Supple Towel Cuddle

Stats & Pot

I begin with a quote from someone whose opinion is:

"getting caught with pot by your parents, not coppers, is worth it. it might break their heart but you can help them build back those pieces and make them stronger"

On the Standard Normal Probability Curve...

...the probability of certain event outcomes can be accurately predicted. It is postulated that every single statistical analysis can be depicted in such a way. The reason is fairly simple: the more you do something, the more one result will happen than others. For whatever reason.

Bear with me.

The closer to the middle of the curve (the peak of the hump) the more likely the outcome is. Farther = less likely. If you were to calculate the chance of your outcome falling beyond the boundaries of the illustration above, you'd find it to be just about zero. But not quite. The normal curve is asymptotic--it'll never touch bottom absolutely. So if you were to go one hundred feet to the right or left of the image on your screen right now, even though you wouldn't be able to differ the "curve" from the bottom of the chart, you'd just have to believe. Let's say you bought a Nebraska Lotto ticket. About a hundred feet to the right you'd find the likelihood of you winning the super jackpot. A football field past that you'd find the likelihood of accidentally flawlessly playing Flight of the Bumblebee on piano. And if you follow the curve out to the right to about here, you'll find the probability of Sunday night's goings-on.

SUNDAY:
Somewhere very near to where Supple, Jon, and I were seeing which we would choose to pee in subconsciously--the Coldstone Creamery urinal or the Coldstone Creamery toilet--a person, we'll call him/her Orphanraper for the sake of this telling, was paintballing something that did not, for whatever simpleminded reason, wish to be paintballed. But don't worry because

OFFICER R. HAZIAK AND THE CONVOY OF OMAHAN JUSTICE WAS ON IT!!!

All units in the area were alerted. The threatening smell of somebody-a-gonna-get-fucked-by-the-po-po floated in upon the wind, and in the hills of Westside the stench would linger until the community had been purged of wrongdoing.

Meanwhile the boys exited the Ice Creamery and made for their car, Charles. Charles offered them a bowl to smoke and, pleasingly to the mechanical beast, the passengers accepted. After a few smelly exhalations, it was decided that a better place than the Countryside Village parking lot would be the Westside High School parking lot.

Now, quite frequently, one can park themselves squarely in public and not fret about a virulent squadron of Omaha fury on wheels swarming his/her spot. Most frequently, in fact. However, fate does not deal in simple logic. R. Haziak was sure he had nailed Orphanraper to the wall when he got out of his car and approached the fright-stuck Charles.

R. Haziak [to self, clearly oblivious to the suspicious gathering just 20 yards behind him]: Clever criminal... hiding in the eye of storm, hm?

In this exact moment, yours truly was inconveniently harboring a lungful of smoke. And HORROR. Jon rolled down the window for the nearing officer. Yours truly subtly exhaled the smoke out of sight of the police and--whoop, he's talking:

R. Haziak [to passengers]: So, you wouldn't happen to have a paintball gun lying around in here...?
Passengers [in perfect, terrified unison]: Uh, no -- but you could probably go talk to them (pointing to the giant, conspicuous crowd of kids gathered in the dark not too far off, tossing stolen, paintballed babies ritualistically into a bubbling cauldron)
R. Haziak [still oblivious?]: So, you wouldn't happen to have a paintball gun lying around in here... (flicks a flashlight on and immediately spots Wally the Hashpipe cowering in the (open, however closeable) cupholder)... but you do have marijuana.
Jon: ...
Supple: ...
Wally the Hashpipe: ...
Yours Truly: ...
Dramatic echo: ...but you do have marijuana...have marijuana...marijuana.....
R. Haziak: Doom, doom, doom, doom, doom, doom...

...I forget exactly what all he said after the word marijuana. Every sentence was just a different spin on the same message: "You're Positively Fucked."

Why didn't Orphanraper go paintballing at something less illegal? Why didn't we buy some ice cream and sit down instead of just peeing and leaving? Why did R. Haziak need a team of able-bodied men to take down a guy with a paintball gun? Why didn't we stay in the Countryside Village parking lot? Why did the police show up within twenty seconds of parking at Westside? Why didn't they question the far-more-conspicuous assembly across the parking lot? Why didn't we close the goddamn closeable cupholder?

Sunday night was a gorgeous orchestration of improbabilities. The Standard Normal Curve was out the fucking window the moment I dipped my finger in ink and officiated that from now on, I can't feel secretly advantageous when I watch forensic scientists uncover fingerprints and nail criminals thusly. I am now nailable should I commit a nailworthy crime and leave that fingerprint.

Anyway I'm pretty tired now. I would appreciate if you kept this tale amongst our age group. I wholeheartedly disagree with the quote from way up top of this post; if my parents catch wind, owww. As soon as I recouperate, I will assassinate the tattler with dull, rusty, salty razorblades doused in lemon juice.

And fuck forensics. I'll wear gloves.