ClickHole

You Got Hot. Can You Have Fun At Your 10-Year High School Reunion?

You just pulled into the parking lot of your 10-year high school reunion, and you’re hot as shit. Ready to have fun?

As if on cue, the bass-thumpin’ hit song “D My Love” by Grimchee, the singing orangutan, comes on. You can’t believe it’s the same burnout Grimchee who was also a singing orangutan you went to school with. You wonder if he’ll be there. Turn it up.

Grimchee: All right, y’all wanna have fun?

Chorus: Yeah!

Grimchee: Wanna have fun?

Chorus: Yeah!

Grimchee: Fellas?

Chorus: …

Grimchee: Fellas?

Chorus: Sorry, yeah!

Grimchee: Ladies?

Chorus: Yeah!

Grimchee: Okay, here we go. Hit it!

The key to having fun starts with a “D,”

It is not sexually explicit to any degree,

I am an animal and you are presumably humans,

So what I’m talking about is pretty universal,

So far, people have guessed “deodorant,”

Chorus: Yeah!

Grimchee: “donut”

Chorus: Yeah!

Grimchee: and “dryers”

Chorus: Yeah!

Grimchee: Any more guesses?

[108-bar instrumental]

Grimchee: Nope, nope, nope,

None of you got it.

Keep guessing.

I’ll see you all next album!

Damn, that’s a catchy song. Ready to go?

You turn the volume down.


You turn the radio off. Cool.


This speaker is silent now.

So is this one. You are in complete silence. This night is off to a great start.

Ready to go?

Ah, shit. You blew out your windows. Bass is the natural enemy of the window. Best just head inside.

Wow, the parking lot is packed. Looks like there’s a good turnout.

You make your way to the entrance of the rented-out missile silo where your reunion is taking place. Looks like the door is stuck.

Cool crab-walking. You’re in. But no one is going to recognize you with your new, God-affronting beauty. Better fill out a name tag.

Nice slide. You’re in. But no one is going to recognize you with your new, God-affronting beauty. Better fill out a name tag.

You pick up a name tag and write your androgynous name.

Okay, where to?

You flip them off. Good for you. What awful people. Where to now?

Ouch, you’ll need to get another pep talk from Chris before you’ll try that again. Where to?

This is the dance floor. The music is just one continuous organ note.

You try to dance, but it’s impossible.

The organ note continues uninterrupted as you try your best to dance. This isn’t fun at all.

You try to make your way to the DJ, but there are too many people trying desperately to dance to the organ note. Everyone is crying out in anguish. This song has to be changed.

“Hat!” someone calls.

It’s your old friends Elena, Stephen, and Chris! They are dope as hell.

“Hey! Oh my god, Hat—you’re beautiful! I was just saying to the guys how your butt cheeks look like two pachycephalosaurus skulls,” says Elena.

“Yo. Oh my god, Hat—you’re beautiful! I was just saying to the guys how your butt cheeks look like two pachycephalosaurus skulls,” says Elena.

“Everything is good? I don’t know how to answer that. Oh my god, Hat—you’re beautiful! I was just saying to the guys how your butt cheeks look like two pachycephalosaurus skulls,” says Elena.

“These things,” says Elena as she hands you a picture from her purse. “Remember how I always used to love dinosaurs? I dig them up and pulverize their bones to sell as medicine on the black market now!”

“Thanks!” says Elena.

“Hey, Hat! I have to say: You have the soleus muscles of a god who takes people’s prayers and uses them exclusively as fuel to work out,” says Stephen.

“Sorry, I forget I’m not at work sometimes,” Stephen says as he hands you a picture. “That’s just doctor speak for calf muscles. I kidnap doctors and ransom them for millions.”

“Thanks!” says Stephen.

“Hat! I’m glad you came. I saw you walk in, and I was like, ‘Wow, Hat’s hairstyle is to dead skin cells what Las Meninas is to portraiture,’” says Chris.

“My bad,” says Chris as he shows you a picture on his phone. “This is Las Meninas. I spend a lot of my time looking at art these days because I am always high on illicit drugs.”

“Thanks!” says Chris.

“Hey, I wanted to ask you before you leave: Have you seen your old crush Gerard yet?” Chris asks.

“Hey, I wanted to ask you: Have you seen your old crush Gerard yet?” Chris asks.

“It’s Gerard, though! You can’t pass this up. You’re so hot, you could totally fuck him, I’ll bet,” says Chris.

“Us too,” Elena says. “Good luck getting that DJ to stop playing that organ note, though. He’s been playing it for hours.”

“Bye!” everyone says. They go back to futilely dancing to the organ.

Well, that was nice. It was good to see everyone, but not fun. You must get to the DJ and end this madness.

There’s the DJ.

Almost there.

It’s Grimchee, the singing orangutan and major pop star. He has his foot pressed down on a synthesizer set to “organ” on the floor.

“Oh, let me guess: You’d rather I play ‘D My Love,’” Grimchee says. “You think people haven’t been requesting that all night? I’m not playing it, okay? Get the fuck out of here with that noise, Hat.”

God, Grimchee is such a dick, just like he was in high school when he stole your prom date and also ripped the face off the shop teacher, Mr. Derley.

“Oh yeah? Tell you what: If you can tell me the key to having fun that starts with a “D,” I’ll take my foot off the synthesizer and play ‘D My Love.’”

“Mmm-hm. What’s the key to having fun, then?”

“Wait, did you say ‘dancing,’ or ‘dance king?’” asks Grimchee.

“That’s it!” Grimchee exclaims. He stops the music and claps his hands over his head. “This makes me forget all about my debilitating depression.”

“Nope,” says Grimchee.

“Never,” says Grimchee.

“Yeah, no one’s ever guessed that.” Grimchee confirms.

“Let’s rock this shit!” Grimchee bellows.

Woo! You did it! Everyone’s dancing to “D My Love,” and it’s all thanks to you. You spend the rest of the night dancing and having a great time. When you head home, you find a winning lotto ticket for $356 million nailed to your car windshield. A little cherry on top to a very fun night.

Grimchee snorts. “Like I said, get out of here with that noise.”

“None of your goddamn business, that’s why.”

You both stare angrily at each other.

Fucking orangutan. Becoming an international recording artist hasn’t matured this prick at all since high school.

You seethe with anger at Grimchee. You could punch him right in the kisser.

“Begone,” Grimchee huffs.

You can feel his hot breath on your face. You realize your own breathing has become quick and shallow. A long moment passes.

“Kiss me,” Grimchee says.

Grimchee tilts his head.

Sigh…you let your emotions get the best of you and made out with a grumpy orangutan from your graduating class. It is the beginning of an on-again, off-again relationship that leaves both parties hurt and worse off. Basically, it was not fun.

Grimchee gasps. “How did you know?”

“I’m a fraud,” Grimchee confesses. “Our classmate Robert Bremler and I both wrote ‘D My Love,’ but I took all the credit. Now I’m neck-deep in money and orangutan snatch, and Robert is stuck working security at this reunion. I saw him on the way in. That’s why I won’t play that damn song. Satisfied?”

“Really? Thank you,” Grimchee says.

You and Grimchee make your way to the photo booth where Robert is currently sleeping.

Robert wakes up. “Zzzz…Huh? Who’s back here?” he says.

Robert ignores you as his hands fly deftly over the controls. Suddenly an impenetrable plastic barrier drops down from the ceiling. Only then does Robert look at you two.

“Grimchee?” he asks.

“Robert…” Grimchee says, emotionally.

“…I’m sorry.”

Robert’s expression doesn’t change. Stone-faced, he turns away and goes back to the control panel. He looks unmoved!

You hear the sounds of the control panel being used, and suddenly the plastic barrier lifts away. Robert stands up and beams, “Come here, you! I forgive you, only because Hat is hot now!”

You mended a broken friendship between an internationally renown orangutan recording artist and a photo-booth operator who no one cares lives or dies, and you’ve shown you’re more than just an incredibly attractive mass of perfect ratios. And that’s what being a person is all about.

But if you think about it, not only are you well-rounded, you’re also hot. That’s fucking awesome. Way to go!

This must be the photo booth. You can take a picture of your sexy body in here.

You are at a big, cylindrical photo booth. You hear someone snoring.

It’s the class clown, Robert Bremler. Poor guy is working the photo booth at his own reunion.

Robert wakes up. “Zzzz…Huh? Who’s back here?” he says.

Robert ignores you as his hands fly deftly over the controls. Suddenly an impenetrable plastic barrier drops down from the ceiling. Only then does Robert look at you.

“Hat? Wow, I didn’t recognize you with those well-defined, glistening muscles all over your face. You must be very proud. Also, you can’t be back here. Please exit,” says Robert.

Before you reach him, Robert goes into autopilot as his hands fly deftly over the controls. Suddenly an impenetrable plastic barrier drops down from the ceiling. Only then does Robert look at you.

“Hat? Wow, I didn’t recognize you with those well-defined, glistening muscles all over your face. You must be very proud. Also, you can’t be back here. Please exit,” says Robert.

Robert starts to cry.

You watch him sleep. He starts to murmur something:

“Grimchee, you orangutan piece of shit…zzz…we were a team…”

Robert continues sleep-talking.

“…but then you stole all the credit for our song ‘D My Love’…zzz…I should tell everyone the answer to your stupid question about the ‘key to fun’…zzz…It’s ‘dancing’…zzz…”

He begins to sleep in a way that suggests he is done divulging secrets. Now what?

Wow, this photo-booth control panel looks complicated. What color button will you press?

“ERRRRRR,” goes the control panel. It is letting you know that you’re good at this.

“BING,” goes the control panel. It is letting you know that you’re good at this.

“HISSSSK,” goes the control panel. It is letting you know that you’re good at this.

“BOOOT,” goes the control panel. A countdown begins. Countdowns are always good.

You smile.

You decide to stick your tongue out instead.

You launched a missile from your high-school-reunion photo booth. In a few short minutes World War III begins, and no one seems to care about the reunion, much less your hotness anymore. Bummer, major big time.

Whoops, that wasn’t it. The word “ALARM” flashes across the screen, and you hear the sound of metal scraping above you. You look up to see a ball drop from a hole in the ceiling and fall on Robert’s stomach.

You make your way to the photo-booth control panel with the cheerleaders.

“We work for the software company that designed this interface,” says April. “The button sequence to take a picture is red, purple, blue, green!”

You’re suspicious.

“ERRRRRR,” goes the control panel. So far, so good.

“BING,” goes the control panel. What will you press next?

“HISSSSK,” goes the control panel. Just one more button to go.

“BOOOT,” goes the control panel. A countdown begins. Looks like the cheerleaders were telling the truth after all. You had them all wrong. Everyone smiles in preparation for the picture.

You smile.

You decide to stick your tongue out instead. You’re so happy.

A missile launches and starts World War III. Damn it, the cheerleaders tricked you! You knew you shouldn’t have trusted them. What a terrible reunion.

Whoops, that wasn’t it. The word “ALARM” flashes across the screen, and the cheerleaders run away.

You hear the sound of metal scraping above you. You look up to see a ball drop from a hole in the ceiling and fall on Robert’s stomach.

Wha—? Shit! Shit! Shit! You killed him! That was not fun. Fuck!

Wha—? Shit! Shit! Shit! You killed him! That was not fun. Fuck!

Oh no, the cheerleaders are at the bar. They were the prettiest girls in high school and always tried to include you in things like pep-rally bonfires, family vacations, and three-ways, presumably to make fun of you. Fortunately, you were too smart to fall for any of it.

“Hat?” says April. “You’re so hot. I can actually see my reflection in your snarling white teeth.”

“Wow,” says Katie, another cheerleader. “I can literally hear your tight muscles make stretchy noises when you move. But it’s sexy, not weird. Will you join us at our table?”

“Ha, ha, ha! You’re funny, Hat. Will you join us at our table? Pleeease?” asks Katie.

“To Hat!” the cheerleaders toast.

The cheerleaders laugh. One of them playfully touches your hand in an attempt to lull you into a false sense of security.

“Will you take a picture with us at the photo booth, Hat?” Anna asks.

“Yay!” they cheer. “To the photo booth!”

“Hello,” says your old crush Gerard from directly behind you.

Armed with Chris’ pep talk about how you could probably fuck your crush right now, you go find him.

“Hello,” says Gerard.

“You’re beautiful and all, but I can’t have sex unless there’s an emotional connection. Can we get to know each other a bit?”

“Do you know what a pachycephalosaurus is?”

“I like those a lot. Do you know what the soleus is?”

“Wow, you seem to know all of my exact, incredibly specific hobbies. I feel like I’m falling in love. In the 1656 painting Las Meninas by Diego Velázquez, what color is the cross on the painter’s chest?”

“My god, you are the perfect combination of beauty, brains, and personality. Will you let me give you an orgasm?”

Nice! You and Gerard leave the reunion and head to an active volcano to fuck next to it. Like all great works of literature, you must decide for yourself whether the boning was fun. It is a path we all must walk alone.

“I’m sorry. I’m just not feeling it.”


I am 18 or over and willing to view sexually explicit material