Senior Picnic is a carousal for South Park's false gods m.c.r.t. (more commonly referred to) as the football players/perfect opportunity to get drunk and make an ass of yourself/excuse to see your peers in their swimwear and mock where appropriate.
The cheerleaders amassed in the parking lot before the faculty managed to sardine us into yellow buses and foist us onto the unsuspecting water park to perform their rehearsed-impromptu-cheer. The Cowgirls shouted Ra Ta Ta and shook their tatas for the boys to the tune of "my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard."
Go team go.
It's during the hip-hip-clap-highkick that Bebe looks over and winks, and this is what I'm pondering—particularly the hidden (?) implication in the purple eye shadow and the especial curvature of her eyebrow—when the bus breaks out in whoops and a Boy Arm is thrown in my face, pointing to the sign out the window.
WATER PARK, and, on sandwich boards set up by the entrance:
Alcohol Strictly Prohibited.
Ha. Ha, and Ha again.
In the next hour I observe four things that, were I not already turned onto girls, would've been sufficient to turn me off from boys for good:
1) Cartman trying to start a hula for some indiscernible reason. Fat boy in grass skirt and coconut bra + Butters being beaten with a ukulele (actually a violin, but Cartman thinks Kyle is lying) Not sexy by any stretch of the imagination.
2) Craig superintending the barbecue. Nothing wrong with that—at least, there wouldn't have been if, immediately prior to handling the meat I hadn't spotted him popping zits in his reflection on the grill.
3) Jimmy working out a "genius" routine that involves stuffing a hot dog up each nostril, which is directly responsible for number
4), Stan laughing so hard that soda gushes from his nose like water from a faucet.
In conclusion: if lesbianism were a choice, no guy would get pussy.
Ever.
I tried to displant myself from the testosterone by going swimming, but I only managed to depress myself by encountering a suicidal bee. No matter how many times I fished it out of the chlorine water, it kept crawling back in. Eventually I gave up, found a spot on the grass to sunbathe, and went back to contemplating Bebe and the sly quirk in her mouth that shows up whenever she sees me see her.
A immaculate shoulder blots out the sun, and Bebe grins and plops down next to me, wearing nothing but one of the Alcohol Strictly Prohibited sandwich boards. I stare at the 3 inch high monospaced typeface hung over her chest.
"My bikini got stolen," she says spasmodically, giggling.
"I noticed."
The lip tweak resurfaces. "Aren't you going to offer me your jacket like a gentleman?"
"I only have a swimsuit."
"I've got another sandwich sign." Her eyes kindle suddenly and she jumps up, seizing my hand and pulling me up with her. "Ooo!" she clamors, thrusting an enthused hand toward the high dive, "look!"
Kenny McCormick, the only boy emaciated enough to fit into a girl's clothes, is up there in Bebe's thieved top and g-string, strutting up and down the springboard like it's a catwalk.
"He's going to fall off and kill himself," I prophesy.
"Oooo, if he gets blood on it I'll kill him," she says without the slightest touch of irony.