After like five years of more attempts than I can count, I wore my seahorse boxers in public without judgement. Last night I went to a pajama party at two comedy boys' house. Pretty much everyone I knew from sketch/improv/standup was already drunk at like 4 PM or earlier. Welcome to my school.
Anyway, Chelle kept trying to get me drunk, being all devious and giggly as she would ask me to hold her shot and then just get another one. Bwah bwah. Sid was equally coercive. Some random dude with a mohawk kept finding me all night, no matter where I stowed away, to give me very poorly constructed speeches as to why blacking out is necessary. (Obvi, one of us was just a speech and debate coach, and one of us wasn't...) During one of these speeches, he mentioned to someone passing by, "Oh yeah, and Scooby Snacks are on the way."
"Oh!" I said. Immediately I was back in second grade, sitting at my childhood friend Hilg's kitchen table, her mom bringing us Eggos with ice cream on them. "I want a Scooby Snack!" Chelle looked incredulous, "You won't take a shot with the girls, but you'll have a Scooby Snack with this guy?!"
Uh oh. Abort. Abort. "Oh...I'm just kidding." I said. Had I actually believed someone brought a waffle iron to the shindig? Mohawk dude winked and said, "I'll make sure you get one." I tried to backpedal. I disappeared to the back porch. Somehow, he kept finding me and offering me a cup of this slime green substance. No, no, no, I'd say, but it was like he got hit in the head and lost all his memory after the moment I showed mistaken joy in eating a delicious ice cream novelty.
No moral to the story. I'm just twelve.
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