My biker gang rode up to the church on Sunday around ten a.m, right before services ended. We parked our banana seat rides behind the maintenance shed. Our ammo, hairy legged Japanese beetles, clicked around in glass jars with air holes punched in the lids. We were after the pantyhose.
With a lot of loud yet completely stealthy whispering, we crouched under the shrubbery, waiting for the congregation to stream out onto the sidewalk.
T minus two minutes, we broke out the drinking straws. Except we called them blowdarts.
We rammed a japanese beetle inside the muzzle of the straw, waited for a set of pantyhose to stride within firing range, and blew like a trumpet player into the straw. Thunk. Total panty-monium... some dowdy lady, high kicks and shrieking. An eight year-old's ultimate dream. Although.
Fraught with a dangerous underbelly that to this day makes me cringe and gag convulsively. One Sunday, it all went terribly wrong.
I was premature. I went for the straw before the deep inhale needed for sure and straight fire. The japanese beetle sucked in tonsilbound. I had to pick its sharp furry feet and sticky antennae off my tongue. It was gaggifyingly horrifying but I learned my lesson. I left the thug life behind.
Until we learned how to bottle up leeches from the creek down by the Route 934 bridge.