REVENGE OF THE NERD
The nerd wore his pants up around his armpits and he tucked his polyester shirt into his underpants.
He combed his hair with his mother's spit.
He could add six columns but he didn't count.
He wrote bad poems that rhymed and never got in the school annual.
The cool neo-hippies in the Drama Club imitated his walk (wedgie with a dime in it) and his received Upper Canada accent.
No one wrote his name in lipstick on the washroom mirror.
He was not invited to the grow op harvest party in the art room.
"Imagine," someone called Steve asked me on the phone tonight, "what he promised himself when that girl walked off with the guy with the guitar after he'd offered her a ride on his bicycle."
"Some day I'm going to be Prime Minister and I'm going to follow the Americans into war and recession and then I'm going to cut off funding for the arts. Boy will that feel good."
"What did you say your name was," I asked?