My younger brother and sister are graduating high school this week. It reminds me of recent graduation trauma I had at my college. It was not my finest moment, to say the least. It's made me learn a valuable lesson about eating cheese.
It was graduation night. The college grads jittered nervously through the halls with anxiety and excitement. Their sense of "the world is about me!" had filled the campus for a week. My day had been spent giving hugs, advice, letters of reference, and final grades. Relieved we had finally reached the end, faculty decided to go for pizza before the ceremony.
In our local pizza place, you walk in one weight and leave 45lbs heavier. The food is good, the atmosphere bizarrely comfortable with a mix of wood tables, green plants, and buck heads mounted on every inch of the walls.
Because nothing says "eat some pizza" like dead animals hanging over your head. Even the graffiti in the bathroom is worth the visit. Each pizza is handmade and costs one million dollars. It also takes so long that people call in their orders two or three hours before they arrive. Ridiculous, but the food is that good.
|My stomach hurls just looking at this. And yet? YUM. Source.|
Cut to the ceremony...
I hate graduations. I didn't go to any of my own graduations. Now, as a teacher, I am condemned to repeat these ceremonies twice a year. And I am too cheap to shill out hundreds of dollars to wear a Smurf-like cap and gown, signifying my doctoral degree. So instead, I wear a cheap, ill-fitting itchy black gown, and a cardboard head-sack "cap" borrowed from a friend whose head is 5 times bigger than mine.
|Yep, looking up a pig's butt is basically your life after graduation. Congrats!! Source.|
|A-sphincter says what?|
I heard myself mentally contacting Houston. We have a problem. I felt a thousand eyes on me as I tried to sit perfectly still and not make a chocolate sandwich. But when the ceremony ended, that stupid square head-sock identified me to students who wanted me to stop and shake their parents' hands. I couldn't sneak out through the crowd, or blow people off. So I shook hands, gave hugs, quick quips about how wonderful their kid was, smiled, nodded my head, laughed at jokes, took photos, all with my butt-cheeks clenched tighter than Mitt Romney's bank account. (Buns of Steel? Shoot, if you really want a work-out routine for your derriere, just get mud butt in public). I'm sure in every photograph, I was making a creepy "I'm in serious pain!" face.
|Something like this. I feel pretty. Oh so pretty. Source.|
|This is why I don't use public bathrooms. Source.|
|Yea there's the face of self-respect. Source.|
|The REAL reason Dorothy was desperate to get home... mudbutt. Source.|
|You can try, but you can't un-see this. Sorry. Source.|
|Look I don't make these photos up. The internet has everything. Source.|
Well grads, it's for you. I'm here to teach. As you face the future lying spread eagle before you like an inebriated frat-boy passed out on the lawn, consider my words of wisdom. Never, NEVER, eat pizza before a public event. Because nothing makes an impression quite like public pants pooping. And it's not the impression you want.
Peski Pippi, who tells her adventures with oat bran in a far classier and less disgusting way.
Have you ever had an almost catastrophic colon emergency?