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

The Queen B - Part I

Have you ever seen someone so beautiful, so sculptured by the Gods themselves in an act of hubris and possibly overripe kombucha, that you think that the mere act of you thinking about being with them will somehow put you in some sort of angelical blooper reel where everyone in the afterlife will look at it and laugh at your foolishness, like a voyeuristic TikTok? 

Now, imagine that person squatting in front of a porcelain toilet, underwear to their knees, after a night of eating tzatziki and beans straight from the bowl with a spoon, beads of sweat running down their forehead as what can only be described as a runny, cafe-au-lait style of explosive diarrhea makes a Jackson Pollock exhibit in their bathroom. Not so hot now, isn't it? 

It doesn't matter how hot, or famous, or rich, poor, skinny, fat, or what color you are. At some point of the day, our bellies will do the rumbly-wumbly thing, indicating that it is time to squat in front of a decorated hole in the floor, with some water, and just push filth out. Taking a massive dump is the great equalizer, and with that in mind, aren't we all the same? 

Go talk to that hottie – I assure you that you at least have one thing in common. 

All I want to get at is that bad boys, for all the mystery and hotness inherit to their bad boy-ness, have, at some point of the day, sit in the Thunder Throne and smite the heathens, so to speak, and that's one of the pleasures of my day. I get to sit in a quiet place, not being afraid to bump into any plot, and play Plant V Zombies until I want. 

But guess what? I think I'm allergic to nut milk. Never had one! Bad boys aren't calories-conscious. I only get food into my gullet and deal with it later. So ever since my lunch break with Hayden, I've felt my stomach do the dangerous rumbly-wumbly, the one you know it was gonna take half a day off to deal with. 

I honestly thought I could deal with it. It's all in the brain, really. But the meat puppet craves release, and it couldn't have picked up a worse moment for it. 

Ten minutes before the bell rings, I'm in my vent, where I'm sure some poor cleaning lady is wondering why two badgers decided to climb in to have a duel to the death for all she knows, and with a strong desire to take a crap. Yes, this is the crap chapter, deal with it. 

Do I risk leaving the comfort of my vent to venture out the vent to an adventure of venting vicissitudes, ventricular, or do I risk going during the break, making my guts do the lateral Macarena to stop the leak? 

Either way, I'm screwed. 

My body, being the rebellious bad boy it is, decides for me with a well-paced fart, making sure that not only my position is blown, but also making me question if I blew a hole through my cotton whities. 

Checkmate, body. 

I have to risk it. Better plotted that soiled, I always say just know. 

I kick over the vent, being very careful to exit it. Can't afford to be a show-off. Besides the guy with a million scarves and three overcoats that I'm starting to believe is just two pugs taped together, nobody's in the classroom yet. That gives me both relief and fear. Mostly because it means that they're outside. Waiting. 

I brave myself, making sure to give a silent prayer to Saint John Bosco, Patron Saint of Bad Boys, and step outside. 

And I immediately bump into a girl. Short, black hair, purple eyes, papers on the floor, the whole shebang. I believe that if the government would invest in some binder awareness, then teens wouldn't be carrying so many loose papers around. Better than their war on drugs, I say.

"My periwinkle eyes cross the threshold of his mysterious spectacles," whispers the girl, standing there like a deer about to be rolled over. "Oh, such a chance encounter, to meet a man of dream's desire on such a mundane occasion, such a mundane chance."