Why the Caged Bird Sings

Today, instead of getting in line with the rest of the miscreants, I saw a kid dancing. While this is usually something I jive with.... this was no psuedo-disco. No macarena. No hokey pokey, much to my dismay.

Oh no, Mr. Hotstuff was thrusting his hips and grabbing his junk. Shaking it. With rapture. Like it was a pair of magical maracas. Who knows? They might as well have been. I didn't get close enough to look.

Anyhow, Mr. Junk Grabber, swaggered over to the wall, and with enthusiasm started to sing "Balls to the wall! Balls to the wall!" Thrust! Thrust! "BALLS TO THE WALL!"

Yes, because what every wall needs is a good dry humping. I know that's what I need. (Oh wow. Okay, that was sarcasm. Sarcasm, folks. Don't get any ideas.)

So, I walked behind Mr. Humper and cocked my head at him, much like a parakeet that isn't sure if its reflection is another bird or not.
The boys around Prince Humperdinck saw me watching, half amused, half "confused" and erupted with raucous laugher. To which, our prince, assuming the laughter was his, started thrusting even harder.

He was: a porch swing in a tornado, an oil derek out of conrol, waves with an erratic moon's orbit, a bumper car stuck sideways in a small hallway. BALLS [HUMP!] to the [HUMP!] WALL! [HUMP!]

Austin Powers on Viagra.

I tapped his shoulder.

"Excuse me," I said politely, and for the hell of it, with a slight British accent, "But what are you doing?"

Crimson! Scarlet! Maroon! Flood. Stuttering silence.
Hilarious laughter. Stern British nanny face.

"Well?"

Nothing.

"That was quite a show. Wherever did you come up with that? Was it in detention? Because I don't want to send you back there if that's where you learned it."

More stammers. "I uhhhh was fixing uhhhh my zipper."

Right. [Seriously? That's the best excuse? I would have believed "My balls got stuck in my zipper," with those moves more than fixing it.... Good god.]

All of this just reaffirms my theory that 6th grade boys have the mental acuity and maturity of.... a parakeet. You know, the ones that hump the mirrors as they believe their dashing good looks to be another bird? (Not the ones that just cock their heads and look confused. There is a distinction there...)

The point of all this?
I, like Maya Angelou, now know why the caged bird sings.
The only distinction: unlike Maya, I know the lyrics.



(This one's for you Mr. Faulk :)