Tongue wars make observer gag

  If your hands aren’t busy elsewhere, e-mail Cass with
your horror stories at [email protected].

Once upon a time in a land far, far away (read: just last year
in Encinitas, Calif.) there was a very tight group of high school
friends. And I don’t mean hang-out-at-lunch tight. I mean the
go-for-midnight-swims,
play-hide-and-go-seek-on-the-roof-of-the-school, and
have-a-dance-party-in-the-back-of-a-pickup-truck kind of tight.
This group was about as entertaining as they come.

On Thanksgiving, I returned home only to find that the high
school marvel I left two months ago was no longer the easy,
happy-go-lucky crew it had once been. Instead, it had become a
happy-to-get-lucky-easy group infested with long distance
romances.

The line separating couples’ private time from group time
was transparent, at best. Gratuitous kissing, caressing and
fondling were as common in taco shops as they were in the bedroom.
Updates on college life were surrendered in one-word answers or
incomplete phrases when couples were forced to come up for air.

I spent most of my spare time trying to decide whether
Wes’n’tracy or Tracy’n’wes was the most
phonetically pleasing. I finally decided that it didn’t
matter since neither would be able to answer with a mouthful of
tongue.

The disgusting verbal displays of affection outlasted even the
longest public make-out sessions. I can’t tell you how sick I
am of the phrase “No, I love you more!” I’ve
never heard so much romantic babbling in my life. Romeo would be
rolling in his grave if he heard some of the lines that my friends
spewed at each other. By the time winter break rolls around,
I’ll need to find a good pair of earplugs or a new group of
friends, because my eardrums and my stomach just can’t take
any more of this abuse.

And everyone was so damn tired all the time. What happened
to the adventures we used to have? Where had all our energy gone?
At first I thought the strains of college or long trips home were
slowing us down. Then, I realized that if people hadn’t been
up all night wearing themselves out, along with that poor old
mattress, we could have had some real fun.

By the time I got away from my friends and to the Thanksgiving
feast I came home for, I couldn’t find my appetite
anywhere. I looked all over the place. I checked the
turkey, cranberry sauce, the stuffing and even the pumpkin pie
before deciding it wasn’t in the kitchen. I searched
under the bed, in the closet, behind the couch, and on top of
spaghetti, but it was nowhere to be found.

It turns out the search was futile from the start, because I
wasn’t even sure whether it had gotten stuck between a pair
of my lovesick friends or if I had just lost it when they gagged me
with a spoon.

By now, I know you’re probably thinking that I just have
an exceptionally horny group of friends. And you might be
right. But don’t pretend that the same type of thing
doesn’t go on in your own circle, too. Incestuous
groups, whether high school friends, dormitory floors or entire
apartment buildings, are all over the place. If pheromone
dependency were considered a problem, the addiction levels would be
through the roof. In fact, somebody better start a 12-step
program for these people before it’s too late.

I’m not asking anyone for a vow of
celibacy. I’ve got a girlfriend, too. A long-distance
one, at that. But there’s really not any need to put on
a show for our friends just to show how much we care. I’m
happy for all the happy couples and all, but get a room
already!