Ahhh...Capricious Youth
Well, well, well...look at this morose mother fucker.... Looks like someone shit in his cereal. Well, you'd look like this, too, if you'd just had 2 and a half hours sleep and were now sitting at a desk doing "work."
So while doing my "work" I got to reminiscing with a co-"worker" about middle school and the good old days. I also got into a discussion with the guys at the club last night about a similar topic, so I took it as a sign that I discuss this further. Here goes:
The girl in 7th grade who suddenly had huge boobs. You know who I'm talking about...everybody had at least one. Sixth grade, they all looked the same from the front as they did from the back. Couldn't tell if they were comin' or goin'. Then, 1 summer goes by and some girl shows up first day of school with freakishly ginormous hooters and no one at school has any idea how to handle the situation. I mean, I had seen boobs in my dad's playboys, I had snuck out to the family room in the middle of the night and watched skinemax to see the nudie flicks and stuff like that. But now it was getting serious. These things were invading our schools, and we had no plan of action except to look at them and, eventually touch them. (Interesting side note: ever notice how the crotches are never lined up on those soft core pornos on showtime? I mean, these people are "going at it" like crazy, but the logistics just don't back up what I'm seeing...the wang is like, never lined up with the hoo ha. Ok, I get it, they're not really doing it, but still, come on, let's get some better special effects if we're going to fake it. I bet Spielberg would make a hell of a soft core porno. But I digress.) Remember the first time you touched a boob? Weird wasn't it? I remember being at Missy Schaub's birthday party and Melanie (she was one of those boobs came out of no where girls) was sitting on my lap out on the patio and my hand was up her shirt, but not under the bra. That's it. Just up her shirt. She wasn't even my girlfriend, either. What the hell is that? I wish that, at 27, I could go to a party, and in the middle of the patio, just have a hot girl I'm not dating sit on my lap and let me get a hand full of blouse pillow. At the time, I had no idea what to do with it. I'm sure some of my ex's would argue that I have no idea what to do now either, but that's another story all together.
Remember the first kiss? Sixth grade, at some kids birthday party, I kissed Missy Schaub on a dare, then I kissed Mackenzie Livingston in the laundry room because we had to spend 7 minutes in there. (side note: I later dated her for 2 glorious months in 7th grade; she was the Donna Martin to Jody Jones' Kelly Taylor, so I immediately hit Brandon Walsh status for those 2 months. The "Ronald Miller Theory" from Can't Buy Me Love, where a lesser known kid catapults to significant popularity by dating a much more popular significant other. How many out dated pop refferences can I fit into 1 side note?) Seriously folks, let's think about this...sixth grade, a bunch of kids just trying to have random hookups with each other, hopping from mouth to mouth. Like a freaking pre-pubescent swingers party. How did we not end up with hepatitis B? That would never fly today, unless you're hanging out with a bunch of whores, that is.
The first time I hit third base. Now, let me set the record straight here, for the purposes of this piece, third base shall be considered "the finger" or "sticky finger" as it is referred to in some cultures. The first time I hit a triple I was rather old to be getting to this rung of the sexual ladder. Nowadays, kids are giving handjobs for PB&J sandwiches in 3rd grade, but 10 years ago, I was petrified when it came to me putting my finger on the special pink button. Heres' why:
There was a rumor around school that this kid, his name was Reid, was at a party hooking up with his girlfriend at the time. He sticks his hand down the pants or up the skirt, whatever it was, and goes for poo bear's sticky honey pot. However, his aim was not true and she exclaimed, "Whoa, wrong hole!" loud enough for people to hear, giggle and spread the story around school. He was known as "Wrong Hole Reid" and it obviously stuck because here I am talking about it years later.
That was freshman year, and it scarred me until I was a senior. At 17, with a steady enough girlfriend to tackle the project, I got to the point where I was comfortable with her and talked to her about why I never rang the doorbell. "I have no idea where I'm going and I don't want to accidentally poke the wrong hole when I get there" I lamented to my then girlfriend. I needed a map of west vaginia, if you will. She worked with me and the next weekend, when my parents were out of town, she spent the night and took me through a class on how to find the promised land and it was all down hill from there. I am pleased to say I now have no problem dialing zero on the pink telephone. Ironically enough, nowadays, I "accidentally" hit the wrong hole all the time. Don't act like you don't like it. Dirty girl.
It's funny to see how things evolve and change over the years. Back then, kissing was something done for recreation. Pretty much the only way not to "hook up" at a make out party was if you had cheetos stuck in your braces. We didn't do shots and try to fuck, we drank wine coolers and giggled while playing spin the bottle, or truth or dare, hoping to touch a boob or advance our social status by having the bottle stop on the most popular girl in school. My, how things have changed.
Speaking of things that have changed, there are a few things have changed in my life since I last dropped some knowledge on y'all, as the rappers say, so let me get up to speed. I am now a single fellow. I'll say one thing only: Love is a powerful thing...as a result of it you can feel the highest highs and lowest lows. There are some amazing people out there in this world...thank you for being you. To borrow a line from Forrest Gump, "That's all I got to say about that."
The weekend is upon us, so raise your drinks and let's toast!
Here's to the stork, who brings the good babies.
Here's the the raven, who brings the bad babies.
And here's to the swallow that brings no babies at all.
Well, well, well...look at this morose mother fucker.... Looks like someone shit in his cereal. Well, you'd look like this, too, if you'd just had 2 and a half hours sleep and were now sitting at a desk doing "work."
So while doing my "work" I got to reminiscing with a co-"worker" about middle school and the good old days. I also got into a discussion with the guys at the club last night about a similar topic, so I took it as a sign that I discuss this further. Here goes:
The girl in 7th grade who suddenly had huge boobs. You know who I'm talking about...everybody had at least one. Sixth grade, they all looked the same from the front as they did from the back. Couldn't tell if they were comin' or goin'. Then, 1 summer goes by and some girl shows up first day of school with freakishly ginormous hooters and no one at school has any idea how to handle the situation. I mean, I had seen boobs in my dad's playboys, I had snuck out to the family room in the middle of the night and watched skinemax to see the nudie flicks and stuff like that. But now it was getting serious. These things were invading our schools, and we had no plan of action except to look at them and, eventually touch them. (Interesting side note: ever notice how the crotches are never lined up on those soft core pornos on showtime? I mean, these people are "going at it" like crazy, but the logistics just don't back up what I'm seeing...the wang is like, never lined up with the hoo ha. Ok, I get it, they're not really doing it, but still, come on, let's get some better special effects if we're going to fake it. I bet Spielberg would make a hell of a soft core porno. But I digress.) Remember the first time you touched a boob? Weird wasn't it? I remember being at Missy Schaub's birthday party and Melanie (she was one of those boobs came out of no where girls) was sitting on my lap out on the patio and my hand was up her shirt, but not under the bra. That's it. Just up her shirt. She wasn't even my girlfriend, either. What the hell is that? I wish that, at 27, I could go to a party, and in the middle of the patio, just have a hot girl I'm not dating sit on my lap and let me get a hand full of blouse pillow. At the time, I had no idea what to do with it. I'm sure some of my ex's would argue that I have no idea what to do now either, but that's another story all together.
Remember the first kiss? Sixth grade, at some kids birthday party, I kissed Missy Schaub on a dare, then I kissed Mackenzie Livingston in the laundry room because we had to spend 7 minutes in there. (side note: I later dated her for 2 glorious months in 7th grade; she was the Donna Martin to Jody Jones' Kelly Taylor, so I immediately hit Brandon Walsh status for those 2 months. The "Ronald Miller Theory" from Can't Buy Me Love, where a lesser known kid catapults to significant popularity by dating a much more popular significant other. How many out dated pop refferences can I fit into 1 side note?) Seriously folks, let's think about this...sixth grade, a bunch of kids just trying to have random hookups with each other, hopping from mouth to mouth. Like a freaking pre-pubescent swingers party. How did we not end up with hepatitis B? That would never fly today, unless you're hanging out with a bunch of whores, that is.
The first time I hit third base. Now, let me set the record straight here, for the purposes of this piece, third base shall be considered "the finger" or "sticky finger" as it is referred to in some cultures. The first time I hit a triple I was rather old to be getting to this rung of the sexual ladder. Nowadays, kids are giving handjobs for PB&J sandwiches in 3rd grade, but 10 years ago, I was petrified when it came to me putting my finger on the special pink button. Heres' why:
There was a rumor around school that this kid, his name was Reid, was at a party hooking up with his girlfriend at the time. He sticks his hand down the pants or up the skirt, whatever it was, and goes for poo bear's sticky honey pot. However, his aim was not true and she exclaimed, "Whoa, wrong hole!" loud enough for people to hear, giggle and spread the story around school. He was known as "Wrong Hole Reid" and it obviously stuck because here I am talking about it years later.
That was freshman year, and it scarred me until I was a senior. At 17, with a steady enough girlfriend to tackle the project, I got to the point where I was comfortable with her and talked to her about why I never rang the doorbell. "I have no idea where I'm going and I don't want to accidentally poke the wrong hole when I get there" I lamented to my then girlfriend. I needed a map of west vaginia, if you will. She worked with me and the next weekend, when my parents were out of town, she spent the night and took me through a class on how to find the promised land and it was all down hill from there. I am pleased to say I now have no problem dialing zero on the pink telephone. Ironically enough, nowadays, I "accidentally" hit the wrong hole all the time. Don't act like you don't like it. Dirty girl.
It's funny to see how things evolve and change over the years. Back then, kissing was something done for recreation. Pretty much the only way not to "hook up" at a make out party was if you had cheetos stuck in your braces. We didn't do shots and try to fuck, we drank wine coolers and giggled while playing spin the bottle, or truth or dare, hoping to touch a boob or advance our social status by having the bottle stop on the most popular girl in school. My, how things have changed.
Speaking of things that have changed, there are a few things have changed in my life since I last dropped some knowledge on y'all, as the rappers say, so let me get up to speed. I am now a single fellow. I'll say one thing only: Love is a powerful thing...as a result of it you can feel the highest highs and lowest lows. There are some amazing people out there in this world...thank you for being you. To borrow a line from Forrest Gump, "That's all I got to say about that."
The weekend is upon us, so raise your drinks and let's toast!
Here's to the stork, who brings the good babies.
Here's the the raven, who brings the bad babies.
And here's to the swallow that brings no babies at all.
posted by Woody at
10:40 AM
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