On Filthy Goddamn Southerners

I love them. I'm not talking about Alan (he isn't filthy, and he's more of a "damn southerner" than a "goddamn" one). I'm talking about Brody.

Brody isn't the most-popular guy in Suite 3100, or at Wash U. in general (while we were at an ATM, a girl walked by him and said only the words "Brody the douche". I'm told it's his ex-girlfriend), but I like him. He represents, to me, some of the best parts of the South.

He's lazy.
He's cheap.
He's an idiot.
He talks about Jesus even though he doesn't know anything about him.
He likes guns and gratuitous violence.
He drinks bad liquor.
He's ugly.

In California, you find people who fit two, maybe three of these characteristics. I know plenty of dumb, ugly, cheapskates. I know plenty of people who talk about Jesus and love guns. I know people who are ugly enough for it to count as three separate characteristics. But, in my entire life, Brody is the first person I've met who had all of these things wrapped together.

Plus, he's loaded.


I got online, bored and sober and looking for something to do. Brody, at some point, probably while I was drunk, made it onto my buddy list, and he was the only person who wasn't studying for a final or writing a paper, so we started talking. He wanted to go on some sort of adventure, inevitably involving marijuana and low-grade explosives; I told him I'd see what I could scrape together.

Brody bought the contraband, and I borrowed Alan's zig-zags and his magical joint-rolling pen. I've only ever seen Alan do it, but it seemed simple enough, so I told Brody I knew how. I think I rolled a pretty decent joint for a first-attempt, even though we had to pull on it like we were sucking an egg through a hose (an Alan-ism, probably from the South).

We ended up at Waffle House (after something like seventy wrong turns. Brody was driving). I ordered a hearty southern man's dinner: TEXAS Cheesesteak, double order of hashbrowns, smothered, covered and chunked, and a regular order of hashbrowns smothered and topped.

As I ate my chili-browns, I said to Brody, "You know what I'm doing right now? I'm giving you a great reason to get us back to campus without getting lost." He looked at my plate, then at me, and a look of absolute horror hit his face.

Oh, I forgot that part of being from the South: he farts, and he respects farting as a bargaining token.

Anyway, there's not much point to this story, I realize. I just wanted an excuse to post more pictures. It's no photo-essay (I couldn't stand up to Carl's adventures), but I like the pictures.

Brody using his dick-berry mobile device. Why does he need it? Nobody knows. What good is it? Marking himself as a target for muggers.



Yours truly, in my best Waffle House outfit. That's a Wal-Mart hat. Cost me a dollar, it did.



Brody eating a bowl of chili, so he could return fire on the car ride back to campus. While he wasn't paying attention, I payed our waitress a dollar to spit in it.

Alright, I guess I've got finals to study for.

-Chaz