What follows is a brief description of all the achievements I achieved while achieving stuff in high school. They range from "petty" to "kind of petty" while hitting all the middle degrees of pettiness. I'm not going to put them in any particular order because I feel they're all not worth mentioning. I made honor roll. Getting a GPA higher than 3.5 in public schools isn't too hard. Some people are naturally smart and can breeze through class without taking notes or coming to school sober. The
So because I bothered to show up to class and copy off of the right people I made the honor roll. No, I wasn't part of the honor roll. Bitch, I made honor roll. I was the living, breathing, embodiment of the honor roll. I founded that motherfucker and if I left it, it would fall apart. Sure, the rest of the honor roll would do some crappy solo work but it still wouldn't be as awesome as the original honor roll that I also produced, publicized, and brought to stardom as well. As mastermind of the honor roll, I knew everything. If some fool came up to me and said, "Bitch, name a main export of Croatia," I could look at that sucka and say, "Bitch, textiles." I didn't just make the honor roll. I was the honor roll. As a way of showing I made the honor roll, at graduation I was given this red, white, and blue thing that went around the shoulders, neck, and back of my girly commencement gown. I don't really understand why it was those colors considering Western's colors are blue and silver. Anyway, this big bib thingy loosely fit around my neck and part of my upper torso as if to say to world, "I'm smart enough to wear this stupid thing." Some kids got to wear gray chords because they were in NHS. Officially, they're called "silver chords" but I call them gray because calling them silver would imply value. Do I sound bitter? I'm not. I simply resent NHS. Ah fuck, that'd make me bitter, wouldn't it? Here, let me tell you why. I was successfully rejected from the National Honor Society. To join NHS at Walled Lake Western, one must have a GPA above 3.2 and have a semester of extracurricular acivity for each year he's attended WLW. When I was eligible to join NHS I figured, "Hey, I'll join this piece of crap. Maybe it will help me get into a good college so I can one day get rich and marry a woman who will sleep with me in exchange for a sum of my accumulated wealth." Unfortunately for me and my future gold-digging whore of a wife, there is a certain disciplinary requirement involved when applying to get into NHS: You can't be an ex-convict. I first heard the awful news when I was sitting at a table in the lunch room along with all the other NHS hopefuls. The unfortunate information went in one ear, was processed by my
When the other kids with GPAs above 3.2 and I were invited to the meeting that told them about NHS, they gave all of us the usual speech. "You need this. NHS will get you into good college and help you get a nice job." While some colleges may see NHS on an application and say, "Wow, that's nice," it certainly isn't common because colleges can't talk. If they could, they probably wouldn't talk about applicants. If I were a talking college, I'd tell everyone to walk in my doors, because I'm sure that's how colleges have sex. But all the people would have to wear rubber boots. I don't want to get termites. So while claiming that NHS will help you get into a college isn't too far-fetched, saying that it will help you get a job is the same thing as stuffing your mouth full of shit and then spitting it onto a crowd of impressionable youngsters. The person giving you a job interview isn't going to glance down at your resumé, see that you once wasted precious hours of your life doing slave labor for NHS, and say "You're hired! Glad to have you aboard, Mr. President!" NHS also wants you to do work for them. And get this: they aren't paying you a six figure salary. In fact, you don't even get cash, rare gems, or an always-welcome pat on the ass. If I
Did the death imagery scare you? It should. NHS is the Satan. Not a Satan. Not some Satan. The Satan. NHS doesn't even stand for National Honor Society like its "spokespersons" and "official website" would claim. But those so-called NHS representatives have no credibility because I destroyed it by putting their names in quotation marks. If you were to ask them what NHS stood for they'd probably say "Character, Scholarship, Leadership, and Service." Then you'd look them in the eye (NHS reps are often from Georgia, where people can only afford one eye) and say "Listen, idiot. There's no way you can get NHS from that." And then he'd explain to you that he mistook your sentence and after you explain everything then both of you could have a hearty laugh over a delicious...uh...thing...that is delicious. And the moral of the story is: Don't start a paragraph without planning how the hell you're going to finish it. Many people will read this and scowl as if to say "I am displeased." Most of these people will be past, current, or former members of NHS. The rest of them will be malcontent adults who despise teenagers who say what they're thinking. To these people I shrug. That and maybe wave a finger. And then scratch myself. So why would I insult a group of people known for being studiously studying and laboring laboriously? I have an enormous penis. Seriously, there is no denying the volume of this thing. It's the size of a prehistoric land mammal that is long extinct but there are still land mammals of a similar shape but have a size nowhere nearly as a large as its predecessor, which is my unbelievably gigantic tallywacker. And that is why I dislike NHS. I was on public television. Anyone who aimlessly changes channels on their television knows that public access programs are usually full of Powerpoint slideshows that tell everyone how the local elementary school needs a new recess lady while playing the type of pop rap music we've all come to hate. We're reading "Mrs. Martinson needs a new teacher's aide" while hearing "It gettin' hot in heah, so take off all yo' clothes." I don't know about you, but nothing makes me want to assist third grade students with art projects more than being told in broken English to get naked because the temperature is warmer than usual. When the public access channel isn't encouraging employment and instigating orgies, there are other quality programs available for family viewing, too. Sometimes there's an unfocused
Then, one day in April of 2002 a television event occurred that would soon turn the public access channel on its side and kick it a couple of times in the ribcage. This would of course be the historic recording of WLW's best (and only) game show, Buddies. This is a contest where pairs of friends answer questions about each other in order to get How could an idiot like me get to be a contestant on such a production? Through trickery and deceit, of course! Well, not really. During lunch I picked up an application, filled it out with the usual nonsense you're used to me writing, had my best friend Brian sign it, and then turned it in. I'm not sure why they selected Brian and me to be on that show. Maybe it was because our application was seen as amusing. Maybe it was because Brian and I both knew the editor of this operation, the always-studly galactic pimp Devin. Maybe it was because we both having ravishing good looks. Yes, it was probably the good looks. Holy crap, Brian and I are hot. So Brian and I, who are hot (as noted before), were on this game show. On it, there were three rounds. Each of which involved a test of knowledge, where Brian and I were quizzed on each other and I looked stupid, or a test of physical skill, where we were both given a task to perform and I looked stupid. And now I will break down the events of this action-packed episode of Buddies. But due to the fact that typing this crap takes a long time, I'm only going to summarize what Brian and I did. And to allow myself to be even more lazy, I'm only going to offer you highlights from the show. That should keep it short, considering the majority of the show focused on people who aren't Brian or me. Brian and I dominated this round. All three five-point questions were answered correctly while the other two teams stared at their feet and mumbled in humility. One of the questions was "Who does your friend think is the hottest person at Western?" Ashley, a freshman with pink hair, had to guess which stud muffin at Western her friend Laura thought was the stud muffinliest. When Ashley first heard this, every part of her face but her mouth said, "Ah, fuck." Obviously she didn't know what Laura would say. Since I'm such a sweetheart I leaned back and smugly pointed to myself. Ashley, without any other option, said "Henry." Yes, that's right, folks. I helped someone ruin their only chance to attain glory, happiness and five points all in the name of promoting myself in a desperate attempt to get laid. And it didn't even work. Another question worth only a paltry five points was, "If your friend could only eat one thing for the rest of his or her life, what would it be?" In this round I had to predict what Brian would say, and since Brian and I go together like alcoholism and bad parenting, I'd have to say this question was answered before it was asked without the aid of any warps in the space-time continuum. After this question was posed to me, I confidently said, "Kangaroo." Alex, the host, raised his eyebrows and inquired, "Oh, he has it a lot?" So I replied with, "No, he just likes to try new things." Everyone thought I was tripping on some great acid until Brian came in during the second half of that round and said his favorite food was kangaroo without batting an eye. The live studio audience, seven kids in metal chairs, lit up with confused laughter. How was such an amazing feat possible? Was it smoke and mirrors? Was it cheating? Was it a short discussion Brian and I had on our way down to the TV production studio where we agreed on some bizarre answers to some questions they may ask? I'm not going to lie to you. It was smoke and mirrors. I ruined this round. Brian predicted that I'd answer everything I should have, but instead I sputtered gibberish. I am a failure. We got nothing right and the questions were worth 10 points this time. So the team that got two questions right is now beating us. There are no real highlights for round two because all of it sucked. Fuck round two, and fuck me for not knowing myself as well as Brian does.
One teammate, the "egg yolk dropper", stood on the top of a ladder and cracked eggs into a cup below them. Where was the cup, you ask? In front of the mouth of the second teammate, or "prison bitch," who laid on the floor and hated living until the eggs stopped dropping. Each egg yolk successfully placed in the cup was worth an amount of points too insignificant to make any change in who was going home with first place. How did Brian and I do? Well, our run went a little like this. Brian stood at the top the ladder and cracked eggs, which went all over my face. After Brian had let three eggs miss that fucking cup, my forehead and closed eyes were caked in uncooked breakfast. After that all I could do was lay there on the floor and wish the TV production studio caught fire so that wretched show would end prematurely. At least then maybe I could eat the omelette that was developing on my head. In the end, Brian was able to get one egg yolk away from my face and into that damn plastic cup. That scored not enough points to make a difference, but what it lacked in value it made up for in total public degradation. Seeing as our score was lower than the winning team's but it was higher than the losing team's, Brian and I came in second. At first, we mutilated the competition. Then we moved into a round where the points doubled in value and I drew nothing but blanks. And to top it all off, it rained shit on me. On camera. In front of Katie, who was a member of the team that lost, but lost looking positively gorgeous. And sober, too! So when I close this paragraph, I'd like to reflect not on the fact that Brian and I were stuck with second place, but that Katie was able to show up to the taping without being really, really drunk. Way to go, Katie! I got a computer science award. Receiving this was like having a surprise party thrown for me. Only at this surprise party, there wasn't a party. It was just people yelling "Surprise!" and then picking up the party decorations without making eye contact with me. I first found out I was going to receive this esteemed award that nobody knows about about ten seconds before I walked up to the podium and got it. My former networking teacher stood on stage and said, "Here are the people who won this really important award that
After I heard my name spoken, I stood up, hugged the person next to me, and marched up to the stage with stars in my eyes. I shook my networking teacher's hand, kicked the other award winners in the pancreas, and picked up the large trophy they handed me and approached the microphone. I was handed a microphone, so I read the speech I had written for hours the previous night.
And with that, I wiped the tears from my eyes, adjusted the tiara they just put on my head, and walked off the stage holding my trophy and the big bouquet of flowers they just handed me because I'm so attractive and my genitals are huge. Then I sat down with all of my well-deserved gifts. Holy fuck, that couldn't be any farther from the truth. I heard my name, I stood up, I shook that teacher's hand like the other three guys did, I picked up my little medal, and I sat down. The end. Shazzam! Page Two! |
