The Bad Boys' Soft Boys' Lonely Hearts Club - The Full Package

The Face/Ball Status-Quo

We start, like any good story does, with balls on my face.

Big ones, sweaty, brown, flying all over, being roughly handed by buff dudes with pent-up anger letting off steam with other buff dudes by smashing into each other and yelling, sweating, and pounding fists at every turn. One on one, two on one, tag-teaming, je-ne-se-trois, all at the same time all over. Honestly, I don't know what people see in American Football.

One of the things both Hill Valley Mountain Woods and Cliff Basin Sierra Plateau have in common is that both pour a metric ass-load of moolah into their football team. After all, why invest in an affordable and nutritious cafeteria menu when Lit. Col. Fuches needs a new jockstrap to hold the boner he has for my boyfriend? But sure, we can go on another few months playing hunger games for the few expired milk cartons that had yet to turn into cottage cheese. Hell, that might be even healthier than whatever alternative for cheese they use on taco Tuesday. Cheese is supposed to melt, dammit! That shit stays whole like frosted tips on a douchebag.

Speaking of douchebags, you might be wondering why am I even witnessing a game when I clearly hate everything about it and what it represents, and to that I say: I'm not. At least I'm not supposed to. Since we don't have a club anymore, we had to get creative when choosing meeting venues. We tried meeting at Brayden's house, but after the wheelbarrow incident—on which I refuse to elaborate for fears of provoking mass vomiting and general discomfort, no matter how Jungkook says he's sorry—we don't go there, lest we revive some painful memories.

Besides, without the excuse of a club, Hayden can't wiggle out of Fuche's nasty little mittens, and is forced to play again and justify his scholarship. Thus, the bleachers have become our new clubroom. And we ain't the only one.

Thanks to an absolute idiot burning down the other school, the collective I.Q of everyone in Hill Valley Mountain Woods High plummeted to the ground, as twice as many idiots are now mingling about, forming tribes, with an us-vs-them mentality going about. This place looks like a warzone.

Just look at what happened the other day. The HVMW Embroidery Club was invaded by the CBSP Book Club. An unstoppable force meets an unmovable object. The might of the prickly needle against the mighty papercut. We lost Henry that day. Good boy, he was. Didn't mess with anybody. He was two days away from finishing a crochet scarf for his beloved Martha. War is hell.

Not to mention the cold war between the MVMW Modern dance club and the CBSP Street dance club. They're entrenched in the library, each day sending their best dancer into no man's land to krump dance to no music until somebody surrenders. We briefly had a moment of respite when a member of the MVMW Clown Society fell in love with a member of the CBSP Mime production company. Briefly. Remember Game of Throne's Red Wedding? Imagine that, but with cream pies and invisible mallets.

But all those are skirmishes compared to the main event that unfolds every day at the football field. Since both teams need to practice, and need all the practice they can get, they decided to compromise and practice at the same time on different sides of the field. The operative word here being "Practice," because this only works in theory.

The reality is that this hallowed ground for homoerotic schisms has become the prime battleground for big dick supremacy. And, sadly, it has become the only time I can spend with my boo after school, as Fuches is hell-bent on breaking his team's back to prove they have the biggest dicks instead of letting Hayden's dick break my back.

Yeah, we haven't consummated the relationship. Sue me. We don't have the time or energy to tie the hog. Eat the sausage. Stuff the pheasant. You know. Fuck.

Not that I need it, mind you. But... you know, it's there. It's mine. For all it's worth, I just can't stop thinking about that big, meaty, delicious-

"dingus," says Brayden, sitting one row above me in the bleachers, sparsely populated by a few straddlers waiting to see today's battle.