When I think of the suburbs, I tend to think of the following things:
- TGI Apple Garden’s
- book clubs (with adultery)
- Jean Claude Van Damme
I didn’t say they all had to make sense.
But then, that’s rather the perfect segue into talking about life in the ‘burbs–bland, faceless living, suspiciously spiked with Blood Sport.
In case you’re too lazy to click and read, it’s an article about families in the suburbs of Houston hosting swine flu parties for their kids, the idea apparently being that if they can get their kids exposed to it, they’ll build up an immunity to it. I’m not sure who attends such parties; as a suburban-raised kid myself, I know for a fact that my mom wouldn’t let me go over to other kids’ homes to study (dry humping to the 100 Years War notes) let alone something like this.
And just what the hell do you do at a party like this? I imagine that all the normal features of a kid’s party must get the “Swine Flu” treatment in the following ways:
- Everyone is required to play “Spin the Bottle” and each child must go into the closet and make out with the Swine-infected kid (let’s call him “Porky”) for 7 minutes or until the healthy kid gets chills–whichever happens first.
- Porky, with a runny nose and smoker’s cough, blows out the candles on the Swine-cake (“Happy H1N1-st Day Porky!”)–and then serves it to everyone.
- A pinata filled with Porky’s dirty tissues, soiled bedsheets and underwear
- A Swine-flu-themed Clown
This is why I love and fear the suburbs. It’s the only place where you can go to “Swine-Flu Saturdays” and “My Mom Will Give Us Booze If You Bang Her” parties on Fridays.