Colossal Boners, part one
personal journal 04-03-2019
ha. made you look.
Boners, for the sake of clarification, using vernacular from a time past, refers to knuckle-headed mistakes.
I first became aware of the term 'boner' in 4th grade. Our class had gone outside on a beautiful spring day to discuss 'sex education.' At 8 years old I had no idea what that even meant. As always, I followed whomever was in front of me and found a place to sit at the periphery of the assembled and sat in mute confusion.
Our awesome folk singing, bearded, hippie teacher Tony began the sensitive lesson with words that meant nothing to me. One of which, 'boner', was uttered and beautiful brave Edana, whose shining crystal eyes had mesmerized me since I was 5, asked brightly, "What's a boner?"
Everybody laughed. except me. I was astounded at how brave Edana was to reveal her ignorance, which I shared. I knew I could never be that courageous.
Tony then explained.
"THAT'S what that's called?" I said to my myself silently. I had no idea there was name for it.
***
Second Grade: Went to play on the tire swing at school during recess with a friend whose name escapes me. Threw my corduroy mighty mac jacket at the base of the tree and proceeded to 'tire out'.
Hearing the bell, I disappointedly retrieved my jacket, wrapped it around my body and walked with my play friend back to class.
As we're walking, I noticed the unmistakable thick aroma of poo. "I smell dog shit." I complained. Though I wouldn't know what a boner was for another 2 years, I did know many other choice words. my grandparents were carny's.
I proceeded to perform a visual walk-around of my extremities, hoping with fervor that I wouldn't discover the source of the smell to be attached to my body. hopes can be greatly deflating. There was no poop on my shoes, nor along our walking path. "Where is it coming from? Smells like it's all around us?"
Then, with fear in his eyes, my new friend pointed to the inside of my jacket... it was as if marmaduke had been trapped in my jacket after eating a whole cow.
minutes later, standing in front of my teacher, bawling, fairly covered in canine material, the entire class ran from me like I was a mall shooter, and huddled together along the wall behind her. As one, they stared at me in horror, pointing... and called me 'shit man.' thankfully the name didn't shit... er... stick.
***
Summer Day Camp; age 5 I think:
I was sitting at a table with several other kids, none of whom I remember by name or face, waiting for the assembly to produce a point of focus. I had found a flat strip of semi-pliant metal, maybe 6" long by 1/8" wide and was aimlessly playing with it. I spied the power outlet on the wall, conveniently situated for easy access from the tabletop.
"Don't do it." One kid warned, seeing me eye the outlet curiously with the conductive material in hand.
"Why not?"
"It'll hurt." He was serious as a heart attack. that much I remember clearly.
I couldn't understand what could possibly hurt about putting something so clearly perfect for insertion into that specific opening. I ignored the little boy's dire pretext and went ahead with plan.
BZZZZZZZZZZAAAPPPP!!!!!
"Told you." The well meaning kid said sympathetically, after I got my first lesson in electrical current. You never forget your first time.
***
5th grade
we were playing touch football on the middle field, which was rimmed at the short ends with a chain link fence. For whatever reason, it was secured at the corners and the end poles with heavy, ridged metal supports tapering down at 45 degree angles.
The game was not a nail-biter. I don't remember who my teammates were that particular afternoon, but we did not acquit ourselves well. to make my woe even more pronounced, one member of the opposing team was my least favorite classmate, stuart. He was a mean kid, at least at this point in our lives, who took joy in antagonizing other kids. He was also singularly responsible for me breaking my wrist earlier that year by throwing a ball at me during a stoppage of play in a teacher invented game called 'hillbilly.' I had to dodge, slipped on a patch of mud, and crunch went my left wrist. I really hated that asshole.
Anyway, we were losing... bad. getting crushed. as a young lad, I despised losing. factor in a highly volatile mood component, and things can get... interesting. this particular aspect of my adolescence, when married to a great love of sports, often resulted in me getting thrown out of games. it also meant that I left it all on the field. blood, puke, snot, feces... pretty much everything short of reproductive fluid. I had to win.
last play of the game stuart intercepts the ball around midfield and runs gleefully down the sideline, grinning widely. I was across the field, and the game had already been decided, but I was NOT going to let that motherfucker score another touchdown. I ran like the fire-chased closing the distance quickly. he turned to me while running and began mocking me. I dug harder, seeing the fence coming up fast, but thinking of nothing but stopping that curly-headed knob.
Stuart's grin turned to amazement as he realized that I might catch him. he stopped grinning. Just as he ran past the aforementioned ridged metal support (essentially a very thick, very dull sawblade), mere feet from the goal line, I tagged him... and my face met the unforgiving iron at full speed. after the surreal impact, I grabbed my bleeding face, and felt my upper lip swell immediately. within moments, it had grown to the size of a golfball. a detail that was not lost on buttplug stuart, who pointed and laughed.
"I got you, asshole."
***
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