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

The Battle Royale With Cheese ~ Part 1

The air is thick with anticipation, and perspiration. Kind of a dumb move to cram two full football teams full of sweaty dudes in a basketball court and expect it to smell like roses. Teen Spirit, as it turns out, smells like balls and pent-up homoerotic fantasies. Mostly balls.

Club members from both schools—which, thanks to mankind's inability to be alone in a room with their thoughts, is about everyone—line up each side of the bleachers side by side, no segregation, all mingled up together like a bowl of Skittles and M&Ms, and just about as tasty. It's almost a beautiful moment of togetherness and unity that would've otherwise washed away our differences and made us realize that tribalization based on dumb things like where you go to school is dumb, as we are all human, brothers, and Americans overall. Almost.

See, it would be a Kodak moment were it not for the awkward blanket hanging over everything. That, and the definitive dick cheese smell from some of the football players. Some basic bitch tried to mask the smell with some cheap Victoria's Secret splash that just made it all worse, like adding honey to a punch in the gut. By far the most awkward part of it all is both Principal Strickland and that bitch Lee Vazquez standing awkwardly in the middle of the court while shuffling in place, looking at the door to magically open and reveal the missing link of this whole operation of theirs, but trying to look suave about it.

To their credit, they did pull it off for the last twenty minutes or so of waiting, but you can only sway back and forth nervously for so long before people start to get suspicious. And rowdy. Whispers soon become conversations, and that soon turns into shouting.

Two taps to the microphone is enough to bring the room to a manageable volume. "Settle down, now," says Principal Strickland, placing both hands behind her as a sign of authority. "I'm sure Principal Chillman will be here with us shortly. In the meantime, I ask for patience, and to all remain seated."

"whaddaya think they gonna say?" asks Brayden, sitting to my right.

"I'll bet you $20 they'll probably say something about how we should share spaces and sing kumbaya and shit," says Hayden, sitting to my right, with one of his salame hands grabbing my thigh, soft enough not to leave bruises but hard enough to tingle my tinkie-winkie.

"aight, bet."

"Maybe they will not,

Perhaps nothing exists now,

And we are in hell," says Okayden.

"you gotta stop with the nietze shit, scrappy-doo," says Brayden. "the solace of nothingness is a lie. if they void stares you back, spit in that bitch's face, show it who's daddy. the only philosopher is follow is drake. yolo, baby!"

Okayden fluffs his scarf, pulling up his legs while trying to become the world's largest fluffy turtle. "It's Camus, not Nietzsche," he whispers. I guess he's in that phase every young Alpharatus goes through when they confront the absurdity of the universe.

"Ugh, Okayden, so sexy, so mysterious!" says a very annoying and punchable voice from somewhere behind me that can only come from the most milquetoast of TAB/G's, the equivalent of a saltine cracker dipped in tap water. Leila herself.

"I just want him to bite my neck and give me that sweet hepatitis D," says the voice of the male equivalent of whatever the fuck I just said above, coming from Leeland in the flesh. "And by D, I mean Dick."

"If we are talking about dicks," says a voice that I wish had a body so I could drop-kick it in the gonads, coming from one Billiam "Scooter" Esposito. "I would prefer Ayden's. That booty with that micropenis. Oof. Perfect powerbottom energy."

"Omg, what?" says another voice, exactly like Leila's, but blonder. What was her name again? Lila? "I heard he had a big salami shlong!"

"A big honkadonkadick!" yells Senor Leelando, the bizarro-world Leeland, of which I shall not be talking about again. But I shall talk to him one more time, as his outburst draws the attention of everybody.