One bad ass mutherfucker and French Horn Player. Don't even think about questioning his authority, even if you don't know him. He'll slap you across the face and make you spit shine the shit out of his patent leather shoes.
He's one of those guys who you just know could kick your ass. Physically, and mentally, without even giving it a second thought. To be a Chris Caldwell of the world means to be a virtual connoisseur of anything, and everything. To know everything about the modern world, and to drop musical deuces on those who piss you off.
Band kid 1: "Is that Chris Caldwell?"
Band kid 2: "Holy shit it is, let's play our notes right or he'll pour hot water on our feet and beat our asses backstage."
Janitor: "Wow the grass on the marching field sure did spring up this year!"
Drum Major: "It's because Caldwell made everyone cry so much they irrigated that shit."
When your roommate in college obtains rubber gloves from an unknown source and proceeds to offer you a discounted prostate exam, so long as you return the favor. After making sure you are both cancer free and ready to set up shop, you proceed to start an ass check factory in your dorm room. It is not uncommon to invite certain faculty members, janitors, teachers, and hall mates into your makeshift clinic for a quick "slip of the shitter." Most clients leave humiliated, stained, and with a loose butthole. Despite willing (some unwilling) customers dissatisfaction, they often remark that it is still far better than going to a regular doctors office.
Undergraduate History Major: "Hey Dr. Travis, would you like me to put a gloved fist inside of your asshole and wiggle it around? We call it the Low Cost Dorm Room Prostate Exam."
Interested Professor: "Well go again son, so long as you don't pull out the lightbulb I stuck up their last night while watching Judge Judy."
Undergraduate History Major: "It's free so long as you look me in the eyes and call me The Old Pretender."
A period in American history where if you had money, all you had to do was invest in stock, kick back, and enjoy the ride. The street was swarming with gangsters, the Klan was lynching blacks, and the economy prospered. What more could you ask for?
It was THE TIME to be living, that is if you weren't poor, of course. In that case, you would just be picking cotton and shitting in your front yard. If you want to know what it was like, read The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
My Great Great Grandpa: "Boy life sure does suck ass, picking cotton like a skunkape all day."
Rich Prick: "Oh cheer up you dirt poor pussy! It's The Roaring 20's!"
That old Mephisto, the one who watches you as you sleep and clicks ancient murmurs in your ears. Constantly plotting, stalking, and breathing on helpless infants at night, his will is to be fulfilled. Be not too hasty to call his name, for he is always listening.
Drunk Bitch: "Mephisto is a bunch of horse shit!"
Mephisto (suddenly appearing): Proceeds to slice her face into a thousand pieces.
When the least intoxicated person at the party makes a McDonald's run for all the drunk retards with the beer munchies. He collects his cash (often times being sober enough to rip others off) and proceeds to buy approximately 15 Dubs dripping in grease and Mac Sauce. This leads to late night satisfaction, but also leads to a disheartening array of beer shits the next morning.
Trey: "I ain't drunk! (Proceeds to vomit on sofa) Last Call For McDoubles!"
Jalen: "Ey add that mac sauce ya hurr? You feel me?"
Trey: "I feel you bro..."