Y2K, SEXTICY, MDW 2000 (Snipet from Happy Chasing Happy)

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The end was near for the digital services with companies worldwide. Bank computer systems were going to crash, crucial infrastructures such as telecommunications, Internet hardware and software, technological programmers, public utilities, and us—human beings were doomed as Y2K was nearing. The terror of the Y2K broadcasting sizzled through Americans like an electric chair; our eyes were glued to the hypnotic machines and devices embedding fearful visions for our future and brain washing us to consume American produce packed inside tin cans to help boost our economy—or the government’s pockets. They convinced us that the end was possible; our world would crumble easier than a scone from Starbucks if we did not prepare properly, and the year 2000 would be a transition period where most humans would not survive. What a scam.

In other, more important news—Prince, or the artist formally known as “PRINCE” has made a comeback with his strategic, musical approach for the future of his musician existence, when he dropped the single, “Party Like it’s 1999” in 1983, then later re-released it on twelve-inch vinyl only to hit the TOP 50 Billboard Music rankings—now that’s what I call being ahead of his time!

This was the year Eminem dropped his first public album, “Marshal Mathers LP” that created uproars in the rap community, or music industry itself—or the world itself. This musical rap genius changed the world by influencing American suburbia to dye their hair blonde and convincing our generation that we had problems only to be fixed through drug sedation and freestyle rap battles—guilty as charged. His metaphorical wordplay was more than convincing; it was real talk. Anyway, besides the fact Eminem is the best rap artist to ever live, and Prince changed his name to a symbol that looks like a seahorse, these were a few concerns, moments, and worries—to name a few, that were going on before the world was supposed to end. Y2K was the most anticipated event since the remake of the movie, Superman: The Man of Steel, and along with its lackluster result or what I like to call a snoozefest, Y2K had similar qualities—or flaws.

Somehow I had to come up with a personal solution for this Kryptonite—and so I did. During the destruction of Planet Krypton and Y2K, I discovered a drink called Cisco or the artist formally known as liquid crack, a weight loss agent called Stacker 2, and an erection dream named Viagra. Cisco was the drink of choice for a semi-ghetto teenager trying to reach a hyper-level drunken mind state with less than four dollars in his pocket. Stacker 2 was a drug that aids weight loss, but for me, it was a pill packed with more energy than a tricked out Supra engine hooked up to NOS tanks. And then there was Viagra, aka THE BONER PILL. Now, if you mix all three components together, you instantly get a nice buzz from the high alcohol levels and condensed corn syrup, an overpowering surge of energy from the ephedra, and a rock hard penis. This magical cocktail would make you feel invincible and like you are running full speed ahead like Super Mario eating a flashing Super Star and eliminating, overcoming, and dominating anything that comes your way. This was poor man’s ecstasy, or what I called–SEXTICY!

Oh yeah, and Y2K happened (#fail).

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Memorial Day Weekend is when high school students usually celebrate in Seaside Heights, New Jersey. This is a land of its own, a time beyond its time, a place where teenagers usually experience demonic activities for the first time—or last time. For me, it was just another day—SYKE! It was the year 2000, and I had been saving money for this party-moment of time like it was 1999, HA! I had been preparing for that weekend like Comic-Con junkies prepare for a DC vs. Marvel fight-to-the-death. As per my preparation, I made sure I had enough ammunition to create my COCK-tail of sexticy (pun intended). We pull up to the Sea Garden “Resorts” in Seaside Heights, NJ, check into our hotel room that smelled like the breath of a seventh grade math teacher: burned coffee, ashes from a pack of Camel cigarettes, and a steel wool sponge that’s been sitting in your nana’s (grandmother) sink since Pearl Harbor. The mustiness would marinate a stench on your belongings so unbearable that The Salvation Army would return your donations. But we didn’t care; we had teenage dreams to live. As we minimally grieve, thinking life is coming to an end because high school would soon be over, I automatically got rid of the so-called depression by downing a thirty-two ounce bottle of strawberry Cisco, with a pair of Stacker 2s , and Viagra to follow—that’s right—SEXTICY.

Now, everything is ok, good, and great, grand, wonderful—treat of the day! As my dopamine, endorphins, and oxytocin are having a wild sex orgy in my brain, I can no longer withstand the energy pressure of excitement built up inside of me. I decided to blast off like a cannon ball, so, to start things off, I literally did a cannonball off the second floor balcony, into the outdoor pool in front of the Sea Garden that reeked of chlorine to hopefully vanish the bacterial excrement’s from the past years of festivities. As I hopped out of the pool soaking wet, dripping of old urine from 37 percent of the New Jersey population, I randomly threw some girl into the pool, as she was fully clothed in upscale designer clothing, for the third time—so I guess that’s not so random. I then sprinted up the stairs like a dog hearing the doorbell ring and onto the balcony; I started dry humping a female blow-up doll, which was handed off to me by a random spectator as if I had just crossed the finish line at the Tour de’ France. After my PG-13 fetish sex show, I bolted into my designated room faster than Speedy Gonzalez and grabbed a condom from my Jansport backpack. I thought to myself, now that I have EVERYONE’S attention, I can demonstrate this trick I had learned over the past month. As the crowd started huddling in on my one-man show, I could feel the pressure, yet excitement, closing in on me.

My Ringling Brothers act was about to begin, “And now for the first act, The Condom Trick!”

What is The Condom Trick?

Backtrack: I was watching the show “Ripley’s Believe it or Not” and watched this Korean dude shove snakes up his nose and pull them out of his mouth. I said, “NO FREAKIN WAY! I HAVE TO TRY THAT!” Why I wanted to try that, I have no idea. So I thought of an easier way and decided to use a condom. I mean why not? It’s way softer, lubricated, and has much more elasticity, so I was sure it would be an easy task—correctomundo! The condom slid right up my nasal passages, and I coughed it out like green loogy (bacterial mucus) in the morning, success! I had never felt happier, at least momentarily. The new trick up my sleeve (or nose) was something that I knew could not fail. It was going to be my winning ticket to local fame, and I knew I would be remembered for that amazing trick and would make everyone laugh. (Man was I an idiot—but not really.)

            So, I ran back to the middle of Ocean Boulevard, barefooted like a wild Samoan chasing a boar in the jungle. I bit down on the end of the trophy-gold condom holder with my Chiclet-sized teeth and tore the wrapper right down the middle in super-slow motion. The Magnum rubber vertically unraveled like a jungle snake hanging from a tree (obviously this is the ONLY reason I would be using a Magnum). I held the long rubber of slithering glory in the sky, as I felt like Charlie Bucket on Willy Wonka when he found the golden ticket in his chocolate bar. I placed the bubbled tip into my right nostril and sniffed my dignity as hard as I could with every ounce of self-respect I had left inside of my lungs. It went half-way up my nasal cavities—but in mid-sniff, it got stuck. I could slowly visualize a disappointed crowd and felt the patience of the spectators begin to dissolve. All eyes on me, the crowd was intrigued, and I knew I had to keep going with my performance. I started to get dizzy from the rotating spotlight, sweating from the heat of my time in the sun, and nervous from the trembling feet of spectators waiting. With the very last ounce of self-will, I decided to give it one more try…

I said to myself, “OK, Jay, One…last…sniff…”

Phhheeewwwm! Right up my nose, past my tonsils, and right out of my mouth! The crowd went wild as they waved their Vishnu arms in the air as if a batsman knocked a ball past the boundary in a game of cricket. I grabbed the rubber on both ends and began flossing it though my nasal cavities as if I was playing the trumpet.

The intoxicated Sea Garden balconies were exceeding vacancy with five hundred plus spectators—they’re going nuts, screaming, and chanting “Condom-Boy! Condom-Boy!”

The surrounding hotels began to catch attention and get lured in by the lasso of extravagant noise. The army-ants started following in toward the sand dune of excitement and joined in on the fun by mimicking our hotel’s chants. I received countless requests to reenact the condom trick—so I do—as my time in the sun branded a golden-glowing tan of confident armor. I was in the middle of the road showcasing my semi-cool dance moves that had then been valued higher from my previous act. The fancy footwork, spin moves, and Michael Jackson moonwalk glided me across the stage as I flossed this condom through my nose and mouth. I had the entire block cheering, screaming, and going more berserk than Ferry Street in Newark after Brazil won the World Cup.

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            In mid trickery, a convertible full of girls in bathing suits started honking the angry-horn at me to move off the street. Instead, I decided to jump over the car door and into the vehicle like a Mexican hopping the U.S borders—this is called recognizing opportunity and taking risks. The girls started to laugh, get excited, and sandwich me like a roast beef po’boy with the works, as we bumped and grinded to Sisqó’s hot single, “That Thong, Thong, Thong, Thooong!” I courageously grabbed a female and began to slobber on her face like a dog licking the inside of an empty peanut butter container. People start to pour onto the street from their hotel rooms and join the mini-rave party that had all started with one simple trick. Pop music blasting from the convertible, drunken teenagers jumping up and down to the beat, and local spectators were all having the best five minutes of their lives. Then, the Seaside Heights rent-a-cops pulled up on six-gear Huffy mountain bicycles, with shorts cut to their groin like Erik Estrada in CHiPs, and blowing a whistle like a raver in between the silence of the music—no one is alarmed or afraid, so girls start to dance with the seasonal police officers. The rent-a-cops immediately called for back-up on their Nextel walky-talkies because that was something they obviously couldn’t handle. Police sirens swarmed the block as they pulled up in patty wagons, placed barricades at the end of each block, and started arresting everyone they could grab. As for the leftovers, they ignited the air with pepper-spray to clear out the block, and hopefully thwart a few riot members with cayenne. I instantaneously jumped out of the car and ran off Ocean Boulevard and into another hotel, as I dipped and dodged through the crowd like Allen Iverson, and I was out of there faster than a fat kid in dodge ball. I banged on the door of a random hotel room, only to find more Cisco to drink and a few acquaintances. I grabbed the bottle and gulped down the liquid crack as if I had been walking on the desert for days; I obviously finished the entire beverage and attempted to break the empty bottle over my head—BAM! Nothing happened besides a large thud noise, slight dizziness, and a small crowd response of “ooOOoos.” I tried again: THUD! The Cisco bottle still stood, as I failed to break the bottle, but was left with a consolation prize of a large lump, deep cut, and blood dripping down my face like Carey.

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           I think to myself, wow, am I a failure. I can’t even break a god damn bottle over my head. Slowly, I felt my energy levels dropping a considerable amount. I leave the anonymous room and run back to Sea Garden. As it seems, things have cleared up—actually everything cleared out—it was pretty much a ghost town. I could see human bones under the broken shackles from old prisoners of the shore. I later found out that everyone who wasn’t arrested was demanded to stay in their rooms as police officers searched them one-by-one. I ran around the block to another hotel named the Glendale, and I had blood pouring down my head. I asked strangers to punch me in the face, with the 77 percent ROI (return on investment) that someone would knock some sense back into my brain. Obviously they failed and it didn’t hurt; it never does when you’re that sedated and have more adrenaline pumped into your veins than a heroin addict that overdosed inside the emergency room. The careless blood dripped down my face and left me helpless as all the spectators just laughed at me—so I continued with my escapade. At that point, I was depleted of energy and slowly starting to drag through the streets like The Walking Dead.

 

Rumor spread and my brother (Pete Isip) found out what was going on. I returned to my room at the Sea Garden and found my friends with ice packs and Band-Aids to help clean up the mess I had made of myself. The ephedra was wearing off, my active drunkenness was getting inactive, and the Viagra had not kicked in yet—I think. While everyone else was out for recess, my friends placed me on a chair to try and calm me down to prep for my brother’s arrival. Forget the police—my brother was way scarier. We could hear my brother’s slow stomp-walking coming toward our room as you hear the monster’s snarl from the video game DOOM. He kicked the door down and started roaring at us. We were helpless, hopeless; we were all DOOMED. For some reason, I found the dignity (or asshole-ness) inside of me to roar back at him, and I hocked a loogy at his face, followed up with rambling profanity. He took a deep breath, closed his egotistical eyes, and swallowed it for later. He walked out of the room with navy-seal quietness and then torpedo-slammed the door shut, who shook up the entire Sea Garden. The room was quieter than a deaf library, as all of my buddies stared at me with eyes wider than an owl’s. I knew once the weekend was over I was dead meat.

At that point, I was sitting there as we all crossed our fingers, hoping that the cops wouldn’t enter our room and search it. As we all stared out of the epidermis covered window, we noticed that all the girls we came with were getting thrown out of the hotel. We start laughing hysterically because the girls believed the opposite would happen. All of a sudden, the Viagra kicks in. My little Asian penis was throbbing as I could feel the blood pulsating through my gingko biloba along with my Skrillex heartbeat so out of tune that you’re forced to bob your head in disorderly fashion. The cold sweats dripped out of my pores like I was Leonardo DiCaprio in Basketball Diaries. The drug and drink combination wasn’t really paying off as planned. Now, SEXTICY left me sitting there with an ice pack on my cranium, a split-open wound with blood dripping on my face, a death wish being granted by my brother, trapped in my room with six pissed off dudes (which were my friends), a rock hard penis—minus the girls—and nowhere to go. All for fifteen minutes of fame that brought more happiness to the world of random strangers, girls I never saw again, and other spectators—except for my world. Behind closed doors, literally, is where the truth happens. That’s when things get into a real perspective and where you find who you truly are. I was everything to the world outside, but to my inside world, I was nothing—nothing but an asshole, a jerk-off that disrespected the people I loved to show the outside world that I was a maniac, knew how to have fun, and a relentless character, but that’s all I was—a character—but with no character…..

MDW 2000…..

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