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To fully understand the comedy of this scene I need to describe the condition of our apartment when the coppers strolled through. Monday through Thursday I would classify our place as barely livable; meaning the urge to clean up/get the fuck out of there is palpable, but not overwhelming. The first half of Friday is usually the cleanest the place ever gets because, who knows, someone who actually gives a shit about appearances and sanitation might drop by and that person might have boobies.

5 o'clock Friday evening marks the point when things start going down hill. It starts with the beer cans and solo cups and by Sunday we're sitting in a crack den littered with newspapers, dirty hypodermic needles and hula hoops. We try to do some light surface cleaning on the subsequent days of the week to make Friday's clean-up a little more bearable, but for the two or three weeks preceding the weekend in question we just said "Fuck it, we like wallowing in filth. This is good." For you Weather Channel junkies it was like we had a three week shit blizzard and were two feet deep in a thick blanketing of garbage. And not just garbage; see we like to steal things, usually when intoxicated, so we have random shit like 15 foot Mike Huckabee signs and various bar paraphernalia strewn about. This is what six officers of the law had to navigate though to get to Travis' room.

Oh, God, Travis' room.

Number one, he sleeps on a giant suede bean bag set up nicely in front of a 65-inch HD television. Behind the bag is the same exact red metal bunk bed you had at age 8. The room actually looks like something a wealthy 8-year-old would design. It's got a tiny trampoline so The Smell can do his cardio and a dress up closet stocked with riches from the Salvation Army and Good Will.

Wait did I say an 8-year-old? I meant an 8-year-old with a severe, severe drinking problem.

At the time of this incident we estimate there were over 100 beer cans and bottles in various stages of emptiness and three handles of different types of liquor chilling in every nook of the room. On a side note, T-Nasty's room has another odd feature, or features. His room has six closets. One huge one and five little ones. He likes them, though. He's always going in and coming out of them. Odd, I know, but when we ask what he's doing all he'll say is "Practicing.", whatever that means.

Anyway, you get the picture, we're slobs.

As the coppers are trudging up the stairs I start searching the hodge podge of empty take out boxes and clothing on the floor for a shirt to cover my finely sculpted chest and abdominal region. I want to put the policemen and dyke at ease and if my naked torso screams anything its intimidation. I get the shirt on just as--lets say Officer Leslie-- waddles in the room with five smug motherfuckers with badges. To be honest much of what happened next is a blur. I don't know if the reality of the situation set off an adrenaline explosion in my brain or if I jostled loose a hidden pocket of gin somewhere when I ran to Roll's room, but my head was spinning.

Macon's finest launched their investigation cautiously with questions such as "Is that how you get to the roof?" Yes. "Have you gentlemen been drinking." Heavily. "We're you drinking on that roof?"

Seeing where this line of questioning was going we informed the officers that we were drunk, not 3-years-old and that we had indeed been drinking on the roof and may have become over exited by the awe inspiring realizations which witnessing our circular blue spacecraft rotate into brilliant beams of sun light had thrust upon us.

At least thats what we tried to say. In actuality I think we said, "Does there really need to be six, seven...five...SIX! policemen in here right now! Do you really not have ANYTHING better to be doing than giving us SHIT!" And so on and so forth. Travis reached the breaking point when a young, tall officer who we even now refer to as Rook broke the case wide open with his observation, "Well, those beers didn't drink themselves." To which Travis said, "No shit! We did, but just because you see empty beer cans doesn't mean they were all drank in the last 24 hours!!!!" You may think I'm trying to make myself look better by adding all these curse words to what we said. You would be wrong. Normally we would have been civil, but even after we'd admitted to causing a ruckus and apologizing these six mongoloid crime fighters wanted to stay and chat about the general appearance of our, of OUR apartment and they wanted to do it with thinly veiled insults that only their unfuckingbelievably clever minds could ever catch. Travis responded with the classically exasperated line, "It isn't against the law for me not to clean up after myself, is it!?" No, Travis, it is not.

Finally after winning the battle of wits with the six uniformed high school drop outs in ambled their leader who was probably lagging behind after getting hung up on how to operate our door knob. At my breaking point, I blurted out, "Do you really not have anything better to do right now?" A valid question since we live in Macon a.k.a. Georgia's ghetto. His reply caught me off gaurd. He stopped, stuck his thumbs into his gun belt, cocked his head at the ceiling and seemed to be earnestly pondering the question. He then swiveled on his heels to face me and said, "Slow morning."

With that, all the tension in the air went right out the window. King cop asked us about our majors, dyke cop tried to lick Travis' vagina and Rook commented on a poster of George Costanza tacked to the ceiling. They eventually filed on out, leaving us with a warning not to go back on the roof and to laugh our asses off while giddily retelling a story which had happened just three minutes in the past.

This is taking so long to tell so I'm going to have to finish up later.

We went back out on the roof.