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The Great Flag Flap at Rebel High

© William Olson, 2011



As I mentioned, I was not present. It was my brother, the nickel-plated eagle, rather, with the ‘help’ of Mother Mary, who brought down the greatest symbol of shame known to the nation of my birth. Here’s how it came to pass.


Brother Martin had just broken, in the final game of the season, the Rebel High record for the most triples in a single game: six. His batting average had climbed, moreover, to a staggering .420. He was feeling good, I’m sure, and his beak, by the time he had turned eighteen was as long and sharp as it would ever be. How did he celebrate? He did the unthinkable. Let me allah-borate:


Martin, after a conversation with the Shaq’ago Tribune regarding his plans to jettison intercollegiate athletics and opt, instead, for the ever sexy pursuit of higher learning at Northwestern’s Medill journalism school, shocked the entirety of Lansing, Michagain—and the better part of the greater Shaq’ago cosmopolitan area—by leaking to the paper that he was taking the niece of Louis Farrakhan to Rebel High’s senior prom.


Ha ji, it caused some shit to hit the fan: Mother Mary was all over him. ‘What? What? A blaque girl?! O, Martin, say it isn’t so. Say it’s all a dirty white lie!


But it wasn’t a lie. Brother Martin had indeed secured a strong verbal commitment from the niece of the south side’s ethereal lightning rod. Martin had, furthermore, planned for the prom’s attendees a secret agenda that entailed the height of thrill-seeking. I should allah-borate…


Just north of Dixie Highway on the Bishop Ford, in a suburb twice named incorrectly, there was a crane operator that had gone bankrupt during the last oil crisis. The owner had only recently borrowed copiously from the bank beneath the golf course for new capital equipment and, when Mother Mary caught wind of the company’s dire financial straits, she quickly commanded the owner to ‘…fix the fucking problem.’ Well, the problem—miraculously!—was fixed indeed, and in the stead of a crane company, from what reared its monstrous head over the shoulder of the Bishop Ford was a bungee-jump play-sphere of biblical proportions. Martin had booked every crane there for the entirety of the senior prom to take a plunge. And he kept the whole thing under tight wraps.

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