Urkel STILL Sucks! :: disposableChum

Entering the enormous, glass-walled ballroom I am thrown back 13 years to prom night... except that the lights are on, Vicious Lee's music sucks, and there are only 10-15 people milling about with no signs of Urkel. Folding chairs line the perimeter, holiday lights drape from the walls, balloons rise from their tethers... I scan the great hall in vain, hoping to stumble upon the tank of nitrous oxide certain to be lurking in the shadows... no luck; it must be hidden from view of impressionable minds... I make my way to the punch bowl – “Urkel’s GHB Jungle Juice” I call it, and pour myself a cup of the sweet liquid. I expect to hear “Stairway to Heaven” through the Marshall stacks. Mike is eyeing my backpack suspiciously from the door. On the lookout for a classic “spike.” Mike just had a frank discussion with me about Urkel’s distaste for drinking and his desire to maintain a “safe” environment. I call it like I see it, a “clean-and-sober party for the emotionally deficient.” I am not usually into self-deprecation but... since I am apparently the only one here over 21 of his own volition, besides Urkel who doesn't count, I guess you could make a case that I am the emotionally deficient one...

No... my backpack did not contain a pint of Everclear (although now I wish it did); it did however contain items that would strike terror in the hearts of the Urkel entourage if they only knew... High tech eavesdropping devices... video and still cameras, listening devices, and drugs. A lethal cache in the hands of any angry head and especially potent when combined with an image conscious Hollywood hotshot. I was searching for dirt on the dirtbag. I started this mission with the goal of getting my $15 worth but now I was not so sure. Urkel and his posse were safely sequestered in a penthouse high above the ballroom floor. A gilded rope blocking entrance to his sordid haven... it would take some work to get close to the punk.

Just breathing the ballroom air makes me feel dirty so I wander outside to a small bonfire, employees huddled around trying to keep warm. Hell, there is nothing for them to do here... let them go home and enjoy the evening. Over the next hour and a half, cars creep up, see the shark infested waters rising, do a quick 180 and beat a hasty retreat to higher ground. I stand by the bonfire, trying to warm my icy veins, listening to an 18-year-old vampiress from New Orleans wow a rapt prepubescent audience with tales of Halloween at the Rice's and tossing back a few with Trent down on Bourbon Street. Soon even the idealism of these children is lost... Urkel is not to be seen, still upstairs involved in unimaginable horrors.

These kids have learned a valuable lesson tonight... The world is a cruel place and they are just pawns on Urkel’s crack-infested chessboard. A cab is called and most of the teens leave, deciding to forage on their own instead of waiting for a bone from the Whites. I am left alone by a dying fire, sharks circling. I am scared.