The Memoirs of Brent Crinchell
A riveting exploration of sexuality and the mischievous antics of adolescence
Total Chaos
The weekend had finally arrived. Our crew, consisting of the core of the starting lineup for our high school’s legendary football empire, was contemplating what to do that night. Firm believers in the work hard-play hard concept, we never strayed from our mantra. The general consensus was to pile into cars and cruise the strip in Westlinster, which was actually more of a large square loop surrounding a commercial district, to be geometrically correct. Cruising was always an appealing prospect, as there were so many opportunities to indulge in, from enticing the ladies, bare-knuckle brawls, or the standard default, an assortment of substance abuse—essentially, a win-win-win scenario. Our voluntary chauffeurs that night were Luscious Merilat and Landon Avrams, the only two from the bunch sporting spacious SUV’s with copious seating capacity. After completing our routine pre-game ritual of cleaning up, lying to our parents about our plans, and pounding a couple drinks, we all converged at our convenient meet up. A bustling strip mall known for various reasons as D-West typically served as our central command post. After a brief tailgate party, eight meatheads pile into the two sporty rides and head out for the night. Our convoy reaches the strip and begins the circuit. We begin mingling with the usual bumper-to-bumper crowd—our female counterparts, the rice rocket brigade, the Vatos, the country bumpkins, and the occasional frazzled soccer Mom that was apparently unaware of the social gridlock that occurs here on Friday nights. We creep with windows down and the beats poppin’, sippin’ on a lil’ some’in some’in as playas do. We begin mercilessly heckling a text book lone douche bag on a crotch rocket for obvious reasons—no helmet, straight billed “MooreHead University” hat cocked backwards and to the left, Made in Taiwan Foakley shades perched on his forehead, a constellation of ambiguously gay piercings adorning his Chevy Chase—complete with penciled in side burns that traced along the jaw line to connect—a gaudy chain and medallion only Mr. T could rival—the plastic egg enclosed bling typically acquired in the 25 cent claw vending machine at Wal-Mart, a basketball jersey title “Playerz” number 69, his puny arms were littered with a pattern of tribal tattoos that would only pass in Samoa, as well as the Pam Anderson barbed wire bicep and random Asian characters that probably don’t translate as advertised, complete with what appeared to be royal blue jean capris—the type strutted flamboyantly on the gender bender runways of Milan. After the relentless verbal barrage, our two carloads of drunken self proclaimed badasses jeered, as our cowardly victim putted onto the sidewalk and through the landscaping at Burger King in a desperate plight for some much needed comfort food and self-reflection. Our next encounter was a gold mini-van that pulled alongside us with a handful of 30-somethings on what could only be a guy’s night out. Taking full advantage of this rare liberation from the monotony of married life, these former bachelors were savoring the taste of temporary freedom with handles of mid shelf booze and imported brew. Hanging out the windows with raised fists, we jubilantly cheered on our newfound role models from across the dotted white line as they engaged in chugging contests the next lane over. Inspired by our admiration, our neighboring veteran party animals opened the sliding door to reveal a magnificent 2-foot bong secured by a criss-cross of seatbelts. Undoubtedly reveling in the glory of their youth, the misbehaving band of brothers assisted each other with each rip of the entrancing apparatus, reliving the days of college comradery with each hysterical hit. Once the chorus of coughing died down, so did the euphoric enthusiasm of our cannabis kindling companions, as they lifelessly sunk into the beige interior. Amidst strained yet muffled requests for Pink Floyd, the van door slowly shut, forcing out a plume of fragrant white smoke. The driver lethargically mustered a wave and head bob, with tired eyes and a frozen smile. Hoping for a new set of faces—among other attributes—we pulled off to shuffle our rotation in the communal course. We reemerge with anticipation, only to brake next to a car full of repulsive trolls, who nervously smiled back, giddily snickering to each other over our brief glance they mistook for attention. Abruptly rolling up the windows with nauseating gestures, our pilot’s chauvinistic antics received the intended response—long pouty faces signifying shattered dreams, further solidifying a foreboding future with a collective hatred for men. Departing the aesthetic doom of Mordor—a musty Mercury Mountaineer—with a decisive lane change, we roll on ahead, thus concluding the context for this epic tale. Now to clarify, Luscious Merilat’s privileged pasty white ass led our expedition in his accessorized Bravada, with the boyish Topher Peynus riding shotgun, my identical and allegedly evil other half Baylor, and our pudgy chum, Chubbs Keylard occupying the back seat. Tailing the lead car in his GMC Jimmy—a model that he was rather fond of for obvious reasons—was our wily driver Landon Avrams, with the beefy Don Scale co-chairing the captain, with the notorious Italian stallion, Guiseppi Rigatoni, and yours truly riding behind—can’t emphasize enough, no pun intended. Our malicious motorcade embarks, merging back into the carefree shuffle of thrill seekers. It seemed as though we turned into a bit of a drought for eye candy. Not a prospect in site, just a total sausage fest in every direction. Surrounded by an abundance of wiener, we elected to make the best of it, passing around the mysterious 7-11 Big Gulp, an unsavory concoction of whatever liquors was available at the time—a sort of revolting communion for rebellious adolescents. As if perched upon the crow’s nest of the Jolly Roger, Topher Peynus hangs out of the Bravada, scanning for wenches belligerently. In yet another display of his random antics, the rowdy running back inserts a novelty pair of tobacco stained hick teeth that makes Austin Powers’ ghastly choppers modelesque. Complete with a perfect creepy back-woods—my sister’s mouth is purdy—disposition, Peynus manages to find the only female in proximity—seated next to her significant other most likely—and strikes up a conversation across the lane. We laughed hysterically at our buddy’s brash advances, which her boy toy certainly didn’t appreciate, as the two tried to ignore the taunts, scowling with eyes forward. Topher’s provocative jeers persisted, as he described in explicit detail the kind of intimacy he envisioned with the lady, which in turn transformed her initial annoyed but subdued demeanor into a ravenous siren from the bowels of Hades. We cackled in amusement as the situation escalated, dismissing any concerns since the livid Lone Ranger obviously couldn’t defend his maiden’s honor against our entourage of brawny brutes. Perpetually pushing the metaphoric envelope, our slack jawed yokel ignites further conflict, accusing the now enraged driver of carnal relations with a sheep, to word it delicately. As traffic stopped, the white hot temper of this inflamed cowboy volatized at the mention of bestiality, as he furiously kicked his door open and approached the Bravada, roaring threats of vengeance and fanatically howling something about ‘Total Chaos’—a pretty gay looking home-made bumper sticker obstructing most of the rear window of the pick up, which slipped our attention up to this point. Just as we opened our doors to confront this hysterical honky tonk, we heard a bizarre commotion. Instantaneously, a flood of rednecks sprinted towards us, again bellowing blood curling war cries of ‘Total Chaos’—perhaps a redneck rendition of Geronimo. Startled, we quickly rolled the windows up just as they swarmed around both vehicles, savagely beating the windows like starving zombies on a quest for brains. What we failed to notice beforehand, was that the same cock cluster surrounding us earlier all appeared to be brandishing the same corny ‘Total Chaos’ decals decorating their trucks, much like Martha Stuart’s prison cell after an hour of arts and crafts—not a good thing™. Completely caught off guard by the clandestine cell of crazed country folk, both drivers were trapped with vehicles in front, to the right, behind, and a median on the left. Suddenly Merilat’s Bravada climbs onto the median with the left side tires, straddling the impediment hurriedly, as he barely inches past the car that boxed him in a moment before, and racing through the red light to escape. We immediately follow suit, just as a toothless hillbilly smashes the side of the Jimmy with a bat. Amidst our frantic orders to go, Landon hurdles over the median and cuts a sharp U-turn, narrowly missing oncoming traffic. With adrenaline flowing, we look back in shock as a parade of pick-ups follows our lead, with some splitting off to pursue the Bravada. We recklessly race through traffic, as Landon tries to distance us from our potential captors. After a series of tire screeching turns and fish tails, we pulled into a mostly empty parking lot, relieved that we evaded our psychotic pursuers. While regaining our composer and collectively recalling the account, Guiseppi dials Peynus to check on their status. On the other line we hear a troubling narration amidst shouts of explanatives. Luscious utilized every method of evasion in his arsenal to no avail, as a startled Peynus informed us a one truck kept swerving to side swipe the already battered Bravada while another pulled along side loading a shotgun, barking orders to the gang of outlaws over the CB radio. In a desperate attempt to lose his tail, Luscious veered into oncoming headlights and slammed over a curb, speeding off behind a barricade of cars in a turn lane. We cheered ecstatically to hear their trail ran cold, sharing a collective sigh of relief from mission control. After relaying our coordinates, we were reunited with our other half. Minutes after we began exchanging reports, a single pick up truck pulled into the other end of the parking lot, ominously turning off its headlights, silently idling in the distance. Still debating whether to lay low or take off, we saw a familiar convoy streak in the parking lot from all directions, strategically blocking every entrance and exit with their oversized rally trucks. This didn’t bode well. Clearly the clan called in support, as there were now over a dozen vehicles branded ‘Total Chaos’ with gay generic mailbox lettering. Whether this was actually a legitimate gang or merely a brood of deranged prairie people, one thing was certain—their white trash logo was incredibly gay. At least the Vatos have the classy old English lettering, and even the West Side-East Side clash is stylish and color coordinated. As the circle of destruction surrounded us, we hastily contemplated an action plan. With the trucks now releasing their possessed passengers, clearly we were out of time. The snarling trucks closed in while the distant denizens darted toward us in a disturbing fashion. Wielding chains, tire irons, pipes, bats, knives, brass knuckles, and even a set of channel locks, the South rose again with a rebel yell! In disbelief, both our drivers peel out, determined to avoid any more damage from these barbaric backwards troglodytes. Each advance was met with a swift swerve from the opposition, who judging by the preexisting body damage had no reservations against crashing into our manicured SUVs. The Bravada wheeled around wildly in search of an escape, while we were corralled and pinned in on three sides. Screeching the brakes, Landon gunned it in reverse, foiling the outlaws’ trap. Attempting to elude the insane mob of pursuing pedestrians, Landon jerks the wheel to avoid captain crazy, who threw his pipe tomahawk style, narrowly missing the rear window. Simultaneously, a cracked out character with a revolver and chain lunges from the blind spot and gets creamed as the Jimmy careens in reverse. To our amazement, after losing a fight with our bumper, a shirtless Cletus—presumably cranked on crystal meth—bolts up off the ground, chasing us with open palms, screaming unintelligible utterances. After creating enough distance our Andretti whips around, skips over a curb, and tears through the landscaping at Olive Garden. With our pursuers following close behind, we slam back onto the pavement and race toward our deliverance in the distance—a flashing set of red and blue lights. As we closed within a block of our target, our hunters retreated, most likely stomping their hats in anger like Yosemite Sam. Hearts racing, we came to a grinding halt, plowing through the cone barriers the officers were erecting in the process, much to their discontent. We piled out frantically, having never been so relieved and overjoyed to explain ourselves to police officers. After we gave the disgruntled patrolmen our thrilling account, they gruffly mocked and berated us for engaging what was apparently a notorious gang of deranged white trash rednecks known for their crazy criminal conduct. Sparing any form of sympathy, the lawmen sarcastically recommended we follow the brazen bandits’ advice—don’t fuck with Total Chaos. As our lengthy lecture came to a conclusion, our comrades pulled up in the Bravada, while the cops eyed them with the stern stare of a disappointed father. We then proceeded to make a cautious trek back to our parked cars and rehash the evenings exhilarating events over swigs of warm booze. After a series of jovial congratulations, our motley crew disbanded, calling it a night—though fate wouldn’t allow the Total Chaos encounter to conclude just yet. Fast forward to the next afternoon, Topher Peynus, Landon Avrams, and his then lady friend Lacy Sanderson have a hankerin’ for baby-back ribs and barbeque sauce, so they decide to grab an early dinner at Chili’s. Throughout their greasy, over-seasoned meal, the three recount the unbelievable details of last night’s adventure. Peynus and Landon head to the restroom to relieve themselves over man-talk. Amidst the frequent flatulence and pained groaning of an obese occupant behind the stall, the two unzip and carry on with their dubious banter, struggling to compose over the hilarious soundboard that is this poor soul’s bowel movement. During the course of their urinal side chat, Peynus makes some comical reference to an oversized pair of blue balls hanging from the tow hitch of a Total Chaos truck, specifically poking fun at the mud spackling the novelty sack, insinuating they were the sodomizing Brokeback Mountain type of cowboys. Just when he was about to elaborate on how exactly their backside’s broke, choking on both the impending punch line and the vulgar stench, both were startled straight as a booming voice bellowed, “Who dun’ fucked wit’ Total Chaos!” The jelly-rolled heavyweight slammed open the stall door, struggling to balance as he leaned forward, grasping the hand rails with his pudgy palms, still crowding what looked like a toddler sized potty beneath his gelatinous base. With his blue jeans and freshly soiled whitey tighties snuggly binding his ankles, the rotund rascal lacked the required momentum to rock forward and stand in a fluid motion. Instinctively the nimbler duo bolted for the door, just as Fat Bastard’s country cousin lunged forward, desperately pawing at his assailants as he thudded to the tile with a howl of regret. Dreading a run in with Chunky’s posse, the two nervously nabbed the lady and darted for the door. Sure enough, as they pulled out of the Chili’s parking lot, they spotted the smoking gun—a row of beater pick up trucks grouped together like some redneck used car lot featuring a push, pull, or drag it in special. Each Confederate rusted hunk of junk showcased the same economically diverse bumper stickers: Fear This, Bad Boyz, ‘I like guns, hate fags, love bush’, ‘breast inspection ahead (please have em’ out), and of course, the glitzy gay block lettering of their Total Chaos stickers. By the time Bubba Dean waddled out to report to his kin, the Jimmy was long gone, riding off into the sunset. The lesson learned from our Total Chaos encounter was much like the morning after a drunken night of carnal pleasures, where an unbridled libido overruled the stern objections of your wingman. The result, shameful regret the morning after, as your burning discharge indicates, you got more than you bargained for.
