My little sister is an incoming freshman, and my mom wants me to help her get to know DHS a little bit before she shows up in the fall. How do I show her what high school is like?
First, insouciant youth, how about a hearty hello or rousing huzzah to mark my return to this yellowed rag? A jewel-festooned parade float of my dour visage would not have been too much effort. Many times hath the sun circled the flat face of the earth since my ponderings last graced this pilar of proletariat punditry. This is not because the oddly carbonated waters of truth’s fountain are filling Musk’s money trough: my wisdom is not for sale (platinum level seating, however, is at market prices). Nor has this column fallen victim to the poisonous snares and vines of cancel culture. While my remarks about the residents of Grundy County have been derided as classist, elitist and arachnophobic, that’s their problem. Much like the problem they have not sitting in the dirt and eating with their filthy hands. Neither have I been ghosting my readership. They scour the pages daily, awaiting the return of this column with the fervor of the widows who daily walk their rooftops, looking to the vast water in vain hopes of the return their men lost at sea to my unleashed Kraken. My bad. Ghosted? Nay! When I come to you as a shapeless apparition, you will know. Primarily by the smell.
Rather, I have taken leave of the printed page to turn my pandemic into a mandemic; a series of daring feats in defiance of death itself (and too many municipal codes to mention). I have scaled the treacherous peaks of eastern Delaware and only ate three of my trusty mules. I have circumnavigated the globe via Spirit Airlines, the world record within my naked grasp save for an inconvenient 4-month layover in Atlantis. Shout out to the good folks at the Atlantis International Duty-Free shop. Last, I have eaten Arby’s in Muncie, Indiana and emerged unsoiled.
But enough about Moi. Let us turn to your query, which sits in my inbox with all the promise and energy of an undigested bolus of mud.
High school is not “like”, it is. It is a turbulent voyage cross a wine-dark sea of hormones lashed to a Boogie Board with a Hello Kitty scrunchie. It is a fight to the death with the Invisible Man on a Tilt-O-Whirl, armed with a wet croissant. It is a real-life version of N64 Goldeneye, viewed through a keyhole, heard through an overenthusiastic vuvuzela and played as Baron Samedi.
In other words, it is going to be great.