Combined Efforts:

Themeless Wonder Summer Vacation 2

Stories from Dan:

Chuck E. Cheese

Stories from Chris:

Kiss FM: The Day Pop Culture Died

Every summer, Dan and I go to Panama City Beach. We apparently go the week nobody else is there, but it's alright, because we seem to make things happen. We're social catalysts. And some of the more interesting happenings have been chronicled. Learn by our mistakes, I implore you:


We went to a movie one of the nights. It was a good movie, but half the fun was the small, would-be arcade outside in the lobby. It amazes me how many people actually play “Golden Tee” and other such golf games, but I was never into that. I used to try to play golf often. When I was about 11, two friends and I would set up holes in a field behind our neighborhood, and we would hit balls around the badly overgrown terrain. This continued until we lost all of our balls, because we usually didn’t find them after we’d hit them. We’d also have a tough time keeping a straight face when saying “I can’t find my balls,” so in retrospect, I think we deserved to be chased from that field by an old woman whose house was nearby. She screamed “There are rattlesnakes out there, get out!” We weren’t afraid though. We had golf clubs to beat the snakes with, and our old, partially broken, lanky, heavy pieces of steel could easily outmaneuver any snake’s venomous fangs. I’ve found that the frustration of real golf often carries over into the track-ball aided arcade games, and after mere minutes I’m reduced to pushing the large arcade console over and watching it explode while laughing maniacally.  

So having decided not to play Golden Tee, I made my way to Police Trainer, along with Dan. In Police Trainer, you have two guns (For two players) and you take skill tests such as accuracy, judgement, speed, memory, and advanced ballistic tactics to decide what rank you get to be. Dan took his place at the red gun, and I took my place at the blue one. However, upon drawing our firearms, Dan realized he’d wasted all of his money outside on the street, paying some midgets to dance around while he threw pennies at them. I told him he’d just have to live without the thrilling game, and so he stood aside while I inserted some quarters. Immediately I realized that my gun was screwed up. If I pulled the trigger, the shot would register about 3 inches below where I’d actually aimed. After killing several innocent people, I learned to compensate, and was getting better. That was when my friend showed up. My friend looked to be about 9 years old, and strutted into the room like he knew he was coming to do some damage. His glasses and baseball cap intimidated me especially. He took his place at the other gun, and inserted some money. Then I started one of the tests: Timing. As I was starting, I looked at him and asked, “Does your gun work?”

“Yeah,” he replied, while squinting.

“Wanna trade? My gun is blue.”


“You sure?”

“Your gun doesn’t work, I heard you complaining. I’m not stupid.”

“Fine then.”

When the targets popped up on the screen, I shot mine, then quickly shot all of the targets on his side of the screen, amidst frantic whining. The scores were displayed for the two policemen:

  Blue Gun:

 Targets Required To Pass: 10

Targets Hit: 20

Score: 20,000



Red Gun:

Targets Required To Pass: 10

Targets Hit: 0

Score: 0


(Insert Quarters)


“Aw, man..” he said, while I flashed him a Dirty Harry look.

“You lose. Wanna play again?”


“You should’ve taken the blue gun. Now get out.”  



    Even before we entered the vicinity of Panama City we were bombarded with billboards promoting some store called Alvin’s Island. Apparently this store was wildly popular, because every other sign mentioned it. Once we entered the city, we noticed that Alvin’s Island was a chain, since multiple stores pretty much lined the streets. What was so inconceivably satisfying about this store we had yet to find out. Also, the merchandise they sold still eluded our minds. 

     The plot thickened when we first entered our room and turned on the TV. I guess we should have seen it coming but, to our amazement, there was a channel devoted to Alvin’s Island. Watching Alvin’s Channel (cleverly named) was just like watching a Baywatch episode but with more girls (hard to believe, I know). So after viewing Alvin’s Channel for 2 hours straight, we came to the conclusion that Alvin’s Island produced mass quantities of 20-year-old girls in swimsuits and ocean water. How wrong we were. When we finally could pull ourselves away from Alvin’s Channel, we decided to go purchase some females. Yet, to our disappointment, women were not one of the products sold at Alvin’s Island. Neither was ocean water, which would have been more exciting and entertaining than what they did sell.... seashells. That’s right, seashells. Just like the millions upon million that sliced your foot open while walking down to the ocean, except these were smaller, smellier, and more brittle. After all that hype, Alvin’s Island ended up being one of the world’s largest vendors of a product that you could get stuck in your sandal treads for free. This spirit-shattering discovery sent us into a deep depression where we spent the next 48 hours sobbing in self-pity and watching Alvin’s Channel, imagining what could have been.


One night, as we sat out by the pool, we discussed the obsession with soap and natural botanicals that was present in so many females we knew. In our city, we have a store called Bath and Body Works. I have no way of knowing if this chain extends far enough for anyone reading this to have ever heard of it, or if there’s even some sort of equivalent where you live. But in any case, this store is a safe haven for women seeking bath beads and several, several different kinds of lotion. Many girls I know have countless different scents of these lotions, and you pay about 6 bucks for one little bottle of the stuff. The worst part is, however, that they actually expect guys to notice the difference in smell, something we're incapable of doing. The moment I hear a guy say “Gee Susan, is that Funky Freesia you’re wearing? WOW! That smells even better than Cucumber Melon!” is the day that I unload a clip of ammo into someone’s face. Depending on the level of raw emotion and rage the site of the totally whipped guy induces, I may or may not use hollow point bullets.

 Dan and I think we should do away completely with these types of lotions and bath products. If humans needed to smell good, we would have evolved some sort of “Lotion Gland” by now. Perhaps that’s what sweat is. Maybe sweat smells good, but since humans have such a distorted view of so much, we’ve also been brainwashed to think that sweat smells bad and “Blueberry Sky” smells delightful. Or if these bath products must stay, then change the names to something more updated and real, like “Unprotected Fruit Passion,” or “Strawberry STD Jubilee.” Why not mix a little reality in with or bodily cleansing? It was heated discussions like this that kept us awake at night, and entertained us throughout the day.  


    While at the pool one day we met this guy named Cameron. He seemed pretty cool except for the fact that he hit on girls that were a "bit" younger than him, like in 7th grade. So being the sensitive and compassionate individuals we are, Chris and I decided to make his dating life a nightmare from which he would not awaken. Firstly, we attacked Cameron in the hot tubs. He was there, lounging with his ladies, and Chris and I, together with a few other random guys we'd met there, walked by him time after time, always repeating the same conversations. Oftentimes they were stolen from movies, such as this classic dialogue from Wayne's World: 

Dan: Did you ever think Bugs Bunny was attractive when he put on make-up and dressed like a girl bunny? 

Chris: No…Why?.....Did you? 

Dan: No…. I was just wondering if you did….

    After a while, he just started to ignore us so we were forced to take more extreme measures. The previous day we met this guy Justin, and he, along with his friends, agreed to help annoy Cameron. At one point, we swam up to where Cameron and his hunnies were in the pool and had loud conversations about the financial pros and cons of baseball card farming in China and why Sesame Street should do an episode on the dangers of high fructose corn syrup, hosted by Odd Job from the Bond films. When this wasn’t enough and we had almost given up all hope, Justin remembered a whale special he had seen on the Discovery Channel recently (none of us knew where this was going, but we knew it was going to be good.) He said that the whales spent several hours of the day slamming their heads into the water sideways, which he most graciously and accurately demonstrated to us. At this point all five or six of us started launching up in the air and violently thrusting out heads sideways into the water. It was fun, painful, and successful all at the same time, because the splashing scared away the girls who were apparently surprised that the pool had water in it and were totally unprepared to get wet, except for the bathing suits, towels, sandals, scuba gear, etc. that they had brought. Cameron just looked at us and smirked. 

     Then we dunked him.


As always, we went Freestyle Walking one day. We were hoping to draw a little attention, and we did. Just as Dan leapt from a ledge and executed a highly dangerous Double Indy Fakeside, one of the several roving security guards stopped and watched us. I flashed Dan a glance that said, “Hey, keep a straight face and pretend we don’t see him. You’ll notice that he’s armed only with a flashlight, nightstick, walkie-talkie, and one flashbang. The flashlight is of no use to him since it’s day, and we can easily take him down if he tries to use that nightstick on us. If it comes to a fight, we’ll have to take that walkie-talkie, because he may call for backup. If he throws the flashbang, the important thing is to close your eyes and cover your ears, so you’re not blinded and deafened by the stun grenade’s explosion.” Dan, catching my glance, did as I suggested and we both pulled a 360 Toe Grab off of the wall. I wiped out, and Dan laughed at me, and the security guard looked at us sternly and said, “Excuse me, but we’ve received several complaints about you two. Seems you’ve caused quite a bit of property damage.”

“You’re just mad because you’re too old and slow to pull off a 1080 with a grab,” Dan replied, and did a double backflip.

“That may be the case, but either way, you can’t be doing that here.”

“Fine. We’ll adhere to your rules,” I said. “We’ll take our mad FSW skills somewhere you can’t stop us.”

“Where might that be?” the security guard asked.

“The ocean!” I replied slyly, thinking I had won.


Freestyle walking in the ocean sounds great on paper, but in reality it’s pretty tough. The best thing to do is bravely swim into an oncoming wave, and throw your knees over your head when it crashes on you, causing you to flip chaotically. I did this a few times, but once overestimated my skills as an ocean walker, and also underestimated the size of the wave, and was thrown violently to the ocean floor, where I stayed until the wave decided I could come up for air and thus live. After I gasped for oxygen, I turned towards the beach to see the security guard laughing and pointing, trying to get a small group of other security guards to laugh with him. They all turned and walked away. I think I heard someone call him a loser.  


One day at the pool, Chris and I were up to our normal harassing antics when we heard some commotion behind us. When we turned around, we saw a small kid, probably about 11 years old, with an empty bottle of hair bleach. He had apparently been pouring the contents of the bottle onto the hair of middle school girls and told them that it was bleach. We swam over to him and the following conversation ensued: 

“I saw him fill it up with water,” Chris said to the girls. “Don’t worry, it’s not bleach.” 

YOU WANNA BET?!” the kid screamed in a tone of voice usually reserved for the deaf or deceased. 

“Yes,” Chris replied. “20 bucks.” 

“Well, I’m, uh, all out of money…FROM BUYING ALL THIS BLEACH!” he shouted after carefully thinking of an excuse. 

“Oh yeah, sure,” I said. “You know there’s no bleach in there.” 


“Sure,” I answered. “I’m kinda bored anyway.” 

“Well my, uh, head hurts from, uh, THINKING ABOUT ALL THIS BLEACH I HAVE!!” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t plan on hitting you in the head anyway. Come on, let’s go,” I beckoned. 

“I, uh, have to go, uh, BUY SOME MORE BLEACH!” he yelled to us as he ran away.  

The girls’ hair never turned blonde, nor did we ever see him again.


Heh, the above segment regarding the kid in the pool...well, I admit, it didn't quite happen that way. But close enough. So anways...One night, we went to eat at a restaurant called “Hook’s.” Hook’s is shaped like a giant pirate ship, and as we entered we saw a few sailors talking to a waitress, who was kindly explaining: “This is not a real boat. Please stop asking, and find work somewhere else.” We had a long wait until we were to be seated, so we went to the top of the ship, where people sat around and talked, watched a clown make animals out of balloons, listen to a guy play a guitar and sing his version of Jimmy Buffet’s hits (which everyone seems to think they can do,) or go hang around an old arcade they have. Dan and I opted for the arcade, after a few seconds of watching the clown make some balloon lemurs. The children didn’t know what a lemur was, so they cried. The clown usually got frustrated and said, “This is all I can do. Please, please be satisfied. I can’t lose this job.” Then, if the kids kept crying, he popped their balloon lemurs and hurled the kids over the side of the boat. The little arcade was wonderful. They had Bad Dudes, one of the greatest games ever, and U.N. Squadron, and several other great classics. Everyone already knows about Bad Dudes. It’s just too cool for words. For some reason, however, whenever I play it in an arcade, at least one of the control sticks is broken so your Dude can only move left, or up, or something like that. Even when I got Bad Dudes on my computer it messed up. This game was no exception, so we didn’t play it long. U.N. Squadron boasts the best characters in any game. The pilots you can play as range from a robot with a human head to a talking dolphin. If you play two players, your characters talk to each other, too. The best combination is the little British baby, Bobby, and the Japanese ninja. After beating the first level, they have the following conversation:

Baby: That was easy.

Ninja: What? You’re just a baby.

Baby: I’m a baby.

Ninja: I am a ninja.

That game got old quick, too. But they still had one more classic: Final Fight. Final Fight is a great game, because with 25 cents you can play for an hour. We put in our quarters and played, when a kid approached us. He reminded me completely of the kid from the movie theater, but I didn’t mention it to Dan.

"I have this game on Super NES," he said to us, as I executed a pile driver on a spikey-haired gang member.

Dan and I didn’t respond, but instead beat another level.

“Ya know, you can throw those baseball bats in the Super NES version. I’ve done it.”

“Yeah, ok,” Dan replied, while beating another un-challenging level.

“In the Super NES version, it’s harder.”

“Look,” I explained, “I made the Super NES Version, ok?”

The kid looked up at me in awe, but retorted with, “I’ve beaten the Super NES version in 1 hour, 14 minutes, and 32 seconds.”

  Eventually, he got tired of hearing his own voice, and left. At that point, Dan and I ran out of coins. Luckily, there was a change machine nearby. Much to our dismay, however, it was out of order. I was frustrated, and I began to try and tip the thing over. It was really heavy though, and just before it fell over on its side, I couldn’t hold the weight anymore and it came back down on its base, making an incredibly loud sound as if parts inside of it were exploding. Then it made a terrible screeching noise. The noise didn’t go away. Dan and I panicked for a second, then, finally, the noise went away, and the lights came on. I, through sheer violence, had fixed it. We enjoyed several more games of Final Fight. Final Fight had taught me a lesson I now live by: Violence is the answer to everything. When I was Haggar throwing trash cans at guys with strange names, I realized that if I learn to beat people up with pipes and stuff, I can do anything. How true, Haggar.


When we weren’t watching Alvin’s Channel and didn’t have the energy to swim or FSW in the ocean, we went to the arcade provided by our hotel. The arcade was pretty up-to-date, yet it still had a few games like Lethal Enforcers and Vendetta for reasons my finite mind cannot comprehend. The old games certainly were not bringing in any income and were just taking up space and making the whole arcade look dated. Lethal Enforcers is an abomination in itself since the second player’s gun is pink. Anyways we spent most of our time psyching each other up to ask the woman behind the counter for change. She looked about 60 years old and was intently reading some romance novel with a Fabio look-alike on the cover. Obviously not happy about being torn away from these romantic tales, she would give us this face that is normally associated with mental instability whenever we asked for change. For some reason she never believed us when we told her that four was the correct number of quarters when making change for a dollar.  No matter how nicely we taught her basic addition and explained how the definition of the word “quarter” implied four, she would always mumble something under her breath like “…darn kids…want four quarters for a dollar bill huh?…trying to give me the run-around…don’t think I won’t research this “4 for 1” theory of yours…” I think she was a Congressman at one point. Anyways, once we got any money, we would just waste it all on those stupid “gambling for minors” games. The games at this arcade were the ones with the quarters hanging off the edge of the platform (which was magnetized to keep any possible chance of winning out of reach). We actually spent more time swearing at the machines than we did sleeping the entire vacation. After emptying all of our gas money into the machines, we reached a point where we would stick all types of small objects into the slots just to get some of our money back. At first we were worried about the cashier lady seeing us, but we quickly realized that we could have smashed through the glass with sledgehammers and she wouldn’t have noticed. Besides, Fabio does take precedence over a couple kids trying to cheat a machine.

Chuck E. Cheese

 Recently I visited the local Chuck E. Cheese “Restaurant” (I question the use of the term “restaurant” because it implies more than one choice of food). I was not surprised by the numerous kids playing around and basically having a good time. Even though the only fun thing for me to do now is to play the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Simpsons games for nostalgia purposes, I can remember back to when I was younger when I found several aspects of this whimsical place extremely entertaining. The first thing that caught my attention was the mass of rhythmically-challenged children attempting to dance along to the music of the giant, badly disguised robots. The robots are an odd bunch, consisting of Chuck E. Cheese (obviously), a hound dog, a bird, an Italian chef, a furry purple victim of high-radiation exposure, and a head that occasionally pops out of a trash can (hence the popular nickname: head that pops out of the trash can). Due to the numerous glow-in-the-dark bracelets and bouncy balls lodged in their joints, the robots, instead of dance and play instruments, now just sort of spasm to bad music (hence the rhythmically-challenged children trying to copy the “dance moves” of their favorite celebrity sponsor of the “March for Radiation” benefit program). The result is more frightening than entertaining. I would love to have been in the room where this idea was brainstormed.  

Stupid Executive 1: We need some cheap robots that will fall apart as well as encompass all of the areas of the world that these children will encounter, namely zoos, Disney World, European stereotypes, and side effects of nuclear power.  

Stupid Executive 2: Don’t forget spontaneous disembodied heads!  

     Either way, employees can only last for an average of 7 hours exposure to repeat “I’ve Been Workin’ on the Railroad” sing-alongs and spasmatic robots before attending severe depression and anger management classes.  

      Another aspect the kids seemed to find entertaining was the games where you win tickets. Personally, I am a hard-core believer in playing the games solely for the entertainment provided by the game itself, not some reward. But the majority of these kids were carrying around handfuls of tickets that were probably stolen from the rich kid that was given the equivalent of my college savings to spend on tokens. Due to Chuck E. rigging the games, there is no possible way you can win more than 20 tickets without taking out a second mortgage. When they are done pick-pocketing the aristocrats, the average kids strut up to the counter with a mean 450 tickets, which is the equivalent of $100 from mom’s purse, 7 hours of cheating the older games, and 4 hours of “bumping into” the spoiled brats. Unfortunately, Chuck E. has taken all of the potential ticket items and multiplied their retail value by the number of times kids have broken out into seizures on the robot stage to get the item prices in tickets. I calculated that if Bill Gates converted his worth in Microsoft stock to Chuck E. Cheese tickets, he could buy 2 spider rings, and a pony tattoo. You can imagine what these kids are getting. This brings us to another interesting point: Why are all these spider rings still here? These rings have been in the lower section of the ticket counter for as far as I can remember. My theory is that in 1994, a major corporation accidentally switched the production figures of POGS and arachnid jewelry. Whatever the reason, I believe that the fake insect population is now twice that of the actual one. Despite all of this, everyone with an IQ barely high enough to accommodate basic motor skills will have a great time at Chuck E. Cheese’s. Except for the epileptics.                                             

KISS FM: The Day Pop Culture Died

     I must issue a disclaimer. After reading our account of our latest trip to Panama City, you may make the mistake of assuming that all the stories we write are total BS. Though the PCB one was heavily embellished, this one is absolutely 100% true.

     Riverbend, in Chattanooga, TN, is a giant "festival" along the Tennessee River. Bands come and play on big stages, tents have food and drinks, and everyone socializes.  In short, thousands of rednecks get drunk and attempt to pick up 6th graders. There are normal people there too, but they're overshadowed by the rednecks, and their accompanying throng of 13 year olds attempting to look 18 and drink underage. 

      These 13 year olds passionately embrace a radio station known as KISS FM. KISS has overrun many parts of the nation, soaking us in an oily slime of N*Sync and Destiny's Child, and thus one of the tents there was a KISS FM tent. I was there, with several friends, and we happened upon this tent....

Day 1

      The tent was empty. Red and white stripes, a long table, and a cooler. Nothing else. Nobody there. Luckily, someone left a pen there, which made us believable. When you look from side to side in the crowd as if you're looking for a certain person, and tap a pen against the palm of your hand, people will always assume you've got a job to do.

      You see, people are easy to fool. Of course, 13 year olds are even easier, especially when they're high off of the collective stench of alcohol, body odor, second hand smoke, and Bath and Body Works lotions that emanate from Riverbend. So I tapped the pen on my hand and looked around. Accompanying me were two friends, Andy and Joel. It was mere minutes before someone approached.

   "Hey, are you guys from KISS 98?" The kid was about 10. He was sort of pudgy, and Indian. It's important to note. I nodded, and Andy frantically looked around for some sort of prop to BS him with. Inside the big cooler, someone had thrown a box of raisins. The cooler was empty besides ice, and Andy pulled the raisins out, and tossed them on the table. I did my best corny DJ voice: "That's right, we're here from KISS FM, holding a contest for raisins! Crazy, huh? That's right, we're crazy about summer!" I glanced behind me. "You want some ice? We're out here giving away free ice."

       He nodded appreciatively. "Yeah! I love ice!" The three of us tried to contain or laughter as Andy tossed him a piece of ice. 

       "KISS FM's keeping you cool in the summer," I replied, rather proud of myself for that particular line.

       "I wanna win the raisins! Hey, they're a little wet." He replied, furrowing his brow as he happily sucked on his ice.

       "That's because they're cool."

       He nodded appreciatively. Andy looked around for something, and finally picked up a piece of trash on the ground. It was the instructions for a "Salvation Bracelet," a string of several different colors of beads. Each bead stood for some aspect of Christian salvation. Andy handed it to the kid, and said, "Just fill this out and you'll be in the drawing for the raisins."

      He nodded, taking my pen, and read the sheet. He looked up, confused. " I just pick a color?"

      "Yeah, you got it, buddy," Andy replied. The kid circled Red, and wrote his name, address, phone number, and e-mail address on the back of the sheet. Andy later told me that he was going to call him and told him he won, and that he was on the air, but I don't think he ever did. Andy's full of crap like that.

 Day 2:

      We went back the next day, and an old, gross looking man was trying to attract little girls to him by offering them Back Street Boys CD's. Rather than try to fool people right there next to him, we opted to come back the next day. 

Day 3:

      Before even going, I called Andy, and we fully planned our course of action. 

      We met at Riverbend wearing similar polo shirts, and I gave them fake nametags that I'd made on the computer, complete with the KISS FM logo and fake names. We looked like we belonged there. 

      Andy, meanwhile, had snuck in 10 pairs of his used briefs, and signed the name "Richard Dawson" on the back of all of them. Joel met us there shortly after we'd set up the booth. 

Who is Richard Dawson?

For you unfortunate souls who don't know, Richard Dawson is the original host of Family Feud. Charming, sexy, and smart beyond compare, he's the perfect person for our ploy.

     Our booth was beautiful. Displayed pairs of Richard Dawson briefs, and signs telling people how to play the "Pop Quiz Game," so they could win an autographed pair of briefs from the Richard Dawson Collection. "Worn, soiled, and now signed, by Richard Dawson himself," we advertised. And sadly, people came. 

     They'd come in groups, and ask us who we were, etc. We weren't the normal radio personalities they were used to seeing. Andy was particularly vocal: "I'm Cap'n Brodie Bruce, I come on at 3:00 in the morning."

     Most people said they had heard of us, and one guy went so far as to complain that Andy didn't play enough Phish and String Cheese Experience. Andy told him he'd heard that before, and that he would be happy correct the problem. (Note: See aforementioned comment regarding Andy and crap, and Andy being full of crap.)

     The game was simple. We'd each ask a question, and they had to get one right to win. Questions one and two were always fixed or impossible, and question 3 was ridiculously easy, because we wanted to get rid of the underwear.

    For instance, a group of girls approached, and asked to play the game. Andy asked them, "Ok girls, in the movie Ghostbusters, what actor portrayed the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man?"

    The girls grimaced in unison. The one's face lit up. "Oh! Is it Bruce Willis?"

    Andy shook his head sadly. "Oh, sorry. Actually, it's Mark Hamill....yeah, the guy from Star Wars..."

     "I knew that!" another one of the girls said. "Ok, give us another question."

     "Alright," I said, "Who's first hit single was entitled 'Living La Vida Loca?'"

     "RICKY MARTIN!" They all yelled, happy about their achievement.

     "Ohhh, sorry. That's incorrect."

     Andy nodded. "Yes, it's actually Weezer. Sorry."

     "Ok, third question," Joel told them, trying hard to hold their pygmy-like attention. "Who is Richard Dawson?" The girls started to look at each other frantically, and then noticed that it Richard Dawson's picture and a short description about him were printed in big letters less than 2 feet away from them.

    "The original host of Family Feud!" one said, extremely proud of herself.

    "That's correct!" They jumped up and down, yelling like the school girls they are, and then we tossed them a pair of briefs.

    "Let's go show these to John!" the girl with the briefs said, holding them up and whooping to the crowd of drunkards. Nobody thought it odd that the girl had mens underwear on her person. Probably most of the women did, that night. 

    Other encounters were equally as sad. One man put the underwear on over his jeans and ran around the concert with them on, telling people how great Richard Dawson was in between long drags on his cigarettes.

The Conflict:

     A scheme this brilliant could only end in violent conflict. Several full-grown adults had visited us that night, and proved themselves equally as ignorant as the sixth graders surrounding them. However, one approached with a certain sly glimmer in his eye, a sort of "Fear Me" look to him:


(Artist's Rendering)

     The man casually approached. "Whatcha doin, boys?"

     "We're giving away free autographed Richard Dawson memorabilia," I answered truthfully.

     "Ah, I see." There was a brief pause as we realized we were screwed. "Can you take it to another tent?"

     "Why?" Andy asked, shrugging.

     "Because you don't work at KISS FM," he profoundly said. I could almost hear him mumbling "checkmate!" to himself. I'm sure he was proud to finally outwit some of the wily kids who had no doubt been irritating him all night long.

     But Andy doesn't back down. In fact, Andy has a habit of always carrying things one step too far. "Oh no, I work at KISS." He pointed to his fake ID badge. "I'm Cap'n Brodie Bruce, I come on at 3:00 in the morning."

      This only angered our antagonist more. He snarled, "LOOK, I've worked for Cumulous Broadcasting, the company that owns KISS, for 15 years, and I've never seen you before in my life!"

       Andy got up in his face, and with just as much ironic hate, said to him, "Look buddy, don't get hostile!" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw security guards approaching. I nudged Joel and we began packing our stuff up hurriedly. A few seconds later, we pulled Andy away and left.

       But when it was all said and done, 7 people left that night with used pairs of Andy's underwear.