Punks in Pampers - Simon Doom Loses His Honorary Pubes

If I had dressed like everyone else in my school, I would have just looked like the kid with no pubes, but instead, I looked like a Punk Baby.

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Sep 30 2012, 2:00pm

I was pre-pubescent through my junior year of high school. When I was 15 - the time most of my friends started shaving - I was still being mistaken for my mother on the phone and had tiny little armpit hairs that you could only make out at dusk (the same time of day when you can punch a couch cushion and watch the tiny dust particles float all over the place). Even though I was barely producing semen at the time, I really wanted to touch boobs. I had gone punk a few years before – a decision that alienated me from girls my own age but definitely "intrigued" older punk and cool girls. If I had dressed like everyone else in my school, I would have just looked like "the kid with no pubes," but instead, I looked like a Punk Baby. The older girls liked to hug me, hold me, pat me on my head, and give me hello and goodbye kisses on my cheek. Their uteri were fully functional by that point, and I think they liked holding babies.

I remember I was at a Saturday matinee at ABC no Rio my freshman year, and these two babe-ish older chicks from my high school showed up. They weren't really punk, but they smoked cigarettes and liked me because I looked different. By the time they arrived I had already drank a St. Ides Special Brew and was at that perfect intoxication level where you can be really good at pool or feel confident enough to order in Spanish at a Mexican restaurant.

It was a unique situation: The ladies had never been to a punk show and were visually intimidated by the crowd. I was totally in my element and was ready to step up as the evening's navigator, provider, and chaperone. I was on my shit. I bought them beer from a bodega around the corner that would sell to me, introduced them to a guy I knew with facial tattoos, and smashed bottles in the backyard. I could feel their gaze intensify. Was the baby-punk actually a bad motherfucker? Maybe bad enough to date?

An older-than-high-school-age dude arrived on a motorcycle and joined the girls, but I wasn't worried. I had just pissed in the backyard and, when introduced to the dude, I shook his hand and said, "Sorry, I just pissed all over my hands." He and the girls laughed really hard. Dominance was established. The show was starting, so the ladies and gent followed me downstairs.



I hit the pit like Tyson in a bar brawl - actually more like Devito in a ball pit. I was going really hard, but I was too small to really inflict any damage – more pinball than flipper. But the girls were impressed. They couldn't tell that people were going easy on me or that I was singing along to songs I had never heard before (How do you sing along to unfamiliar Crust-Punk? Just scream on beat and no one will ever be able to tell the difference). I was pitching a perfect game, and motorcycle dude was cowering in the back of the room out of harms way. I thought that this was it: I was gonna have two girlfriends and get to make-out all the time. And then a fucking fat dude fell on me and fucked all my shit up.

This dude's real name was Pumpkin, or something, and he was a total, no-joke, fat guy. He walked by swinging his whole body with every step and had a lisp that sounded like a cat hissing or the spit-sucking thing at the dentist's office. Anyway, I don't know what happened, but I guess he just lost his balance and crushed me, twisting my dainty wrist and stripping me of whatever honorary pubes I had grown that night. The show was in full swing, and I don't think people noticed what had just, literally, gone DOWN, so I clambered out from beneath the fallen Pumpkin and decided that the safest place in the room for me was on stage.

I plopped myself at the singers feet and immediately began clutching my wrist and crying like a newborn in front of the whole crowd. The band stopped playing and the lead singer asked, on the microphone, if I was okay? I shook my head, "no," with tears streaming down my cheeks and snot dribbling into my mouth like a white, bitchy, racist five-year old girl who's upset because parents bought her the "Native American Barbie" when she wanted a boring-ass white, blonde, Barbie. Motorcycle dude picked me up like I was his bride and carried me outside the venue to a pay phone so I could call my mom. I felt the older girls' eyes upon me as I was carried past.  Was this bad motherfucker actually just a baby? Maybe baby enough to babysit?

I had broken my wrist in two places. The two girls were the first people I saw when I got to school on Monday. They were cool about it. They signed my cast and told me I was "brave," like a big boy who didn't cry during his flu-shot. But I did cry, so they were lying. I told them to thank motorcycle dude for his "help" with the situation. The girls laughed and told me that motorcycle dude was only being so helpful because he thought I was a female and that he was "in to punk girls.” Next time I saw motorcycle dude he confirmed that he "totally thought I was a chick." That began my "Funky-Munky" ritual - a Steroid/ExtenZe cocktail that I ingest every-morning to this day.

@Simondoom

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