Pansy.

I had quite the bizarre cast of friends in high school. 1998 was my sophomore year, I was 16 years old. Decked out in Jnco jeans, Sketchers, and ridiculous shiny shirts from Gadzooks back when they sold men's apparel. There was a concealed beeper in my pocket, and to top it all off, I'd dyed my hair black with blonde chunks in the front. Not only a sign of the times, but affirmation that I was a complete and utter douche. I ate lunch with an identical cast of characters everyday. There was Bret, who was extremely quiet, shy and lanky. He didn't speak much, but he was always by far the nicest of the group. Then, there was Sobucki. The lone 50% black kid in a bumblefuck northwest Indiana high school. Sobucki was a smart-ass like I was, and a baseball enthusiast. He idolized Ken Griffey, Jr, and in fact, 12 years later he still does. Finally, there was Frahm. Eric Frahm stood all of 5'2", and could grow a beard by age 11. But the guy was built like a brick shithouse. We teased Frahm, but anytime we encountered any physical resistance, Frahm stood front and center. His claim to fame was emptying a cologne bottle, filling it with vodka, and getting caught spritzing himself in the face...On the school bus. The man was a legend in his own right.



Everyday, there was a specific routine. We'd get our food, climb a flight of stairs, and hang out over the ledge. It was typical, common high school back and forth banter which often concluded in such zingers as "your mother". Sobucki would call Frahm an Ewok, Frahm would call Sobucki "Soblacki", and they both would deservedly call me a fag, Bret just kind of hung out, and endured the immaturity surrounding him. He was too friendly to really participate in our childish dialogue. He was simply a nice kid, hanging around a bunch of dickheaded choad chompers.

This specific day, I notice that Bret is drinking Diet Pepsi. I question why a 16 year old would opt to drink Diet anything. Nobody ever really questioned Bret about anything. His response would undoubtedly be whimsically polite and leave any antagonist feeling foolish.



"Why, Bret?" I ask. "Why would you drink Diet Pepsi?...Got to watch that girlish figure?"
Leave it to the guy with a shiny shirt and hair gayer than Flock Of Seagulls to question someone else's manhood.
Sobucki and Frahm chuckle lightheartedly, most likely at the irony. I continue on about Diet Pepsi, before I abruptly bring the harassment to an end.
"Bret...You are a....Pansy."
The word pansy echoed throughout the hallway.
"Pansy....ansy....ansy"



I looked over at Bret and saw a fire in that kids eyes. Before I could even throw a playful elbow alongside a "Just kiddin', buddy", he looks me square in the eyes. They narrow, and he remains locked in on me as if I'm about to be put in the boston crab until I tap out and poop my pants simultaneously.



Suddenly, like the most casual act in the world, Bret pours his entire Diet Pepsi over the ledge.
We're all speechless as a 3 second pause seems to take forever before we hear the splash. We stifle our giggles and everyone pats Bret on the back. "Way to shut Foster up!" seems to be the general consensus.





A loud, female scream amplifies itself throughout the hallway. Suddenly, like Jurassic Park, a light rumble surges through the concrete and tile floor. Frahm's lunch is tossed around more than Snooki's orange pussy.
Logically, I realized we were nowhere near a fault in the Earth, but it sure felt like we were in the midst of some sort of plate-tectonic shift .



Loud footsteps approach quickly, and suddenly what appears to be a human female stands forth. She was about 6'3", damn well over 300 pounds. I strongly felt it possible that another smaller person may dwell inside her, powering her movements with controls. She was wearing a white t-shirt, perhaps a modified hammock or bed sheet. Her dark sweatpants brought leniency to the term "one size fits all".


I look back down the stairs, and wonder how how the forklift even got her up the stairs with without a handicapped accessible ramp.
Frahm senses danger and valiantly rises to his feet. At 5'2", he was about eye-level somewhere between her 3rd lower tit roll, and her fupa's fupa.




Our brave friend begins to shake more than Michael J. Fox in an earthquake, and abruptly sits down. I look up at this woman, and envision her spinning Sobucki and I over her head like she's making a pizza. While holding Bret upside down, shaking his juice money from his pockets. Finally, stomping on Frahm, as an exaggerated Mario stomping on a Goomba in hopes of obtaining 200 points.



The Beasts eyes narrow, and her lip curls. I utilize a moment to use a bit of panoramic mental photography, and note that she resembles a billboard for an ink blot test. A secondary rumble up the stairs is heard in the background, as The Beast's eyes fixate directly at me. I literally fear for my life, and defecate just a little bit. Suddenly, a sniffle and loud sobbing overtakes the quiet halls of our suburban high school.
"I HATE YOU ERIC FOSTER!"



Go figure, I was always under the impression that big girls don't cry. Of course I would get blamed. Sobucki would have been the only other candidate to do something like that, and racial profiling is totally not cool.

Suddenly, a figure appears behind The Beast. I'm not all that confident it was a woman, based on the back acne and scent of gym socks and ball-sweat. I guess I'll never know. The Beast is crying a fucking river, as her cross-eyed androgynous friend verbally rapes me in the butthole. My friends are all stunned, speechless, subsequently in no position to react.

A small group of people begin to circle around. A scene has officially been made, and I realize that I'm in a position where I'm socially forced to retort.
The low pitched screeching of swear words directed at me still spews forth from the friend. Finally, the Beast chimes in. "You are such a fucking fag."

I stand up and dust myself off.
"Cry! Go ahead and cry! Cry! Cry! Cry! It burns calories!"



A silence overtakes the fiasco. My friends chuckled, and a few other people in the circle giggle as well. Finally, The Beast's friend storms off, as a team of 20 social workers clear the passage to her blowhole before a slew of heavy machinery rolls her back into the ocean.
I look back at my friends, and sigh. Mostly in relief that none of us were eaten whole. My friends were some pretty cool kids. Bret began to talk more, and grew up to be cool as shit. Sobucki remained a fun-loving smart-ass, and Frahm was one of the most loyal, philosophical dudes I'd ever known.

A few years later in my mid twenties, I was out drinking with Buckman. He'd noticed The Beast standing behind us at the bar, angrily staring. She looked even bigger than I remembered. She grew yet another neck, which leads me leads me to believe that fat people neck rings are another way of determining their age, much like trees.



On that note, It's fun to draw myself as a kid back when I still had a neck. This story really has no punch line, it's just fun to draw fat chicks.