A magnitude 4.4 earthquake centered somewhere near Dover, Delaware literally rocked our world today. While I’m not necessarily excited about the event, I do think it’s cool that our little, stately brother to the south received some publicity outside of the usual “Heroin Addict Shanks Lover After Catching Sister Knuckle-Fucking Cousin” headlines. By the way, which one do you think was the lover? The sister or the cousin?
Delaware sucks. It could have been a magnitude 34 earthquake and nobody would have cared – because there’s literally NOTHING in Delaware. When you were a kid, did your parents have a designated “play room?” I don’t mean a “Christian Grey, I’m going to to shove these poisonous beads up your piss-hole while we watch Reading Rainbow and drink avocado smoothies” type of play room…. I mean a basement or family room that was empty – so when you and your hyper, little friends decided to reenact Royal Rumble 1998 and throw Nerf balls around like Bobby Hoying – you wouldn’t break anything. Delaware is America’s Play Room, except, not only is there nothing to break – but there’s nothing to play with either! That’s why Delaware loves NASCAR and snorting opium out of tax-free booty holes.
Speaking of booty-holes, when the last earthquake hit Philadelphia (Virginia, really), I was living in a sweet, off-campus apartment at Temple University. My roommate and I had the first floor and a finished basement. Four girls and a gay guy lived in the apartment above us. It was new construction, so knowing that college kids are assholes who like to scratch floors and jizz on walls, the contractor used the cheapest materials possible. That means our walls were paper thin. I recall laying in bed with my girlfriend (now my wife), trying to get some sleep after a long night of partying. Next thing you know, we could hear the pork-chop in the room directly above mine getting her ham-waffle absolutely destroyed by some frat boy. The bed was thumping. The floors sounded like they were going to burst. (Speaking of bursting, I’m about to shit myself on this SEPTA train). After going hog-wild on her hoo-ha for a few minutes, the wild raucous calmed. Then came the tears. I don’t know if she was upset that he slipped a nut-full of sticky, speeding ghosts past her goalie, if he ran out & left after a round of championship plowing, or if she was crying because her snatch was obliterated. Whatever the reason, I wouldn’t hear anything make those kinds of noises again – that is, until I watched the Liberal space cadets hysterically crying on live television once they realized the anti-Christ was about to lose to a guy who picks fights with Rosie O for fun… A guy who once felt the wrath of the Stone Cold Stunner on RAW… A guy with horrendous hair and a tiny cock….
Back to the hurricane…
I was laying in bed after class. I nodded off while “studying,” but I was quickly awakened as my walls and mattress started to rumble and sway. It was roughly 2pm on a weekday. Now, I’m all about getting some afternoon delight, but I couldn’t believe porky was getting violently stuffed in the middle of the day! Didn’t she learn anything from her one-night-stand with Eddie the double-earring, frat boy douche? (We all know an asshole named Ed). Then I realized, I didn’t hear any pigs squealing. There were no moans. No rhythmic-slapping of flesh. No crying. None of that was happening, but my bed was still vibrating like Matt Lauer’s dildo.
Was I dying? Was my body erupting from all the Hurricane High Grav 40s and U-Got-Munchies’ build-your-own-fries? Did somebody slip a Furby in my bed? What the fuck was happening?
It was an earthquake, and it was big one. I’ll always remember that day. Particularly, I remember that I had an interview scheduled with Marc Summers that day. I had to call to make sure we were still meeting, because a lot of the buildings in Center City had evacuated. I also remember that being the first time I used one of those green parking machines. While random, non-life-threatening earthquakes can be cool, I’ll also always remember the disappointment I felt when I realized it wasn’t some bro taking my sloppy neighbor to Pound Town. Those stories are fun to tell…
Ramble on, Delco!
Written by Rambo