I hate to brag but I am pretty darn successful. I got a lifted ford ranger, a solid 6.5 wife (a Canada 5), a sick gig managing a Tim Horton’s – with a salary that automatically adjusts with inflation. The works.

But still, good as my life is now, there’s something missing. I was bullied a lot growing up, I guess. Kids used to gang up on the playground and call me names like “If you don’t stop eating urinal cakes, you will never manage a Tim Horton’s.”

In some ways my whole life has been about proving those kids wrong. Even all these years later, I’d be lying if I said I don’t get a little rush everytime that asshole Shera Youtha walks in to my shop. She can’t pay  for food because her mom is really sick so I get to chase her out of the store with a broom.

But Shera is small fish compared to Peter Franklin. Every day throughout high school, he’d give me one of his famous Alberta Nut Busters, followed by a wicked noogie, followed by an Edmonton Ass Blasting, followed by a regular old Canadian hand job. Followed by a promise that we could stay together forever. And as much as I’ve tried over the years, I still can’t stop myself from coming back to how absolutely wicked those noogies were.

But Peter is about to learn his lesson. After 13 years of preparation, I am finally ready to hunt Peter down like the dog he is and give him a fat noogie the whole way into his peanut brain. I sold my Ranger and rented out my wife for the three months that I’ll be away to buy a one way ticket to Edmonton, where he moved after college.

Once in Edmonton, it wasn’t hard to find Peter. Franklin is a stupid last name so no one else has it. When I found him, you bet I walked right up to him and showed him my Tim Horton’s provincial manager of the month certificate on my phone. He just whimpered back, “Hey man that’s great and I’m happy you found me, I always wanted to apologize for the way –” and then boom! I gave him a noogie so fat it would have to buy two seats on an airplane. Only he was still eight inches taller than me so it was more like an aggressive neck-knuckling. “Nevermind” he said as he smacked me so hard I spit a tooth onto the pavement.

When I woke up, he was gone. I was pretty upset that I hadn’t managed to noogie his skull into his L7 vertebrae like I practiced on the squirrels  and would have to pay a fee to cancel my wife’s lease early.  But then I googled him on the train ride back and saw that he had married some oil billionaire dude right after graduation. Which means he’s basically a prostitute if you think about it. Just a filthy, syphilated, coin operated cum dumpster with porcelain skin and eyes that sparkle like sapphires. So if you ever find yourself in Alberta, try not to give old Peter too hard of a time, eh?

Thanks, Lampy, for giving me some bucks to write a travel guide for Mexico City, and not checking up on me when I went to Alberta instead!