And the Oscar Goes to… the Water Balloon Massacre

The Oscars were still on. Therefore, as far as I was concerned, the evening continued.

It was The Oscars.

The Academy of Motion Pictures, for crying out loud.

This was the one night a year the same four women could be assembled for a single, unified cause. No Survivor. No Friends. No channel negotiation. Just gowns, speeches, and collective commentary. We’d hit the halfway mark when suddenly-intruders.

The opposite sex began breaking into the building.

From the windows.

From the basement door.

(Not the first floor-that’s where the RD lived. Even chaos had boundaries).

Boys being boys, they launched what they clearly believed was a flawless plan

a water balloon fight.

There was, however, a fatal flaw.

One group had no water balloons.

So it couldn’t technically be called a water balloon

fight.

It was more like a water balloon massacre.

There were no survivors.

We were all soaked.

I was soaked. No dry spots. Cold. No dry place to sit. And then-just as dramatically as they’d appeared-they vanished. Disappeared into the night. Never to be seen again.

The other three women were hysterical. Laughing.

Shivering. In shock.

Then they turned and looked at me.

“How are you still sitting there,” they demanded,

“watching the Oscars like none of that just

happened?”

They stared.

Then started laughing harder.

I smiled back, perfectly calm.

And thought to myself:

If they only knew.

Hehehe.