A Bad Idea I'm About to Do by Chris Gethard Read Free Book Online Page B

saying, and, creeped out by the whole scene, we didn’t stick around long enough to figure out what his intentions were in summoning them.
    Years later, my brother Gregg and I were talking about how we grew up.
    â€œDude,” I said, “if you had to describe Koozo in three words, what would they be?”
    My brother answered without thinking twice.
    â€œGreaseball,” he said. “Caughtie. CB radio advocate.”
    I was so surprised that he didn’t say “moped.”
    After his afternoon trucker rendezvous, we never heard from Koozo again. I never saw Koozo grow up or knew him as an adult, and I’m glad I never did. In my mind, he still exists as he was—the scourge of the sewers and the terror of the treetops. I’d like to believe that out there in some peaceful suburban neighborhood he’s running a terrified child over with a moped right now.
    Â 
    PS: There is a neighborhood secret that I am one of only a handful of people to know. I feared Koozo immensely at certain times in my childhood and never had the guts to come forward when I should have. Maybe it’s too late to make amends now—I’m not sure. But a person’s got to try, even fifteen years after the fact, I guess. So Mike Tenkman, if you’re reading this, it was Koozo who stole and killed your leopard gecko.

My First Kiss
    H er name was Samantha. Like most of the girls who spoke to me during high school, she was in the marching band. She played piccolo, meaning she had more rhythm than she did self-esteem. As an extension of these issues, she somehow managed to be both bulimic and chubby at the same exact time. And for some undefined reason, she constantly smelled of birch beer.
    Needless to say, I was in love.
    I sat directly behind Samantha in Ms. Flynn’s sophomore English class. We didn’t talk much, until the day I almost vomited directly on her face.
    English was the first class of the day, and I had a bad habit of having to use the bathroom just as class was starting. I couldn’t help it. My digestive tract was and is notoriously unstable. I interrupted class dozens of times before Ms. Flynn, who on most days was so nice and understanding it actually seemed sinister, put her foot down. She informed me that I would no longer be allowed to leave her class to use the restroom. I respected her enough to grin, bear it, and wait to use the restroom until after class.

    While I understood Ms. Flynn’s point of view, I knew in my heart that human biology stops for no English teacher. I respected her wishes and stopped asking for the hall pass, but understood deep down that the stage had been set for disaster.
    â€œMs. Flynn,” I said one morning, almost a month after she had handed down her edict, “I really need to use the bathroom.”
    â€œChris,” she said, “I’m sorry. But I can’t. We talked about this.”
    Unfortunately, she didn’t realize that on this particular day I didn’t have to “use the bathroom” at all—I had to throw up. Violently. And more importantly, immediately.
    I raised my hand again, praying she would see the terror in my eyes.
    â€œChris, you can’t go,” she said.
    â€œBut—”
    â€œNo!” she said, glaring at me. “I said no, and I meant it.” I had been put in my place, publicly. Stifled giggles filled the room. I had no choice but to tough it out.
    No one wants to be the kid who gets yelled at for taking too many shits, I reminded myself through gritted teeth. No one.
    My resolve lasted less than a minute. After a few seconds, I felt it: a wave of vomit suddenly rising from the depths of my stomach. At that moment, as my cheeks quickly ballooned with bile, Samantha spun around. Accompanying the rising tide of puke was a noise that every kid recognizes as the unmistakable prelude to throwing up. But Samantha, with her self-inflicted bouts of vomiting, was especially