The bowling ball smashed into the silver cylinder. Foam sprayed in all directions spraying the pants of the two cold, bored boys.
“That was a good one.” said the boy with the camera. How did I get into this situation? Well, it all started in a garage. My friend and perennial lets-go-do-something-stupid buddy Arman and I found a bowling ball in his garage.
“Look! A bowling ball!” I said. Indeed, it was. It was in a dark tan bag, tattered and lined with light blue accents. The handles poked out from the top like rabbit’s ears, and holding it made it look as though one was transporting a severed head. Holding a severed-head-bag was not weird enough. So I put on some goggles. No, really. I did. They’re here on my desk. But holding the bag we realized we were all dressed up with nothing to smash.
“Dude, pumpkins!” I said to Arman. A devilish, yet childish grin covered his face.
“What about cans?” he said. We sauntered to my house, video camera in hand. In my kitchen, we filled all our pockets with can upon can of soda. We waddled out of the house, a can in every pocket, trying to act cool. My dad called.
“Zach!” he called. I quickly handed all the cans to Arman and went to see what he wanted. He said one of those things that I forget before I hit the door. I hit the door, and saw Arman waiting there with all the cans. We walked down to the parking lot by the pool. It was an oval, and on a slant. One piece in the middle was level and had a curb surrounding it. We set up one can with its back to the curb, and its face to the bowling ball. We may as well have given it a tiny Diet-Coke blindfold and cigarette. The can was to meet its doom. Arman bowled the ball towards the can. It hit the can, and the can flew in the air. It didn’t break. It was then that I realized that aluminum cans are created to not be blown up. Should have stuck with pumpkins. Arman went to a little patch of grass next to the curb, and set a little can there. He raised the ball above his head and dropped it on the head of the can. Oh, how glorious the splash was! We went on in this manner, shaking and destroying until we ran out of cans. We hobbled home and watched our masterpiece.
The next day, my friend and perennial that-wasn’t-stupid-enough buddy Arman decided we should go skateboard luging. We filmed on the infamous Twisty Hill (of Doom). Arman went down on his back, and twisted his way to the bottom. But that was not enough for our stupid habit. No, like a cigarette to a nicotine junky, this amount of stupid only increased our desire for the wonderful, beautiful stupid we had yet to experience. So I decided to go down headfirst. Twisty Hill of Doom was too hard to steer from your stomach, so we journeyed to the hill known only as “That One Hill.” This hill was 300 meters long, and on a slope of almost forty-five degrees. In the middle is a dip, as if a large tooth took one bite out of the middle of the hill. I went down, on my stomach, camera in my hand pointing out in front. Down the hill I flew, until I swerved and the wheels of the skateboard gripped the muddy wastes on the side of the path. The skateboard stopped, but I did not. I slid forward while screaming to save the camera. Arman laughed. We went on and on, but the camera had run out of batteries.
Seeing as how we’re tiny kids and our camera had run out of batteries, we went to the stream adjacent to the path and followed it. We walked until our adult minds told us we were trespassing. Arman picked up a jagged piece of ice from the stream.
“Its cold.” said one bored boy.
“That’s ‘cause its ice.” said the other.