Prom bomb

Ah, spring. I love swinging open my back door, letting radiant sunlight spill over my face, and filling my nostrils will the airy scent of the season. However, my love of spring has nothing to do with the poetic conventions of love or rebirth; rather, it’s when I can impart the most damage onto the unsuspecting public.

Of course, grannies out for a Sunday afternoon stroll or lovers cooing in the park provide ample targets of potential hilarity, but the single best group to look for during spring is the famed and alliterative Pre-Prom Party.

Oh my cock! I love spotting these fuckers! Whenever I see a congregation of tuxedo-lad gents and ladies in their Victorian evening gowns, I literally start foaming at the mouth. I think of all the parents, with their cameras and their smiles and their good intentions, and I know I have to ruin that. To exemplify what I mean by this, I again turn to the genius of Eddie.

Well, a few years back, when we were all home from college in mid-May, I was driving somewhere through the tree-lined streets of suburbia. Birds were chirping, white clouds hung lazily in the sky, and the sun was so bright the sidewalks looked white. People were out, milling around, strangers waved to one another in passing, comments were abuzz about the beautiful weather. The sound of basketballs bouncing off the sidewalk reverberated, swarms of kids were eating ice cream on curbs. It was a day of what I like to call “Suburban Pristine.”

The car I drove was packed: Eddie, myself, possibly the Booty Buster, assorted girlfriends, ect. We were probably listening to Journey, and, subsequently, probably the song “Don’t Stop Believing." We were most likely also singing along, slamming our fists against the dashboard to the chorus of the song.

Suddenly, Eddie broke the tranquility, “Stop the car! Stop the car!” he screamed.

Thinking something had happened, I immediately screeched the brakes. Had I hit a poor, unsuspecting squirrel? Had I sung the wrong words to the second verse of the song?

Eddie threw the door open and ran into the street frantically. In fact, frantically is not an apt word to describe the way his arms flailed, his legs spurned, his back arched. He looked like a cross between a caveman tracking an animal and a stealth spy trying to tiptoe inconspicuously.

If this were a movie, here would come the shot where the camera pans right to reveal a mass of people in front of a white aristocratic house. This was the pre-prom gathering right out of an Abercrombie catalogue. Toothy-grinned couples held one another in a long panoramic group shot as flashes from parents’ cameras lit up sporadically. Being such a grand affair, there were even a contingent of small children scampering about in the foreground, chasing a small brown dog. Everyone was ready for a momentous prom adventure. No one was ready for Eddie.

To start things off, Eddie darted to the middle of the street in plain view of the crowd. Of course, no one immediately noticed, so Eddie began screaming a mantra of “Hey!”s.

“Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!” he repeated, gradually gaining the attention of some active listeners. Most people were still consumed with the photo-op, so Eddie, getting resourceful as always, dropped his pants.

What still amazes me about this move was he never stopped the rhythm of his “Hey!”s. Even as he undid his belt, let his pants fall to his ankles, and threw his boxers down with a flair of showmanship, he never stopped chanting, “Hey!”

At this point, people were really starting to notice. Fingers were being pointed, mothers were becoming outraged, faces were turning red. To heighten the effect, Eddie started drumming an open palm off the cheeks of his ass. To get a crisp sound, he bent over; also providing everyone a rich visual supplement. After ten or fifteen slaps, the only sound was the slapping, and an occasional “Hey!”

Barring the occupants of my car, everyone was disgusted. No one knew what to do. The men weren’t sure if they should comfort their ladies or attack Eddie. All the women sported the same flabbergasted O-face. Children hid behind the legs of adults.

Eddie took a step forward. The step was labored as a pair of pants fettered his ankles. Everyone got a frontal view of Eddie’s junk. He stood there for a moment, stared. Then took another step. Still, silence. And, before quickly pulling his pants up and running, he breathed heavily and exclaimed these words:

“All your kids – every single one! –are fucking tonight!”