There was a time in my life, when I was 19 or so, that I could acquire beer with great ease despite the legal drinking age being 21. I knew several adults who were always happy to supply it for me as long as I could pay for it. The problem with drinking when you're underage is that you get drunk and then have nothing to do, since you still can't get served in bars. This often leads to drunken mischief.
Among my small circle of friends at the time, lawn jobs were the chosen form of late-night entertainment. For those of you who don't know what a lawn job is, a lawn job consists of driving on someone's lawn with your car, hopefully leaving an indelible impression in their grass. The lawn job is not as popular as it used to be, since if you were to try it today you'd probably get shot.
Anyway, some of my friends and I did this so often that lawn-jobbing became an art form. In particular, I had a friend named Kerry who drove a Pinto and was always ready to wreck some lawns. (Yes, this was the same Kerry who threw pizza into Shelley's car back in Unspeakably Stupid Story #6.) As the plain old run-over-someone's-lawn-and-take-off routine began to dull, we began seeking further thrills, running over small shrubbery and even lawn-jobbing flower beds. Sometimes we would even do one on our friend Mike's house, just to let him know we dropped by. After all, it was on the way.
One night, we peaked.
It was a Saturday, and we were drunk and bored as usual. We wanted to go beyond the routine lawn job and prove that there were bigger thrills to be had. I don't remember who came up with the idea, but as we were scoping out a local subdivision, we found a nice challenge: Three houses in a row looked very lawn-jobbable, but were sitting at different elevations, with about a two-foot dropoff from one house to the next. We figured out that by starting out at the highest house, we could achieve a Triple Lawn Job and enjoy a "jump" between each one as well. Kerry's Pinto performed this triple lawn job to perfection, with the two of us screaming with laughter at each jump and thump, and leaving deep scars in each lawn. That was when we should have stopped.
But we were still bored as we pulled into the parking lot of a local church. Now, I had always wanted to lawn-job a church, but there was a problem with churches: They rarely had lawns. This one was no exception, and as we turned around in the parking lot, there was nothing there but a couple traffic islands with flower beds in them. We decided to lawn job one of the flower beds.
Kerry carefully pulled the Pinto up the curb and into the flower bed with the two left wheels. Unfortunately, the soil in the flower bed was exceedingly soft. We got stuck immediately. We were unable to push the Pinto out no matter what we tried. There was a house right next to the church, where the preacher lived. Surely the sound of a revving Pinto at 2:00 am should wake him, but so far, nothing. We were too drunk for panic, but we needed a tow.
And so it was that Kerry and I set out on foot towards my house, with Mike's house on the way. Once we got to Mike's, Kerry found their garage door unlocked, snuck in, and grabbed a tow rope he had recalled being there. Once we got to my house, I snuck upstairs and grabbed the keys to my dad's truck, which, fortunately, he didn't park in the garage. We headed back to the scene in the pickup. Still no preacher, or anyone, in sight, as if a Pinto parked half in and half out of a flower bed was normal for a church parking lot. We quickly pulled out the Pinto and got out of there.
We never lawn-jobbed again, unless you count the time Greg was backing out of Mike's driveway after a drunken party, and not only knocked down but ran over Mike's mailbox, crushing the box itself with a tire going right over its middle. He replaced it later with a better one, which still stands to this day.