"Am I Going To My High School Reunion?" The Worksheet

Oh, fuck.  It has been that long.

To go or not to go?  That is the question.  Confused?   That was a rhetorical question.  Of course you're confused. 

Get the answer with these simple steps and see if you should go to your upcoming High School (or college) Reunion.

First, work out your Base Score.  

My Career Success : 1-10

How Good I Look : 1-10

I Enjoyed My High School Experience: 0-5

Multiply these 3 answers (Career Success) x (Good Lookin) x (Experience)

Now add or subtract the following Wildcards.

-3 each 500 miles away you are from Reunion location

+20 newlywed or a hot partner to show off

-20 recent painful divorce has you in a rut

+10 painful divorce rut that you hope to revenge-bang your way out of

+10 kids to escape, brag about, and a solid babysitter

+40 core group of close friends are attending

+80 still hopelessly in love with classmate who might be there

+200 you're an extrovert who still dreams nightly of performing emotional musical numbers naked in front of your Biology class

+20 there's a buddy who's just 'gotta see ya' and has promised 'drinks are on me' all night

-40 you secretly hate that buddy

+20 were part of an organized sport at school

-10 you consider being on the chess team a sport

-10 you were the equipment manager

+40 you were the equipment manager of a team of the opposite/desirable gender 

+50 fully recovered from a recent successful surgery

+100 the surgery is cosmetic

+150 the surgery is breast augmentation (you're all-in with a solid pair)

+15 new tattoo

+20 you're here you're queer and you just want to cheer

-40 never graduated

-30 never got laid

-20 never had a girlfriend or boyfriend

+20 your current date/spouse is hotter than the person who dumped you

Scoring:

0... or less - You're only in this category if you live on another planet or answered 0 for your High School Experience.  Even if you have a line of people all waiting to buy you drinks, Don't matter. Unless you are a hired killer and an old classmate is the target, let's face it.  You ain't going.

1 - 50 - You're not that into it.  Even urging from your social butterfly spouse or a night away from the kids won't do it.  You need a big lottery win, the promise of a round of golf or spa the next day, guaranteed sex with the prom king or queen, or a remote chance to score the exact drug your addicted to for you to motivate enough to get there.

51 - 100 - You're on the fence.  Search your heart.  If you want to go, bump your looks up a point.  Or ask for that promotion.  Or urge your actual friends to go.  You can do it.  Live a little.  Inflate that number.  If you don't want to go, you're fine.  Screw it and screw them.  Besides, you'll probably gain 10 pounds and 6 new ear hairs by the time the date rolls around. Unless you have a sizzling hot date who insists that you find your high school flirtation have that kinky threesome in the locker room fantasy (that you often act out in your sleep) you're probably gonna just stay home lone that night, order some Chinese take out, and then pause the screen so you can rub one out to that sci-fi hottie on Game of Thrones.  Then a Nyquil and valium cocktail for good measure.  Huzzah you loser.   

101 - 150 - You're decently into it.  If airline tickets aren't that pricey, the meds you're taking seem to have you stable enough, and you've got a clean jacket (or new dress) and can scrounge a stain-free tie and a splash of faux confidence, you'll check it out for a few hours.

151 - 200 - You're so in.  You're prime, confident and social, and you just have to show yourself off. You were dating seniors when you were a freshman. Or, you've got to go because you're so confused about reality, you've put huge stakes on your interactions at this event.  Smiling tightly and, oh, so casually through conversations with your ancient crushes, friends, and enemies on this night will probably be the source of new disappointments, new vendettas, and new seething angers that will boil inside you straight though to old age.  It's all in your own mind, but the consequences to your mental health will be completely real.  And likely devastating.  Unless you have a sizzling hot date who insists that you find your high school flirtation have that kinky threesome in the locker room fantasy come to life (that you often act out in your sleep) you're  

201 + Of course you're going!  You've already been in touch with the party planner so you can be more involved, you awesome socialite, you.  Hey, bring your guitar because they'll probably insist that you to play a few songs or at least make the welcome toast.   What could go wrong?*

  

If you're in this category, c'mon, you already know you're going.  Have an escape story ready*.  But mostly, because you're awesome. You have a good time wherever you go.  Plus think of your old friends they've been thinking about you for a long time.  Or at least you have.

*Note: If you are approached by a drunken 151-200 at the reunion that you don't remember, seems creepy or on edge, and they 'need to tell you something in private,' make no sudden moves.  Maintain eye contact, and pretend you remember them.  Stay in the moment and listen to what they say well enough that your response will diffuse any danger but end further contact.  Maybe what's-their-name just wants somebody to smoke weed with by the lunchroom dumpster.

The Perfect Spot

By Seth B.

Driving home from the bar at 2am, I turned onto my street and started to look for parking. Parking is normally pretty bad in my neighborhood. At 2am when you're half drunk and wanting nothing more than to pass out, it's a nightmare. Not seeing the miracle spot right in front, I began my usual route through the neighborhood hoping for something on the next couple blocks. Ten minutes later I'd finished my usual route empty handed and began the depressing process of driving in concentric circles further and further away from my apartment. God, I just want to fucking park! As my blood slowly came to a boil, I realized that the frustration I was experiencing was eerily similar to the frustration I'd felt about something else. When I passed what looked like a spot, only to realize that it was about a foot too short, I realized what it was. Looking for parking is like looking for someone to date. And as it is in most big cities, dating and parking can be a bitch. As I drove down street after street with no open spots it all began to fall into place. The secrets of parking and dating revealed themselves to me. Every person is a parking spot.

The taken spot: Women like to say that men are like parking spots. All the good ones are taken and the rest are handicapped or too small. I think you could say the same thing about good women, except the too small part. When a good person becomes newly single they're like a good parking spot. They last about 2 minutes. If you're really serious about getting one, the surest way to go about it is to circle around the block like a vulture waiting for someone to pull out. Even then, you will often have the experience of seeing a spot open up only for it to be taken by the car in front of you (probably driven by your neighbor).

The almost spot: What a waste of curb! If only the cars around this spot hadn't taken up so much space! This spot is like those people who are only half available to date you, meaning they aren't really available at all. When the people around this spot parked they saw all that extra curb, and knowing they wanted it to be easy getting out, took up just enough extra to squeeze you out.The mirage spot: Like many people, this spot is good from far but far from good. From a distance it looks like you've found a spot, but when you get a closer look you realize why. Its kind of like the person you find attractive from across the room only for it to be ruined by going over and talking to them. The worst part about this spot is that after you realize its not a spot you have to wonder how many people have driven by thinking the same thing.

The illegal spot: The curb is red, but hey, you've had a few beers.. it's late.. and what are the chances of the fire-truck coming home anyway? The spot is lonely. It has needs and so do you. Even if you get a ticket you can afford it ... Parking in a reserved spot on the other hand is a different story. If you get caught your ass is getting towed and you deserve it. I don't care how many beers you had. That's no excuse.

The reserved spot: Basically, your car pays rent for this spot. In the city it can range anywhere from 50 to 200 dollars a month. This is the spot you long for on those long, lonely nights looking for parking; a spot that's always waiting at home for you. The parking equivalent of marriage, this spot can cost more than its worth, but if parking in your neighborhood is bad enough, when a choice spot opens up you gotta lock it down.

The valet spot: Gold digging whores. Only worth it if you've got so much money you can't be hassled with parking anymore.The scary spot: No wonder finding this spot was easy. You have to be out of your mind to park your car in this neighborhood. Slumming it for a little while is probably okay, but park here for long enough and you might lose more than your favorite CDs.

The perfect spot: It's right in front of your door. No walking for you! Halleluhya! Downside: If parking is bad enough in your neighborhood you now can't move your car. Every time you think about moving it to go out with your friends you cringe at the memory of all those late nights spent desperately cruising the streets for any spot that will end the horrible search. How could you give up that spot? So this is like finding the perfect girlfriend. Its kind of like having a reserved spot without having to pay all that money (marriage). Just know that eventually you'll have to move your car, and in two minutes, the spot will be gone.

ConguGalz

I am not sure the proper adjectives exist to describe this business. It matches life-sentence women in prison with men on the outside looking for... um, love? It's like a twisted, interactive, pornographic movie.

Here are just three of the 4,000 different jailhouse girls who are eager and itching to tie the knot.

Let's meet the bachelorettes, shall we? Our first prospect loves children, is interested in politics, and looks great in orange.

Name: Scrappy4Life
Age: 20
State: California



Convictions: two counts premedicated murder on my sister kids I used to wash.

Favorite hobbies in prison: I'm active in the "political system" in here and tho I'm young I'm moving up the ranks of the strongest gang in here.

Why I deserve another chance: I deserve a husband because I deserve kids and we're allowed to have them if it's with a husband. I'm good with kids usually except that one time and I could be the best locked up mommy in the world.


Thanks Scrappy! I understand most premedicated murders happen at wash time.


Our next little lady enjoys collecting autographed pictures, religious services, and still has a few tricks up her prison jumpsuit.

Name: Stabberella
Age: 23
State: California


Convictions: Trespassing, soliciting, prostitution, drug possession and then my three strikes was all armed robbery whateva.

Favorite hobbies in prison: I like movie night and I always write letters to stars. Sometimes I get autographed pictures or letters back and I collect them.

Why I deserve another chance: A few years ago this pastor started coming in to preach the gospel and ever since then my life has changed. He's so smart and so hot I think of nothing but having his pious face buried in my mangy minge, even if all he ever does is blab on about God. You marry me and I'll dream of you instead and we can be together all the time I'm allowed. My streetwalking days make me mushy but so skilled you won't know it and the difference experience brings will make you insane with lust once you've had a taste of me.

She's got quite a way with words, huh, fellas?

Last, but not least, is a feisty brunette who enjoys gardening and poetry. I wonder where she got her cute lil nickname?

Name: Fisty
Age: 25
State: Mississippi
Convictions: Rape, assault with a deadly weapon and rape again. Only takes three for life and threes a crowd.

Favorite hobbies in prison: I do protection in here and I also like to read and do some poetry. I have a job in the garden and I like that it's nice.

Why I deserve another chance: You've never known what a freak is until you meet a woman who has thought of nothing but sex for fifteen years without getting any. Give me this chance and your mind will be the first thing I blow but not the last.

Good luck to all of you spunky jailbirds.

See all the eligible bachelorettes and their heartwarming histories here at http://conjugalharmony.com/browse.html

Bartender Abuse

Last night left me fuzzy as my friend Miss Cragg has this top of the line vaporizer called The Volcano. The lack of smoke is far healthier and you can actually taste the commodity as ifit were a vintage '73 Bordeaux.

Earlier in the evening I got to wear the duchebag hat in the way I interacted with the female bar tenders at the two different bars we visited. The first one almost threw me out when I dropped a beer glass. I should clarify that it was a slip that wasn't due to drunkenness just stupidity. Okay 10% from drunkenness, 20% wet hands from the pouring rain and 70% stupidity.

This glass incident was not the major offense. This was piggy-backing on the fact that when I arrived I thought for sure without a sliver of doubt that she (the barmaid) was my friend Eileen who I have not seen in forever and so I loudly yelled "YO! Bar Wench! YO, YO... Bar WENCH!" to get a drink. It would have been so funny for her to see it was in fact me and we'd giggle about it. Sadly that didn't happen. After bellowing my hipster cro-mag summons I saw the mix of bewildered rage in her expressive eyes it dawned on me that this was not Eileen. An amazing doppelganger but still not her. I had to explain to this offended bar tender lady that I'd made a mistake and I apologized profusely. She didn't really buy my excuse or accept my apology. After she picked up my shattered glass that act put me in a special class of a-hole customer shame normally reserved for abusive ex boyfriends and public masturbators.

At the second bar there was an off work waitress who was trashed drunk and asked if she could sit at our table. Now, when I say "our table" I don't mean at a seat near our table I mean physically, literally on our table. She just plopped down and knocked over a few drinks. Not mine. This was just the sort of rare live entertainment that one must normally pay for. I proceeded to engage her with several questions and veiled put downs for the benefit of my drinking cohorts I was out with.

I lured her into sharing her massively slurred stories about the guys she'd slept with. I particularly like her exaggerated facial expressions as she regaled us with her tale of being a groupie for blink 182 and getting to go back stage but having to "fake" being high. "Cuz, like I wanteded themz ta fink I was cool so, um, like, um, like... I did what I did... I was what I did... I did-- pretend...ed to be high so they would think I was cool is what I did and I... it... it worked."

Then Miss Cragg and I watched as the gallant men we began the evening with proceeded to sandwich dance with Jessica. We also looked through the contents of her hughgantic, tremungous, purse.

I think I was a loud mouth a-hole that night but none of my understanding and accommodating friends seemed to mind. I thank them for their kind indulgence. I pitched a good game and I believe it was a resounding Friday night win for the team. I must now strive to tip my way back from societal outcast status.

Celery and Cube #1

Mexicali Blues

Mexicali Blues

By Jake Farrow

Most of the issues I had with my dad I had already resolved as of two years ago when the this story happened. I had been to three different therapists over many years to forgive him for the divorce and for moving to Mississippi and leaving us. I had forgiven him for being a habitual pot smoker (note I didn’t say drug addict). I had even forgiven him for almost blowing me up with a half stick of dynamite one fourth of July evening. Accidents happen. Especially when it’s dark, there are fireworks involved and you’re high. There was one issue in particular that took me a long time to get over. Why, when I came down to visit him every Summer, did he never hang out with me just the two of us? That is the issue I was going to resolve when he called me two years ago and said he was getting divorced again (4th divorce; 3rd wife) and said he wanted to come here for a visit. This was huge. In the six years I had lived here he had never come out. I asked him to come out all the time but he always said he had a case he was trying or something. He had gone to visit my sister 4 times in Australia. I found it strange he never came to see me seeing as how I live, you know, ON THE WAY TO AUSTRALIA.

So when he called and said he needed to get out of town and get somewhere Sunny and he thought I might like to go to Mexico to do some golfing, I leapt at the chance. We settled on Ensenada. I had been to Ensenada to golf before and it’s awesome. Dad said it sounds great and asked me to have a lid of pot waiting for him when he got here. I was so excited. I called my sister in London. “Dad’s coming! We’re going to hang out! We’re going on vacation together. Just him and me. What’s a lid?!” My sister was excited for me. She knew how much this meant to me. And she also knew a lid was an ounce.

The three hour drive to Mexico with dad was pretty normal – filth, squalor, fifteen year old Mexican army dudes with m-16s, and some pretty decent conversation. It was the vacation with my dad I had dreamed about. Jake and dad. Hanging out. Chattin’ it up. Chat style. But once we got to Mexico things… changed.

As soon as we got in the room Dad fired up one “pre-dinner doob” and then we went to the hotel restaurant. At which point he got really loaded. Like, six scotch/rocks loaded. He started loudly telling me about his latest case. He was representing two guys who were hired by a man to kill his wife. Which they did and then skinned her from the neck up and cut off one of her tits. The people at the next table actually asked to move. But it’s pretty normal dinner conversation in my family actually so I was used to that. I was having a pretty good time. I mean, it’s a little weird to see your dad that loaded but since I never really got to see him I was just trying to enjoy it. After dinner I thought maybe we’d retire to the balcony, have some beers and talk and I’d just lay the guy down to bed. But dad had other ideas.

He said he wanted to go to a titty bar. I don’t care for them, but he’s recently divorced, I figure the guy needs to see some boobs. So we hop in a cab and we’re on our way. I’m asking the cabbie about bars in Ensenada and my dad’s yelling “titty bar” every five seconds. The cabbie says there are two kinds of titty bars in Ensenada. Titty Bars and Dance parlors. A titty bar is what you think it is and a dance parlor might be what you think it is if you think it’s a place to meet whores. I explain this to my dad. He spends the rest of the cab ride yelling dance parlor! Dance parlor! I tell him to chill out and that it’s early and we should start things off at Hussongs – I’m trying to distract him. Hussongs is a pretty nice bar there in Ensenada. But as soon as we get inside dad fires up another doobie. I say chill, this is Ensenda, not Amsterdam. He waves me off and keeps puffing. I’m starting to get kind of “annoyed.” I mean, I’m trying to enjoy his company but I keep having visions of Mexican prisons and crapping through a hole in the middle of a concrete cell. So I say, “Dad, this isn’t that kind of place. You can’t smoke pot in here.” And that’s when Kane from Kung Fu walked out of the back of the bar wearing a pirate shirt and a sash, walks right past my dad, sees the joint, smiles, gives Dad the thumbs up and says, “Niiice.” My dad, too drunk to realize David Carradine just addressed him, looks right at me and says, “He didn’t seem to mind.” Of course he didn’t mind – that was the Grasshopper.

Then he says we should head over to that dance parlor. Come on, let’s go to the dance parlor. Just check it out. I was just happy to get out of Hussongs before we got arrested. I honestly didn’t think anything was going to happen. As soon as we got inside the parlor a friendly guy named Carlos comes up and says, “I have a table for you. Come come.” We sit down, order two beers and nine seconds later Carlos is back. “See those girls over there. They want to meet you.” “That’s okay. We’re just hanging out tonight. Little father son bonding time.” Dad yells, “Send ‘em over!” Okay, so maybe a little whorechasing. I guess. Then Carlos sends over two very young, surprisingly attractive girls. I start talking to the blonde one while my dad, one eye closed, is talking to the other. Carlos comes back and whispers in my ear, “These girls. They want to go home with you.”

Back at the hotel I thought there’s no way dad’s going to have sex with this girl in his condition. Wrong! Off to the bedroom they went. Yet again, my dad had abandoned me for a girl. Not a step-mom or a girlfriend this time. No, I had been abandoned for a whore. And it wasn’t even ten thirty. This truly was the worst vacation of all time.

To cap things off their "love making" was so loud I had to leave and spent the next forty five minutes by the pool getting a $150 Spanish lesson from prostitute #2. Sweet girl, actually. Part time college student. But her friend finally reappeared and they left. Leaving me locked out of my room because dad had passed out. Then after about a half hour of knocking he finally woke up and opened the door. Naked. He was staring at me like he didn’t know who I was. And to tell you the truth I don’t think he did know who I was. He certainly didn’t know that my idea of a nice vacation together didn’t involve drugs and hookers. And he definitely didn’t know that all I wanted was to spend some time with him and talk and connect. I said nothing though, opting to discuss this when he was more sober. Then he turned and walked back to his room squarely hitting the wall on the way making his ample ass shake and wobble. Honestly? Worst site I’ve ever seen.

When Dad woke up late the next day, I told him exactly how I felt. I spelled out how I didn’t want to judge him, that I don’t think any less of him for what happened the night before, But in the future, when we go on vacation I would like to just sit and talk and hang out – no hookers and no drugs. He apologized and said he really was looking forward to this trip too. He really was sorry and he was just going through a hard time and he really appreciated me being there for him.

I felt so bad for him and I hugged him and told him I loved him. He suggested we put this all behind us and today was a new day. “Let’s just go play some golf together.” It was kind of a nice moment. The highlight of the trip so far. Then he said, “You’re gonna have to pay though. That hooker stole my wallet.”

The Fat Friend

What the hell compells people to look at me and then decide that they should try and hook me up with their fat friend?

I'm a skinny dude. Not handsome, but attractive enough that nobody should be hoisting their not attractive, overweight friend on me. Everybody go away. I'm going to put that on a hat. Thank god I asked for some pictures before I met up with them at the bar as she and her friend suggested.

This is not good for one's self esteem. Although I suppose sending pictures of yourself and then never hearing back from the person because you're a fat chick isn't all that pleasant either.