I was bored out of my mind last week, so I decided to attend my 20-year high school reunion. I don't know what I was thinking. It's not like I knew anyone or was excited to see some old flame or even cared about how fat everyone had gotten; I just had nothing else to do and felt like crashing a party.
I went to two different high schools after getting thrown out of my first one for accidentally breaking my algebra teacher's neck. Neither was a good experience for me. After a few months in the new school, I opted to skip my senior year and graduate early, so I was never really a part of a social circle back then. My wife isn't from the area either, so I was quite certain that we could create fantastic, lavish lies about who we were and what we did without being recognized. I was going to be a sanitation worker in Maui with the catchphrase "I have the shittiest job in paradise... and I'm still happier than you." My wife chose to be a trust-fund baby who'd given away her billions so that she could volunteer to save the endangered Newcomb's tree snail. We met at our church's bingo night; she spun the balls, and the moment I saw her I prayed she'd call my number.
My hometown is the former home of Bon Jovi and Skid Row; it has its own personal hole in the ozone from all the Aqua Net it used in the 80s. Not much has changed over the years. The hair is still very high, the expectations very low. I watched in awe as people took selfies in front of the boys' locker room, which was recently made famous when the football team hazed freshmen by holding them down and jamming fingers up their asses. In the distance I could hear Mark Zuckerberg groaning over the impending pollution of his bandwidth.
I thought perhaps I would meet some like-minded cynical people where I'd always found solace: with the burnouts behind the cafeteria dumpsters cutting butts. But once again the burnouts proved to be much smarter than they let on and chose not to attend the reunion. Instead I found ex-jocks and Al Bundys trying to make plays to cheat on their wives with high school sweethearts in the parking lot. They were drunk on nostalgia and lit cigarette after cigarette off one another in hopes that the night would burn forever.
One pear-shaped woman was packed into a forest-green dress that had been stolen from Tawny Kitaen's closet during the filming of that Whitesnake video. The way her meat hung off her bones and the winter air whistled through her cavernous lady bits should have foreshadowed what she shamelessly admitted to no one in particular: "I have twelve kids. I love being a mommy."
I choked on my fermented potato water and cranberry juice. "What the fuck? Why? Why would you want twelve kids?" I asked in disgust. My wife pulled at my arm to try to avoid what was coming next. But I was so sickened from time-traveling back to 1994 that I really needed to unleash on someone before returning to reality. The Pear seemed shocked by my flurry of questions. "Have you ever seen the movie Idiocracy? It's about people like you."
As she cursed me out, photos of my own two children, whom I love dearly, flashed in my head. Then I watched them multiply again and again and again, until I saw what a dozen small humans actually looks like. I turned to my beautiful wife and watched her inflate before my eyes, tits suddenly sagging down past her waist, two toddlers at her knees, breast-feeding. Behind her I envisioned children on the ground working on math problems with chalk, their eyes barely flickering as they wrote "2 + 2 = FUCK."
I wanted to ask the woman how she could possibly afford all those kids, and if she drove a school bus or lived in a hotel. Then I pictured having sex with her. The thought freaked me out so much that I didn't realize I was actually speaking my thoughts out loud: "Dear God, the slow slide of a human head is probably the only thing that can make that deep, hollow pussy feel remotely 'like a virgin.'"
And then someone sucker-punched me. Just like the old days.