Back in the day, I used to go egging a lot. Me and a couple of buddies would drive around, a few dozen rounds of ammunition between us. I would usually take the point, second gunner would sit right behind me, and then there was the driver. Together, we would go out on Friday nights and tag anyone unfortunate enough to be walking the streets at 11 o’clock at night. You gotta figure, if they’re walking around that late at night, they must be willing to accept certain� “circumstances.”
And it was a blast. I remember the first time we ever armed ourselves with egg projectiles and our first victim quite clearly. He was this skater dude, who we code-named “Byron.” Funny thing about our egging sprees� we gave every victim a nickname. I guess that was our way of identifying them for telling war stories later on. Also, we vowed never to hit the elderly, the crippled, or women� a sort of ethics code among eggers if you will.
Anyway, as we drove by Byron and his pals, lights out to mask our license plate, me and second-gunner tagged him with about three eggs, leaving him covered with unborn chicken fetus. And let me tell you, the rush was incredible! After that night, we were hooked, yolk, white, and sinker�
As the weekends passed by, we refined our technique. We would tag joggers, skaters, punk kids, and staggering drunks. We had gotten so good that me and second-gunner could hurl about three eggs each at our unsuspecting victim in one pass. That’s two omelets! We had also made a pact to egg every single Winnebago we saw, because who in their right mind likes Winnebagos? Eventually, we were hoping to make it on the news� not as criminals, but as three unknown suspects terrorizing the city with egg mortars.
One of our most memorable forays came on an evening with a full moon. We were all spending the night in front of The Wherehouse to buy concert tickets the next morning, when an incredible idea hit us. Only one of us needed to stay in line� giving the EGC (EGging Crew) plenty of time to go out and do what we do. We hit a supermarket to pick up some ammo, and we were off.
About an hour into our manhunt, came “Cycle.” We spotted him a few blocks away, probably riding his bicycle to the sanctity of his home. But Cycle was a special case. See, usually we went out egging in a Ford Blazer with the top down, leaving us plenty of arm-throwing action. This night however, we were in some hooptie where the back windows wouldn’t even roll down all the way. Driver wasn’t with us that night either� making our get-away that much riskier. Quite a challenge indeed.
As we made our approach run, we placed a cool egg into each hand and turned off our headlights. Cycle was actually bicycling down the driver’s side of the street, so me and second-gunner would have to hook the egg out the window and toss it over the roof of the car. Level of difficulty� 8.5.
Just as we all crossed some railroad tracks, we let the eggs fly. Now to appreciate this situation, you really have to try and picture it in your mind. The full moon that night was shining brightly behind him, leaving him more of a shadow than a man. Our eggs then proceeded to strike him simultaneously� both in the head. As they cracked against his cranium, you could see the residue explode across his face, leaving wispy egg-white tails blowing in the wind behind him. We then took off AFAP (as fast as possible), leaving him behind shouting obscenities that would make Andrew Dice Clay blush.
The absolute best run however, didn’t even involve eggs�
Tired of just throwing breakfast foods, one night we decided to try something new. Perusing the aisles of our local grocery store, we passed up eggs, pudding, applesauce, and wrenches to no avail. We were about to give up and go back to old-faithful, but then we saw it, and we knew we had hit gold. Well, not really gold, but more like beef kidneys�
Beef kidneys� small, bloody, different.
Now all we needed was a victim, which proved to be no problem at all�
It was about two in the morning, and the bars around town were all closing down. That’s when we spotted “Chico,” a drunk Mexican stumbling home after a night drinking with the boys. I don’t know what the heck he had to drink, but he was drunk. So drunk that he was walking down the middle of the street in a non-linear way. We let him get a few blocks away, and then it was showtime.
Second-gunner pulled out the dripping beef kidney, and proceeded to chuck it right at Chico as we passed by, leaving a big bloody stain all over the back of his white suit. The hit was obvious, and we drove away bursting into laughter as he yelled obscenities to us. But we weren’t done with Chico� oh no� not by a longshot.
We then circled the block slowly, and arrived back to the scene of the crime. Second-gunner got out the car, picked up the beef kidney off the street, and instructed driver to pass by Chico again. As we passed by him a second time, Chico turned around and second-gunner got him right in the chest, leaving him dripping blood from both sides. He was even more pissed off this time around, which made the whole thing even funnier. I think he chased us for awhile, and then probably figured out that a running man can’t catch a moving vehicle. I wonder if he ever got those stains out�
Now that I’m older and I look back on our escapades, I’m not particularly proud of them, but they are still funny as hell. I suppose one day I’ll probably end up a victim myself, because everything always comes back to bite you in the end, but in the meanwhile I can still look back on these memories and smile.
And that’s what life is all about anyways, isn’t it?