My friend is a great storyteller. His stories quickly become infamous among our friends and his sarcasm and mine make for a fantastically snarky friendship. He has agreed to write for Serially Singular occasionally so that you all might also experience Story Time With Old Man Sharrett.
Enjoy!
For a long time my parents lived on this little dirt road and our only neighbor was this old man and his wife who had gone to high school with my grandfather. We lived the white trash dream. Our dog ran around everywhere. I wandered the nearby woods with my machete in hand. We burned everything we could get our hands on. Then, for some ungodly reason, people started buying the lots next to us. I remember very clearly the day one of the first new neighbors moved in.
I was wearing my white trash uniform: dirty (formerly) white tennis shoes, paint stained shorts, and a Hard Rock Cafe tank top that was 3 sizes too big for my scrawny high school body. I was in the front lawn breaking up a desk using a maul (a sledgehammer with an axe on one end of the hammer). Several very nice cars drove past and everyone of them slowed down to stare, terrified, at me as I continued to destroy this desk. They all quickly parked across the street and all but ran into the house. They stayed for a while, during which time I finished breaking the desk down into manageable pieces.
They were all just leaving when I had gotten the fire ignited and had a roaring blaze steadily consuming the broken desk. Gravel flew in every direction as they peeled out trying to escape. It was glorious.
Many people ask me why I was burning a desk that afternoon. When they ask this I can only shrug and tell them that was just our way. That, and we really enjoyed burning that crap.
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