don’t think of it as a joint, mom; think of it as a tobacco-free cigarette

Greetings and congratulations to the Pembroke High School graduating class of 2010. Before we get too far here, though, I should probably begin by apologizing for the rushed manner in which I prepared my speech, as I didn’t realize until last night that I was our class valedictorian, due to a mysterious computer-related catastrophe that wiped out every student’s record but mine.

My condolences to the upper tier of scholars whose reign has been interrupted. I have long considered you my comrades, for while I may not have experienced your academic success, I can certainly relate to your social alienation. Through the years, my attempts at fraternization with my fellow students have been met with derision at best, and cruel trickery at worst. Take, for example, the time all the cheerleaders friended me on facebook, only to pepper my wall with grisly crime scene photos, which led my parents, who had previously been my only two facebook friends, to seek psychiatric care for me. Before you think I am only disparaging the school’s ruling class, however, let it be known that I have been tormened by jock and nerd alike. When I went out for the debate team sophomore year, the team essentially forfeited the state championship by exchanging my notes for the final speech on history’s greatest monster with index cards making the case for Cookie Monster. Even our faculty sponsor was overcome with laughter at my public humiliation, and I suspect he was somehow involved the next year, when the potato gun I made for the science fair was stolen, then used to shoot Tabasco-filled water balloons at my crotch as I writhed on the flagpole, held aloft by only the tiny jock strap I had been wearing under my clothes, ironically enough, as a preventative measure to minimize my exposure in the locker room during gym class.
Fellow Muskrats, as we prepare to enter the world with its many adult expectations, I call upon you all to throw off the shackles put upon us by our twelve years in this prison. For it is only when band directors stop stifling the hidden creative genius of their sixth-chair sousaphonists that we can begin to enjoy the freedom of a society unconstrained by time signatures. Our education has done little to prepare us to answer the tough questions we will face when we exit these doors, like, “can anyone really imagine Mariah Carey allowing Nick Cannon into bed with her?” We gotta get the fuck out of this homogenous hometown of ours, which can only be described as the offsping of an Ikea and a Super Target, with the giant fiberglass pepper atop the doorway of an airport Chili’s Too used as an inseminating device.  Now, without any further ado, let’s get to seeing which pranksters are wearing a funny costume under their gowns!


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April 2010
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