You ever run into that prick from high school?

You know the one.

The little bastard who gave you wedgies so violent your underwear were filing insurance claims.

Yeah.

Him.

The same clown who waited until you finally grew a backbone and went to talk to the girl you liked?

And right as you opened your mouth, he?d yank your Fruit of the Looms so far up your back they could?ve doubled as a fuckin scarf.

Right in front of half the school.

Confidence gone.

Dignity gone.

Pecker shrunk back into witness protection.

Fast forward to today.

You?re built like a tank that could bench press a Buick.

He looks like a coat hanger somebody stuck legs on.

You see him at the grocery store pushing a cart full of misery.

Cheap cereal.

Freezer-burnt burritos.

Shampoo that probably smells like defeat.

And for a second, you think, oh yeah, this is the moment.

Time to give this prick the wedgie of justice.

You picture grabbing the back of his underwear and launching it so high it catches a fuckin jet stream.

Crank that thing until he sees every mistake he ever made.

Right there in front of his wife, who already looks like she?s pricing apartments online, and his kids, who look like they get bullied by toddlers in daycare.

You lean in, ready to whisper, remember me, bitch?

???

But then you get closer?

And holy hell, life has already beat this man like a rented snowblower.

Hair falling out.

One eye twitching like he owes it money.

Back bent like he slept folded up in a suitcase.

And then a bottle of antidepressants falls out of his cart and rolls right to your foot like the universe saying, chill man, we?ve been on this case for years.

You pick it up, look at him, and it hits you.

Karma has been giving this poor bastard daily wedgies since graduation.

You don?t need to add a thing.

Life already hauled his underwear so far up his ass it probably shook hands with his pecker on the way by.

So you hand him the pills.

Give him that slow grin he?ll remember for the rest of his rough-ass night.

And you say, hey buddy? remember me?

Then you walk away thinking,

I hope you toss and turn all night, you miserable son of a bitch.

?????????????...and that's callin' it like it is!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Canadian artist & digital troublemaker Colin John Cook shares his louder-than-life, awkward, and honest-as-hell stories. Packed with humour, real talk & creative insights in a no filter, digital comedy space that laughs at life & calls it like it is. He is also the Founder and President of

The Hidden Gallery - Art Studio & Micro Theatre

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