Throwing toilet paper requires force and finesse, arch and
accent, the power of a Hail Mary and the touch of a fadeaway jumper. It also
takes speed. Within seconds of us pulling onto the grassy shoulder in front of
Erin’s parents’ place, the trees paralleling the road at the property bottom
were turning white.
The moon was up. No one who had wheels was home. What rolls the wind didn’t slap across the two-lane unspooled quick fast from our red fingers, looped over bare branches, and rappelled down the flip side in long, taut, unbroken belts. We dressed trunks. We scribbled in tissue along the front yard all manner of stall-wall worthy enjoiners. The wreckage was compact but not inconsiderable. The tree row had become a mob of resurrected mummies.
The moon was up. No one who had wheels was home. What rolls the wind didn’t slap across the two-lane unspooled quick fast from our red fingers, looped over bare branches, and rappelled down the flip side in long, taut, unbroken belts. We dressed trunks. We scribbled in tissue along the front yard all manner of stall-wall worthy enjoiners. The wreckage was compact but not inconsiderable. The tree row had become a mob of resurrected mummies.
Any serious, midnight-running prankster knows ... corn is better.
- Ed.
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