| when I was in 4th grade the elementary school had an evening concert with singing and performances, and I watched a very young second grader slip and fall on his face while he was marching in the line with his class back to the risers after their performance. a few classes sang and danced, and I kept thinking "I really don't wanna be that douchebag - don't slip, bub. don't slip."
I can't remember what song my class sang, I can't remember where my parents sat, and quite frankly, I can't remember how I even got up on the risers. All I can remember during the entire performance is "douchebags suck, don't be one."
after singing, the teacher single-filed us down onto the gym floor and we walked back to our seats with remarkable space between the class. even with all the space we created a sweeping, but somewhat tight curve as we rounded for the benches, and for some shitty reason I decided to bend my entire body with the curve, like some fucking G-forces were pulling me out and I needed to hold it tight while I make it around the moon, or something shitty, and un-astronaut-like.
Mom and Dad had me wearing a little suit, with a little tie, and my little non-superhero underwear, which is only important to note because there was no printed underwear back in my day, unless you had some real ass motion and knew how to squeak out a cool superman symbol with your shit skids.
they also had me wearing a pair of bullshit Fred Astaire slash Joe Middle Management $2.99 specials from Thom McCann that had no grip for high G-force turns on a glossed-up gym floor - so guess what budday:
I hit the floor right where that second-grader face palmed. A few chuckles from the parents, and several unending seconds later, and I was back on the gym bench, punching my tiny pee-pee over and over and over. I couldn't delete fast enough
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