Chapter One - Liquid Lucifer (2000) [An excerpt from Days of Dysfunction: Memoirs of an Adjective by Krazy Adams]
Post
I AM AWARE that people exist, who don’t learn every lesson this life has to offer, via the hardest possible fucking method. Foreign thinking creatures, bearing almost no resemblance to me. To such fascinating individuals, you'd simply be wasting breath to offer so-called “self-evident” cautions to. Utterly dumbfounded by inapplicable advice such as, “Avoid bitch-slapping police officers” or “Hey, maybe don't punch this guy's face through two panes of household window glass.” They seem to naturally possess some sort of elementary logic and a degree of common sense, which has eluded me for over 35 years now. To such an extraordinary specimen, “You probably shouldn’t try your first hallucinogen before your first date” would be a useless tidbit. A laughable notion that would never occur to them as a fucking behavioral option... but those lame fucks ain’t worth reading about, are they? Lessons are learned hard, or not at all, godammit. And with that: The inferno formerly known as the dumpster… IT WAS THE YEAR 2000. I was fourteen. My better judgment was at an all-time low, while my curiosity of all things delinquent was just about peaking. I'd just met the girl I'd lose my virginity to... though, how I pulled that off, following the events you're about to read, is fucking beyond me. I must have been goddam gorgeous. My best friend at the time, Paul, brought Alicia and her friend, Lakree to my place to shoot some pool, (unannounced). Alicia was a cute little blonde chick with a lot of new curves I'd recently come to appreciate. Very shortly after introductions, Alicia inquired about my music collection, “Do you have any Alice in Chains?” And sexual attraction conforms to love. Her and Lakree had to leave shortly after arriving, to my utter fucking dismay. Afterwards I promptly informed Paul, “Holy shit, Alicia’s amazing and I have to have one!” So he arranged a double-date at the movies about a week later... which is where our adventure begins. My mom drops Paul and I off at the Everett Mall at least an hour early, so we can patron the arcade prior to the arrival of our dates. Paul's armed with a pocket bulging with quarters for the occasion. We watch my mother’s taillights disappear around the corner, our cue to light up our cigarettes. We loiter delinquently, just outside the theater, and engage in some kind of highly intellectual conversation that results in the abandonment of the original pre-game plan, in favor of a far less orthodox dating strategy. Through the aid of other brilliantly moronic adolescent minds, we'd recently become aware of something referred to as “Robo-frying.” For those of you with fully functional brains – that shouldn't be permanently encased inside of battle tested helmets, allow me to explain this idiocy: Robitussin Maximum Strength cough syrup contains a small amount of a drug (I can neither spell, nor pronounce) acronymed “DXM.” DXM is actually a mild hallucinogen, and when consumed by retards, in large quantities, it can produce the following side effects: blurred vision, impaired speech, audio distortion, intense paranoia, short-term muscle impairment, severe vertigo, visual hallucinations, and diminished chances of getting laid. We, however, had none of that information and were operating solely under: “Drink a couple bottles to get high.” No further questions required. So, like any rational, prudent thinking individuals; we decided to put this theory to the test moments before we’re expected to charm a couple of lucky ladies at the movies. Why not? Today it's a Walmart, but across Everett Mall Way used to be a Top Foods. Paul and I eagerly start for it, his change-heavy pocket jingling with every other step, providing a kind of soundtrack to our journey. Once we arrive, Paul waits outside while I go and procure the recommended dosage, utilizing my five-finger discount. I emerge victorious and we down two bottles apiece on our way back to the mall. We're chilling on the curb outside the theater when the first effects begin to reveal themselves: at first, pure, unadulterated hilarity in massive doses. More or less, laughing hysterically at the fact that we're laughing. Holding our guts as we roll around the asphalt, which is wet from a recent rain. Then, suddenly, Paul's roaring comes to an abrupt halt and his face straightens to stare me solemnly in the eye and announce, “Uh-oh... I think that shit's the Devil.” He said it so assertively and matter-of-factly. His incredibly broad and highly questionable theory was met with anything but skepticism by me. It was a pill swallowed whole— one that instantly transformed my experience into one of those endless ordeals that all users must eventually endure. A rite of passage. We casually label such paradoxes simply, as “bad trips.” However–as anyone who's ever suffered the seemingly infinite periods of torment and fear that only our own corrupted minds can inflict will attest to–a short stay in Hell far more accurately depicts the situation. My first wave of terror arrives on the coattails of Paul's proclamation in literal; The Devil, in his unyieldingly clever depravity, has conjured himself into a so-called cherry-flavored syrup. One which I've just ingested in abundance. Satan is roaming my insides where he now befouls me from within at his leisure. To paul’s revelation, “Oh fuck, you’re right. Well, let's get him out of us, before they get here!” And we both sprint for the restroom. Although we have the entire room to ourselves —and our choice of no less than eight vacant stalls— we both crowd into one, heads clunking against one another above the toilet bowl. We desperately plunge sidewalk-filthy fingers down our throats, filling the empty room with echoes of fruitless gags and useless belches. Neither of us has any luck purging Liquid Lucifer from our depths. After a few minutes of self-abuse to our throats, Paul heads to the sink to drink some water, while I head to the urinal (with the sinks at my rear) to purge the fallen angel from my bladder. I guess I became entirely consumed by that task. Nothing, it would seem, could distract me in that moment from the penis at hand. Until turning around and achieving visual confirmation, I somehow remained utterly oblivious to the esophageal wrenching and subsequent splattering that must have been trumpeting at my six o’clock. Upon shaking the remnants, I turned around to a startling contrast from the scene I'd left behind just a moment ago. The recently Windexed mirror, polished chrome faucets, the clean blue counters and flawlessly white sinks... everything on that side of the room now oozes with a thick coat of crimson slime. It looked like a setting from a Rob Zombie film. So much so, that part of me really regrets not having witnessed the redecorating, because it must have been fucking astounding... like Paul's open mouth just wormholed the contents of the blood-filled elevator in The Shining. To this day I've never witnessed anything even remotely close to that impressive. Mind-boggling proportions. Maybe he was drinking Kool-Aid earlier too. Ri-goddam-diculous. We had only enough sense to flee the horror show. Back outside at the curb, we discuss every possible option for escape. Most popular was running away from the life we knew, hiding between parked cars in the lot until tomorrow, calling Poison Control, and jumping into I-5 traffic (which conveniently runs just behind the mall). In the end we settled for standing awkwardly, staring desperately at each other in white-faced terror. Our eyeballs testing the strength of the optic nerves tethering them inside their sockets, as they bulge from seemingly empty skulls. Just fried out of our dumbass gourds. Alicia's mom pulls up roughly twenty feet from our position. The girls emerge from the back seat—both looking way out of our league—and, upon first glimpse, almost in tandem, ask, “What’s wrong with you guys?” Far beyond the reach of wits sufficient to fabricate any remotely tangible scenario to explain our blatantly apparent lunacy, we debrief our dates on the situation. Those ladies were Godsends. Not only were they forgiving, sympathetic, and understanding, they were, in fact, fascinated and excited to experience us in all of our ball-frying glory. They were eager and determined to help us enjoy the evening. Paul and I handed them our cash so they could go purchase the tickets because: We were afraid of the booth goblins. Our legs stopped working. We must have stood in that freakish curbside pose for a half-hour waiting for our dates to arrive. Now it seems, we can scarcely do much else. Every step took fierce determination and ninja-like focus. This is not an exaggeration: Three to five minutes... that's how long it took us to navigate a twenty to twenty-five-foot journey from the street side to the lobby. I very clearly remember, at one point, Paul managed to make three consecutive steps in a row—one after another—and then lean forward onto the glass door to the theater lobby to keep from falling. I exclaimed, “Holy shit, you're incredible!” with absolute sincerity. While Alicia and Lakree were really trying their damnedest to help, they were also finding this shit wildly entertaining. That, in itself, turned out to be a blessing; their laughter not only lifted the vibe of our trip, but seemed to give people the impression that we were intentionally acting goofy, rather than exhibiting the behavior associated with chemically induced psychosis. This next challenge baffles me to this day. I'm not entirely sure what actually transpired with this next interaction. Basically, we're at the part where you stand in line to hand the usher your ticket. He tears it in half and gives you a stub before moving a rope aside for you and telling you which way your movie is, right? Typically this process goes smoothly and expediently. According to Alicia's later debriefing, the red-suited usher spoke plain English. No slur, stutter, or detectable accent. Furthermore, neither Paul nor I struggled to understand anyone else we'd encountered that evening. Whatever the reason, we found ourselves utterly incapable of communicating with this individual. It's as if he spoke in some frequency that DXM distorts beyond comprehension. Logic could have gone a long way in solving this puzzle, but we're fresh outta that shit. A busy line, composed of anxious movie-goers—now at a standstill directly behind us—listens curiously as we discuss our bewilderment. Alicia and Lakree have already surmounted this obstacle; they watch in hilarity from the other side as Paul and I converse loudly about why this red-dressed man has interrupted our hard-earned progress. “We're with those girls over there,” Paul explained to the man (who undoubtedly responded with another request for our tickets). “Aarflar senboo viertan guammy. Staiblung,” he replied, looking confused. “Yeah... um, about that... those two blondes are waiting for us, so can we go now?” I plea. “Pooflub dequimshire, stagomimi lurchey, digi poofawn floop!” he reported, sounding less patient. “Oh! All right, Paul's got that, I think.” Now to Paul, but perfectly audible to anyone in a fifteen-foot radius, “I tried, man. This guy wants something.” “What's his fuckin' problem? He puts ropes up? What, just to fuck with people?” Paul inquires at a decibel perceived to anyone who cares to listen. “Dude, it's just like—I dunno, his hustle—look at his outfit. Listen to him—he's from somewhere else, I dunno. Maybe he's like... a date gypsy or—HEY! Don't you have those quarters? Give him some change!!” I suggest, enthusiastically. The girls were leaning on a railing against the wall to keep their hysteria from dragging them to the floor. They're too cracked up by these idiots-in-action to offer any guidance. Paul's hand disappeared into his noisy pocket and reemerged with a mound of silver coins. Pupils big as dinner plates, locked in contact with the irritated usher's, he outstretched his arm toward the man and began dropping quarters at his feet. One by one. As he did this, he said, “FOR YOU!” Only he drew it out to last with the distribution of his offering, sounding as if he's addressing a retard: “FFFFooooooOOOORRRRR YYYOOoooooowwww...” With this, even the usher broke and cracked up laughing and (according to Alicia) echoed an earlier concern: “What’s wrong with you guys?” Nevertheless, either out of pity or just pure frustration, he lifted the rope to grant us passage, no proof of purchase required. “Von schliggity torgundun foont,” he endeared. “I told you he wanted change!” I gloated, as we resumed our battle with upright movement. So focused, we didn't even notice our dates had disappeared. Lakree had literally pissed her pants in response to the humor she experienced at the change-dropping incident. She and Alicia fled to the women’s restroom (which is almost certainly less horrific than that of the men’s) while he and I aimlessly wandered into the first door we encountered and sat down in an empty theater to stare at a blank screen. An usher, who was cleaning up after the last showing, approached from our rear and startled us both into full-blown bitch screams. This, in turn, startled him. “Jesus!” He asked to see our tickets, experiencing none of the anguish we'd just put his coworker through. His eyebrows raised in confusion at our untorn-admit-ones. He gave them a rip and handed us our stubs along with directions to our theater. We exited the theater, discarding all instruction and moseyed on into the next theater, and again, sat in a dark, empty screening room to stare at an unlit canvas. Paul seemed to be doing all right. He was wide-eyed and giggling at the white wall, probably seeing all kinds of shit. I'm not doing so hot. I kept all my Satan Syrup down. I'm scanning the room insanely, for whatever creatures my mind can conjure, and developing various paranoias. Most prominently, a ridiculously irrational fear that my forehead is expanding. This ludicrous hypochondria of an ailment that doesn't even fucking exist became all-consuming. I've even created a rating system, to keep tabs on my ever-worsening condition that I still occasionally think about to this day: Phase one is The Helen Hunt. That's when you know there's a problem. It advances to The Ted Danson, then Nick Cage, of course... at the extreme end of the scale, the dreaded Art Garfunkel. I can't say how long we sat there frying, but eventually our buddy from the last theater came in to clean that one. Upon seeing us lost in a universe of our minds, he asked: “What’s wrong with you guys?” Seems to be a popular inquiry tonight. Paul snapped back, “Dude, I'll fucking scream.” He looked completely taken aback. He opened his mouth to say something and then stopped to reconsider. I rolled my head to look at him,“Hey, please be honest with me... Am I Garfunkeling?” I've never seen such a cocktail of different facial expressions before, nor have I witnessed a man at a greater loss for a logical response. His face registered confusion, hurt, self-concern and pity. There was frustration, verbal struggle, and recognition of chaos all in one instant of a What the fuck is happening here? internal debate. While the guy frantically searched for resolution to a situation no parent prepares their child for, Paul said, in a firm, assertive tone that seemed to give the man certainty that there were no words, “Answer the question, you coward!” He left defeated. Shortly thereafter, the usher returned with a manager-type in a nice suit, who was being followed by our forgotten dates. Although I cannot remember what was said, the girls must have given the guy one hell of a cover story. I remember him talking to us like we were toddlers. Incredibly gracious and far more accommodating than was warranted by our behavior. Logic suggests that by this juncture, the entire staff has been briefed on the Men’s Restroom Massacre and at this point, we must have been climbing the suspect ladder pretty high. The sweethearted soul explained that we had missed most of our movie and that he could either give us tickets to another showing, or refund our money. To this kind man's generous offer, I scolded, “Hey! Hey, do not interrupt me!” (though he hadn’t in any way.) Paul backed me up, “Yeah, fool! The fuck?!” The girls erupted in laughter, and the manager—realizing our cover story must be bullshit—asked, “What’s wrong with you guys?” Without missing a beat, Paul sprang to his feet, suddenly quite animated and absurdly confident, replied, “We've been forced to watch your shitty movie”—gesturing wildly to a blank screen—“and dealing with red... rope people all night... and we don't even speak Salamander!” and kinda bumped me on the shoulder for additional input. My turn to back up my homie, “This movie fuckin’ sucks!” Alicia is shrieking with laughter, Lakree lets out something between a wheeze and a snort of hilarity. The manager says in more or less words it’s time for us to leave. Threats of police involvement garnered our compliance. Paul helped me walk outside as his legs no longer showed the telltale signs of demonic possession still plaguing mine. Back on the sidewalk, Alicia was trying to convince me that my forehead would not be mistaken for a runway. Nonetheless, I continued monitoring air traffic suspiciously. My mom pulled up. In what should have been our last; we hugged the girls farewell. Paul led the way to the back seat so I could hide my Guinness Book forehead behind him until I was safely out of sight behind the driver. Most parents, I imagine, would almost immediately see their kid is—we’ll just say:not quite right at that moment–fortunately for me, God love her; mine had pre-gamed pretty hard for the seven-minute round trip and arrived in peak DUI form. She was far too preoccupied with her own battle to embody sobriety to take notice of such a massive lack in ours. Paul and I rode back in completely terrified silence. We stared at each other with unmitigated fear for self and mouthed statements and silent inquiries of concern, such as:“What the fuck, dude?”, “I'm done with drugs. Done.” and “Does she know?” Mom asked us if we were hungry thirty-eight times, each answered with some form of no. Still, she stopped by Wendy's, ordering nothing for herself and ten pounds of food for us (despite our protests). We couldn't stomach a single fry. Desperate to maintain appearances, we crammed fistfuls of grease-spongey food into our pockets while smacking our jaws open and closed, emitting sounds of culinary delight, “MMMMM... so good!” Mom pulled into the driveway and beelined for the nearest bottle of vodka. Paul and I headed for the garage to hide for a while. After about an hour, Paul felt up to heading home and left me to the battle ahead… I still had a major hindrance to a peaceful evening named Dad. A week prior to this, my father and I made a deal: he'd allow me to bleach my hair, provided I not spike it (as I usually did)... well, Alicia really liked my spikes, so this evening, I'm rocking some three-inch-tall, beeswax-twisted monsters. If Dad sees me, I'm cooked. My plan was solid: head straight for the shower, then for bed, sleep it off. It’s a seventeen-second journey... I never stood a chance. I embark on my trek using an ancient walking technique, the first ever used in fact. Think of a late stage Parkinson’s patient had a few too many. Approximately three feet past the threshold of the front door, I heard the heavy footsteps of my nightmare approaching. I switched to backup contingencies and cut right down the stairs, descending them as fast as these uncooperative, noodle limbs would carry me. I hit the landing and switch-backed under the hall. Just a few more steps and I'd be out of sight and earshot and safe from— “Kraze?” Fuck my life. “How was your date?” “Fine!” I called back and attempted to resume forward progress as if my response had successfully closed the matter. “Well, come on up, tell me how it went.” God hates me. No words will adequately depict the terror I was experiencing during that arduous ascent to be devoured by Father Troll. Like I'm climbing Mt. Fuji to serve as a sacrifice to a god I don't believe in. Upon catching his first glimpse of me, and a hairstyle that Static-X would envy: “WHAT THE HELL, KRAZY? I THOUGHT WE HAD A DEAL?! GO WASH THAT SHIT OUT, RIGHT NOW!” He demanded, not yet knowing how overwhelming that task truly was in my current state. Desperate to comply in sober-appearing fashion, head down, I tried to place my feet in all the same spots I'd seen them step a thousand times before, until I was in the bathroom. Dad hadn't said anything yet, but he knew: I was fuckin’ on one, or he wouldn't have followed me here. He must have been curious as to just how high I was... and I certainly didn't disappoint. He leaned in the door frame and watched the freakshow. At this time, there were three bottles occupying the bathroom counter that Mom had recently retrieved from a Hawaiian resort. There's shampoo, conditioner, and body lotion. I had a 66.6% chance of retrieving a product designed for human hair... Unfortunately, the 666 coursing through my veins had other plans in mind. So, of fucking course, I grabbed the goddam lotion! I commenced a fruitless campaign of grunting and groaning as I violently shook the container’s goods toward my hand in ape-like frustration, like a chimp trying to solve a Chinese puzzle. Dad chimed in to lend some wisdom, “Cap’s on, Kraze.” Right... that pesky thing! After some sweat, self-doubt, and a lot of cussing, I emerged victorious by employing my teeth to aid in the twisting process. I cocked my head toward the doorway, teeth bared with the cap clenched between them—in a grin that said “You were a fool to doubt me.” I rolled my head to the side and ejected the cap from my mouth with a fierce wind. It shot purposefully through the air and into the shower, where it ricocheted throughout the tile walls and all around the bathtub, like a cartoon bullet fired in a steel room... the bells of my glory! With the bottle's contents now accessible, I attempted to squeeze a liberal amount into my open palm... and completely missed. Lotion splattered at my feet... Then–with a stroke of time-saving genius– I collapsed onto all fours and eagerly began mopping up the mess with my hair. (Wish I was creative enough to make this shit up, but this is an event which produced consequences that I actually had to fucking endure.) Dad had seen enough and uttered a go-to phrase that echoed throughout my childhood, “Boy, what are you stoned on?!” Too scared to lie, I gave him the rundown (minus Paul's involvement). Dad completely overreacted and took me to the E.R. instead of letting nature take its course. I spent an hour telling every occupant of the waiting room that, “I'm a really nice guy, I'm just here to get my forehead reduced.” Dad pleaded with me to sit down and shut up (to zero success). I'm halfway through another “niceguy” speech when a nurse started chanting for some asshole named Christopher who’s apparently fucking deaf—until my father reminded me of my legal first name. I was escorted to an office. Some America-hating son-of-a-bitch pumped all the red out of me, leaving only white and blue. I chastised him for the commie bastard he was. He held me as a P.O.W. until I drank an entire bottle of sludgy black Marxism—or drinkable charcoal, as he called it. That's my recollection, anyhow. This is neither my funniest, craziest, nor earliest tale of dysfunction... This is my first chapter for only one reason: it's the first one I wrote. And you're welcome for all the dating advice.
Intent Score
0
Intent
99
Confidence
Summary
The post is a personal memoir excerpt about reckless behavior and does not indicate any window replacement or home repair intent.
Reasoning
The only window mention is incidental in a story about punching through household window glass; there is no evidence of the author being a homeowner, comparing window options, or considering repair/replacement.
Extracted Signals
- incidental window mention
“"don't punch this guy's face through two panes of household window glass"”
- non-home-improvement context
“"Chapter One - Liquid Lucifer (2000) [An excerpt from Days of Dysfunction: Memoirs of an Adjective by Krazy Adams]"”
Model: gpt-5.4-mini · Prompt: v3 · 6/12/2026, 9:01:27 AM