Flaming Pogs & the Partial Robotomy

So I'm down by the movie theater the other day, showing some local kids how to play a game I invented called Pogs on Fire, and you wouldn't believe who I ran into. I won't even make you guess, it was Alvin Reggie. Okay, maybe you might believe it since you probably don't know who in the hell I'm talking about. He could be some guy I see every other day for all you know, so it might not sound all that strange to you. But trust me, it's plenty strange. Unless he was an extra in a crowd scene in some movie without me knowing it, it's pretty safe to say I haven't seen Alvin since the fourth grade.

So that made it strange, even beyond the fact of running into a dude named Alvin at all. Who's still named Alvin these days, anyway? I used to think that was a name specifically partitioned off by the federal government for use by singing chipmunks and the like, kind of like those 555 telephone numbers you see in the movies. Apparently not, which sucks big wet ostrich eggs for Alvin and other chipmunk-named sad sacks out there.

The situation was a bit uncomfortable, as it usually is when you run into someone you've been subconsciously avoiding for twenty years. It probably didn't help that I never liked Alvin at all when we were kids. That guy was so uptight I bet he wiped his ass with a toothpick. I'm not even sure why I hung out with that kid, but you do a lot of strange things when you're in grade school. I didn't like that Dennis the Menace cartoon either but I still watched the lame thing every day, just because it was on. So I guess I just hung out with Alvin because he was there. Sort of like the Mt. Everest excuse.

Up until the fourth grade, that is. That's when our so-called friendship hit the skids. Alvin has held this petty grudge ever since I told him that if he stuck a GoBot up his ass he'd acquire superpowers and robot strength. And the little eight year-old moron believed me! I'm not sure how the world court would view our situation, but I count that one as almost entirely his fault.

Grade school friendships aren't exactly forged of wrought iron; they're more like tinfoil rubber-cemented to a peanut butter cookie, so this little medical episode was enough to convince Alvin that Omar Bricks was bad news. All because the little wimp had to have a robotomy, which is medical jargon for having a GoBot surgically removed from your ass. Big whoop. Most people have to go through a lot more than that before they send Omar Bricks a "BITE MY DICK" candy on Valentine's Day. I guess Alvin was just sensitive.

So you can imagine this made for a tense meeting outside the movie theater. Alvin actually recognized me first, which was strange because I've always prided myself on looking different than I did when I was eight. But he said the flaming pogs in my hand were a dead give-away. Fair enough.

I asked him if people still made fun of him for having a first name last name and a gay chipmunk first name, but apparently he's some big shot "head of pediatrics" at a hospital somewhere so people only make fun of his name when he's not around. Unlike in grade school, where they made fun of his name while peeing on his ears. He told me the kids think Reggie is his first name, since they call him "Dr. Reggie" and kids are stupid. He didn't actually say the stupid part, but some things are self-evident. He seemed to think the name thing was somehow cool, so I didn't have the heart to tell him I almost threw up when he said that. I don't think there's a kid alive who would actually call this guy "Dr. Reggie" on purpose, if for no other reason than fear that if Reggie Jackson found out they'd get their ass kicked big-time for making Mr. October's name sound gay. Or Reggie Sanders, that guy's even bigger than Reggie Jackson and less prone to do comedy movies, so he might even be meaner.

Alvin and I caught up on old times, which took about twelve seconds since we never really liked each other and the only thing we ever had in common was that we both dug Mr. Heath bars. That's enough when you're a kid, though by the time you're an adult you figure out that some real assholes like Mr. Heath bars, too. So Alvin and I went our separate ways, him traipsing off to his "children's hospital" or whatever and me showing the kids which pogs are the best for soaking up lighter fluid without getting all soggy. Which is just as well. It might've been cool if he had thanked me for piquing his interest in medicine all those years back, maybe even diverted some of that mad pediatrician cash my way as a tribute. But he probably had other things on his mind, like when that pog caught his pants leg on fire.

Kind of funny how we both ended up working with kids though. Bricks out.

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