Lovin' Those Jew Curls!

There are people who go to the gym to work out, and there are people who go to the gym to pick up guys. Have you seen them? They lurk. They are lurkers. They are lurking lurkers who lurk around from machine to machine, dressed in their color-coordinated "exercise" outfits that consist of hot pink sports bras and spandex. It's bad enough when the 300-pounders on the stair masters wear spandex...jiggling butts right in your face because each machine is right behind another...but teenage girls roaming from treadmill to treadmill, pretending to consider the question of "to run or not to run" when really they're thinking "to hit on that guy on the bench-press or to hit on that guy lifting weights." GET LOST. We're here to become buff, not bimbos. And what's even worse is that they make YOU look extra-bad because you're the one in the baggy t-shirt and eyebrows slicked with sweat. News flash: eyebrows slicked with sweat? Not a turn-on. The lurking sluts are the ones who wear their hair DOWN when they're lifting weights. Yeah, you've seen them. They're a rare breed, but they're always there. Walking. Watching. Winking. I'd MUCH rather have a bonofied booTAY in my face than a walking sports bra.

Power walking. Walking is not hard-core exercise, but it has recently been discovered that walking while AT THE SAME TIME pumping your arms melts the weight right off! That's right folks! You're walking, you're walking and nothing is happening, but then...you lift one arm, then the other...and you move them, back and forth, back and forth, and BAM! You're burning millions upon millions of calories! Forget all that stupid running and weight lifting! Just pump those arms while AT THE SAME TIME walking and you will have the body of Pamela Anderson! (assets not included) Remember: walking alone is not enough. Pumping your arms is not enough. But walking while AT THE SAME TIME pumping your arms? MIRACLES!

Why is it that some people believe that if they fart on the elliptical no one will hear? Not only that, but no one will be able to smell it? IT'S NOT OKAY PEOPLE. I'm sick of being stuck behind the friendly farting fellow. Sure, he waves hi and smiles, but he's only smiling because he thinks that this is the only place he can get away with repetitive noises coming from his a-hole. I don't know if it's the machine...or what he ate for breakfast...but it doesn't matter. What matters is that we can all still hear it, and even if we don't hear it, we can smell it. For those who smell and run away, the friendly farting fellow has given them a little dose of extra cardio. But NO, it does NOT motivate us to keep on truckin,' it motivates us to scream, "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!" and leave. (not that we'd ever have the courage to open our mouths at all) So if you're one of those who is able to break wind and jog while remaining guilt-free, I beg of you, hold it in. If you have to squeeze your buttocks together to do it, I don't care. Just keep your gluteus maximus and the products it disperses the hell away from me.

I've mastered the "keep-your-head-down-and-pretend-you're-fixing-the-bottom-of-your-shirt-so-you-don't-have-to-look-that-person-in-the-eye-and-hope-that-they-don't-notice-you-anyway" routine. Really, I'm an expert, and I owe it all to the gym. Remember those people who you used to know? The ones who, hey, maybe someday you'll run into, and when you do you're gonna make a lasting impression? Yeah. For some reason, it's THOSE people who I always run into at the GYM. And no, not before my work-out, AFTER my work-out. And guys look good working out. Their muscles are flexing, their hair is too short to drip with sweat, and they look manly. Girls who look manly are called one thing. Lesbians. So I've just ran three miles, my hair is dripping with sweat making me look like I have those little Jew-curls at the sides of my ears that only boys are supposed to have, my whole face is red, and for some reason swollen, and I run into Nick my first boyfriend, Chance my biggest middle school crush, and Thomas, who is ugly anyway so I don't really care about him. And they're not thinking, "Man, I sure made a mistake letting her go." They're thinking, lesbian.

I don't go into the men's locker room. Why? Because I'm not a man. But I happen to know a few who DO go into the men's locker room. Why? Because I know some men. And why do THEY go into the men's locker room? Because they're men. So I've heard a few bizarre stories about the men's locker room in my time...but one has always stuck with me...
So Elliot walks into the men's locker room. It appears to be empty. He starts changing when he hears a faint sound. Snip. Snip. Snip. Thinking it's just his imagination, he continues putting on his clothes, then hears it again. Snip. Snip. Snip. He finishes changing, but goes to look in the mirror before he leaves. Why? To check himself out, of course. Then he sees that the locker room is not empty after all. There's another man here, also in front of the mirror, standing awkwardly close to it in fact. Snip. Snip. Snip. The man backs away slowly, then notices Elliot standing there gawking. The man smiles and exclaims, "Three-way mirrors! Perfect for this sort of thing!" Elliot smiles at the naked man. "This way you can get every angle!" Elliot nods slowly at the naked man clenching the scissors in his right hand "Don't want to miss a spot!" Elliot gives a thumbs up to the naked man clenching the scissors in his right hand standing in the pile of wiry hair. "You should really try it! You can borrow my scissors, if you'd like!" Elliot doesn't know what to say, so he accidentally makes it more awkward than it was before. "What are you doing?" The man turns around, which alone answers Elliot's question in more of a way than words ever could. "TRIMMIN' MY PUBES!"

Go-Go Gadget...TESTICLE!

"Did you know that Greg Sanders has a metal ball?"

"What? NO!"

"YES."

"But how do you know?"

"Everyone was talking about it in third period."

"What did they say?"

"Apparently he had to get surgery for it in fourth grade but they couldn't save it, so they replaced it with a metal one."

"Is it hollow?"

"I don't know!"

"Because if it's just metal...it must get pretty heavy."

"Yeah, unless it's in some kind of, like, hammock thingy."

"I can't believe Greg Sanders has a metal ball..."

"Yeah, but DON'T TELL."

Benjamin Franklin once said, "Three can keep a secret...if two of them are dead." Natasha Ferrier once said, "Three can keep a secret...unless one of them has a metal ball."

"Did you know that Greg Sanders has a robotic testicle?"

"Yeah, and he keeps it in a special testicle hammock."

"I KNOW! Wait. Shhhh...Greg's coming."

"Hey guys, what's up?"

"Nothin' much...I, Robot."

"Yeah...Inspector Gadget."

"What are you guys talking about?"

"Nothing, nothing...metalballboy."

"Okay, WHO told you?"

"Told us what?"

"It's NOT TRUE!"

"What's not true?"

"I DON'T HAVE A METAL BALL!"

"There's nothing wrong with it...Bicentennial Man."

"I DON'T!"

"Yeah sure...Judy!"

"Judy?"

"You know...the robot from The Jetsons? ...ugh nevermind."

"I don't know WHO started this rumor, but when I find out, I'm gonna---"

"Punch them in the face using your brass ball?"

"MY BALLS ARE PERFECTLY NORMAL! I SWEAR!"

"Okay okay...we're sorry..."

"Go-go gadget...TESTICLE!"

Lindsay Lohan once sang, "I'm tired of rumors starting." Hilary Duff once sang."Why not?"

"Did you know that Greg Sanders has a third nipple?"

"WHAT?! I thought he had a metal ball!"

"Greg Sanders has a metal ball?"

"Greg Sanders has a third nipple?"

"Ewww."

"Ewww."

"But how do you know?"

"Everyone was talking about it fifth period."

"What did they say?"

"Apparently it's right below his left one. But DON'T TELL."

I think we all know where this is going.

"Did you know that Greg Sanders has a third nipple?"

"AND a metal ball!"

"Man that sucks."

"Yeah, like how does he go through the metal detector at the airport?"

"At least with a third nipple you never have to worry about your baby being hungry."

"He's a boy."

"Oh. Right."

"Man that sucks."

"At least if someone kicks him in the balls, it would hurt them instead of him."

"Yeah, and if he ever gets really, really poor, he can just sell his metal ball. He'd still have the other one."

"It's not made of gold."

"I heard it was made of copper."

"Shhh...Greg's coming."

"Hey guys, what's up?"

"Just the usual...Honest Abe."

"Ugh, not the metal ball thing again. I TOLD YOU MY BALLS ARE AS NORMAL AS THEY COME!"

"But what about your nipples, are they as normal as they come?"

"Okay, WHO told you that?!"

"So it's true?"

"NO! I do NOT have a third nipple!"

"Oh."

"It's a growth."

"What?"

"It's a growth that merely resembles a nipple. But technically, it's NOT a nipple."

"Can we see it?"

"Just for justification purposes."

"And I've never seen three nipples before. Well, I've seen three separate nipples, obviously, but not three together, in a trio."

"I'll only show you if you stop calling it a third nipple. It's a growth."

"Okay, OKAY...NOW SHOW US!"

"AAHHHHH!!!"

"There. You saw."

"Well Greg, by revealing yourself to us, you have proved us wrong about the third nipple. I mean...the growth. We won't gossip about it anymore."

"Good."

"Now about that metal ball..."

Natasha Ferrier and the Mystery of...the VooDoo Doll

Everyone has had a teacher whom they absolutely despise. The teacher who makes you wanna scream. The teacher who makes you wanna hurl. The teacher who makes you wanna yell, "YOU SUCK!" in the middle of class. The teacher who makes you wanna yell, "TRUE DAT!" right after the kid who had the guts to yell, "YOU SUCK!" in the middle of class. The teacher who you can't even get away from once you leave school, because then you have nightmares featuring teach-who-must-not-be-named. The teacher who makes you wanna pour a vat-load of applesauce into her chair. The teacher who's butt jiggles like a vat-load of applesauce. The teacher who's so dumb, she actually believes that applesauce comes in 'vat-loads.' The teacher who you make a little voodoo doll out of and torture, desperately praying she's feeling every punch, poke, poop (the dog's of course...), and pinch. At least that's what I did.

"Man, I HATE Ms. Glover."

"Ha, more like Ms. Run For Cover."

"Okay that was lame."

"Yeah, but I still hate her."

"Yeah she sucks."

"Really sucks."

"Man! She sucks!"

"Really really sucks."

"Yeah she's stupid."

"Really stupid."

"Man! She's stupid!"

"Really really---"

"Okay that's enough."

"I wish we could, like, put a curse on her."

"Yeah, or like, get a thingy where you stick the pins in it and stuff."

"I have one!"

"A thingy?"

"A voodoo doll!"

"No!"

"Yes! Hold on...VOILA!"

"Wow...who is it supposed to be?"

"I don't know, I've never actually made it be a person. I just find it kind of creepy if I made it someone and then sat in my room by myself sticking pins and tacks in it to put that person in severe pain, all while laughing maniacally and feeling no guilt whatsoever."

"Good point."

"But that means we can make it Ms. Glover!"

"YES!"

"Okay, you...are...Ms...Glover....NOW!"

"Is that how you do it?"

"I mean, yeah."

"Now what do we do?"

"Whatever we want."

"POW! BANG! SHAZAM!"

"Shazam?"

"RIGHT-IN-YOUR-STOMACH!"

"Way to go...keep up the good---"

"RIGHT-IN-YOUR-ABDOMEN!"

"Hang in there...you're doin---"

"RIGHT-IN-YOUR-ESTOMAGO!"

"Spanish...way to use your resources..."

"RIGHT-IN-YOUR-TUM TUM!"

"Okay, I think we're running out of synonyms now."

"Really? Was tum-tum not intimidating?"

"No, you were doing great! It just loses the whole "scary-torture" effect when you're using the vocabulary of a toddler."

"Oh..."

"But it was cool when you said the Spanish one!"

"Really?!"

"Yeah, it made it seem more like a spell."

"Yeah, I was debating on whether to use that one or not."

"Nice. Soooo...what do we do now?"

KABOOM!

"What was that?"

"The broom just fell. I'll get it...GASP!"

"What? What?"

"Look...on...the...handle..."

"A product of...GASP!"

"Glover Industries."

DUM DUM DUUUUUUUMMMMMM!

We never knew what it was that made the broom suddenly tip over that cold October night. Was it the wind? A mouse? Could be. Or it could have been something else...something beyond our control...all I know is, after we had thrown the doll out of our sight and vowed never to do magic again for as long as we lived, something had not felt the same way we did. For the following morning, as I strolled into Room #341 and prepared myself for another one of Ms. Glover's painfully lulling lectures, I noticed that the woman standing at the front of the classroom was not Ms. Glover.

"Good morning, class. Ms. Glover will be out today due to a severe...STOMACH ACHE."

DUM DUM DUUUUUUUMMMMMM!!!

Babysitters from Hell

The last time I babysat, a number of things happened that really just shouldn't of happened. First, the kids' mom decides she is going to stay home to "observe" me as I watched the little tykes. Way lay on the pressure there, lady. Next, the kid throws a glass candle holder at my forehead. Then, he pulls down his pants, grabs his little sister's hand, and starts screaming, "Touch my wee-wee! Touch my wee-wee!" At this, the mom decides it is an appropriate time to intervene, but instead of saying, "Stop committing incest." or "Flashing is illegal." she simply states, "Remember Johny, we don't call it a wee-wee, we call is a penis." as if saying the correct term for it makes it okay to whip it out without warning. Last, the boy takes out a book with a menorah on the cover, and his mother explains, "Oh yes, we're Jewish." to where I reply, "Oh! Do you know Betsy?" as if her being Jewish means she must know every OTHER Jew there is in the world. It was even worse when she politely answered, "Sorry, no." giving me the cue to say, "Oh, well she's my Jewish friend." GOOD. GOD. Could I BE more of an idiot? I think I can safely blame my brief absence in brains on the previous boinking of the candle holder or the R-rated full-frontal of a minor. It was at that moment I made the crucial decision to never babysit again, until I got paid. That's right, FIFTEEN BIG ONES, BABY! And it was at THAT moment I decided that if were to pursue this destiny, I would never be like the babysitters that I had as a child, because a lot of them just...sucked.

Nancy, the chef
"Nancy, I'm hungry."

"Well I'm making lunch right now."

"YAY!"

"It's not for you, it's for me."

"Oh, well can I have some, please?"

"No."

"But I'm so hungry!"

"Did you eat breakfast?"

"Yes."

"Then you don't need any more food."

"But breakfast was a long time ago."

"You shouldn't be hungry."

"But all I had was a popsicle!"

"That should last you until tomorrow."

"But Mommy lets me eat more than one time a day."

"So? You've eaten for the day, you don't get anything else. Now go away so I can make my toasted ham and cheese melt and my french fries and my strawberry-banana smoothie."

Laura, the football fan
"Do you want to watch some T.V.?"

"YEAH!"

"What do you want to watch?"

"Barney!"

"Oh, there's a football game on right now. Barney will come on after it, I'm sure."

"But this isn't the Barney channel."

"I SAID THERE'S A FOOTBALL GAME ON RIGHT NOW!"

"Okay...can I have a snack?"

"Sure, have some grapes."

"Thank you."

"STOP SMACKING YOUR GRAPES YOU LITTLE TWERP! I CAN'T HEAR THE CALLS THE REF IS MAKING!"

"Sorry..."

"It's okay, sweetie. The game is almost over. Then we can play a game."

"Okay!"

"I MISSED THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN! I MISSED THE TOUCHDOWN BECAUSE YOU WERE TALKING TO ME YOU LITTLE STINKER! $*%! F!#& @$$ ^%^!"

Marge, the tattoo artist
"What's that on your ankle, Miss Marge?"

"It's a sea lion."

"What's that underneath it?"

"That says "Larry."

"Is Larry the sea lion's name?"

"No, Larry was my husband until he came home drunk one night at 3 in the morning and held a gun to my head and told me he was gonna shoot me but then I kicked him in the groin and called the cops and they came and arrested the piece of crap and now he's in jail so I'm gonna get it removed once my other ex-husband decides to obey the law and pay child support."

"What's a groin?"

Lily, the one who refused to help me use the toilet
"Lily, will you help me use the toilet?"

"Eww, no."

Where are these girls now? If only I knew...for if I knew I'd tell them that to be a babysitter, you must set a positive example for the child, for she will look up to you and model herself after you, and that they are lucky that I turned out to be normal after they mistreated me and made me feel little and unimportant, for a babysitter is not only a sitter of babies, but a role model for growing children around the world. Or I'd just honk their nose and pull their underwear over their head.

Fashion PoPo

Picture an old wrinkly dwarf with a beard that drags across the floor collecting who knows what with a schnoz the size of your granny's panties. That was me that fine Tuesday morning. No, no, no, I do not mean I was Natasha the eighth dwarf with chesticles, I mean I was in a great mood that day. You know...dwarfs are all merry and singing "Hi-ho, hi-ho" even though they work in a filthy mine doomed to collapse one of these days causing Bashful to become Smashful and Grumpy to become Stumpy. Anyway, I was the one singing "Hi-ho" that day, because I had woken up in a pleasantly wonderful mood. I liked my hair, my make-up looked swell, and I was especially pleased with my outfit. Yes, nothing could go wrong today.

"Is it tacky day today?"

This was the first thing said to me that fine Tuesday morning.

"Hey! Love the costume!"

This was the second thing said to me that fine Tuesday morning.

"What are YOU supposed to be?"

This was the third thing said to me that fine. Tuesday. Morning.

"Hey, you're a Goth, right?"

"OKAY PEOPLE! YES, I AM AWARE THAT MY OUTFIT IS NOT SOME GENERIC POLO AND JEANS, BUT IS WEARING ALL BLACK WITH NEON PINK LEG WARMERS REALLY THAT STRANGE? HAVE YOU REALLY NOT SEEN ANYTHING MORE PECULIAR THAN BRIGHT SOCKS IN YOUR PUNY LITTLE LIVES? WELL, HAVE YOU? HUH? HUH?"

"Why didn't anyone tell me it was Dress Like The Devil Day?"

Ahhh...those were the days. I will always miss the days we teeny-boppers could wear whatever we wanted, before the new dress code ever even existed. Before we all looked like clones of a middle-aged mom out for an afternoon of tennis. Before we didn't get sent to detention for forgetting to stuff our shirts down the front of our pants.

"Hey, what you guys in for?"

"Dealin' crack durin' lunch."

"Pimpin' prostitutes in P.E."

"Wearin' the wrong shade of khaki."

"Standard school attire" leads to conforming, which leads to communism, which leads to war, which leads to death, which leads to the end of the world. Why doesn't anyone see that? I'm talking about the END OF THE WORLD here, people. But that's not nearly as sad as the fact that I don't get asked if I worship Satan anymore. The guy who used to wear the leather trench coat no longer gets mistaken for a serial killer. And the girl with the bunny ears and cotton tail? No...people still think she's a slut.

The Missing Pants

When it comes to school bathrooms, there are two types of people: those who dare to take a dump, and those who don't. When you immediately detect the foul stench upon entering the bathroom, what do you think? Do you think, "Wow, that's gross." NO. You think, "Man, that person had a lot of balls." Because if you decide to empty your bowels during school, people are gonna know, and they're gonna talk. Why? Because people have no lives and the most interesting topic of conversation is of course, 'hey, who took a shit in the bathroom in the math hallway?' The utter embarrassment of it all not only includes the people who immediately vacate the stall next door, but the ones who walk into the stall screaming, "EEUUUHH! IT STANKS IN HERE!" And then comes the moment when you eventually must leave the stall you are in, and face the people who stayed a couple minutes longer just to see who exactly it was that was making those noises that come from one place and one place only. So I'd like to recognize the courageous ones who couldn't wait until they got home, who didn't mind stinking up an entire bathroom with one visit, who have done it once and will do it again. And again. And again. This one's for you, public-poopers. May the stench be with you.

"I feel awkward changing in front of all these people."

"Just change in the stall."

"Good idea."

At the time it had in fact seemed like a good idea, until...

"I'm sorry, I have to come in."

"I...what? Hey...!"

"I'm sorry. I have to lock the door."

"What?!"

Not only was I crammed into a stall, I was now crammed into a stall with a girl I did not even know. We were close. Awkwardly close. And she had locked the door. Two girls. One stall. This was definitely not right.

"Excuse me."

"Where are you going?"

"I need to get out."

"Why?"

"This stall ain't big enough for the both of us."

At the time, leaving the stall seemed like the perfectly logical thing to do, but once I had escaped, I immediately wished to turn back.

"Uhhh..."

The girl washing her hands at the sink seemed to be missing something.

"Uhhh..."

Her pants.

"Wha..."

A considerably large girl standing in front of a considerably large mirror with a considerably small pair of underwear.

"Pants..."

As if awkwardly saying the word 'pants' would make them appear on the girl. I realized she could see me staring through the reflection in the mirror. It probably looked like I was just starting at her butt. Her pantless butt.

"Uhhh..."

The girl just smiled at me. Where exactly were her pants? I looked around. They were nowhere to be seen.

"MAN THAT STALL IS STANKY! SOMEONE HAD BURRITOS FO' LUNCH!"

"YEAH GURL, IT WAS ME! I MADE DA STANKY!"

"GURL I DONE IT BEFO' TOO! JUS DAT ONE TIME THOUGH."

"YEAH GURL I REMEMBER! DAT TIME YOU HAD DEM TACOS?"

"YEAH GURL DAT WAS IT!"

I wonder what goes on in the boy's bathroom...

C is not always for Cookie...

"We are now going to watch an educational video on cancer."

"There are many different forms of cancer. Some of the most commonly known ones are lung cancer, stomach cancer, and breast cancer. Today, we will be focusing on one of these types, and teaching you how to check yourself so you stay aware and healthy. Here we have---"

"OH MY GOD!"

"IT'S A NAKED MAN!"

"IT'S A MAN THAT'S NAKED!"

"OH MY GOD!"

"Settle down class, this is purely for educational purposes. If you are going to be immature about it, you don't have to look."

"Thank God."

"Natasha, why aren't you looking?"

"You just said we didn't have to look."

"You should be watching this, it's very important to know how to check yourself for testicular cancer."

"I don't need to know how to check myself for testicular cancer, Ms. Jeffers."

"Everyone should know how to check themselves for testicular cancer."

"But I don't have any testicles."

"But one day you may need to check someone who does."

"What?"

"THAT NAKED MAN IS STILL THERE!"

"THAT MAN THERE IS STILL NAKED!"

"He's hairy..."

"...and tiny."

"There's nothing wrong with being tiny!"

"Who said that?"

"Wow he's really hairy..."

"He's groping himself."

"No class, he is merely checking his testicles in order to see if he has testicular cancer."

"OH MY GOD!"

"And now as you can see class, the camera has zoomed in to give us a closer look."

"Dude. He's grabbing his sack."

"Thank you, Austin. You are correct. Sack is in fact another term for testicles. Does anyone else know any slang terms for testicles?"

"NUTS!"

"Very good! Another?"

"BALLS!"

"Yes, yes! Another?"

"FAMILY JEWELS!"

"Excellent! One more?"

"THINGY!"

"Ummm no, but you are very close, because class, the term thingy is a synonym for another body part. Does anyone know what body part that is?"

"PENIS!"

"Extra credit for you! It is very good to be aware of all terms, including slang, that stand for body parts, especially those of the sexual organs. Now there are two more I'm thinking of...does anyone know them? Come on now...one starts with a 'C' and the other with a 'D'...anyone? Here, I'll write them on the board..."

...just another day in Wellness class.

"The New Kid"

I've never been "a new kid." I've been a kid, but never a new one. I've always had a secret desire to be "a new kid." Everyone knows "the new kid." Everyone is interested in "the new kid." Half the students will ask, "Hey, have you seen "the new kid"?" and the other half will say, "YES!" because that's what "new kids" are. They're the center of attention, the topic of discussion, the apple of many eyes. Not that I crave attention or anything...not that I want to be on everyone's mind...not that I want to be the mystery everyone wants to uncover (figuratively that is)...I just want to be new and a kid. "The new kid."
I've had my share of new kids in high school. And yes, even though it's high school, the name doesn't change. They are not new teens or new young adults, they're still a new kid. New kids come and go, and as sad as it may be, there comes a time where they are not new any longer. They must forget the new kid status and hand the crown over to someone else, because a new kid will always come along. And there cannot be more than one new kid at a time. I mean, come on, think about it. There can't be a new kid and a newER kid. And newEST kid? Please. New kids are a rare specimen. Only one can exist at a time. Over the years a good supply of memorable new kids have accumulated in my memory. So forget top ten movies of all time, top ten romantic get-aways, top ten things to do on a rainy day, top ten ways you can sit on a noodle, I'm talking about something bigger. Something better. Something...new. That's right. I'm talking about...Top Ten New Kids.

1. "the new kid" with lips so chapped we mistaked him for Bobo the Clown
2. "the new kid" with uncontrollable impluses to do "the worm" in the middle of history class
3. "the new kid" who claims her mother adopted a demon baby from Mary Bloody Mary
4. "the new kid" who drinks chocolate milk through her nose and insists on calling every female, "Bra Queen"
5. "the new kid" whose hobbies include mountain biking, fitting as many baby carrots into her mouth as humanly possible, and orgies
6. "the new kid" who threatened to cut my butt off with a chainsaw and fry it on a frying pan until it was as flat as a pancake
7. "the new kid" who payed boys to sit with her at lunch and answer to her nicknames, such as "puppy wuppy" and "boo boo bear"
8. "the new kid" who wrote me a letter confessing all the wrongs she had done and telling me i was the right friend for her, begging for my forgiveness, even though we had never spoken before
9. "the new kid" who tucked his pants into the front of his socks
10. "the new kid" who tucked his socks into the front of his pants

Ahhhh new kids...what would we do without them?

Vajayjays and Penaynays

"Hi boys..."

"Audrey!"

"What?"

"They're like, 12 years old!"

"So?"

"So ewww!"

"It's not like I'm asking them out on a date or anything, I'm just simply saying hello."

"And winking."

"They didn't see that."

"And blowing kisses."

"They might have seen that."

"Their mother sure did."

"Oh that's awkward. Is she looking?"

"Staring."

"Angry?"

"Glaring."

"She's not nearly as attractive as her son."

"Oh, you mean the TWELVE year-old?"

"No, the younger one."

It is because of countless wise old men that we now know to eat an apple a day (it keeps the doctor away), what to do when you see a penny (pick it up), and the color of silence (gold). But do these things really help us in life? Does anyone actually eat an apple a day? Of course not, and if you do, you're weird. What people DON'T know is that it's the wise old women who have spoken the wisdom that really comes in handy. For instance: As a wise old woman once said, "A girl will one day be a woman, but boys never stop making fart jokes." SERIOUSLY.
The only difference between a middle school boy and a high school boy is that one can't wait to kiss you, and the other can't wait to do you. I thought high school would open up the world of dating...of romance...of the stuff you see in movies...the whole enchilada. So far the only enchilada I've gotten is the soggy one in the lunch line that costs a dollar-seventy-five. Boys are STILL awkward, and STILL clueless about just how to hnadle the female species. You still have that boy who thinks throwing wads of paper at you will REALLY make you swoon, and the boy who thinks a love ballad is saying, "I'd tap dat ass." And boys, just because we're not looking at you doesn't mean we haven't noticed you staring for the past HOUR, and going on and on about how horny you are does NOT make us realize how much you make our heart flutter. And only us girls can get away with using the terms, "vajayjay" and "penaynay." COME ON.
But don't get me wrong. I've dated high school boys, I've had 17-year-old boyfriends, and dad gummit, I'd do it again! Because what you don't know is, girls can be immature perverts, too, we just choose not to flaunt it.

Hotties, Hallways, and Harmonicas

I've always wished I played an instrument. Piano lessons with the 90-year-old woman (who, every five minutes, declared that my hands were too dirty for her piano and would lead us both to her bathroom so she herself could scrub my hands in boiling hot water, all while telling me how much she loved me, tossing in a big wet one on the cheek from time to time) did not last long. Buying a twenty-dollar guitar at a neighborhood garage sale did me no good (seeing as before the grand purchase I had never even held the blasted instrument), and everyone knows that xylophones only exist because that's the only word that begins in "x."
I don't know what it was that made my grandmother buy it for me, and I don't know what it was that made me stuff it in my back pocket that Monday morning. Was it a stroke of luck? A twist of fate? We shall never know...

"Hey."
Was he really talking to me?

"Hey."
Was the most gorgeous boy I've ever layed my eyes on really talking to me?

"Hey."
Was the most gorgeous boy I've ever layed my eyes on who I would take advantage of in a heartbeat if the opportunity ever were to arise really talking to me?

"Hey!"
Yes!

"Yeah?"

"You dropped your harmonica."

"That's not a harmonica."

"It has "HARMONICA" written across the front."

"You're right. It does. Thanks but...you can just leave it where it was."

"It was on the floor."

"Yeah well...I don't need it. Why would I need a harmonica? That's weird."

"But it was in your pocket."

"Yeah, but I was gonna get rid of it anyway sooo....just leave it. Now."

"Okay..."
The most gorgeous boy I've ever layed eyes on who I would take advantage of in a heartbeat if the opportunity ever were to arise slowly set my harmonica back on the floor, and vanished from my sight. I stood there, not knowing what to do. For some strange reason, I couldn't leave my harmonica. That blue metallic harmonica, which did indeed have "HARMONICA" written across the front, would have been hopeless without me. After all we had been through...I wanted to cry. Scream. Let the tears---

"Hey Natasha, you dropped your harmon---"

"I KNOW, OKAY?!"

Let the tears flow at the thought of leaving it, and at the though of how I just made a complete fool of myself in front of the most gorgeous boy I've ever layed eyes on who I would take advantage of in a heartbeat if the opportunity ever were to arise, and he would probably never speak to "the freak with the harmonica" ever again. I didn't know what to do, so I did the only thing an utterly humiliated girl walking down a crowded hallway with a harmonica could do...I played.

The Devil and Mr. Woodworth

If for some reason I ever end up in Hell, I imagine it would closely resemble a little thing I was forced to participate in every single day of my entire freshmen year. What is this little thing, you wonder? The Devil would know. I would descend into the flaming gates...the fiery pits...whatever it is you descend into, and Satan would be there waiting, and he would say something like, "Helllloooooo Natasha. Do the words, 'Mr. Woodworth' and 'minivan' ring a bell? MUAHAHA!" and I would reply, "Sounds vaguely familiar..." and he would answer, "How about 'Russian' and 'middle seat?' MUAHAHA!" and I would whisper, "It can't be..." and he would say, "How about...'AFTERNOON CARPOOL?' MUAHAHA!" and I would scream, "NOOOOO! Not afternoon carpool!" and he would say, "MUAHAHA!"

"Good afternoon everyone. Natasha, Lucy, and Jasmine, you sit in the back. Good ol' Cole here can sit up front with me!"

"Hey guys...I was thinking maybe today I could sit by the window? I get kinda squashed..."

"No."

"So Cole, how'd you like that football game last Friday night? Pretty amazing, huh?"

"I didn't go, dude."

"I went, Mr. Woodworth!"

"Why didn't you go, Cole? Football is a man's sport, you know!"

"I was getting my lip pierced."

"Well, I'm sure you'll be at the next game! It's supposed to be a good one!"

"I'll be at the next game, Mr. Woodworth!"

"You're going to the game, right, Cole?"

"Nah dude. Football sucks."

"I like football, Mr. Woodworth!"

"Do you play any sports Cole?"

"Nah dude."

"I play a sport, Mr. Woodworth!"

"Why not Cole? Sports were made for us men, you know!"

"I wouldn't pass the drug test, dude."

"I would pass the drug test, Mr. Woodworth!"

"Dad, I think Natasha has been trying to tell you something."

"WHAT, LUCY, DO YOU THINK I'M DEAF? DO YOU THINK I AM NOT ABLE TO UNDERSTAND? DO YOU THINK I'M SPEAKING RUSSIAN? IS THAT IT? YOU THINK I'M SOME RUSSIAN MAN WHO CAN'T UNDERSTAND A LICK OF ENGLISH? IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK? HUH? HUH?"

"No sir."

"So Cole, you a Packers fan?"

Crack is Whack

When I pictured what high school would be like, I saw a magical place with dozens of oppurtunities, hundreds of possibilities, and boys. Now all I could see was the girl in front of me...and her butt crack. I'd expect such a shannanigan in middle school, but in high school? Things should be different now! I shouldn't have to deal with brief nudity in English class! Does anyone else see this? The girl next to me sure doesn't...or that guy...oh! That guy licking his lips is looking. Ewww! That guy looking is licking his lips! Does this girl really not feel the breeze? I have to do something about this...it would be wrong of me not to...I can't be dealing with such distractions...

"What are you doing?"

"Hmmm? What? Oh, were you talking to me?"

"Ummm YEAH. Is this your pencil?"

"Why look at that! Good golly, it sure is!"

"What was it doing in my pants?"

"I...what?"

"What was your pencil doing in the back of my pants?"

"Well if it was doing anything, I'd imagine it'd be writing...erasing...poking...whatever it is pencils are doing these days..."

"How did it get there?"

"Well...actually...you know, now that I look more closely, well by George! This isn't my pencil after all! Silly me...pencils are starting to look so similar...sure does look like it could be mine, doesn't it? But nope, no siree, this is definitley not my pencil! My mistake..."

"Whatever."

You would think that if you turned around and found a pencil in the back of your pants, you wouldn't think, "Oh, I wonder who put that there..." and accuse the first person you see. You would more likely think, "Oh, my entire butt is showing. That's not in style anymore..." and pull up your freaking pants. But NOOO...all SHE cares about is who was looking at her butt and decided to stick a writing utensil there, which really shouldn't matter...and she STILL hasn't pulled up her pants. Maybe if I had a ruler...