Who remembers what they learned in high school math class?  No one.  My ex-students are different.  They remember plenty.  They remember "the violent game".  (10 years, no lawsuits)  They remember goofy random shit I pulled.  But mostly they remember my dumbass stories.  Turns out, that's all I remember too - their dumbass stories.  I remember a genius named Brian.  His math skills?  Who cares.  His ability to tell a story?  Large.

I tracked the nerd down on myspace, and demanded a written account of his "bowling ball" story.  Here it is, in all its glory:

"The Dangers of Marijuana" by Brian Rudolf Tasch

Growing up on the south side of Chicago can be rough.  You'll be exposed to a lot of harsh elements such as kids who think they are really cool because they listen to Slipknot.  And sometimes you'll join a band with kids like this.  When I was but 14 years old, I joined a band with one.  No lie.  Nobody else in the band liked him, but he had a guitar and had nothing better to do.  The main reason nobody liked him was because he was an asshole.  He would only play what he wanted to play which usually consisted of Slipknot, Korn, and Pantera covers.  He also had a Marshall half-stack while the rest of us played out of 30-watt Crate combo amplifiers.  And he liked to turn his amp up louder than everyone else.  He also liked drugs a lot.

One day after a long, unproductive band practice, we decided to walk a mile to a guy's house.  The guy had recently purchased some marijuana and the majority of my band felt that it needed to be smoked IMMEDIATELY.  Our journey began with a walk down some train tracks.  During this walk I spotted an orange ball which I assumed was a basketball.  Upon further inspection I realized it was actually an orange bowling ball.  But nobody else noticed.  They were busy being anxious to do drugs.

Fast forward one hour.  They had smoked.  They were high.  I was not.  I valued life and education.  And I was afraid to anyway.  On the walk back, the guy that nobody liked with the loud amp decided to make jokes at my expense.  I was not happy about this, but pretended I was so I could be accepted by the rest.  We began kicking a rock down the tracks while we made our journey back home.  And there it was.  No more than 50 yards away...the orange bowling ball.

I looked to the guy and said "Dude, how far can you kick that basketball?" to which he replied "Shit man, I play soccer!".  Without another word he ran toward the bowling ball, thinking the entire time that it was merely a basketball that he could kick really far.  As he approached it, he pulled his right leg back...far back, and kicked the bowling ball with all of his might.  He immediately screamed and crumpled to the ground.  He clutched at his foot.  We laughed as he lay writhing.  He took his shoe off to check if his toes were broken.  Three of them were very, very broken.  Two of the guys we were with helped carry him back home.  By the time we got back, his foot had swollen something awful.  It looked like a loaf of bread with little toes sticking out.  I thought it was hilarious.  He cried.  His mother picked him up.  I never played music with those guys again.