Sunday, June 22, 2014

Excerpts from the Hillsdale Paranormal Society Log

Totally come at me ghost bro, and I'll kick you in your stupid ghost face!

June twenty-second, in the graveyard behind the Howard house, eleven o'clock at night
So we get a report from Art's grandma that there's something spooky floating around the graveyard, making noises and shit, and basically being a royal pain in the ass for any decent human being trying to get a good night's rest. I was a little hesitant (IMAGINE ME, HESITANT) on investigating these claims, seeing how Grams is a little bit in the nuthouse, like, almost three-fourths the way in, and half the time while I'm over there she thinks I'm Art's brother Gary, and she starts yelling at me for having pins in my face and puking all over the bathroom, which is stuff that Gary does, he being a good for nothing bastard. But work's been slow lately, and the prestigious Hillsdale Paranormal Society will investigate any claim, any time--that shit's our motto, or at least one of them. So we convene at Art's place, which is right behind the graveyard, Art, Trent, and I, the boss core of the Society, all of us members of the Adventurers' Guild, a secret society where only the strong freaking survive (all of us had to climb to the top of my barn and retrieve this plastic cup with marbles in it that my uncle Billy put up there a long time ago because he's a crazy nut, and don't tell me that shit's easy, 'cuz I'm afraid of heights and it's like a twenty-foot drop or something if you slip and fall), and we get our gear ready, drink a couple brews, smoke a couple packs of cigs, and wait for midnight, the prime ghosting hour.

12:30, in the heart of the graveyard
Art starts off the night being an asshole, like always. He trips over a headstone and cracks his forehead against another one, and so he's bleeding all over the place like a bitch, and Trent tells him to stop because he's going to attract all the ghouls to us, ghouls being eager to feast on the flesh of the dead as well as the living (my man Trent knows his paranormal shit), and then Art has to go and say that we're a bunch of assholes, wasting our time looking for nothing. WELL, HELLO, YOUR BATSHIT CRAZY GRAMS TOLD US ABOUT THE SPOOKY GHOST, ELSEWISE WE WOULDN'T BE OUT HERE. If you don't take the job seriously, then you might as well go home and sniff glue--this ain't no place for nonbelievers.

1:15, camped under a big-ass sepulcher
We get all the equipment set up--the nightvision cameras, the advanced mass spectrometer, the tape recorder--which is quite a feat in all, considering how much beer we've drank. Trent never drinks anything, 'cuz he's a little weird. One time we bought him sake because he's your typical nerd and gets a big ol' boner for Japan, and we tried to get him to drink just a shot but he wouldn't, and you could see he was getting upset, so we bought him a chocolate milk and he settled down like a bitch, sucking on that shit like it was a teat.


2:30, still under the big-ass sepulcher
So we're really drunk now, being drunk paramount in seeing ghosts, 'cuz they know you're vulnerable while your drunk, which really, we ain't, 'cuz we all hold our liquor like bosses. Art's started babbling on about his romantic problems, which is par for the course, he being a total Don Juan, that is, if Don Juan was a big bitch who got mace in his face every time he approached a woman. Art's bitching gets cut off mid stream when we hear some noises coming from a couple rows in front of us. Trent gets out the salt and the bible, and we creep over, being really stealthy like Sam Fisher until a goddamn headstone comes out of nowhere and I run face first into it, knocking myself on my ass. The noises stop. Art turns on the flashlight and there's a couple of teenagers, butt-ass naked, boning on top of a grave like they're in Paris and that dude from the Doors is beneath them, getting his ghost voyeur on. The girl starts screaming 'cuz we got the light on them and you can see her goodies, and the dude pulls out and starts sprinting through the graveyard, his dong wobbling about like a propeller, and it's the funniest fucking thing in the world when he slips and nut-checks himself on a gravestone (THESE THINGS ARE DANGEROUS). The girl grabs her clothes and takes off, and Art wants to follow her and make sure she's ok (YEAH SURE YOU DO, ART) but I tell him she's probably an underage hood rat, and it would be best if we vacate the premises. So, just like the Scooby Gang, we solve the mystery of the weird-ass noises for Grams, so the old bat can get some shut eye. Another fine accomplishment for the Society. 

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