1998: Your Milkshake Did Not Bring All The Boys To The Yard.

The year is 1998, and I'm an even louder, more obnoxious 17 year old little jerk than I am now. People wear Cool Water cologne, listen to Sugar Ray, and have Furby's.
They chat on ICQ, watch Adam Sandler movies, and hide their black, Motorola pagers deep in the pockets of their wide-leg Jnco jeans.
People play Goldeneye 007 for Nintendo 64, and somehow eyebrow piercings aren't yet viewed as tacky. Kids are chatting on ICQ via their dial-up modems, and the Knicks are actually a successful basketball franchise. Douche nozzles are easily identified by wearing upside down, backwards tennis visors and people haven't yet united in a collective hatred of Limp Bizkit or Creed.

I'm the first of my little retard friends to drive, giving me much more responsibility than I really deserve. My mighty vehicle is a poop brown, 1989 Lincoln Continental. It was a frickin' boat. At one point we fit 16 kids in this damn car. Those of you who know me well will attest how much of a spaz I am. Amplify this by 20 as a 17 year old.

So, it's a beautiful Saturday afternoon in the primitive time of 1998, and my friends and I decide to drive to the mall. It's spring time, and all the tops are down on the convertibles, the motorcyclists are out and about, and people everywhere are wearing unnecessarily baggy, short sleeve shirts. (Some of which are actually Austin 3:16 shirts)
Me and 5 of my friends are driving down route 30 in lovely Merrillville, Indiana approaching the Southlake Mall. The car reeks of 5 teenagers wearing too much cologne, and everyone nestles in around all the random shit in my car I opted not to throw out.
The windows are down, we're listening to the Lost Highway Soundtrack, and enjoying the fuck out of our freedom.

Disclaimer: I'm just as wrapped up in 1998 as every other 17 year old. Perhaps ever more so. I'm guilty of the Jnco jeans, Gadzooks button-down shirts, and Mark McGrath haircut/dyejob. I loved my beeper, and even might have at one point enjoyed that "She Likes Me For Me" song by the Blessid Union Of Souls.
But don't you assholes judge me. I'm simply man enough to admit it.
Well, we're driving on this perfect day, and suddenly we come to a red light. This green Jeep pulls next to us in the left lane. These two acne-ridden brothers of virginity are driving, while a couple of girls that look like they sweat trying to eat breakfast in the morning are in the back. The Jeep doesn't have a body kit, but it sure looks like a low-rider.

The guys are twins, and they both look like Napoleon Dynamite washed his face with bacon grease and motor oil every morning. The two girls look like they could be pro wrestlers, under the tag team name The Natural Disasters. One was Earthquake, and one was Typhoon but their separate identities ceased to matter in light of their sheer mass as a unit. They both have really large, white styrofoam cups, full of milkshake. They are just giving those milkshakes the business. Two handed, chubby sausage-like fingers leaving indentations in the cup. I thought that milkshake didn't stand a chance.
Earthquake makes the mistake of smiling and waving to us.

I'm looking straight ahead, talking through my grinding teeth.
"Ignore them."
I'm the most immature kid ever, and I'm going to let this go. Surely my friends will heed my advise not to start a war with an enemy who can pick any of us up over her head, spin us like a pizza and devour us whole, ignoring our pleas of "Don't eat me, I'm a real human boy!"
Nope.
I hear muffled giggling in my backseat followed by a very loud, "Ewwwww!"

My spazzy mind begins to race, and I start to sweat. "Oh no, what if they eat the car?! My parents will be pissed."

The light turns green and I decide to make a run for it. Then I remembered- I drive a 1989 Lincoln. I'm not going much of anywhere very fast.
They catch up, and are at a steady pace on my left. I lean my head out the window to make amends. I don't need any vehicle damage here. I hold my hand up, as we're driving 60 miles an hour side by side. I begin to apologize, when in slow motion Typhoon bites the straw, and pulls it from the cup.
Like a soldier pulling the pin from a grenade.

Then, in slow motion, this gigantic milkshake hovers across a lane of traffic and catches me square in the fucking face.

The milkshake explodes on impact. All over my face, the outside of my car, the inside of my car, my friends. One day when I have kids, they'll feel the impact of the milkshake. I'd been milkshakkaked. I can only assume that they were under the impression that diabetes was contagious. Although, how they actually sacrifice food for the sake of humor blows my mind.

Then, I lose it. My friends are stunned that this Jeep full of abstinent rejection has pulled one over on us. But being 17 years old, full of testosterone, everything turns red and I begin acting on instinct.
The backseat of my car is cluttered. I tried to live in my car at one point. "Give me something!" I scream like a doctor about to lose a dying patient.

I'm handed a hobby horse. His name was Pepe', and we kept him around...Well, I'm not sure why he was there to be honest.
But, my friend sitting shotgun takes the wheel, as I slide 75% of my 110 pound body out of a vehicle now traveing nearly 70 mph.
I take the stick end of the hobby horse and just let loose into the hood of the Jeep.

I beat that car up, like it were Whitney Houston. The car slows down, to try and lose us. But the abstinence advertisement on wheels speeds up to retaliate. Then, I'm handed a bottle of Dep 8 hair gel. Because lets face it 1998- No imitation Sugar Ray haircut will do it's thing without it.
I throw that hairgel about as hard as I can, and it explodes upon impact of the windshield. Jeep swerves left, then right, and bam. Into the center median.
We drive off cheering loudly, way too proud to have gotten the best of a couple if virgins and the Natural Disasters.


Yeah, that just happened.
No shame at all....

1998 was a different time.