Everybody knows at least one guy who is That Guy. This is the guy people are talking about when they tell stories beginning with, "Hey, you know that guy..." He's the guy who bucks the system, fights The Man, kicks lots of ass along the way and buys everyone pie afterward. That guy who is such a stupendous badass that you lie awake at night just wondering if he lies awake at night congratulating himself on being so goddamn motherfucking cool.

Barry is That Guy. Barry is a short, fat, hairy man who looks like an oversized dwarf, if you'll pardon the contradiction. He is also an honest to god actual real-life ninja and could kick the shit out of pretty much anyone as long as they're not Bruce Lee or God (but only because God has a slight height advantage).

Now, not only is Barry a hilarious badass ninja, he is also a crazy motherfucker behind the wheel. This man eats cops for breakfast. He's got a seemingly infinite number of stories that begin with "So I was doing a hundred and fifty through a school zone at 9 AM when this cop started chasing me..." and end with "...so while every cop in Portland was scouring the streets looking for my car I decided to get some ice cream and take a short vacation." The few times he's been kind enough to actually pull over, he manages to talk the cops into letting him go with a warning. Even once when he blew past a cop doing 130 in a 45. I am not making this up. This happened more than once with the same cop, and no ticket.

Suffice it to say that when we were hanging out one evening and Barry suggested I let him drive my car to the 24-hour Starbuck's for some delicious coffee, I threw him the keys and strapped myself in tight.

Before we get started discussing the life-changing events that followed, let's introduce you to my car. I am lucky enough to be so naive about my finances that I purchased a Subaru Impreza WRX last year. This is a sweet, sweet rally car that I do not deserve and that I certainly do not drive at anywhere near its fullest potential, because I am a pussy. Barry, however, is not a pussy.

The drive to Starbuck's was relatively uneventful. This surprised me, but when I thought about it logically, I realized that Barry probably just wanted us to be able to enjoy our coffee without fifteen cops shoving Glocks in our faces and telling us to get the fuck on the ground. After Starbuck's, however, was a different story.

Barry began the evening's performance by taking us on a whirlwind ninety-five mile per hour tour of several nice curvy residential roads. These roads eventually led to the parking lot of a Catholic school, which in turn led to the playground behind the school, which contained a baseball diamond. Barry then proceeded to run the bases. In the WRX. At about seventy miles per hour. Sideways much of the time. At one point, for fun, he did a 180 and then ran the bases backwards. This was making us all very, very happy.

Unfortunately, it was necessary to leave the rousing Catholic baseball rally course after a few home runs because the longer we rallied, the longer the cops had to get there. So from there we took another whirlwind residential tour, which culminated in us plowing our own rally course in a nice grass park. Again, we lit out before cops had time to respond (and before I had time to feel bad about tearing up a public park).

Barry then had what may have been his best (or worst, depending on how you look at it) idea ever. You see, earlier that day, Barry had attended the first leg of the Oregon Trail Rally as a spectator. The second leg of the Oregon Trail Rally had been set up on some logging roads that Barry knew by heart, with the rally scheduled to take place the next morning. As you can imagine, Barry's wonderful idea involved him at the wheel of my WRX on that rally course at 4 AM.

We headed for the rally course.

On the way, we stopped for gas. The gas station attendant (they're required by law here in dear old Oregon) happened to know Barry, because several months earlier Barry had pulled into the same station for a quick fill up and asked the attendant to please, if any cops showed up, tell them that he had been sitting at the gas station for the last forty-five minutes. So when Rick (the attendant) asked us why there were clumps of mud and grass coating the right side of my car, we offered to show him. By sheer coincidence, it happened to be Rick's last day at work, so he hopped in and deserted the pumps.

Fifteen minutes of fun fun fun ensued, during which I have a sneaking suspicion that Rick shat his pants at least once and after which we dropped Rick at the gas station, said goodbye, and headed for the rally course.

What resulted was something I will never forget for the rest of my life. We flew through that course. And I mean literally flew through a good portion of the course. Keep in mind the fact that it was 4 AM and that this was a twisty, bumpy, hilly, narrow dirt/mud road surrounded by forest and several sheer dropoffs. The course preparers had added some nice bumps which had the effect of rocketing us skyward at obscene speeds. There were insane amounts of joy. I mean insane amounts of joy. It was such a happy time that I don't think I will ever be happier. We took that course faster than most of the rally drivers were probably going to take it, and oh dear Lord, it was orgasmic.

Disclaimer: Do not ever do what we did. It is illegal, mean, dangerous, and will probably result in one or more deaths or dismemberments. The only reason we did what we did is because we are morons. In fact, if you ever meet us, you should kill us. But not Barry, because Barry will kill you first.

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