SORRY MOM & DAD: Whip-it good


January 07. 2014 11:12PM
By Justin Brown Weekender Correspondent



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Well, if you ask me, it is about f—king time that the day I have three things in common with the MTV Movie Award-winning actress Demi Moore has arrived. We have both been photographed with the Bruce Willis wax figure at Madame Tussauds Wax Museum, both of us post Twitpics that are not age appropriate, and we have both had intimate relations with whip-its. Should I be on suicide watch?


A few weekends ago, I was invited to a friend’s house in the country for a night of sledding, drinking, watching movies, and making prank phone calls. He was home for the holidays and staying at his parents’ house, so we weren’t planning on going crazy or anything – just a chill guy’s night.


“Yo! I just found out about these,” bragged my friend as he was holding a can of keyboard duster spray. “These get you so high.”


“What are we, 14?” I asked as I lay on an air mattress in his parents’ basement, watching him put a t-shirt over the spray can and inhale the toxic chemicals.


“Nobody’s home! Nobody will know!” he defended himself.


Apparently we were 14 again.


“I’m not doing that. You can die,” I said.


He just giggled away.


“You’re faking,” I said when he walked into a wall and fell to the ground, all while continually laughing. “There’s no way you can be this high that quickly!”


I figured if he was getting this high so quickly, then I was wasting my money and time dropping $8.35 on a 12-pack of Busch Light and three trips to the bathroom every hour to get messed up. So, I decided to give this whip-it a go, which I would not recommend to anyone, for future legal reference… and safety.


After a few inhales, I felt like I was floating.


“This is amazing!” I said, surely louder than I realized.


In the height of our bliss on behalf of Radio Shack’s non-ozone-depleting duster spray, his mom came home.


“Your mom’s home!” I shouted as we were in the middle of making a video of our lunacy for Instagram.


A few seconds later, his eight-year-old sister entered the basement.


“Listen to my story!” she shouted, holding a black leather journal. “I would like to dedicate this to my family, and my children.”


“Your children?” I asked, not sure if I heard her correctly on behalf of my cheap high.


“Yes, I have three children. They think I’m crazy for believing in aliens. Now back to my story. It’s called ‘Biker Life,’” she continued.


I was definitely too high to contain my laughter as I sat on an air mattress in my friend’s parents’ basement, listening to a little girl who believed she actually birthed her plastic dolls made in China deliver a story about a girl who ran off with bikers and fought crime on other planets.


So, I laughed at her the entire time, making her think I was laughing because I farted so she wouldn’t lose any self-esteem and grow up to be 27 years old doing whip-its in her friend’s parents’ basement or, worse, grow up to be like Demi Moore.




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