In Solemn Ceremony, 30 Year Old Moves Bong From Floor To Shelf
Thirty year old Chard Boston is growing up.
Today, in a solemn ceremony marked by turning the volume down ten percent as The Boondock Saints played on a nearby television, Chard marked his entry into adulthood. He lifted his longtime bong, (“It’s Marge Simpson, where the bong is her hair.”) from the floor next to a stained bean bag chair and placed it on a shelf to the left of the other stained bean bag chair.
“It just felt like time,” Chard says. “The Marge Simpson bong, you know, the one where the bong is her hair? It means a lot to me. But I’m thirty now, it’s time to grow up.” He sighs. “Matt says we have to change the water like, now.”
Pushing aside three dusty yellow dice (used, he says, for a game where handpainted “orcs” are moved around a table and stared at) Chard placed the Marge Simpson Bong — the one where the bong is her hair — to the left of similar items of boyhood: an Xbox controller, a broken Xbox controller that makes the shaky sounds when you shake it and a Playstation controller that seemed fine, for now.
With his friend Matt as a witness, Boston pledged to keep the bong — the Marge Simpson one where the bong is her hair, not the Futurama one where the robot’s ass is where you pull from — off of the floor as it was made out of glass and shouldn’t be placed where, for example, a guy with a ponytail eating Cheddar Combos could knock it over.
His favorite shirt — the black T-shirt with the necktie drawn on it so it looks like one is fancy — was retired and hung above the broken Adirondack chair from last summer. Someone poured his beer in the sink. It was quickly replaced. After reading the speech from The Boondock Saints about how crime is cool if you’re Irish, Matt flicked the hallway and bathroom lights on and off. The ceremony was over. The party had just begun.
According to the duo, well-wishers were on their way to celebrate the end of an era. “I told everyone on the grouptext,” said Matt. “Tom might roll through. Or Fuckface.” His phone beeped. He looked at it. “Fuckface is out. Goddamn it, Katie.”
As of press time the bong — the Marge Simpson one where the bong is her hair — was back on the floor.
