8th grade field trip to DC

I was a total mess in the 8th grade. most bipeds experience a “growth spurt” marked by a titanic metabolic rate—not your boy though. I had a growth spurt in my appetite, but nature reneged on making me taller. my metabolism is magic sand. The kind you squeeze out of a ketchup bottle into an acquarium and it magically piles up, while the sand’s chemicals send your fish on a hallucinogenic sojourn through the forest of mongo’s mushrooms before they come to a complete stop, belly up. Just pour food down my gullet and watch the funny shapes collect on my rib cage. One could say that my metabolism has the energy of a drowned right floating in a toilet.

I bought men’s pants because my waste was man-sized, but legs were little hobbit stumps. I had to chop the cuffs off and then “peg” them to hide the shredded cuffs. Now shredded cuffs are in style, only 15 years later…heh.

8th grade was hell. Middle school for me was like what the middle passage was for blacks. the one good time I had was when our class went on the 8th grade field to Washington DC.

I had to room with Gary Lester, the biggest loser in the world. Even bigger than me. I had my aunt buy me some boxer shorts because I thought they’d make me look thinner when I had to change in front of Gary. Maybe boxers wouldn’t hide my gut, but no one would see the white briefs cutting into my chubby thighs. Damn! Even Gary, the loser, was thinner than me.

Anyways in terms of the educational aspect, the trip was a total clusterfuck. Mr. Eynis (pronounced Anus, don’t even get it started. Been there, destroyed that) who resembled Bert from sesame street fame, was all puffed up about the trip. He acted like he was general Washington crossing the delaware. Now that I think about it, it seems kind of weird. This must have been the hundredth time this social studies middle school teacher had taken a class to the crime capital of the US? why keep doing it? How many tikes can one man tramp around Monticello, trying to ignore all the signs of jungle love that Thomas Jefferson engaged in? trying not to notice the cocobutter on jefferson’s filing press in his cabinet room, or the afro-hair in on jefferson’s pillow in his bedchamber.

maybe our teacher was a creep. Maybe he was playing catholic marbles with the boys, maybe he was in the CIA and he needed to report on the illegals every year. More than likely he was a sad sack, who’s yearly highlight was an all expenses paid (except for the in-room “massages” he ordered from Oriental Palace) trip to Washington dc every year. He was probably clocking frequent flier miles and then rolling them over into free trips to Thailand for “fantasy vacations.”

Anyways, as always happens on a field trip, there was a reallocation of the school hierarchy. Less kids + new location (- supervision) = new “temporary” relationships.

Lucky me the relationship I got was with a skinny Mexican kid named Flavio, who’s school moniker was “floppy taco.” who had acne that looked like he slipped and fell in a butcher shop. We never talked in school, but for some reason the god of transport had welded us together for this particular journey.

We found a magic shop when we stopped off at some restaurant. Soon after that, we traveling up the elevators in the Washington memorial. The tour guide was some festering old man with filmy glasses who repeated the history of the monument between tracer shots of spittle. Keith Flamke said that the monument looked like a giant dick, which was even funnier when he said it because he had a high pitched voice and a lisp.

Anyways, on the way down me and floppy taco broke some stink bombs up in the monument. The smell of rotten eggs was everywhere. People were running to the elevators holding their noses. On the way down, the geriatric guide asked the kids who the hell cut the cheese, Jason newcomber who was fat with yellow spikey hair got blamed ecause he was fat with yellow spikey hair. All the way down he kept saying, “it wasn’t me, and he who smelt it dealt it.” Then he tried to pin on shane lakowski, who was also fat, but because he was thinner than Jason, the gaseous aspersion didn’t stick.

Anyways, they had a dance at the hotel. Since floppy taco and me weren’t scoring any chicks we decided to ruin the dance. During “it’s tricky” by Run DMC, we busted a bunch of stink bombs and cleared the floor. Then I went into Gary’s suitcase and poured itching powder in Gary’s underwear.

I had forgotten about the next day, and was in the back of the bus flipping senators off and spraying people with fart spray when Mr. Eynis came back. He was led by Gary, who’s face was red and looked like he was crying.

Mr. Eynis: did you do anything to gary’s underwear?
[the whole bus went silent]
Me: what?
M.E.: what did you put in gary’s underwear.
Me: Nothing.
M.E.: empty your pockets.
[shit, busted. i should yank the emergency switch on this bus door and hop out. Naaaaw, I’m a fat 8th grader, I’ll never survive on the street.]

I emptied my pockets. Four boxes of stink bombs. A canister of fart spray. Some hot pepper gum, and a plastic thumb.

M.E.: you didn’t put anything in Gary’s underwear.
Me: no.
M.E.: just the same, you have to stay on the bus while we go into Monticello.
[so?]
M.E.: I want you to think long and hard about your behavior young man.

So there I was a fat 8th grader, alone on a bus, staring at Monticello through the window, having just gotten busted for having magic shop gags in my pockets, and laughing.

i don't spellcheck