Sometimes, it feels as though my life is one long text. My mother has threatened to take me to a doctor and have my iPhone surgically removed from my fingers.  I call myself Dude. My parents call me Milo.  Trust me, I am not a Milo.  I tell them that my name is not really Milo. It is Dude. Yes, I know, usually surfers living in California call themselves dude. Not me, even though I was born and raised in Chicago, the great mid-west, I am definitely Dude in my own mind and to my real friends. Whenever I send a text, it is sent by Dude. When I receive a text, it is sent to Dude. My parents lack imagination.
For instance, my friend Bob texts me constantly about how his parents are always fighting even throwing stuff at each other, punching each other, and calling each other names. This may all be exaggeration on his part, but Bob expresses his own feelings to me via text. ‘Hey Dude, my ‘rents r fighting again. What to do, Dude?’          
Now, I’m supposed to offer advice to my friend Bob on how to cope with his parents divorcing, because he obviously cannot stop his parents from doing what they want. I mean, we kids have little say in the average family household. I’m guessing here, Bob’s parents aren’t going to ask for his opinion. So, I have to keep this in mind when telling him what to do.
’Sorry, Bob, I got nothing.  U free to play Airsoft?’ I figure doing something fun would cheer up Bob.
‘Ya, sure. Wanna go 2 Lamar’s crib?’
‘Ya, sure. Let me call him and ask if he’s free.’
‘K.’
So, I get on the phone and call Lamar, one of our Airsoft friends. He’s ripped without looking like a farm animal and egoistic in a friendly sort of way, smart, athletic, and outgoing, which is probably why he has quite the ego. There are five people in our group, but we only need two or three to play, although the more the merrier.
Lamar answers. “Sup, Dude?”
“Not much. Bob and I wanna come over to play some Airsoft. Thirty-minutes okay for ya?”
“Bomb diggedy, Dude.”
“See ya.”  I hang up the phone and text Bob.
‘Cool with Lamar. Pic u up in 30.’
‘Wicked sweet, Dude. Cu in 30.’
Now, you may have noticed I didn’t mention my plans to the ‘rents. I figure they’ll be cool with it. Most times they don’t interfere with my hang outs.  The ‘rents being gregarious themselves will probably be hanging cool with their own friends.  Little did I know the ‘rents had penciled me into their schedule later in the day.
I jump into my Yugo, thinkin’ I’m pretty cool and drag my a** on over to Lamar’s house. I park next to his Dad’s Bugatti and jump out, using my sleeve to wipe a smudge mark off my tinted window. I marvel at the Bugatti’s gleam in the sunlight.
“Ghetto fabulous ride, Lamar. You git behind the wheel yet?”
“Better watch yo mouth little bro. The ol’ man’s home.”
“Gotcha!”  I say and laugh. Me and Lamar bang on each other’s language and come up with some pretty good lines. Yeah, bomb diggidy dawg. Just another reason why Lamar’s in my small circle of ginchy buddies. The guy oozes cool. Minutes later we’re all in the side yard shooting the pellets outta of our guns.
Lamar yells, “Ready?” 
We run to take cover behind some trees and begin shooting at each other. Bob sees himself as paramilitary and even has a Death Machine in his airsoft arsenal. In the middle of the game, Bob gets too carried away and accidentally sprays Lamar’s dad’s Veron Bugatti. Mind you, Bob’s Death Machine shoots a hundred bullets per second. We watch in horror as a hundred and fifty dents appear on the car.
“YOU JACKED UP IDIOT. Look what ya done to my dad’s car. You Velveta dingus!!!” Lamar shouts at Bob.
I’m standing there slack-jawed. Just then, Lamar’s dad comes flying out the front door.
“Which one of you knuckleheads shot ma damn car?!”
I thought he would take a real gun out and shoot us all. But instead, the poor man drops to his knees and almost cries while draped over the front fender of his car. We all stand staring at the ground. Suddenly, the ol’ man straightens himself up and says, “No one’s leaving here until I find out who shot my car.”
I have one of my Dude moments when I’m looking at the honking bada** gun that Bob is holding and comparing it to Lamar’s and my itty-bitty guns. I mean, the guy’s gotta make the same connection without having to pulverize the three of us. He then walks over to Bob and yells: “DID YOU DO THIS TO MY CAR?!”
Trembling, Bob admits his guilt and tells Lamar’s ol’ man he is so sorry he can barely speak. So then, the old man stomps over to Bob, grabs him by both of his arms and lifts him off the ground. He then shakes him. The moment Lamar steps in, I say “Prolly  a good time for me to burn rubber.”
While driving down the street, I suddenly remember I forgot Bob. Now, I’m finding myself in the conundrum of having to show my face again. I whip out my cell while making a u-ee, easily done in my lil’ rad ride. While swerving in a half circle, I got one hand on the wheel and the other texting Bob.
‘Shake-a-tail feather and boogy to the curb. Comin’ by’.
‘ ‘Rents on the way. Smoke on past’.
Curiosity slows me down ‘cause I wanna turn off the engine and move my car with one foot on the pavement like some chucklehead in those silent movies. So, I’m going at a snail’s pace glancing sideways. Just then Lamar’s ol’ man takes Bob’s Death Machine and throws it on the ground, and then he disappears inside his house, comes out with a shotgun, and shoots Bob’s broken gun several times. Suddenly, the sound of police sirens shatters my ears, and I think, Dude, it is time to burn rubber. I shift gears into fifth before coming to a stop sign. I can see five cop cars stopping at Lamar’s house in my rear view mirror. I act casual at the stop sign until I notice several cars behind me wanting me to burn rubber so they can go.  I do and decide it’s best for me to go home and lay low.
When I walk inside, I notice both ‘rents are standing at the front door tapping their feet. Not a good sign, I’m thinking. Got myself in another pickle. Happens often ‘cause I prefer not checkin’ in on my whereabouts. I’m the kinda guy who goes with the flow. Authority doesn’t exist in my world. The ‘rents, however, think otherwise. They 86 a lot of my plans, toss ‘em out like they don’t matter.  While they may tighten the screws once in a while, on the whole, I love ‘em.
“We’ve been waiting an hour for you. Remember our plans to go to the Museum of History and have dinner at the Chicago Diner?”  Dad shouts. I can see the anger in his eyes. I have a Dude moment and decide to shift my mind to other thoughts. I refer back to Bob, hoping he’s okay. Meanwhile, my male ‘rent keeps hollering till my ears bleed. Again, my mind bizounces back to Bob where I imagine him to be in parental purgatory.
“Darling, I think you’re being too hard on Milo.” My female ‘rent steps in my dad’s rant with some white sugar words to soften his mood. It works. The word Milo hurts my ears. I try not to steam hot air over the misfortune of having a brainiac name.
“Well then, where have you been, Milo?” the male ‘rent says in a calm but stern voice. Obviously, he’s got himself in a salty mood, so I know enough to make eye contact and agree with everything he’s saying.  After all he does pay for my Iphone, airsoft equipment, game consoles, pocket money, the food on the table, the roof over my head, and the four tutors it takes to get me through school. I got the list memorized. I hear it every week. Not to mention, my lifestyle being compared to the starving people in Africa. Seems to escape the ‘rents, they are the ones who created the lifestyle I throw myself into enjoying.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, Dad,” I say, obviously knowing in Dude world it will happen again.
“You’re grounded, Milo. No friends and no video games for a week. Go on up to your room and think about what you’ve done.  You forgot who’s paying the bills in this house,” my dad shouts.
Immediately, I go into Dude mode and consider what’s left in my repertoire of distractions. My mind ramps into super overdrive and remembers he never mentioned my phone. I practically run to my room in case he recalls my phone gives me total access to the outside world. I shut the door and thrust my arm in the air and silently shout, “Yesssss!”
I throw my a** onto the bed and begin texting Bob. ‘What up dawg?’
‘Dude, ‘rents are trying to keep my a** outta jail.’
‘Sux, Bob.’
‘Ya, blows big time, Dude.’
‘What’s the offense?’
‘Destruction of property, Dude.’
‘Punishment?’
‘200 hours community service, Dude.’
‘Doin’ what?’
‘Pickin’ up trash on side of road, Dude.’
‘Sux, Bob. Got ur pride to think bout’.
‘My pride left me when the ol’ man shook the stuffin’ outta my body and shot my gun, Dude.’
‘Feelin’ ur pain, Bob.’
‘Thanks bro. C u in school 2moro.’
Just then, my door opens a crack and a bowl of soup moves slowly inside with a slight wave from my mom’s hand. I can feel a Dude moment coming over me when thinking about Bob nearly being jailed and Lamar’s ol’ man suffering over the dents in his car. Even Lamar must feel bad about the sad turn of events. In my Dude moment, I realize I’m livin’ the dream, the dream of a privileged sixteen year old Dude. I eat my soup while texting Lamar.
‘Sup Bro.’
        The End