Tag Archives: good time

Boys Will be Frikkin Boys

Roon was born in March so, nat­u­rally, we had his birth­day party June 25th. We rented the pool with the coolest slides, ordered pizza, and invited 346 ten year old boys. Who all spent the night in my base­ment attempt­ing to bal­ance them­selves on the brink of death until three in the morning.

Now I am a sin­cerely cool par­ent and while I may not plan par­ties on time, I do ensure that the boys have a good time. I use my most advanced and pre­ferred tool: my attor­ney. This time my attor­ney ensured a good time by fill­ing a large bag with silly string cans and hand­ing them out in the front yard.

I thought this was cool. I was really look­ing for­ward to this part because silly string rocks almost as much as cool Nerf guns and I had enough silly string that I’d made it onto the Fed’s list of arms deal­ers. I lined the mon­keys up, armed them, and let them shoot. We coated the yard and each other with a chiaroscuro of spaghetti threads. Each kid had three cans and they just kept spray­ing, scream­ing, and scream­ing, and spray­ing. It was awesome.

For like eight seconds.

Then one of the boys, and I won’t say who because all their par­ents read my blog (if only to check it for porn links) but one of them ran up to me, scream­ing, and deftly sprayed his silly string INTO HIS OWN EAR. I chase him into the house, make him sluice his ear with water until I’m com­fort­able that a) he’s ok, and b) he’ll never, ever do some­thing so frikking dumb again. We run back out­side and he’s barely off the last step, like midair even, when some other scream­ing kid sprays him in the face.

SIMULTANEOUSLY one of the par­ents who lives nearby was pass­ing and skid­ded to a stop in front of what must have looked like some kind of hippy haz­ing rit­ual. In three and a half sec­onds her van was tatooed with pur­ple snot­wads and she was star­ing, mouth quite lit­er­ally agape, as I screamed at my wife to take the kid into the house and WASH HIS EYES!

She called her son over to her van and had a long hushed talk with him. She called again later and stopped by once to bring him some shoes and he didn’t stay the night. I can’t blame her.

The rest of the night they spent play­ing Halo and Sponge­bob games. At one point my son raced upstairs, his chest burst­ing with pride, his face flush yelling for me. He’d man­aged to lock his friend in an ele­va­tor in Halo and his friend kept respawn­ing in it and he kept killing him and the ele­va­tor was pil­ing up with bod­ies. He was so proud.

They also spent the night pep­per­ing their opin­ions with “gay” as in “those Dori­tos are gay” or “your shoes are so gay” and “after being told his back­pack was gay “that’s gay.” At one point, two of the boys had put their t-shirts on upside down and had stuck two of the sty­ro­foam balls that had once filled the gut of the bean­bag chair on their nip­ples and were prancing–PRANCING–around the base­ment chirp­ing GAY GAY GAY.

My ini­tial response was that I should sit them down and explain that GAY is not the same as, say, BLUE or CHINESE and shouldn’t be used in such a cav­a­lier fash­ion but I hon­estly couldn’t do it because they all have such a finely honed sense of humor that one of them would’ve waited patiently until I was fin­ished and then said: that’s so gay.

We man­aged to get through the night with­out me say­ing the F word or appear­ing nude so I’m failry cer­tain all the same boys will arrive for the party next year though I’m mot entirely con­vinced the one who’s mom showed up–three times–will RSVP next time. I should reas­sure them: next time, no silly string.

Next time: paint ball.

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