i am he posted:

i am he posted:

i am he posted:

pig slut lisa posted:

i'm going to get drunk and buy this

i am he posted:

unfortunately i think it's slightly too big.

i am he posted:

WD-40 posted:

the teamwork and cooperation involved is a testament to weed rear end

pig slut lisa posted:

if i buy the smiley can i bget the hat

if u r wavering, what if i write a story about this bar

WD-40 posted:

when they sent the final invoice for the weed rear end hats, the company name was listed as "Weed, Associates"

pig slut lisa posted:

won't anybody fix the thing so I can buy it

WD-40 posted:

maybe if youd participate in the contest they would...

i am he posted:

pig slut lisa posted:

if i buy the smiley can i bget the hat

if u r wavering, what if i write a story about this bar

i am he posted:

Zen Dudeism posted:

I think this is a really cool idea, and here is my entry:

Before I begin, let me say that I know I'm going to get mocked for "real posting" and "having feels". If you feel the need to laugh at my adolescent problems and painful situations, so be it. I feel like I have made some friends on BYOB as of late and I want to relate this story, and I don't care if I wind up in Goonrofls.txt because of it.

I was a fairly normal child, at least compared the other kids in my community. Like most kids, I had a couple of buddies - Jeff and Charlie - that I used to hang out with at school. We weren't the popular kids, but we weren't the outcast losers you would expect, either. We spent most of our free time - outside of class, that is - playing traditional childhood games on the playground; tag, frisbee, dodgeball, and the like.

Now, fashion played a large part in our social structure at school. One of the main reasons we weren't popular was the fact that we dressed unconventionally. You see, we all knew that we didn't have the money to afford designer labels like Girbaud or Tommy Hilfiger, so we made up for it by wearing lesser labels as a group. We made our own fashion statement with labels like L.A. Gear and Ocean Pacific, and we especially liked Hypercolor clothes. Hypercolors were bright and cool, plus they changed color. Our group really stood out, but that eventually lead us into a lot of trouble.

I think the trouble really started with a couple of guys who were maybe two grades ahead of us. Nowadays, I guess you would call them bullies -these were big, beefy, stupid goofs with no direction in life who picked on the smaller kids, the less popular kids, the kids who didn't fit in. Kids like us, in other words.

I remember playing a game of pick-up basketball after school one day... Jeff had recently gotten a pair of Reebok Pumps and had been bragging about how high he could jump, claiming he could almost touch the rim. We wanted him to prove he could do it, because surely shoes couldn't make you really jump higher, right?

Jeff took a great running leap towards the goal. If you could have seen it, you would have sworn he was actually going to nail the dunk. About halfway there, though - WHAM! - a basketball slammed into Jeff's head from the side of the court. As he came crashing down, a loud peel of malicious, mocking laughter came roaring from the side of the court. There, doubled over in laughter, were the culprits - Butch and Tom, the two guys who loved to push smaller kids around.

I felt my face turn bright red with anger. After months of being picked on, I know that my friends and I couldn't keep taking the abuse. I couldn't stop myself; I had to stand up to these guys for both my friend's sake and my own dignity.

I remember hearing my knuckles crack as my young hand curled into a tight fist. I threw myself at Butch, catching him off guard with a right cross to his acne-filled cheek.

Unfortunately, this was no ABC afterchool special. Butch's buddy Tom easily grabbed me and pinned my arms behind my back, holding me firmly as Butch regained his wits and began to pound his meathooks deep into my gut. I wheezed as the breath was driven out of me, and a bright flash filled the entirety of my vision as his cruel hand drove flush into my nose.

As Tom dropped me and the tears began flowing, I then had my worst realization - both Jeff and Charlie had abandoned me. I could only sob harder as I realized that I had been left alone, uncared for by the only friends I thought I could count on to stand beside me.

The walk home was terrible, as I thought about how horribly I would be teased by the kids at school the next day. What would I say to Jeff and Charlie? How could I look them in the eyes again, knowing they had turned their backs on me when I had jumped to defend them?

I remember the look on my mother's face as I came in through the front door. Hers was a look of horror, and I remember her tears as I told her my heartbreaking tale. After hearing about the situation, my mom got scared and said, "You're moving with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Aire."

Maybe if I had been wearing a nice Weed rear end hat instead of the Hypercolor cap I was wearing, none of this would have happened.

To this day, I lie awake at night, wondering, "What if?"

The Fresh Prince posted:

this is my story. its about me, jazzy jeff, and charlie mack. nice try buster.

i am he posted:

WD-40 posted:

heres my submission so I can justify keeping this one hat ive been blowing bong hits into for the last few weeks:


When I was in my early 20s, building firelines in the mountains of Idaho, I used to hear tell of a wizened old hermit living in a cave about 20 miles outside of Bovill. Legend had it that this man could tell the difference between a steelhead and a sockeye at 20 yards, just by the whispers their fins made in the water. You could bring him a 10 penny nail, they said, and he'd put it in a special mason jar and 2 days later it would turn into Ivory soap. They said he talked to bald eagles and fought rockchucks with his bare hands and, well, you get the idea.

One evening, after a hard day up the mountain and a few Coors Banquets at the local post office, the Mayor of Bovill, one Gary Perry (at 35, the youngest mayor ever elected in the state of Idaho), dared me to go up the mountain and ask the old man the secret to life. I could feel the winds of change in my hair as we drove up old logging roads, each one more narrow and disused than the last. After what seemed like hours, Gary stopped the car at a nondescript turnoff. A short walk into the woods and we came upon a clearing, in the middle of which was an abandoned silver mine. Gary grabbed my shoulder and looked into my eyes, and although no words passed between us, I knew I was on my own.

I walked up to the entrance, kicked aside a few rotten boards, and stepped into the mine. Even worse than the pitch black was the horrible silence. I walked slowly on and on, hands in front of me lest I should fall in that unknown darkness, feet shuffling in search of the mineshaft I feared would swallow me whole. I could hear my heart beating in my ears, and the voices of those I had wronged calling out from the depths of those endless caverns. Still I walked on, searching for a myth and possibly, news of my fate.

Eventually, after what seems like a lifetime but could have only been minutes, a crackle in the dark. The whisper of dry lips around an ancient tongue. "I know why you're here," I heard him say, his voice likes dead leaves in a dry well. Was he talking out loud, or in my head? "What have you brought me in return?"

"Thanks a lot, Gary," I thought to myself in a panic as I searched for something to give the old man. My purse was back in the jeep, my pockets were empty, and for the first time in my life I felt shame. Why hadn't Gary warned me? Tears filled my eyes as I turned to leave.

"Wait," the old man croaked. "Come closer. What's that on your head?"

Hands trembling, I reached for my head. My hat! I tore it off in excitement and thrust it in front of me. The hat was carefully removed from my sweaty grasp. I could hear the sound of boney fingers scraping along its front, tracing the embroidered words. "B...E...E...R......B...U...T...T," I heard him intone, as he spelled out the letters above the bill. Silently, and not unkindly, the hat was placed back on my head. "Child," he whispered, gently touching my cheek with parchment-like hands. "You are not ready. You think you understand everything, but you understand nothing at all. Beer Butt? Really? Come back to me once you've learned the ways of Weed rear end, and we'll talk."

That night, I bought my forums account. That night, my entire life started. Do I wish I had a Weed rear end hat then? No. I wasn't ready. I can admit that now. But soon, I'll be making a trip back to Bovill. I hope that old man is still there. I have something I'd like to give him, and maybe, just maybe, he has something for me in return.