skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Tuesday, 07 June
A true story!
My senior prom, I double-dated with another couple. His nickname was, for reasons lost to me (probably for the best), "Tweety," and her name was . . . to be honest, I don't even remember who she was at all. Let's call her Bailey, in honor of the WKRP character that I thought was hotter than Loni Anderson. (It doesn't even matter . . . she barely surfaces in the story again anyway.)
My date's name was L. And she was Not Into Me, really, but then again, like a lot of dweeby high school guys, I wasn't raking in the chicks anyway. I thought I was lucky to have a date, and since we were driving around in Tweety's Galaxie 500 (I think that's what it was--I know shit about cars [actually, this may be insulting to actual shit, since I know even less than that]), I admit that I harbored lonely hopes about the evening's promises, not only because of the double date (social currency being earned! Tweety was popular!) but also because we were drinking, yes, wine coolers.
Rattle around with me, nubile innocent, in this spacious backseat! For don't your breasts find comfort in occasionally--if accidentally--rubbing on my arm? Is there not room enough here in this slightly dank back seat for salacity? And do you not slake your thirst from the chilly illicit potions delivered to your perfect throat by Messrs. Bartles and Jaymes? (Note: Her throat was not, in fact, perfect. On the other hand, neither was my grey tux with "dusty rose" cummerbund and tie.)
So we drove for a while in the muscly SnatchCar--as I was already fervidly imagining it--drinking our hideous wine coolers and no doubt listening to Night Ranger-y things, and in general having a good time.
Then Tweety, uncharacteristically diverting his gaze to the actual rural road we were traveling, spied something. A small thing, pierced by the headlights. Two small coins of light reflected back at us in the night. And Tweety identified it instantly.
"CAT!" he screamed joyously. This all happened in seconds.
You have to understand boys, I guess. Is it just rural hick boys? Maybe "understand" is totally the wrong word. I don't even know. It's hard to explain. I'll just keep going.
It would have been easy, perhaps, to mistake his identifying cry as one of alarm. It was emphatically not. Tweety, his instincts honed by what I assume was more than a little bit of practice, intentionally swerved towards the panic-stricken cat. I gripped the seatback in front of me and felt myself go a little slack. I immediately knew what was going to happen.
Tweety ran effortlessly over the cat, no doubt reducing it to atoms with the huge car. The girls screamed as if their tits had caught on fire. "OOOOOOHHHH--OOOOOOHHHHH!" they firebelled.
Tweety, for his part, had an entirely different reaction. He twisted in the driver's seat to face me. "YEAH!" he screamed victoriously, as if he had repelled an invading force of malevolent aliens. He held up his hand to me. And God help, me, I tiredly slapped it back. He laughed quite a bit, drinking more wine cooler, and the girls fell into a wintry silence.
Boys are awful little beings. (And while I say that I was truly icked out by this particular incident, I myself cannot claim to be an innocent when it comes to the rotten things boys do--but that was when I was eight. Anyway.)
Needless to say, there was no awkward grappling with the date to be had that night. The rest of the evening was spent with me standing around morosely nursing a glass of terrible punch while the date wriggled enthusiastically with her girlfriends, ignoring me entirely. I can hardly blame her.
For all I know, Tweety got his brains fucked out. It all seemed terribly unfair. I'll run over a cat, lover! I called out in my brain. Just let me go grab my bike!
It was a pretty horrible evening all the way through. As I stood around, I had a thought: Well, I'm going to go all the way through high school as a virgin. This turned out to be true.
I wondered today why I thought of this, and I think I know why: it's because the wife and I finally saw Elektra on Saturday night, and I had a similar thought: We all die alone.
It's not an original thought. In fact, my friend Johnny 13 is fond of the phrase. But it kept coming back to me as I watched this awful funeral of a film, replete with a precociously irritating little girl as a main character. We all die alone. And when I die, I will be thinking of this movie.
It was a miserable film, barely tolerable, and so not filled with action as to make you wonder exactly how much the makeup folks spent on "EXTREME MOPINESS!" It made you long for the touch of a loving hand as you sat dying by inches while the Magical Tattoo Guy shat out his soul with the effort of pretending to emote as snakes, bears and friendly pandas erupted from his body.
It's a horrible film. Don't ever see it. You know what's more fun than Elektra?
Running over someone's cat on Prom Night and not getting laid.
Note: Comments are closed on old entries.
Y'know, Bailey WAS a lot hotter than Loni. For me, it was the glasses. And the boobs, but mostly the glasses.
Gee, guys, I'm going to go out on a limb here, but... could part of Bailey's appeal have been that she was *smart*?
Loni Anderson looked like a well-endowed laminated Thunderbirds puppet.
This describes a significant portion of Skot's spank magazine collection, though. And not in any whimsical figurative sense.
also, it's a misconception that Loni's character in WKRP was dumb, because she was so goddamn teutonic. Not so, McDuff. Quite often she and Bailey would be the smartest and sanest of the bunch.
Sample dialog that has stayed with me all these years:
Herb Tarlek, hopelessly dweeby salesman in plaid: "Come on, Jennifer. You only go around once. Why not grab a little gusto?"
Jennifer (Loni Anderson), pneumatic smart blonde: "I don't like little gustos, Herb."
Not dumb. No sir.
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