posted on February 22, 2013 08:00
I recently attended my oldest daughter’s elementary school Valentine’s Party. I’ve made a habit of going to these things and even enjoy them a bit. The majority of room moms are women and, when a man shows up, you immediately become somewhat of a novelty item.
So, aside from being there for my daughter, there’s also the ego-boosting side effect of teachers and moms thinking you are the sweetest living man walking this fine earth and, OF COURSE, secretly desiring you as a subject of their future fantasizing scenarios, or at least I like to think so.
False public perception of your generosity is a HUGE factor in day-to-day life, and women finding you desirous are always a plus, even if you’re more than likely creating that entire occurrence in your own twisted head. Regardless, this is not the subject of today’s column.
This class party was to be my daughter’s last, as she will now be moving onto middle school, which I’m quite certain will provide me with a litany of writing material, most of which I’m not looking forward to whatsoever.
After the party, she began questioning me about middle school, soliciting my advice, as well as asking about my own experiences.
This became one of those occasions where I thank Chuck Norris that she is a young girl, and not a boy…and especially not a buck-toothed, freckled, overly intelligent (true story), tiny boy who appealed to the opposite sex about as much as their own little brothers.
Back in that period of my own life, requests to “go out” with me were met with laughter and quite often ridicule from the “cool kids” who, while blessed with the looks of the gods, were balanced with the brains of a fucking possum.
I fought the urge, even then, to expound to them the likelihood that their future careers would soon enough outweigh those looks that would make school so goddamned easy, and that the “hotties” they were racking up in the hallways would be replaced by some barfly or whichever coworker they knocked up down at the Taco Bell. I win again, fuckers, but I’m not bitter…
The odds being stacked against me, however, were not to deter the determination of the ever increasing urgency in my pants. I would still don my coolest hand-me-downs and comb the mullet between each class, sure to catch an eye eventually. Not to mention, I was obviously funny as fuck.
I made my weekly trips to the “late skate” down at the roller rink determined to finally be picked in “East Side – West Side” and not left standing alone as the remaining 13-girls cruised off like I was fucking invisible.
One day I would be part of the finger-party back in the bleachers, I tell you, one day! Until then, I’d enjoy the pretzel or giant pickle I’d gotten with my token won for being pushed around in the “Chariot Races” – one benefit of being the smallest dude in the 7th-grade.
As sad as my quest for puppy love was, the girls were nowhere CLOSE to being the biggest obstacles of junior high school. It was surviving the daily gauntlet of navigating your safe travel between classes while not being a member of the dominant male herd.
I’m not sure if there’s a meeting for dolts over the summer between changing buildings or a dusty old book is passed down from the previous generation of future inmates, but an entirely new means of assault and humiliation now come into play like they had arrived with that newfound fuzz on their nut-sacks, which I, for the record, would not experience till damned near graduation.
You still had the usual go-to attacks of trips and “frogs”, which is a simple, middle knuckle prominent punch to the arm that, if executed correctly, will drop a dork like me as if he’d been sniped from 300-yards away.
But you also had a new array of much more painful, humiliating and disgusting onslaughts to somehow attempt to defend against.
My first semester of junior high featured the asshole above my locker regularly depositing his gum in my long, luxurious mullet. The natural curls of that specimen created a violent reaction with this chewed concoction and it required Ma to apply large amounts of peanut butter, and sometimes scissors, to rectify the situation.
The gum shit grew tired and the band of village idiots was soon spitting loogies, bloody ones if you were lucky, on their own middle fingers and flicking them at you from a distance. They would also take to spending the time that “normal” children spend learning new math equations on learning the art of the “nemo” which was much more intimidating than a colorful fucking talking fish.
This “nemo” was the name for the ability to loosely dangle one’s middle finger and quickly wag it back and forth, which I’d also guess aided them greatly in those bleacher shenanigans I spoke of earlier, though these fuck-tards seemed more interested in pain than pussy.
They would walk up to you in the halls, loosening up the finger on the way, and then painfully bounce it off of your skull, often wrapped with layers of tape for added misery. I’d like to think this ingenuity displayed at such a young age would lead them to greater things in the future, but imagine forging “shivs” out of prison-issue toothbrushes would more likely be its’ benefit.
Another attack to be leery of was the “Jap-Slap”. I’m not sure if this was voted on in a dipshit meeting over “Cracker-Smacker”, “Wop-chop” or “Black Smack”, or if the Japanese actually had a history of stealthily creeping up on 13-year olds and smacking them as hard as they possibly could in the back of the fucking neck.
I do, however, find myself wondering if it’s now been replaced by the “Asian-Assault” or “Nisei-Knock” (look it up morons), with our pathetic political correctness.
You’d learn to defend the “Jap-Slap” by immediately jerking your head up in the front when you felt your shirt being pulled down in the back, but this soon opened up a smack to the throat as a result. I was fucked and RARELY left the final bell unmarred for the day.
Pink bellies, in which a few would hold you down while another released his closeted homosexual frustration on your naked belly with an open hand, OR wet tennis shoe, would rule my life on the trek from school to home.
Junior high was pure hell, plain and simple.
I’m not sure what advice to give my daughter and I even suspect the mental games these evil bitches are capable of at that age will far outweigh the physical pain that I endured, if that’s even possible.
What I do know is the fun is over, but this is one of those times when a parent lies, and is also glad she’s one of the “pretty ones”, as horribly shallow as that sounds.
Now it’s my job to make sure she doesn’t act like “they” stereotypically do.
Explains a lot about me, doesn’t it…KMFP-out!
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