It’s the origin story of recklessly yelling at a friend’s house, both to hilariously take a jab at him and to strangely say what’s up.
For reasons I can’t remember, nor can I comprehend, my friends and I began yelling at our classmate’s house in high school. We would do drive-by shouts, screaming his name, hoping that he would hear us and meet us outside.
Sometimes, he did. He would say what’s up, sometimes we would share some fries from the local burger joint we had just gone to.
It was funny. We wondered what the neighbors thought, but it was all good fun, especially since our buddy knew it was us. The shouting became so common, we decided to step up our roars: we began uttering obscene things.
The biggest accusation: stop jacking off.
Anytime we were in the area — even today — our main objective would be driving past the property to remind him about his supposedly wicked glad-handing.
Most of the time, we didn’t get a reaction. We asked if he heard us; he said he did.
This act became so common, our buddy asked what was up when we didn’t yell.
“What’s wrong, you guys haven’t been around. You don’t like me anymore?”
He actually looked forward to our obscenities. It was no longer, “stop jacking off,” no, it evolved into, “stop jacking off, you fucking jackoff,” and “you beat your meat,” and “stop slapping the salami.”
Our buddy was still cool with these shenanigans. This guy had always been cool. When we were younger, owning a Nintendo 64 was a big thing. Those things were in high demand and supply was short.
His older brother actually got his hands on one. As dumb youths do, we called the console “Nintendo 69,” ‘cause, you know the whole 69 position that teenagers love to bring up, yet they’ve probably never even done it.
One day when we visited our buddy, he told us that maybe his older brother would let us play the rare Nintendo product. He went to his room and actually told them, “they want to play 69.”
“What the fuck, I ain’t gay!” older brother responded.
“No, the Nintendo 64.”
We all had a great laugh with that one.
“ He actually looked forward to our obscenities. It was no longer, ‘stop jacking off,’ no, it evolved into, ‘stop jacking off, you fucking jackoff,’ and ‘you beat your meat,’ and ‘stop slapping the salami.’ ”
Through the years we continued with the yelling tradition. We even dared to yell during the day. During summer, when the sun went down much later, we would pass by around dusk before seeing movies. Traveling west to east, nobody could see if anybody was in the driveway or in the garage. We found out the hard way.
We started to yell, “stop jacking off” then as we passed the driveway we saw our buddy, his brother and his dad hanging out with the garage door open.
One of the shouters in the car turned toward me in fright, ducking his head down as if a grenade had been tossed. “Whoooooaaaaaaaa!” my friend said, still hiding from the folks he had just insulted.
Another one of my friends said he felt especially guilty at church that weekend, not for what was said, no, it was because during communion time, our buddy’s dad was one of the Eucharistic Ministers (one of the lay people appointed to distribute the crackers — as Eric Cartman would say — that represented Jesus Crist) and the two were on a collision course. My friend was in the same line, what were the odds?
Did the dad remember the incident? Did he have vengeance on the mind? There were rumors (which we started) that the dad was in the mafia, some sort of crime boss or leader who was in a godfather-like position.
The dad never said anything, nor did he indicate anything was wrong when my friend received the Body of Christ. Still, those gangster thoughts were stuck in his head. And our heads too.
Our buddy said his mom warned him about our yelling. She heard our shouts, but couldn’t understand what we were saying. “Don’t go out there, they’re gangsters,” she would tell our buddy.
“Mom, they’re my friends,” he said. “What do they say, I jack off? Gangsters don’t warn you by saying your name. And they’re not going to say you jack off.”
Sometimes, our buddy is at his parent’s house so we give a courtesy yell every now and then. Most of the time, he’s not there, but one time he was … and his parents had company over. I know because a few minutes after our holler, I received a text about it.
The most hilarious moment from this mischief came when a friend of mine, who usually doesn’t yell with us, tried his hand at the act. He actually waited for our screams to die down, then began his insult.
However, a guy riding a bike traveling the opposite direction crossed paths with us. My friend had no idea the guy was riding a bike so he rolled down the window and shouted, “you suck dick!”
It was dumb luck that the biker rolled by as my friend said, “you suck dick.” The biker assumed the disgrace was directed at him, and not a buddy’s house that we bothered so often. The Lance Armstrong wannabe (minus the steroids, hopefully) slowed down enough to turn around to give us the middle finger.
For a while there, I thought he was going to try to chase us.
Sometimes I wonder when this juvenile act will end. But if it stopped, maybe our buddy will feel left out, the way he did in high school when this monkey business first started. He’s a cool guy and I don’t want him to feel left out, maybe that’s an indicator when this will end.