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I Was A Teenage Know Nothing
A Teen & Young Adult Biography set in the 90s
By Ryon Ownbey Posted in Non-fiction 3 min read
No Karate in the Potty Previous The Pale Girl Murders Next

I told the Movie Theater Club about the trouble. They were sympathetic and that was all that they could be. I didn’t expect more. After all, what was there for any of us to do about it? Was it less or more than what I could do without their help?

The collective imagination might see us all packed into Travis’s blue and white Chevy Blazer. Kate sporting throwing knives, Travis a samurai sword, Andy a couple of stainless Beretta 9mm pistols, Erik a bazooka, Greg a Star Trek phaser (probably T.O.S. version), and me with a Colt Peacemaker that begged to have its hammer fanned in the right direction. Travis could turn the wheels of his beloved SUV onto Stacy’s stepfather’s front lawn, churning up the soft dirt beneath the grass and tearing the lawn to shreds.

Shocked, her stepfather would step out front, piggy snout planted firmly in the center of his pink face, hopefully with shotgun in hand so that our action movie fantasy would be justified all around. He would take aim at all of us and Kate

would do a somersault out of the front passenger seat, narrowly avoiding his first shot. She would then spring to her feet and, with great skill, let fly a blade barrage of throwing knives toward his crotch. For our further entertainment, Andy would make him do a little dance while unloading his shiny Berettas, one in each

hand, striking and exploding his toes and feet. Andy would let fly his best Dana Carvey impersonation of George Bush Sr., spouting the words out past a big ol’ grin, “Well, isn’t this prudent. Indeed it is, AT… THIS… JUNCTURE!”

Piggy screams would be heard and his buddies inside would rush out only to

find more of the same. Fat Piggy and Skinny Piggy, we can call them. To protect him, Fat would step in front of Stepdad Piggy who was trying to contain the gushing blood flowing from his pin cushioned cock and balls. Erik would step out of the passenger side door and slam a shell into the bazooka. A half moment later he’d have Fat in his sights and BOOM!, Big Pink would be lots of little pieces of pink. Before Skinny could figure out what to do next, Travis would show up like a ninja and swoosh, swoosh, swipe, his head and peepee would be separated nicely from his body. Well, three swings of the katana on account that he would cut his head in half vertically prior to cutting it off horizontally. Then Skinny would go down, each hand searching for what used to be located in the now vacant areas of his body. By that time Stepdad Piggy would be doing all he knew how to do in life, which was making another wrong decision.

Instead of surrendering and asking for mercy, he would try for the shotgun that had fallen to the ground next to him. I would wait. As soon as he raised it up, I would go for the six-shot Old West Colt Peacemaker and hit him in every limb, breaking the bones in all of them. The last two shots would send one through

his brain and finally one through his heart, just to make sure. But what about Greg and his Star Trek Phaser? Lots of blood and bodies and chunks of carnage. He’d step up and say, “I got this,” and go about sending a red energy beam at everything in sight, disintegrating it all into nothing.


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90s biography memoir


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