Thursday, May 26, 2005
I've been getting a lot of bothersome e-mails from asking me if I'd like to "reconnect" with my high school classmates. Doesn't "reconnect" suggest there was once "connect"?

Frankly, I'd rather star in a pay-for-view event in which I'm ass-raped by the Oakland Raiders than write to, speak with, or think about anyone with whom I went to high school. Why would I want to relive the nightmare? Even if it was a pleasant time, and it most assuredly was not, I haven't spoken to these people for a reason. This decision was based not on hatred but on overwhelming indifference. "Hey, remember Bob from Homeroom? He's a merkin-weaver now." Wow...I don't care. I don't care about Pubic Wig Bob or any of them. I don't give a ferret's fly-buzzed fuck-cubby about their loveless marriages, soul-slurping occupations, prescription drug-addled children, or knee-jerk opinions. I don't want to reminisce with Eddie the football player or Betsy the cheerleader because they're now Eddie the thrice-divorced unemployable meth addict and Betsy the adult stuck with a teenager's name.

Thinking about the potential conversations with my long-lost acquaintances chills my very soul.
"Todd, you haven't changed a bit," a woman will say to me after reading my name tag to remember just who the fuck I am.
"Yeah," I'll reply between sips of my fourth Manhattan. "Pretty sad since I was eighteen the last time you saw me."
She's flustered, but recovers. "Uh, I mean you look the same."
I'll nod and say, "I set the bar pretty low back then by being a fat lump of dough, so maintenance hasn't been a problem for me. You, on the other hand, were attractive in high school. Aren't you at all suicidal now that you look like the editors of Southern Living gave Linda Tripp a makeover?"

I could have fun at a reunion taking a Sharpie and drawing boobies on the domes of all the guys who went bald, but it wouldn't be enough to offset the horror of rediscovering banality.

I decided to put my profile on just to shut them up. I told them I moved to Las Vegas to fulfill my dream of being a flesh-peddling gentlemen of leisure, went by the name Pimptasmo, retired a millionaire, and now have the coveted title Pimp Emeritus. They posted the damn thing. I guess they'll post anything as long as you avoid words like "shit" or "fuck" or "monkey vulva."

I haven't had any responses as of yet.


Blogger MsHellion said...

You should get paid for this shit.

Blogger n.v. said...

Tawwwwd! I lurrrv you!

Blogger yournamehere said...

If you go to you can view my profile.

Blogger Evil Petting Zoo said...

Like i said...u need your own show. I'll be Ed McMahon to your Johnny Carson. Reunions suck...

Blogger Harley Quinn said...

HAHAHAH...I agree with EPZ. I'll serve the drinks!!

Blogger Heather said...

I went to the same high school as you...I concur!!! I wouldn't go to a high school reunion if you paid me.

Blogger n.v. said...

Todd, it's asking for a login! Cut and paste, man.

Blogger Osbasso said...

Monkey vulva??

Blogger Egan said... and are mean sites. Exactly as you have stated Todd, who the hell cares what's up with them? If you are interested, most likely you still keep in touch. Can you tell I have enough friends already? I don't need anymore. Now buzz off.

Blogger Steve Caratzas said...

Such a great treatise on the horrors of high school reunions, which totally blow. Who the hell wants to relive something that was unlivable in the first place?

I couldn't agree more with everything you said about this heinous ritual, including the PPV gang ass-raping (and, mind you, my ass is maraschino cherry).

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