10 Year Class Reunion
(Reviewed on 07/23/2003)
The Classy ROSSMAN
Ten years have slipped through the clutches of time. Ten loooong years. It's been ten years since Groundhog Day and Jurassic Park first hit theaters, ten years since Aerosmith's Get a Grip album was released, ten years since I fell in love and found a woman's g-spot for the first time, and ten years since I gradiated from East Bumblefuck High with the help of Chi-Chi, the Wolfman and Just Kidding. What a straaaaaange trip it's been. And sticky. It's been pretty sticky too.
What makes me remember all this nonsense, you ask? Well, if you must know, I recently attended my 10 year high school reunion and have been feeling a trifle melancholic when thinking back to all the good times I had. You know, typical high school memories like: my first kiss, my first fight, the time I snapped Jim's femur in half with a tire iron, my job at Little Caesar's Pizzeria, the time we stole Chi-Chi's tires and put his car up on blocks, driving three hot girls home from school for an entire quarter and not getting any action from any of them, and all those lunch periods that I mooched food from everybody sitting at my table. Good times, good times.
People often ask me why I choose to remember my high school years with such fondness... Okay, my sister's dog asked me once. But it's still a valid question. See, my first two years of high school were pure hell. I went to an all boys private school that was run like that island in Lord of the Flies. The seniors controlled everything, and the teachers sat on the sidelines and watched the ogres rule us all. There was at least one major fight a week, and I participated in my fair share of them. But then, like a ray of rainbow sherbet from the butt crack of the sky, came my deliverance: East Bumblefuck High. My parents moved way down South and I came to be a student in a co-ed school with... Fuck it, that right there was truly enough to make me the happiest giddy schoolboy on the planet! So anyway, I choose to remember my junior and senior years of high school as being nothing but hanging out with the all female hottie dance team and forging hall passes so that I could hang out with the all female hottie dance team. Is that so wrong?
Anyway, all of my classmates gathered on the top floor of the Sheraton in downtown Atlanta this past Saturday night in order to relive all those classic memories I talked about above, and to get royally faced (legally now) while we danced and joked the night away... And I went to see a certain somebody who ripped my manhood off years ago and shoved it, with my heart, in a blender and hit the "puree" button until a thick, red juice was all that was left... But that's a story for another day.
The party itself was fine. There was enough food to eat, there was a decent sized dance floor to get jiggy on, there was a bar (a pay bar, but booze is booze), and there were lots and lots of people to re-introduce myself to. As stupid as it sounds, I think I was the only one there who hadn't grown up at all since commencement a decade before. I mean, I remembered every petty and stupid thing that I and everybody else ever did back in the day. I remember making fun of certain kids to their faces. I remember finding out that I was somebody's "mortal enemy" for some reason or another. I remember making Snotlick cry by telling him that nobody was his friend and that we didn't want him pulling his butterfly knife out near us anymore. And most of all I remember the horrible break-up and rejection lines I got from some of my old girlfriends ("I've got to help Susan with her English class this Friday... and Saturday... and every day until we graduate." And, "Of course I like you... As a friend").
What surprised me the most about the reunion was that everybody who did things to me, or to whom I did things to, had either completely forgotten about them or had put them in perspective with their current lives with their wives, husbands, kids, jobs and mortgages, and realized that silly things that happened in a past life didn't really matter in the grand scheme of the universe. That they NEVER truly mattered. They were just things that kids did and said... Well, everybody supposedly realized this but ME. How the fuck could they all forget?! Are they all retardedly crazy?!!!!???! Fuck me a new blow-hole! People were coming up to me and hugging me at the reunion! People who, ten years earlier, found a reason to wash their hair twenty times a week when I called looking for a date. People were shaking my hand and introducing me to their wife, who, ten years earlier, told me to watch my back if I ever expected to leave school alive on a certain Friday in October. People were letting me touch their pregnant bellies when, ten years earlier, they wouldn't even let me hold their hand in the movie theater! Has the world gone insane?!?!.... Or am I just living in the past? I do like it there. No responsibility. No 9 to 5 job. Hot, nubile, curvy dance-team teenage girls hanging around me and giving me back rubs on bus to away football games.... MMmmmmmm. Oh yeah. That was a good one.
I guess I have some growing up to do... And maybe some wife-hunting to partake in too. But you know what?... Just fuck it. I still have another ten years before I have to learn any lessons and impress anybody else with a nice trophy wife.
(Since Chi-Chi was a big wuss and didn't go to the reunion, I, the Rossman, will review it for him in his voice.)
Ooooooooh, look at me! I'm Chi-Chi. I'm a big sissy! I didn't go to the reunion because I was busy fucking a donkey, feeding monkeys and getting a reach-around from a gorilla. Oooooh, I'm so manly!
Instead of eating and drinking the night away with my old friends I spent the rest of my night dripping melted candle wax on my roomMATE's, that'd be Brucie's, firm buttocks. Oooooooo! I just love Brucie's piercings! He's got them all in the right places! He's just fabulous! Ooo-hoo-hoo-hoooo! Now it's time for my daily enema! Byeeeeeeeee! (Kiss!)
The Ragin' WOLFMAN
I remember everything! I remember everything little thing, as if it happened yesterday. I was barely seventeen, and I once killed a boy with a fender guitar. I don’t remember if it was a telecaster or a stratocaster, but I do remember that it had a heart of chrome, and a voice like a horny angel. I don’t remember if it was a telecaster or a stratocaster, but I do remember that it wasn’t at all easy.
It required the perfect combination of the right power chords and the precise angle from which to strike!
The guitar bled for about a week afterwards, and the blood was zoot, dark and rich, like wild berries. The blood of the guitar was chuck berry red. The guitar bled for about a week afterwards, but it rung out beautifully, and I was able to play notes that I had never even heard before.
So I took my guitar, and I smashed it against the wall. I smashed it against the floor. I smashed it against the body of a varsity cheerleader! Smashed it against the hood of a car!! Smashed it against a 1981 Harley-Davidson!! The Harley howled in pain, the guitar howled in heat!!
And I ran up the stairs to my parents bedroom... Mommy and daddy were sleeping in the moonlight. Slowly I opened the door, creeping in the shadows right up to the foot of their bed. I raised the guitar high above my head and just as I was about to bring the guitar crashing down upon the center of the bed my father woke up, screaming "Stop! Wait a minute, stop it boy. What do you think your doing?! That’s no way to treat an expensive musical instrument!"
And I said, "God damn it daddy, You know I love you... But you’ve got a hell of a lot to learn about rock n’ roll!!"
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