Last Saturday night was the heralded sophomore “Spring Fling” at Forth’s school. This year he was “lucky” enough to organize the event and I was “lucky” enough to volunteer to attend.
The previous evening, Forth brought home a flashlight/breathalyzer to use at the dance, should we suspect any of the underage kids to be a little crunk. He held it in front of my face for awhile as I was enjoying a whiskey and coke and playing Guitar Hero, wondering why on earth he needed a gigantic flashlight. It then flashed red and beeped and apparently I failed the high school drunk test. We didn’t need to use it at the dance, unfortunately, but it was extremely amusing nonetheless.
Unlike the Halloween dance, the majority of sophomore boys and girls danced in fun, jumpy groups with their short sparkly dresses and those’ stupid Kanye-flippy-windowshade sunglasses, instead of in these little intimate boy/girl combos. Of course, the girls are still stick-thin and unappreciative of their perfect, tiny bodies, bytheway. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if they don’t watch it, they’re not going to be able to wear those short skirts for long. At least some of us realize this. *Sniff.
However, there were two couples in particular that needed to be watched, which actually made me feel pretty sorry for the duos. Like, how hard up are they for alone time that they literally need to suck face in the middle of a group of adolescents with adults peering in on their every move?
After watching these two couples steal kisses, then proceed to full on make-out, Forth reluctantly walked over to one of them and tapped the girl on the shoulder, warning them that they had better not make him disrupt them again. I would have rather used more force, wit, and embarrassment in the situation but, of course I wasn’t in charge. Later on, I formulated a method of punishment for the the wayward harlequins and scheming lotharios: bringing in their parents and instating a rule that for every kiss, ass grab, slip of the tongue, pelvic grind, or whatever else the two kids performed with each other, they’d have to sit and watch their parents do the very same–I mean, how gross could that possibly be for a 16 year-old?
On the other hand, after experiencing this week’s entire Hip/Hop/Rap Top-50 list, I realized how cruel it is that all the DJ plays are these songs that do nothing but promote the fiery magnetism of junk-to-junk friction. It’s like three and a half hours of rhythmically Ebonicized taunts: “Grab the bottle of Bacardi and tap that ass, but don’t–because you shall receive detention.” Bwhahahaha.
In other news, if I ever do another dance again–which I doubt (not one that I have to wait for Forth to pick up after anyway)–I will start confiscating every feather boa and said pair of stupid slatted sunglasses that the kids bring in. It’s dumb. It’s tired. And something else too–why do they save all the “white music” for the end? It’s all rap and R&B until things wind down, and then it’s Zac Efron Lady GaGa and Taylor Swift. On the same note, why are all the slow songs at least 10 years old? The two slow songs I remember were Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing” (1998) and the song that needs to die a slow, slow, agonizing, and possibly deformative death: Edwin Mcain’s “I’ll Be” (1997). These kids were what, four or five years old when those came out? There has to be at least 20 quality slow-dance songs since then to trump that crap.
Though Forth didn’t slip any Kings of Leon onto the night’s playlist for me, the DJ did bust out my beloved Flo Rida, and I wanted nothing but to jump into the mass of pubescence and rock along with them, but unfortunately that wouldn’t have been socially acceptable. Instead, I wallflowered as usual and continued to play the role of fascinating anomoly–even still I’m unsure as to when girls are going to quit being so preoccupied with Mr. Forth’s bethrothed. Honestly–just move along, ladies. Nothing to see here.
**Back.
