Take it off.

Jennifer: Don’t test me. I love biting balls.
Nathan:
How do you feel about being choked?
Jennifer:
I don’t know. I have to really trust a guy for that.
Nathan:
I once helped an old lady clean out her gutters.
Jennifer:
I’ll take that into consideration.

More Snippets

It’s been a while since I told a tale of wanton youth. I mean, the violation of at least one of the Ten Commandments used to be on regular display around here. And luckily for you, while I was running tonight I remembered an old scam some folks and I ran back in the day at an old record store.

I like music. This hardly separates me from the majority of people anywhere at all, ever, but it’s still true so I’m throwing it out there. Also, I knew some people who didn’t like paying for stuff.

One day I introduced my friend Jason (I’ll save you the trouble—not his name) to a girl named Jennifer.

Believe me when I say that Jennifer was certifiably in-fucking-sane. She was one of a handful of girls who loved the fact that a) she found me attractive and b) we had a graveyard behind my house in which to play. And play we did.

“Every week, Jen would enter the record store in black Lycra shorts and a halter top.”

Later, as I got to know this deviant whore, I learned that she was no stranger to the occasional scam. She told me a great story she heard about ripping off a record store. I listened, considered the logistics, then slapped her ass (you had to be there, I guess).

A few days later, while communicating with my buddy Jason, I relayed the story to him. He laughed, considered it for a second, then said, “Dude, let’s do it. I know just the record store.”

A couple of days later, I introduced Jennifer to Jason and the two hit it off tremendously, which is to say that they didn’t totally despise each other on sight (Jason had a conservative look about him; Jennifer looked like an extra biker-slut in a Mötley Crüe video) and eventually, we decided to go to work.

The record store was small—run by two, three people max. Eventually, Jen would learn that only one, pimply-faced kid closed the store down on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He was maybe 17, and according to Jen, he looked like he wasn’t exactly familiar with the female form.

So she went to work.

Every Tuesday and Thursday for two weeks, Jen would enter the record store in black Lycra shorts and a halter top. She would make blatantly obvious attempts at shoplifting, and then invite Captain Pimply to frisk her. Which he did. Some saliva was exchanged, and Jen felt that she owned the bastard (her words, not mine).

The following Tuesday, Jen entered the store approximately 20 minutes after me. Because I was conveniently located in the store’s small bathroom, I probably wasn’t given a second thought when Jen went down on Mr. Pimples.

Three minutes later, they were in the back room doing what Jen does best (read: being a slutty whore) and I was unlocking the door to let in Jason.

We were quiet and competent, which is more than I can say for Mr. Pimples, who had discovered the therapeutic zest of constant moaning.

By the time Jen got out of there, the three of us had significantly improved our CD collections and a certain record store manager became a man.

Cosmically, I think that’s one of those win/win situations you hear so much about.

I’d love to wrap this up with a nice story about what great people everyone turned into, but the truth is that Jason went to jail and Jennifer got cancer or lupus or something (I didn’t get the details on the grounds that I’m a self-involved asshole).

Anyway, people steal, life is shit, and if you’re a skinny, pimple-covered, ugly kid working a minimum wage job, the only way any hot, groupie slut is gonna bone you is for free CDs and concert tickets.

Oh, and maybe cocaine.

So yeah, if you’re looking for it, this story has no moral. But really, I mean, morals are fucking overrated.

And Rock n’ Roll is precious.


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