Dear Readers,

My freshman year of high school, I was a timid little kid who had just began to realize how funny he is. I started writing “things that make me mad” in my AIM profile, and my friends suggested that I put up all these rants on some sort of website. So I created “bizzoony.com” in hopes of reaching people from across America, or even the world, and giving them the perspective I considered most important. I figure that if I even made one person laugh, I was doing my job. If out of the hundreds of articles I wrote, one joke made someone smile, giggle, or even scoff in shock, then I had affected their lives—even for a second.

What I discovered was that my website became a large part of younger kids lives. I would have daily readers, and I had to update things every week to keep people entertained. I would get IMs from people from Alaska, Missouri, and Pennsylvania telling me how funny they thought I was. Some of my posts would go around people’s profiles and my fame grew.

By my senior year I was being approached at parties by underclassmen. “Are you Boony?!” they would ask. “What?” I would drunkenly slur. People told me about how they followed instructions to bullshitting a high school essay and got an A.

Girls would show my website to their parents. They would leave me messages about how “funny my mom thinks you are,” or “how my dad couldn’t stop laughing about one thing you wrote.” It was weird. I had become a mini celebrity in the eyes of underclassmen and parents. In time I was being approached at parties by parents “Are you Boony?!” they would ask. “What?” I would drunkenly slur.

If nothing else, this website has kept me sane. It started as a way for me to vent my frustration, and turned into a way for me to share fun ideas, trends, and keep people into my social life of MADE, bad grades, and suspended captainship. Writing was my life, and sharing my ideas to the masses was the best part.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. As I am graduating high school, I feel that it is my duty to leave this website behind and move onto bigger better things. Lord knows I don’t want to become a 30-year-old Maddox writing on the same site for ten years, feeding his ego with each high school kid that shows him to his parents. Believe me, my ego is big enough.

My next journey? I’ve started a columnist position for this college website called pointsincase.com. Check it out, it’s really funny, and there are some amazing writers there who have also taken the next step from their pathetic little blogs. I even have business cards that I can pass out to people.

My point is basically that I’m done. Retired. Throwing in the towel. However you call it, I’ve started anew. My dream is to hopefully write for Rolling Stone, The Onion, or something else that appreciates writing with a twist of voice. Maybe I’ll become a writer. Maybe I’ll go into advertising so I can further reach out to the small kids that follow me.

I leave you with one last post. A tale I have been telling for a while, yet have never put in writing. It’s very close to my heart because I feel the symbolism in it is stronger than any book I’ve read. I think one day I’m going to write a short story in the perspective of the lighter in the story. Please do me the honor of reading the last and final post of bizzoony.com, and comment accordingly, no matter what you have to say.

Believe me when I say that it has been an amazing ride. It took thousands of papers, dozens of notebook filled with scribbles and stories that never got finished or published. One day I hope after a nuclear holocaust they find the notebooks in my desk drawer, and read the stupid things that spilled from the mind of a high schooler as he grew. And if you ever want to take a trip back in time and see the transition of my writings, feel free to go back and read it all over again.

Lastly, I have to thank you. Your comments and reaching out kept me going. At times I felt like a man with no audience, but then I would get a “hey man I loved that thing you wrote about Europe” and I would write again. You readers stuck with me through all my writing slumps, through all my experimental writing, and through all my stupidity. I thank you. Please enjoy this last post and understand it. It was an honor. See you when I’m famous.

-Boony

The story that I tell you is less of a story and more of a legend. A fabled fairy tale similar to Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny. The only difference is that this story is 100% true, and I am telling it only to put a message out to people who will hopefully experience the same glory I did.

My freshman year in high school, I was walking down the street with my friends back from soccer tryouts. We were exhausted from two-a-days and were anxious to get home to sleep and eat. My friend was playing with his new Zippo lighter, as pyromania had swept my social group. We would walk around, setting leaves on fire and seeing who could flip their lighter aflame cooler. Today, my friend was babbling about something dumb while fingering his lighter open and closed, when suddenly, out of the corner or my eye, I see something bright green laying on the curb.

I reach down, and pick up a mini lighter. These lighters are the cheap ones you buy at the convenience stores because they’re 69 cents opposed to the $2.50 ones, only to realize that they’re so small that they crumble under your goliath thumb. However, this lighter was different. It had a rubber casing around it, the same way they make foam casings for ice coffee or cold beer. The casing was a bright green and had rubber grip to ensure a steady flick.

My friend looked back at me scooping up the lighter and said “what’s that?”
“A lighter” I said.
“Yo that shit’s weak. I find lighters on the ground all the time and they never work, that’s why people throw them.”

I tested the lighter out, and within two flicks there was a solid flame burning. Without even thinking twice, I put the lighter in my pocket and continued home. When I got home, I emptied my pockets and put the lighter in the back of my desk drawer. My freshman year of high school I didn’t even think about drugs or cigarettes or anything, and there was no need for a lighter unless it was a Zippo you could suavely light with your jeans.

So for years the lighter stayed in my desk drawer. I would periodically take it out, light it, wave it around, and then put it back in my drawer. I never smoked cigarettes, and didn’t start steadily smoking weed until my junior year, so my lighter was without a job. However, every time I took the lighter out of my drawer, I had two rules.

Never check the fluid
Never unpeel the green casing

To this day I couldn’t tell you the actual color of the lighter.

Two years later, it was the end of my sophomore year. I went to my friend’s house to smoke weed for the first time, and right before I left they asked “do you have a lighter?” Instinctively I said “no” but remembered my adopted mini lighter with the green jacket. I shoved it in my pocket and walked down to my friend’s house. They were amazed by the lighter, and inspected the green rubber. “I didn’t know they made those things for mini lighters,” I remember one of them saying. I told them I had found it two years ago on the street, and I warned them not to take it out of the casing and not to shake it. Sure enough, the lighter ignited the bowl, and we enjoyed the night.

Fast forward a few months to the beginning of summer. The lighter remained in my desk drawer, safe in its own corner, snuggled warm in its green jacket. My close friend and I finally decided to have sex after talking about it, and I had her over my empty house late one night. After the awkward first-time of sex, she pulled out a cigarette and asked if I had a lighter. I reached into the desk drawer, and pulled out my mini green lighter. She laughed, toyed with the lighter a bit, and we went outside to smoke. After lighting her cigarette she asked “where did you get that lighter?” I told her I found it in the case two years ago on the side of the road. “Wow,” she said, “I’m surprised it still lights after two years.” I told her the two rules I had told my friends a few months before:

Never check the fluid
Never unpeel the green casing

She handed me back the lighter, and I slipped it into my pocket.

By my junior year, I was bringing the lighter with me wherever I went. I would stuff it in my pocket before running out the door, and whenever someone asked for a lighter I’d show them the piece of treasure I found three years ago. They would cradle the small lighter in their hands, light it, and pass it around. It was like they were sharing a joint. Flick Flick Pass. Flick Flick Pass. Every time I would remind the kids:

Never check the fluid
Never unpeel the magic green casing

By the time the end of my senior year arrived, I had brought the lighter to countless parties, showed it to dozens of awestruck underclassmen, and created the legacy of the mini green-cased lighter. People would ask “has that lighter burned out yet?” or “do you still have that cool green lighter?” I would tell them yes, and show them if I had it on me. But before handing it over, I would lay the ground rules.

Never check the fluid
Never unpeel the magic green casing

While they passed it around I would tell them the story how I found it on the street my freshman year.

The scene: Me and a group of friends had just finished smoking at his house, and were walking down the street to get something to eat. In the frantic rush to get out of his house, I had stuffed the green lighter into the pocket of my pullover sweatshirt that I was carrying in my arms. After a hundred yards of walking, I felt the cool of the night and put my sweatshirt on. I ran to catch up with my friends, and after a few more minutes of walking we reached another place to smoke before getting food. As the kid pulled out the joint, I went to grab for my lighter.

Oh no.

I searched my pockets. My front, my back. Nothing. I asked my friends if any of them had it, but they all agreed that I had it last. I was angry. I was furious. I was so sad. It was like the end of a friendship that ended too soon. It was like I had lost a family pet.

But part of me was happy. Hopeful. I realized that the lighter was more than just a flame. It was more than a mini lighter in a green rubber case. It was a nomad; a traveling salesman that went from smoker to smoker. And, furthermore, it was never mine. I was simply a bus stop on its long winding road.

Most importantly, I think, was the symbolism behind the lighter. If nothing else, high school is a slew of ever-changing fads and trends, a time when nothing is certain or guaranteed. And while my friends came and went, styles changed and altered, and my views on life each chiseled me into who I am today, I had one thing that was definite. I had my mini lighter with a green rubber case. In the four years of high school my rules and perspectives adjusted to my lifestyle, yet I still had two definite rules that never altered:

Never check the fluid
Never unpeel the magic green casing

You could translate the symbolism of my magic green lighter a number of ways. You could take it as living life in the moment and never checking to the end of “the fluid” of life. You could see it as having a safety blanket of something consistent. You could even say that the lighter was the devil being present during all my times of sinning.

But I take the lighter as a lesson that there is always something bigger than you. The lighter was never mine. Before me it belonged to someone else who possibly fell in love with it for years. And as I dropped that lighter on the curb the end of my senior year, I like to think that it was found by a small timid freshman the next day. I like to think that he picked up the lighter, showed it to his friends, and put it in his pocket before hurrying home. I like to think that he naively called it his lighter. I like to think that he will carry the lighter to every party he goes to, telling the tale of the lighter that he found buried in leaves on a hot summer day. And most importantly, I like to think that as he passes the lighter around with his friends—as each of them inspects the rubber casing and ignites it—he lists two rules:

Never check the fluid
Never unpeel the magic green casing

I belong.  In life everyone feels like they need to belong to somewhere.  There is that lurking fear that you will live your life on a day-to-day routine, floating aimlessly like lost luggage on the large sea.  And when old people think about “their life,” they include that one time in their miserable existence when they realized that they were part of something amazing.

Well move over old people, because I have found my Oasis.  And to those of you why don’t understand WHY this is my Oasis and WHY knowing that there are people that feel the same way I do, then you don’t deserve to be reading the mindless horseshit I write.

This is for all you losers like me who miss the “good ol’ days.”

http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20090311192916AAnieP0

Do you know what that link is?  That link leads directly to a Yahoo Answers question regarding the one thing I have never forgotten: Nickelodeon’s Hey Arnold.  I loved the show.  I even brought it up in a past article, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it first.  That show was the SHIT.  It was literally the perfect portrayal of the lower middle class kids living in the city, having crummy lives and not destined for greatness; simply surrounded by their friends and past adventures.

 Even better was the creativity of the name character’s room.  Arnold’s room was amazing.  It was so unique and perfect that we wanted it.  We wanted to live in the crappy circumstances of Arnold’s P.S. 118 high school simply to have that room.  It had a pop-out couch, a bed you could climb up to the roof from, and a universal remote!  Even better, it could only accessed by a pull-down staircase!!  Arnold’s room made our bed, dresser, and desk lamp look like shit.

 Everyone remembers these things, but no one talks about them.  They just sit in the back of our mind, like a moldy cardboard box in your basement.  Arnold’s room used to be our DREAM! Our inspiration to become unique and make the best of things, now forgotten.

 Luckily, Yahoo Answers saved us.  I am a strong believer that Yahoo Answers was invented SOLEY as a way for Arnold Room Lovers to meet.  It was destiny.

And now we are.  I have a complete list of the people who share the inner most connection with me.  Me and these people don’t have the same favorite color, same birthday, or both LOVE Edward from Twilight OhMiGawd hez so0o0 dreemy lolmfao.  We share the similarity of being deeply affected by our youth.  We are living proof that at one point, Nickelodeon was beneficial.  At one point in its history, Nickelodeon inspired children, motivated them, and impacted their life.

And those people now wander around the world, living separate lives after being changed forever.  Until they are reunited.

 I love you Hey Arnold Room Lovers.  I will be with you soon.

This is a post in which I am mixing together many of my insights over the past month. With all the crap about college, my teachers refusing to understand that I’m done with school, and me trying to compose some sort of short story/book to get published, I have not had time to sit down and write. That, on top of my parents forbidding me from posting anything inappropriate because “colleges look at my website,” delayed the release of my “Step By Step Guide To Naming Your Testicals,” which will be published soon. As for now, it’s 8 o’clock on a Sunday night, and I am finally ready to open your eyes.

First off, I hate Soulja Boy. Like, seriously. If I had a gun I would shoot him in the face with no remorse. His songs do nothing but pollute the radio and are the least original things in the history of music. Even his name is horrible. He claims his full stage name is “Soulja Boy Tell ‘Em,” which makes no sense. Why would anyone voluntarily complicate their name, turning it into a shitty command/sentence fragment? I don’t understand why he didn’t just stick with Soulja Boy. To make matters worse, he shouts out his name before every song he sings. Now, anyone who knows anything about show business knows that in order to succeed in the music industry, you must holler your pseudonym before anything you create. Lord knows I openly shout my stage name before everything I say.

Teacher: So if the base of the quadrilateral is 16, what is the circumference of the outer circle?
Me: BOONY! It seems that the circle’s diameter is 20, making the circumference roughly 62.8 inches
Teacher: That’s correct.
Me: SUPERMAN THAT HOE!

Which leads me to the song that made him famous, “Crank That”. The song is horrible. It doesn’t mention any real message or idea, and, even worse, Soulja wrote it when he was 17 years old. Now, this may not seem like a big deal to people who enjoy the idea of a young mind in an industry, but I think that once you realize what the true meaning of Supermaning a hoe is, you’ll be shocked about it being the chorus of the song.

As if things couldn’t get worse, Soulja ruined the dance floor with the dance that went along with the song. I grew up in a suburban white neighborhood, so any dance party in which that song came on would suddenly become a fight over who really knew the dance moves. Some people would use both legs, others would use one. Some people would switch, others would stay consistent. Regardless, the “Crank That” dance always resulted in people bumping into one another trying to dance like a cripple.

I think it’s just his voice. I hate his whiny, high-pitched, gangster-slurred voice. He hardly rhymes, he has no regard for syllables, and he doesn’t even keep the beat. He sounds like an 8-year-old. His song “Turn My Swag On” makes me want to crash my car. Okay, enough about him, I’m getting angry.

This next piece is a good note, and mainly a notification to the kids of my generation who have given up on MTV. A few years ago, MTV introduced the world to “Reality TV,” which resembled less of real life and more of producers shitting show ideas out their ass onto a crowd of camera whores. It resulted in crappy shows like Laguna Beach, The Hills, The City, Life Of Cryin’ Ryan, and any idea that involved attractive people they could drag a camera behind. And, as is typical with MTV, this paved the way for every radio station to “follow around” a D-List celebrity as they “lived their life.”

As a result, one of my favorite stations, Vh1 became a cesspool of brain-rotting productions that were as entertaining as shitting out an Xbox controller. I already wrote a post about how this shit has spread like cancer, but it’s gotten much worse. Suddenly, New York from the original Flavor Of Love (remember that show?) is having her own show where she does jobs people suggest. Who does she think she is, Mike Rowe?

Anyway, my point is that MTV has redeemed itself. It realized that no one wanted to see if Rachel and Jessica were going to ever talk to each other after Steve hooked up with Jessica on Rachel’s birthday; and instead, understood that the teenagers who watch MTV want one thing: mindless awesomeness.

Because of this, they started shows like “Nitro Circus” and “Rob Dyrdek’s Fantasy Factory,” two shows where people with too much money waste it to live out our dreams. In Nitro Circus they crash cars and do insane stunts that everyone wants to do, and in “Fantasy Factory” Rob Dyrdek, a professional skateboarder, throws down thousands of bills an episode to further push the limit. In both shows they set world records, but not pussy world records like “oldest woman ever” or “most traffic cones collected.” Hell no, these guys break records like “most backflips done on a motorcycle in 30 seconds,” “longest distance jumped on a lawn mower,” and “worlds biggest skateboard.”

These two shows are only the captains on a brilliant team of new shows that have gone back to the original basis of television: to let people watch things they will never be able to do. I will never own a massive warehouse with a giant foam pit, zip-line, or tennis ball gun. I would, however, like to watch someone else own those things.

My last thing is that Fmylife.com needs to stop. It was funny when people started writing FML on their away messages or Facebook statuses, and it was cute when a website with funny anecdotes was made for us to read daily to feel better about our lives, but when the shit becomes an Iphone App and every single fucking girl in the whole world is reading it and submitting their shitty breakup stories on it, it has become enough. Fmylife.com is proof that even as females age, they still become obsessed with trivial nothings instead of actually trying to do something useful like, for example, not be an idiot.

I had a bunch of other things to write about, and I know this wasn’t that funny or insightful, but I’m getting carpel tunnel from all the writing I’ve been doing in my Creative Writing class. My next entry will be the 15 page “short story” my teacher made me write in less than a week. I’m about to superman that hoe.

As a child, there is a growing concern that I can’t identify with adults. Each year, the elderly and youth of America become more polarized and, because of that, begin to think that the other group is trying to ruin the grounds of entertainment. Adults see the young lifestyle through propagated rap videos of drugs and disrespecting women, while the teenagers see the “olden days” through the memories of their grandfather getting drunk on the front porch with a cigar in one hand and their ballsack in the other.

Another thing that interferes with what I call “Generation Integration” is the large language barrier. Every day new phrases sweep the youth of America, making it harder for parents translate their kid’s words without a decoder ring. While the elders cling onto phrases like “blockhead” and “nincompoop,” children are littering their conversation with words like “off the heezy” and “mad props.” This vast difference in language has troubled both generations and made it impossible for them to interact.

Aside from this problem is the dilemma of different districts adopting separate slang words. Parents find themselves understanding slang words in one area only to understand that their decoder rings don’t work in the neighboring town. It is for this reason that I am translating all the urban sayings of my region. This will hopefully assist us in bridging the gap between not only town-differences as well as the division between generations. So without further ado, here is the breakdown of the slang in Arlington.

Mad (adj.)—Multiple; a lot. To a great extent, normally to the point of discomfort.
Example: “It’s mad hot outside.”
“There are mad cops out tonight.”

Head (noun)—A person. A head is a person who is at a party or gathering. Normally
Example: “This kid is the most random head.”

Skimp (adj.)— Lacking in quantity and/or quality. Displeasing to people. A scam. Normally used by kids when they are upset about a situation. Many teenagers express dissatisfaction with the phrase “yo mad skimp”
Example: “This is a skimp bag of chips.”

Straight (adj.)—Accepted; pleasing. The opposite of skimp.
Example: “Yeah man we’re straight.”
“That’s straight.”

Tuke (adj.)—An acronym for The Ugliest Kid Ever. Used to describe a person who is not good looking.
Example: “She is the tukest girl ever.”

Sauced (adj., verb)—Adj: intoxicated, mainly with alcohol. Verb: to drink
Example: “I was so sauced last night”
Example: Me and my friend were saucin’ it up last night.

Schemin’ (verb)—Hiding something from one’s peers. Planning something behind ones back. Associated with negative attributions of not being loyal.
Example: I didn’t notice it at first but he’s clearly schemin’.

Deez (adj.)— Derived from the word diesel. Showing power and strength.
Example: That kid is so deez.
Example: That was the most deez throw in the history of football

Phelpz (noun)—Weed. Derived from this picture.

I realize that there are many slang words from different towns (for example, I realize that in a neighboring town instead of “sauced” they use “shamboozled”) and I encourage you to share your own. That way, if I ever visit you to kill you, I will know the appropriate language to blend into the crowd. And if you have any questions, please ask. I will give you the straight answer after saucin’ mad phelpz and schemin’ about tuke heads.