a required taste for the pretentious as all get out





it'll make a great story for the grandkids (theirs, not mine)
October 28, 2002, 6:42 pm

Homecoming Spirit Week: The best week of the school year! Even despite the cancellation of our Pep Rally and Parade (and near cancellation of our dance) due to Sniper things, the kids were PUMPED! Last year with everything seemed dull and flat, but this year everyone dressed up and everyone was COVERED in Red & White on Friday. It was great.

And even despite losing the Homecoming football game (43-28) and despite having the dance in the cafeteria, the kids had a wonderful time. They were well-behaved and danced until the last song (there were very few kids that left early, I noted).

Oh, remember that thing I said about being well-behaved? They were. No fights, no disturbances, and only two girls crying in the bathroom. A successful night all around, for sure.

Well, everything except for "the incident".

I had noticed that whereas for the entire evening the dj had played UPBEAT dance music and the dancing, while of the freak-variety, seemed rather tame, in the last half an hour of the dance, the music took on a "slow grooves" feeling. Not a slow song, oh no, but a dance song with a rather 70s porn beat. This VH1 Soul Hour showcase lent itself very well to some freaky-deaky dancing.

Having been relieved of my post at the soda fountain, I walked around the perimeter of the dance floor, smiling at my students who were dancing like the out-of-place freshmen that they were, when Megan (one of my best buds at work) comes over and says, "Uh, Jess, is that a chair in the middle of the dance floor?"

Sho' 'nuff there was.

On the chair was a gentleman with his head leaned back; on top of him moving seductively was a young lady with her skirt hitched up well above an acceptable level.

I laughed and decided to get them up because last time I checked, someone had to eat lunch sitting in that chair, and that was pretty foul.

As I approached the young couple and the dancers surrounding them pulsed around me, I noticed a peculiar look in the gyrating couple's eyes. When I slapped my hands on their shoulders and motioned for them to get up, their undulating hips did not skip a beat. Every though they had been asked to get up, they weren't stopping, and the exact movement they were performing was reminiscent of the Casablanca motel, 1998, to me.


I started pulling the chair out from underneath them, and as they got off each other long enough to stand up, I noticed the gentleman adjust himself. GROSS. I prayed for the god of Lysol to magically put a can in my hand so I could delouse the chair.

"MS. BIENSOUL! MS. BIENSOUL!" A girl I'd never seen before tugged urgently on my shoulder.


"Ms. Biensoul!" she howled over the thrumming music, "Those people were having SEX in the middle of the dance floor."

You know you're getting old when you're forced to separate two humping bunnies in the center of the dance floor at a high school dance.

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