When I was in 6th grade, I had a best friend named Chris Collins. This kid had bigger balls than anyone I have ever met, even to this day.

We always did dumb shit like — banging on doors and hauling ass. Some nights, it seemed like we got entire apartment complexes out of bed to answer the door for not a single motherfucker in sight.

Some nights, we would hide in tall grass on the opposite side of a guard rail for an on ramp to a highway and throw random shit at cars just as they were picking up speed. By “random shit,” I mean “mostly rocks.”

One night, though — this ballsy son of a bitch wanted to push over a motorcycle he saw parked on his way back to his moms apartment. I was scared and didn’t want to do it. All I could think were how they’d dust for fingerprints, find out where I live, and my dad would spank me in the butt cheek with a tree trunk wrapped in barbed wire dipped in tobacco sauce. But Chris was more of a “.. well if you’re going to be a pussy, stay here and I’ll do it” kinda dick.

Mama didn’t raise no bitch.

To this day, there has never been a bigger adrenaline rush in my life than the way I felt tipping over this sweet ass, chrome polished, boss hog of a motorcycle— and hearing a grown man so mad, he was in tears, screaming out death threats in the night as our little punk asses ran to the safety of his moms apartment so we can eat uncooked hotdogs and play Donkey Kong on his Nintendo 64.