The embarrassment institution that is Mortified is back Friday, Sept. 14 at the DNA Lounge. Whenever this event comes to town I feel the need to share some of my own embarrassing middle school stories with you. That's only fair, right?
Actually, I really don't care about being fair. Because if there's one thing I learned in my teen years it's that life is not fair. Life is a joke. And sometimes jokes are like fine wine -- you have to let them age to perfection. I feel like it's about time I aired some of these middle school memories. So, here's to hoping one of these girls stumbles on this story and gets the punchline after all these years.
When I was in seventh grade, I had three main ambitions in life. I wanted to be in a punk rock band, I wanted to terrorize the suburbs with my crew of punk rock buddies, and I wanted my crush to crush back on me. I had the first two of those things pretty much down pat. The last one? Well, not so much.
Like many middle schoolers I had developed crushes on several of my female peers, particularly the older girls. They were just so much more mature than us seventh graders, and I admired that (Read: they had boobies!).
But alas, I had not quite developed my Pick-Up Artist-like skills yet. So sadly, I found myself stuck in the dreaded friend zone with Crush No. 1. But I'm a positive guy. And I have to admit hugging your just-friends who are just the right amount taller than you has its perks. It's that perfect height differentiation that allows you to truly appreciate that extra year of maturity all up in your preteen face. What can I say? I like to see the bra half full.
I didn't want to just be friends though. I wanted to be middle school love birds. That's not too much to ask, is it? I was cool. Coolest seventh grader around. I knew I could give these girls things those eighth grade boys didn't even know how to spell (organisms).
But deep down I knew there was only one way to prove it -- and that was going to be on the dance floor. We all know the one undeniable and self evident truth of life is that "girls just want to have fun." And what could be more fun than dancing with middle school me, dressed to impress with my Hawaiian shirt and plaid shorts? Nothing!
So when my mom dropped my best bro Collin and I off to the school dance in her Volvo wagon, I was a man (well, not quite yet) on a mission. Now, admittedly, I did get pretty side tracked at first. Because at this point in my life I was bumping A LOT of The Ramones -- and had the haircut to prove it -- so I spent a majority of the night yelling at the DJ to play "Blitzkrieg Bop." But after that I refocused on the ladies.
I had a running inside joke with my crush about one of the popular songs of times, 50 Cent's "In Da Club." So naturally when that song filled up the walls of the gymnasium my just-friend came running across the dance floor screaming, "This is our song!" But she wasn't alone, two of my other extremely mature just-friends were right behind her, and before I knew it I was the center of a middle school dance floor bump and grind circle.
It started off PG-13 enough, but as we related more and more to the lyrical content of the song things started to get more X-rated. Now, I'm not saying that I was opposed to this. Hell, I had three hottt girls grinding all over me, so I was a happy camper. Signs of that happiness started to show through my plaid shorts. But the girls didn't seem to mind, or notice, so whatever.
This was my internal seventh grade monologue: "Holy shit, this rules. I'm the coolest guy ever. Three girls! Dun dun ... dun dun ... Been hit with a few shells but I don't walk with a limp! Dun dun ... dun dun ... Wow, this feels good. Whoa this feels really good! Dun dun ... Dun dun ... Oh no ... oh no ... oooooooooooh SHIT!" That, my friends, is when I busted a move In Mah Pants to "In Da Club."
So I did what I always do in these sorts of situations -- I turned and I ran. I ran right out of that gymnasium and into the bathroom, frantically shoving fist fulls of paper towels down my pants in a desperate attempt to hold on to whatever sense of dignity I had left. But it didn't matter, I could shove the whole roll down there, nothing was going to absorb my embarrassment.
I had no choice -- I had to run home. I only lived a few blocks from school. So, I waddled back into the gym and grabbed Collin, "Dude, rap sucks. Let's go play video games," I told him. He was down.
But when I started to waddle off school property a chaperon stopped me. You couldn't leave without your parent with you. I argued but it was no use. She knew I was one of the bad kids (I wore a studded jacket). I had no choice. I pulled out my flip phone and called my mommy.
"Is everything okay, baby?" she asked, sensing the desperation in my voice.
"Yeah mom, just come get us right now," I said in a panic sure to reinforce her motherly instincts that everything was not at all okay.
And so I stood there for what felt like the length of an entire 50 Cent album, hoping no one would ask why my crotch was wet. Within a couple minutes, my mom brought us back to my house.
I ran into the bathroom and unbuttoned my pants just a lil bit. Took 'em off and pulled 'em down just a lil' bit. I got to changing and sobbing a lil bit. Then Collin and I played some video games and talked shit about rap the rest of the night.
We play in a punk band now, terrorize the streets, and hope our crushes crush back on us. Being mature has never felt so good. #RamonesRule
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