Twisted fantasy for prom queens

Rating: NNNNNI'm a prom queen wanna be. NOh yes, it's that time of year again, when -- if you log onto.

Rating: NNNNN

I’m a prom queen wanna be. NOh yes, it’s that time of year again, when — if you log onto the Web — you can “win a date with the Moffats for the prom.” (Well, OK, if I can have all four.) Or there’s a site where the “Prom-Planning Calculator for Boys” with “virgin-conquering finesse” is in full swing. And patriotic messages of after-prom noblesse litter the airwaves like so many discarded panties: “When I leave here, I’m going to be American.” (Oh. Good.)

It’s a difficult time for me because, contrary to popular belief, not only was I not the prom queen, but the horrible truth is: I never went.

But just because I didn’t go to the prom doesn’t mean I wasn’t popular, “kay? It just means my friends were all fags and poets.

And I keep thinking I’m OK about it all, yet, yet….

Sometimes, late at night, when I wish I had somewhere to wear a pink boa, I fret that I’ve missed some vital moment of my youth, that I will be forever half a woman, loveless, a virgin, with my prom-queen dream in tatters at my bitter, satined — probably divorced — feet.

And I venture that even the most sarcastic whores among us harbour a twisted prom-queen fantasy. (And the fact that I always thought I’d win something but assumed it would be Miss Universe should not, in any way, be held against me.)

But the queen thing — it’s not a bad gig. You get a crown. You get to be in the school yearbook. I think it means you win the most sex. And if you’re in the Virgin Suicides, you get to kill yourself, which makes for good poetry (which you can write in advance).

If I were prom queen I’d make all the boys wear pink in gym class. If I were prom queen I wouldn’t let the tarty Carrie-esque telekinetic type (every school has one) set the gym on fire because she had pig’s blood dumped on her head. I’d take her shopping.

If I were prom queen I’d make sure no student council president ever got laid ever, ever again, because they were so annoying.

If I were prom queen I’d offer this advice to my comrades:

Instead of corsages, give a girl:

1. Wooden stakes like in Buffy The Vampire Slayer so she can kill all the vampires at the prom. And the student council.

2. Drugs.

3. Her hymen (I know it’s around here somewhere).

Instead of a boutonniere, give a boy:

1. You know.

2. Assurances that an orange cummerbund, does not, in fact, make him gay. Unless he wants to be, in which case, give him

3. Your brother.

And I’d make world peace. So, please, pick me. I must, I must, I must have that damn crown.


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