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by pat swayze


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During my my spring break last year (sophomore year) my friend David's mom went out of town for a good 5 or 6 days. During that time we had taken to driving her car, illegally, as we didn't even have our driver's permits yet.

Now this was the horrid time of hyphy music and ghost riding. Everyone listened to this new genre of rap which, for me, doesn't even pass as music. Much to my chagrin most of our nights were spent blaring E-40 and friends while roaming residential neighborhoods where the average house cost upwards of a million dollars.

Though I do hate rap, especially hyphy music, I will grudgingly admit that on those wonderful spring nights, I fell victim to the overwhelming joy and electric feel of freedom that came with having a car for the first time. Before I could object, nay, before I even had registered the full effect of what we were about to do, I agreed to attempt the single greatest feat in ghost riding history. In my hypnotized state, I allowed myself to fall into the trap that Keak da Sneak and Ric Roc had laid.

3 in the morning, a single car rolls down one of the busiest streets in our town, at a snails pace. The music blares, and three adolescent, partially retarded boys dance like epileptic apes around or sometimes on the car.

That epic night we let Casper drive for over 45 minutes, through 14 songs, 4 intersections and about 3 miles. Luck, no, God was on our side that night.