The Saga Of Dimebag Dick

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The Saga Of Dimebag Dick

It seemed to be the opinion of every Birkenstock-rocking Phish phan at State that fraternity houses were places where horrors occurred. Whether it was the shenanigans associated with a Mennonites and Dirty Sprite mixer, or the fabled Tree of Woe that pledges had to hold while enduring scattered golden showers, the unenlightened masses were convinced that the people who lived in the decadent mansions of Greek Row were grade A sociopaths and nothing more.

Naturally, they were clueless. Rumors, much like support for Crypt Keeper-esque candidates, were based almost entirely on word of mouth. The Tree of Woe rumor was based on allegations against the men of Beta Rho Omega, an unfortunate misunderstanding resulting from an active taking a drunken leak outside while the pledges tilled the ground with their bare hands. For the most part, the Beta house was actually pretty tame. They had their fun, kept their heads down, and refrained from publicly embarrassing themselves beyond repair. Unfortunately, the brothers of Rho had a brother who liked to live a little too fast and too loose. His Christian name was Richard, but everyone thought he was a real dick.

Dick was a nice kid early on. He was offered a bid thanks to his stellar work ethic, academic excellence, and an ability to procure some of the finest sticky north of the Guadalupe. In the wise words of a former rush chair, “Kilmer is gone and that dude in Alpha tried to sell me parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Mother fucker called it GarFUNKel. Your boy needs to get smoked.” When pledge names were assigned, Dick’s was obvious. “Your name is Dimebag. Now fuck your own face.” Just like that, the finest kingpin State had ever seen was born. Sadly, as is the case in almost every great American film, with a life of crime came a misguided sense of badassery. As the customers rolled in, intent on getting their hands on fine Fallbrook Redhair, sweet young Richard slowly became the Dick he would go down in history as.

As he entered the fifth and final year of his college career, Dick was a full-on asshole. His brothers couldn’t take his inability to pay dues while spending money on pot anymore, and his grades had dropped substantially. When he’d actually showed up for rush events, he usually ended up eating all the food and calling his brothers “Chico” despite growing up in an upper-middle class suburban environment. Dimebag found himself with no friends and no hobbies, just a guy running a shady business that could easily land him in prison. In his mind, Dick was George Jung. In reality, he was Saul Silver and hurricane season was far from over.

On his annual re-up day, Dick found himself hanging out at his studio apartment with his new gaggle of freshmen girls. As always, Dick would have to find new ones the following semester when they smoked out of college, but for now they were adequate. Some rolled piss poor excuses for joints. Others laughed at Dimebag’s piss poor excuse for jokes and talked about how much they “loved Wiz Khalifa.” It was a surprisingly low point for a man surrounded by naïve girls who hadn’t even blimped up yet. Then his hookup shot him a text, and life got that much darker.

“Ey, got hit by 12 yesterday. They shut me down. Sorry B.”

“Are you serious?!”

“Nah, but my mom found the stash. She was mad earlier but now she’s actually pretty chill.”

In a flash, the only thing Dick cared about was gone. Sure, it was to make ramen noodles and nap all day, but he’d really been hooked on the business. He had to act. With something resembling resolve in his heart, he set off to the one place any college student knew they could find weed at the risk of getting sexually assaulted in a bathroom: the park.

Dick, still convinced of his Scarface nature, rolled up and immediately sought out the most ethnic looking person he could find. A man, dressed in a flannel shirt in summer and with a look of pure rage on his face, looked promising.

“Hey, ese. You got any grass, bro?”

The stranger, shocked at the sheer balls on the young man approaching him, broke into a grin. This would be his easiest day on the job yet.

“Yeah, sure thing, man. Follow me.”

Dimebag couldn’t believe just how easy being a kingpin was. Not only was his business salvaged, but he had managed to make a friend that would totally boost his street cred. He asked for an ounce as he followed his new connection to a car.

“Alright, show me the money, holmes.”

Dick flashed his petty sum of cash.

“Yeah, that’s all I needed to see. You’re under arrest, buddy.”

“But, but, you called me holmes. I thought we were going to be familia.”

“Listen, jackass, my name is Rob. Short for Robert, not Roberto. I’m from Duluth and I’m a cop. You’re an idiot.”

Karl Karlson is TFM's self-proclaimed cartoon expert and your best buddy. He resides in the mountains of NC where he wrestles black bears and attempts to grow a beard. Karl gave up liquor following an unfortunate incident involving tequila and a vacuum cleaner, but he isn't above a nice stout on the porch.

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