Once upon a Saturday dreary,
while I slicked my crewcut smeary,

Trembling in my ivy leagues,
as I perceived inevitable horror-

While I anguished, preferring hanging, suddenly there came a clanging, clanging,

As of some ghoul madly banging-
banging at my chamber door.

'Tis the huntress who will drag me to the Girls' Choice dance­
A sadist's victim for evermore.


My fate on the evening of February 23 is so cast, and Melissa Prudence will pounce upon my threshold at the appointed hour of doom. How could I refuse the enchantment of my debonair company to a girl with grace, charm, wit, daily answers for algebra homework, and a left hook that could floor Sonny Liston?

Being the knightly, adorable gentleman I am, I naturally will allow Melissa to open the car door for me (a novel action considering that my jalopy has no doors). Should she insist upon driving, I will immediately tear into a reminiscent rendition of the "Ballad of the Pompadour's Fan" and seize control of the steering wheel.

Upon arrival I will be awarded my corsage, probably a spoked, bicycle inner tube to hang around my neck with the inscription "You are the wheel that makes my life go round." Melissa will have to stick her head between the spokes in order for us to dance. (She probably wouldn't mind a lacerated neck as much as ruining her best bike wheel.)

That unappreciative wench, Laura Lee, will most likely be at the dance with last year's steady whose corsage may be labeled, "Burned‑out matches for an old flame." After sacrificing seven orchids, 34 pineapple malts, and 16 hours of moonlit rowing to that ingrate, she invites some palid, suntanned college man whose personality is obviously inferior to my illustrious personality.

Naturally I will display my appreciation of proper etiquette and gracious chivalry by letting Melissa buy the tickets, check the coats, open the doors, pay for the pizza, and tip the waitress. In fact, I will even let her change a tire if necessary.

Should I survive till the hour, of return to my fortified lair,