And now for something completely racist!

I wonder if latino's tend to rape more?

Last weekend was spent wasted in the woods somewhere outside of Ellicotville. Ryonce and his man friend rented a trailer for the week, so I decided to go up to visit them on Friday night. Ryonce likes to smoke blunts. Lots of blunts all day long until existence is nearly forgotten. I brought up a bottle of cheap wine (Yellow Tail Shiraz, 10.95, Premier Liquor), and decided that this was going to be one of those drunk days. After a couple of pretty big glasses of trashed out (ie: with ice) wine, L. took us to Regatta, where hicks live in tents in the mud, build fires out of birch and CFC's, and race canoe's at high speeds in shallow waters while immensely intoxicated. My kind of party all together really, if it weren't for all the confederate flags. It kind of reminded me about this time that I was dating this short kid over the internet, and we went back to his house, ended up making out in the dark to Office Space, and then when he got all angry because we weren't "going all the way", he turned on the lights to reveal about 5 pretty big pictures of Hitler on his wall. If anyone tells you they believe in "states rights", they're probably a Nazi.

So we find L.'s friend and his giant heated tent, and manage to smoke a good three blunts before settling in, and talking to a couple of down home Americans. When we first arrived there were cops and ambulances everywhere, and our new friend informed us that "some faggot got burnt to shit".
The following day Ryonce convinced me to do some shrooms with him in the country, so we went back to buffalo to score, and pick up Angelator, who I promised we'd be home around 9pm. We ingested at 5pm, and then decided to take a 5 1/4 mph (an interesting trailer park speed limit) drive along the lake and throughout the adjoining cabin nesting. The trees were hunched over and the fog was incredible. In my tripped out mind I imagined trotting through the forest on a hackney with Viggo Mortensen. We got out of the car and sang to the geese that were nesting peacefully before our arrival. Somehow we made it back to our trailer, and Ryonce was convinced that he wasn't feeling anything. When I trip, the first hour consists of me comparing the current trip to previous ones, and convincing myself that i'm not tripping at all. L. Came over, and I measured him out a fair dose, and then things get pretty vague.

We went on another excruciatingly slow ride in the car, and when we got back, Angelator asked us how the Regatta was the night before. I turned to her, looked at Ryonce, and we started dancing wildly in the middle of the kitchen 'NAZI's, NAZI's, NAZI's!" we cherubically proclaimed, followed directly by "SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS!". Some shots were poured. Some shots were spilled. Some more shots were poured. "NAZI's, NAZI's, NAZI's!", "SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS!". I couldn't tell if I was tripping or just really drunk. This bison has never danced so fancifully on all four paws in my entire existence. Once again, I spent one of the best nights of my life with dear sweet caustic Ryonce, for whom I owe the world to, sometimes. The only thing missing, although at times I can't bare to admit it, was Flippin Wench. We tried to call her and she hung up. I couldn't blame her, I was inaudibly screaming something Aryan in her ear, and she might have assumed I was making fun of her. But the Bison has to much respect for our late, great, and tragic hero.