RANT
1: HIGH SCHOOL
RANT
1: HIGH SCHOOL
There is no better practical example of Social Darwinism at work than high school (except perhaps prison). It's without question survival of the fittest; you either adapt and survive or you perish. Most survive by joining a group; whether that group be jocks, stoners, cheerleaders, punks or nerds (or in prison, the Sharks, the Jets or the Aryan Brotherhood). I survived by creating a tough guy persona for myself that was so unbelievably over-the-top silly I made Chuck “I step on necks” Norris look like Andy “I take it in the ass” Dick. It embarrasses me to no end to recall what I was like in high school, but the simple fact is that I was scared of being bullied or harassed. And ridiculous as I was, my bluff worked; I was definitely not bullied or harassed in high school. Shunned, yes; mocked, most likely; misunderstood, definitely. But not bullied. Not harassed. Even those who could have gotten away with it were too freaked out by me to try.
I attended the same private, religious high school as my parents. They felt that by enrolling me in their alma mater, I would get the best education available to me. My parents thought it would be really cool for me to meet the children of their high school friends, with the hopes that we in turn would become friends as well.
This did not happen, because very soon after meeting them I realized the children of my parents’ friends were fucking assholes.
To say most of my classmates came from a different world than I did would be demonstrating my remarkable gift for pithy understatement. Most of them were from well-off to disgustingly rich families. I wasn’t. I certainly never wanted for anything growing up, but just because I never wanted for anything doesn’t mean I got whatever I wanted, unlike most of the Muffys and Biffs in my school. 2010 marks my twenty year reunion (Angry Piper, class of 1990). I won’t be attending, much as I passed on the five, ten and fifteen year reunions. Why not, you ask? Because I’d rather rub shit in my hair than attend one of those fancy dick-waving contests, where everyone’s “glad to see you” is as convincing as Shaquille O’Neal in a smurf costume. Since graduation, organized religion isn’t the only thing I’ve turned my back on. The simple truth is that with few exceptions, I’d rather French-kiss Shane MacGowan than see any of the douchebags I attended high school with again.
Now, it’s true that people change, and often for the better. For example, I was known as "The Angry Saxophonist" back in high school. Doesn't quite have the same ring to it, does it? I’m certainly not the Billy Badass I once was, and I haven’t thrown anyone bodily through a windshield in years. But let’s face it—most high school friendships have the staying power of Don Johnson’s music career. If you lose touch with someone, chances are there’s at least a small part of you that wanted to lose touch. With very few exceptions, I’m still in touch with the people I wanted to stay in contact with. These people are called my friends, and they’re friends for life. They’re the people who stuck by me; which—knowing what an idiot I was in high school—couldn’t have been easy for them to do. (I can think of only one person I’d still like to reconnect with, and it’s not like I’ve put any effort towards achieving that goal. Last I heard she was married and living in New Mexico, teaching deaf people to speak.) My parents told me that high school is where I would meet the friends I would have for the rest of my life. They were right; it’s just that my friends aren’t who my parents thought they’d be.
People wonder why a D-list Internet celebrity like me doesn’t show his face or reveal his true name. Why all the mummery? (I love being pretentious and using antiquated words. It makes me seem smart.) Why don’t I list any personal information on my Website, or my Blogger or MySpace profile? Aside from the fact that I’m obsessed with my privacy, the answer is simple: I live in mortal fear that one day, people from high school may find me. People I never want to see again, like my “best friend” who screwed my girlfriend. Or the rich cheerleader chick with the great legs that I was a complete donkey over for four years. (I still can’t begin to logically explain my fascination with her, except that I was convinced that deep inside she was an angel. Not the case.) Or the jock who thought it was extremely funny to take a huge shit in the boys’ shower. Or the other cheerleader chick who predicted to all her giggling, big-haired friends that I’d be dead before we graduated (sorry to disappoint). Or my personal favorite: the shit-for-brains who would continually start fights with me, never learning it was a bad idea no matter how many times he lost. One of the funniest moments in my life occurred when this selfsame moron figured he’d try his luck against the mild-mannered Angry Veteran and the AV practically disjointed him like a rotisserie chicken. Good times. But I digress.
Although, to my knowledge, none of the above examples have come looking for me, people like this have, on occasion, sought me out. They have to. For them, high school was the best years of their life, and they want desperately to relive that time. If you knew me in high school and we weren’t friends; or if, in fact, we couldn't stand each other, then initiating contact with the Angry Piper can only end badly for you. Here’s some advice:
Don’t, when by chance we meet somewhere, feel the need to talk to me any more than you did in high school, because if I thought you were a fucking asshole then, it’s unlikely you’ll change my mind with a brief howyadoin’. I could give a fat fuck how you’re doing, and in all likelihood I’ll inform you of that to your face. Just walk away, Renee. You won’t see me follow you back home.
Don’t, when you’re running for public office, send me letters reminding me of all the fun times we never had, Mr. “I’ll make my first million by the time I’m 25”. No, you fucking can’t count on my vote. First off, I don’t even live in the fucking city in which you’re running for mayor, or selectman, or city council, or head-fucking-wiper at the car wash. Second, we barely spoke to each other in high school. True, I didn’t loathe you, but we weren’t friends. At all.
Don’t call me on the phone asking for a donation. Especially if you’re a former basketball player who joined the alumni council to relive his glory days, mistakenly thinking people would still give a shit that you scored lots of points despite being the shortest guy on the team. Dude, back then you may have had pussy clawing at you like a bag of cats you tried to drown in a bathtub, but now you’re about as cool as a bald guy with a ponytail. In fact, you probably are a bald guy with a ponytail. Know when high school sports players like you get remembered? When you turn pro. Not when you marry the girl you knocked up in college, who now likely hates your guts. So save the quarter, Uncle Rico, and dial someone else.
Don’t knock on my door after you’ve found Jesus, wanting to share the Good News of the Risen Lord. I went to a Catholic high school. I know all about the Risen Lord. Jesus is just all right with me. If I want to hear any more about Jesus I’ll become a Republican, and there’s about as much chance of that happening as a Mickey Spillane novel being chosen as the next Oprah’s Book Club selection. Unless you want to pray for the Divine extraction of my booted foot from your ass, you’ll take your Watchtower and Awake! pamphlets and scram. And don’t you even fucking think about sticking one under my windshield wiper unless you want to eat it.
Don’t contact me when you’re in a twelve-step program trying to make amends for what a fuckwad you were. It won’t work. I’ll still think you were a fuckwad, and quite frankly, I don’t care enough about you to listen to your whining. Just consider it water under the bridge. I absolve you. Best of luck getting over your alcoholism or drug addiction or compulsive assfucking. Now get bent and forget you ever knew me.
Lastly, don’t contact my family trying to find out where I am. They won’t tell you. If you already did this and left a message for me with them, assume I got it. You can take the fact that I haven’t responded to it as a message all your own. If you get pushy about it, my brother may simply kill you and bury you deep somewhere you won’t be found. He’s a landscaper. Believe he can do it.
Judging by this rant, the casual reader may infer that I hated almost everyone I went to high school with. This is not the case. Occasionally, I hear things about people to whom if I’m not friendly, I’m at least fairly indifferent. Like the girl who became an erotic fitness model and posed for Playboy. Or the guy who became a millionaire after buying and running an upscale liquor store. Or the surfer-guy who smoked more weed than anyone else in school, and who, incidentally, went to grade school with me and knew I wasn’t nearly as tough as I acted, but never said anything. Or the guy who I run into from time to time at my local Irish pub—we buy each other beers. While they're not my friends, I bear these and others no ill will. But as for the majority, I had enough of them when I was in high school, and have no desire to slap their backs for auld lang syne. Fuck them.
But I'm not bitter about it.
