In Other Words
Created | Updated Oct 10, 2003
It's that time of year again, boys and girls! Time for you to fork out over $150 to buy a dress for three hours of standing in one spot! Yeeha!
Yes that's right, Homecoming weekend is upon me, a time-honoured tradition of many American high schools to welcome back past alumni for a fun game of football and the crowning of king and queen of the Senior class so everyone else can look at them in their pretty outfits on the football field and say, 'Man, they must be cold'. But this (in my opinion) barbaric and (also in my opinion) degrading ceremony isn't the least of anyone's worries. The dance the following night is what really gets people's blood pumping. I'm going to completely leave out the date-finding process because it's far too pointless and retarded to be included in this column.
Saturday night. After you put on your perfect dress, your gallant prince rings the doorbell. Awww, idn't he cuuuuuute? Minutes later, your gallant best friend and her gallant date ring the doorbell. Until finally the house is full of gallant individuals waiting for their gallant parents to take pictures of them. 'Smile!' they all say - 47 times. You've smiled so much your teeth are eroding. Your smile has to be surgically removed. ***For proof, please see the formal pictures here.***
Thirteen years later, you all shuffle out to your respective vehicles and head off to the dance for all-night partying!
Ha. Allow me to clarify. By partying, I mean arriving 'fashionably
late', meeting up with your gal pals (for guys this means standing around staring at chests), and admiring their formal attire:
'What an awesome dress!'
'I know!'
'Hey, you're wearing the same dress as ME!'
'No, you're wearing the same dress as me.'
'B**ch.'
'Skank.'
*catfight*
*sigh* Oh, the memories. Now, by the term 'dance' you may assume that means all the participants do some sort of rythmic body movement. WRONG! While all the drunk kids dance among themselves then spontaneously pass out, everyone else is crowding the walls as though the dance floor were made of liquid nitrogen. Once in a great while, a brave young chap will summon the courage to ask a fair lady to dance:
'Um... hi.'
'Hi.'
'So... what's up?'
'Oh, not much... how 'bout you?'
'Same.'
*laugh*
*laugh*
'So... you wanna... you know...'
'Huh?'
'Um... er... you wanna... er...'
Now, one may assume that the girl would be smart enough to figure out that he's asking her to dance and just say 'okay' to put him out of his misery since this is, ya know, a dance and all. But nooooo! He could be asking her to sacrifice a goat for all she knows! So she just stands there, chomping her gum and twisting her hair, waiting for the poor kid to finish asking before she giggles, says 'No thanks', and walks off. Oh what CRUELTY!
If any actual dancing does occur, it comes in one of two forms. A: the 'I'm sloshed out of my mind' bumping and grinding with various girls, boys, adult sponsors, and pieces of electrical equipment, or B: The minimal touching fingers-on-shoulders-three-feet-between-each-person dance that is about as uncomfortable as lying on a bed of scorpions.
If you're a guy, you better hope your date doesn't have to go to the
bathroom, because you'll never see her again. It's like the loo has some mystical mind power that draws every female to it at each school dance. But not one at a time, oh no! If one girl goes potty, then every girl in the western hemisphere has to go with her. So don't mistake a line of girls suddenly needing to powder and pee for a conga line, men, or you could lead yourself into another uncomfortable position.
I myself am not looking forward to Homecoming. Even though I do have a date, my dearest Skullock, the whole sweating bodies moving uniformally to poorly produced rap music scene doesn't sound too appealing. But if I don't go willingly, I'll be dragged there kicking and screaming by my ankles, dragged out the door, to the car, into the dance, past all the pretty strobe lights and gossamer-lined walls, and straight to - you guessed it - the bathroom.
Your Little h2g2'er,
