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When we were younger, this crazy drug dealer used to come around thinking I wanted to buy weed. I have no idea why he thought I wanted weed. I had never bought weed from him. I had never even smoked weed. Still don’t, in fact.

This crazy drug dealer didn’t know my name, so he used to walk around yelling for me, thinking I would come running to get my bag of weed:

“Yo, Money! Money, where you at?”

This is something we laughed about together because nobody else was there to hear it when it happened. The crazy drug dealer was there, too, but something tells me he wouldn’t find it quite as funny as we did.

Until September 11, 2001, there were two of us who understood the “Money” joke. Now it’s just me, and six years later, it still sucks.