Do you guys remember that Nickelodeon show GUTS? That was like the one show on television that ever made me think, "hmmm, maybe I should become an athlete." Do you know why? Not for health reasons, not to get on TV, but so I could win a piece of that fucking glowing Aggro Crag. The kid who won the most events on the show, usually by being tied to a bungee cord, flung around the studio, and starving off the feeling to puke on the audience, would win this ridiculous piece of glowing radioactive foam rubber. It was green and probably gave you cancer, but to a 9 year old who had yet to discover masturbation, that was one of the coolest things on television that you could win. Fuck the Schwin bike, I wanted a giant glowing piece of shit. That's how much of a dumb shit I was growing up. And while we are on the subject of Nickelodeon Game Shows, WHY THE FUCK COULDN'T THOSE IDIOT KIDS ON LEGENDS OF THE HIDDEN TEMPLE EVER PUT TOGETHER THE FUCKING SHRINE OF THE SILVER MONKEY CORRECTLY?!
Nowadays my unobtainable prize isn't a glowing piece of the Aggro Crag, but to instead be able to hold a decent conversation with a god-damn girl! Which, like the irradiated piece of the Aggro Craig, probably will one day give me cancer.
There have only been a few times in my life where I have felt really comfortable striking up a conversation with groups of women. Normally it's hard for me just to speak to just one girl face to face, but I have to really be in top form to try and charm 3 or more ladies. Unfortunately, most of these experiences usually end up with me having my pants off, and not in a good way.
I remember back in high school one night my senior year during a football game. Was I a football player? Hell No. Playing football in high school is one of the fucking dumbest things a person could do in my opinion. You are playing a god damn contact sport with testosterone filled 17 year old boys who can't decide whether they want to smash something, eat something, or hump something. Those are the only three options for a 17 year old guy when he enters a new situation. He asks himself, "Do I eat it? Do I smash it? Or do I try and hump it?" New school text books? Guess I'm smashing them. New Asian transfer student? If I eat her I'll just be hungry for more later. If I smash her she would probably mess up my American Eagle shirt. Guess I should try to hump it. I am about to tackle this Quarterback! I think I'll smash him, shove his face into the ground to make him eat dirt, then I'll hump him while we are all piled up and fighting for the ball. So no, I was not a football player.
Cheerleader? Shit no. Although I was probably better looking than many of the other cheerleaders at my school. Algona High School Cheerleaders at the turn of the new century were a hump free zone for 17 year old guys. Nope, I was a fucking band geek.
Being in marching band for me fucking blew. I was and still am a massive human being. Gravity tends to bend to my will when I walk. So when football nights came around it was up to me and my physics-bending abilities to take all the god damn percussion instruments, load them onto a cart, and pull the fucking things half a mile down to the football field. We are talking xylophones, marimbas, bongos, drums, cymbals, and any other piece of shit you could cobble together and make noise from. One year we even had god damn break drums, from cars, that we PLAYED.
So it would be up to me to haul the god damn cart down from the school building to the football field, unload it, play the fucking instruments, repack the cart, and haul it uphill back to the god damn school. It fucking destroyed both my back and my soul, especially since I never even got a god damn thank you for doing it all four years.
So the last night my senior year I do the whole hauling bit, but this time I can actually walk afterward. So I'm feeling kind of good. I go back to the band room to change out of my marching uniform and into my street clothes so I can go hang out and enjoy the rest of the football game, complete with smashing and humping. I find my shirt and my tennis shoes, but no jeans. Someone took my fucking pants. But I was still feeling good and I knew my pants would turn up sometime that next Monday so I kept my marching band pants on. These pants were flimsy, loose, and the suspenders that held the pants up hooked onto your marching jacket, which I was not wearing.
So here I am, a band geek in tennis shoes, a white t-shirt, and fucking marching band pants that I needed to hold up with my hands to keep from falling down around my ankles, and I decide at that time to be a fucking social butterfly. Why I picked this moment above others, I'll never know. I could have waited for basketball season, or when I had access to a damn belt, but no. So I walk down from the school back to the football game and I see a few girls from my class. I'm walking along and for some reason they say hi to me.
These girls had never said hi to me before. I'm sure they probably figured that if they said hi to me, just once in their lives, then I would probably skip them the day I came in to shoot everyone. They were probably thinking, "If we just say hi to him once, then when he goes ape-shit maybe he'll spare our lives!" But I, like a dipshit, took it as a sign from the gods that hey, I must be kinda cool now in their eyes! Yep, I was a deity of coolness in marching band pants.
I start talking to these girls. I think I remember their names were Katie, Amber, Natalie, and two others who slip my mind. Anyway I'm standing there talking to them, about what I don't remember. Because while I am standing there shooting the shit, my mind is fully focused on keeping my god damn marching band pants up around my waist. But I just stood there smiling, talking, and continuously hiking my pants up. Obviously they noticed because they kept looking at me like I was a creepy weirdo who had pants falling down, which I was. So I'm sitting there talking when all of a sudden one of my other classmates runs up behind me, pulling down my marching band pants.
I've seen my share of de-pantsing, but this one was for the history books. Not only was he able to get my pants out of my hands, but he also managed to take the underwear down with them. It was a full on flashing for the girls standing in front of me. I remember looking down, seeing my tiny member being assaulted by the cold October night breeze, and then my eyes went wide.
I quickly covered my genitalia with my hands, looked up to see a gaggle of giggling girls, and my classmate, the de-pantsing culprit, running away. I began running after him, my pants still around my ankles. I'm using my right hand to cover my junk, my left hand to try and pull my underwear and pants back up, and my legs to catch and beat the shit out of my classmate. I somehow manage to do all three tasks and I actually catch up to the little fucker. I grab onto his shirt and begin to go into 17 year old boy mode by smashing his face in, but then my god damn pants fall down...again. At least this time my Simpsons boxers stayed up. I struggled to keep my marching band pants up, and in doing so lost my grip on the little turd.
I thought to myself, fuck it. I hiked my pants up as far as they could go and walked back to the group of girls. By then the little shit classmate noticed I had given up. He ran up to me and said, "Hey, you almost caught me!" I, still in shock, replied, "Yep....well....see you later!" I then walked away, with my head between my legs and my arms trying not to let my pants fall down again.
Years later I am in college. I am at the Other Place drinking with some friends...from my Men's Glee Club...sigh. You can see that the nerdiness train never left the station. Anyway, I see the same girls sitting in booth! I think to myself, they have to have forgotten about me loosing my pants and my tiny penis, it was years ago. Unfortunately I had once again forgotten to wear a god damn belt! Did I let that stop me? Hell no! So they are sitting at a booth and I am talking it up, leaning on the table, sipping on a Blue Moon with an orange slice like I am hot shit, and my pants once again falling down.
I find myself once again trying to work a crowd and work my Wranglers at the same damn time. I'm sitting there talking and I notice all their eyes are looking past me. It is then I realize that my ass crack is open and facing the table of frat guys behind me. I also feel something inside the back of my pants. It's sharp and uncomfortable. While keeping my pants up with my right hand, I begin to search around my asshole area for my left hand. There is a slender yellow straw nuzzled in my ass crack. I pull it out, verify it's at least not somebody's cock, and toss it to the floor. The girls begin to laugh again. I hear one of the girls whisper to another, "It's kinda like that last time." Fuck me. I decide to cut my losses, walk the fuck away, and get drunk.
The girls left shortly after my embarrassment, but the frat guys remained. Now I never redeemed myself in the eyes of those girls, but I did get those fucking frat guys back. Being in a high school marching band or men's chorus may be nerdy, but it does have one benefit. It's filled with other nerds...other nerds ready to have your fucking back when you are wronged. I got a few of my glee club buddies to watch for the frat guys to leave their table to get another round of beers, then we struck. In six seconds flat we ran from one end of the bar to the other, put our hands down the front of our pants, brought up our hands with a mass of pubic sweat and smegma stink on them, and we quickly rubbed our plague infested hands on the rims of their beer glasses. We then ran back to our designated table and those fuckers were none the wiser. They drank a mixture of bush light and crack stank like it was fucking Ambrosia, a legendary food of the fucking Greek Gods. It was marvelous. So the next time someone thinks of fucking with me or other geeks, just remember that geeks have friends, and as long as we can keep our pants up, we will have our revenge. Mwahahahahaha!!!