I got an invitation to my ten year high school reunion yesterday. The five year was okay, and I’m not in prison or anything, so I guess I’ll go. Also, it’s only twenty bucks.
I’m tempted to reprint the whole invite for you, but I don’t want to ask the president of my graduating class for permission to reuse his work, so I’ll merely snark on the following things:
1) My reunion is at the Village Club in beautiful downtown Needham, which means that at 11:30 when the damn thing lets out, the streets will be crawling with twenty-something drunkards, lurching zombielike toward their parents’ homes.
2) The president urged us to RSVP, either by phone or by “e-mail” (quotes his). Apparently, he thought some of us might be stuck in 1994, and only have heard tell about this newfangled “Internet” thing that the government is working on.
3) My reunion is at the Village Club in beautiful downtown Needham. Wait — I said that already. Okay, how bout this: I’m totally sneaking in a dirt-cheap bottle of Blackberry Brandy and drinking it in the bathroom, just like I used to at the Village Club rock ‘n roll shows in high school.
More importantly, who wants to be my date? I need to bring someone totally horrifying with me. Just being my same gender isn’t good enough anymore, people. Please drop me a line if you have a pet pig that you can’t bear to leave at home, or a 1970s era Dodge Charger with flames painted on it, or a lot of rather ill-advised elective surgery on your head. Thank you.