Tales of Northeastern Ghetto Tech. From Strelnikov.

Some preliminaries before the jump into the Grand Clusterfuck

“Why is Strelnikov so mean to the students?” (asked in a whiny snivel)

I’ve always hated them, even in grade school, but then if you’ve been following my comments (which I guess is impossible) you know I attended a string of Krazee Kristian Skools from about the 5^th grade until I graduated from high school, whereupon that final “institution” collapsed thanks to a pastoral sex scandal. I hated the students then because they submitted to being crushed by this idiotic orthodoxy willingly; I only made friends with people that had their own minds or who had learned, like I had, to become two-faced and privately critical of the school, the principal, or that Godforsaken joke of a religion. In college my hatred began again when I started taking day classes and ran into the snowflaky scumfucks this blog is built around and I realized I had been around these doofuses my whole life.

“Is Northeastern Ghetto Tech a real school?”

Yes; a certain comedian who sold pudding and home computers from Texas was a graduate. For the purposes of this series of reminiscences, the city where NGT is located will be called Pretzelton, located in the state of Arboria. The street it straddles will be called Monstro Avenue, and the cross street where the subway is will be called Rufus T. Firefly Way (because the original name of the street, Cromulent Lane, had connotations in the city of mugging, armed robbery, and young men on the corners giving you their best mad-dog stares.) Not that Monstro was a street to be proud of - people drag raced up and down because it was the only road in the area with more than two lanes, 99.9 percent of the buildings were either abandoned or had unused upper stories, and many of the residents rightfully were angry at NGT because they had purchased blocks of those shuttered buildings and were holding on to them for future expansion.

So let us begin….

When Wolverine of the X-Men Pissed in my Shower

Drinkin.’

That was what drove me up the wall about living at the Ministry of Truth; the NGT students’ need to get hammered EVERY. FUCKING. WEEKEND. My suitemates were no different - Farraj, Phil the Sex Machine, and Zontar the Thing From the Suburbs loved booze.....and drugs…..but mostly booze. I was older than them, so I had gone through the “let’s smoke dope on your parent’s patio” and “let’s get drunk at noon” phases a-while back…..so that meant they wanted me to buy booze for them at the state Arboria likka stows. I resisted (if I had been caught, I would have been expelled), the trick was the security in the Ministry of Truth was so slipshod I could’ve claimed a bazooka was a walking stick. What drove me to be their frakkin’ booze mule was the night Farraj came back from a party where he had gotten so smashed he started a fistfight with a brick wall; Sterling the local gentleman drug dealer propped him up and got him past the uniformed grandmother and the shitfaced cocksucker smeared his blood all over my wall, before we poured him into his bed. My theory was that if I could get them totally gone, maybe they wouldn’t head out and play the bratty college student/trainee alcoholics. Let us not forget I wasn’t there to play these chickenshit teenaged games – I wanted a diploma, their livers be damned.

            The trick with getting booze in Pretzelton was, unlike Surfer Rosa (my home state – in America) you couldn’t just pull up to the Piggly-Wiggly and get Stolichnaya from the locked glass case across from the bread aisle; you had to buy the stuff from the aforementioned state liquor stores, and being perfect Quaker assholes, the state government did not list the store locations. However I am a wanderer and I found the places with their red banners and pictures of Gorbachev and Reagan shaking hands. Let me mention right now that all three of my co-internees in the Ministry were too scared to take the subway; I had never ridden one in my life but the minute I could buy a token I was riding all over the Greek Cross, even to the parts of town they were horrified to hear I had gone…..I don’t know how I do it, I just blend into the woodwork or people assume I’m an undercover cop. At any rate, the experiment was a colossal failure; I could drink them until they were numb, but THEY WOULD STILL GO OUT. So I gave up.

            At this point I should bring up that Farraj and Phil had a plethora of friends, most left over from high school and all students of Northeastern Ghetto Tech; there was the Triumvirate, three girls who later lived in a small house in Coolsville (where all the “happenin’ ” people boarded), and you have already met Sterling, and then there was Wolverine, who was this wisenheimer whose hair reminded me of the comic-book charater. Like Phil he was a waiter, but unlike Phil he didn’t pick up women at his restaurant and bring them back to the Ministry to have loud sex. Anyway, I can’t remember clearly how Wolverine did what he did, maybe I was coming back from work on a Thursday (when the “weekend” began) or from my other weekend job. Zontar (and I call him “Zontar” here because he was this inhuman shitheel; he knew full well I worked at the Chinese Library, but he pissed and moaned about my alarm all the same – he wanted to get up late on Saturdays) wasn’t there as far as I remember. What I do recall was that it was deep into my first semester at NGT and the inmates of the Ministry were already starting to trash the place: garbage in the elevators, a stupid game where they slapped the fire exit signs (we were all fined at the end of the year as collective punishment), stealing fire extinguishers, flipping tables in the student lounges, other childish grabass. I think I was walking in from the hallway and I looked right and there he was, the shower curtain pulled back, urinating into the drain. I think I screamed “You MOTHERFUCKER!”  or maybe I said nothing because I was THAT angry. What I do remember was putting my bag down and heading right out across Monstro Ave. to the local drugstore/bodega. Drifting around inside I noticed the carpet was the worst shade of grey I’d ever seen. Wolverine apologized a week later after the liquor wore off.

***

When I collected two friends, Steve-Dave and Fat Randal, and I introduced them to Phil and Farraj, my suitemates were so gone (they were both prancing about in their boxer shorts) that they didn’t remember meeting Steve-Dave or Fat Randal.

You think I’m done.

I haven’t even started.