A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

"And all the world is biscuit shaped"

For only the second time since moving into our house four years ago, someone (most likely consarned teen-aged punks) has vandalized my car. Nothing serious - merely a single egg on the driver's side window - easily cleaned with no permanent damage.

The only reason I mention it here is because it occured almost three years to the day since the last incident (also a lone egging). At that time, I composed this little homily to my youth for a mailing list I'm on. With your indulgence (and because I'm watching Game 5 and not up for much in the way of deep thought), I'll present it here (in updated form) for you.

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Someone egged my car last night.

I had a number of reactions to this: bemusement that kids[1] are still doing something as prosaic as egging things; minor annoyance that I had to go back into the house and get 409 and a paper towel[2]; and a feeling of (literally) warm, gooey nostalgia.

Back in my day(TM) you could egg things, sure, but those can do a lot of damage to the paint, especially if the eggee doesn't notice it right away. Toilet papering (or "wrapping") was mostly harmless, but the amount of time and number of people necessary for a thorough job almost always worked against the pereptrators. Some guys I knew used pickles (seriously) in their weekend rounds, and maybe the sweet gherkins were okay, but those kosher dills could bust a window, or worse. No, we in my select circle of adolescent malcontents preferred a more holistic approach to high school rampages. We used biscuits.

You know the kind I'm talking about - round-cut in a can that popped when you opened it. Buttermilk were nice, but not required (crescent rolls were right out). You could get eight or ten cans for a dollar back then, and many were the raised eyebrows elicited by a cluster of adolescent weiners coming through the checkout at HEB with nothing but a gross of Pillsbury Hungry Jack.

Fairly bursting with doughy goodness, we'd return to the vehicle of choice (a suitable conveyance was always required for a successful Biscuit Assault Run). Sometimes it would be my 1975 Buick LeSabre - the lack of a support between the front and rear side windows made for excellent sidearm throws. Other times we would take a friend's station wagon - put the tailgate down and two could stand up in back for dual 360 degree turret action.

From there it was hijinx galore. No neighborhood escaped, though being budding leftists we tended to frequent the posher subdivisions. No school building was safe, and woe be to any girl who had recently broken up with/mocked/ignored us[3].

And always remember: the biscuit sticks better if you chew it up for just a few seconds prior to throwing, too long and it's like throwing a handful of batter.

I'll point out that biscuits come off of cars, houses, and cats quite easily. Plus, there's none of the social backlash involved with eggs, toilet paper, or *shudder* mailbox baseball. Biscuiting is very pacifistic. You come away with a sort of vanilla
sense of bad boyishness, even though you haven't really done anything.

Having my car egged doesn't upset me. If I believed in karma, I'd call it payback for other, more barbaric, acts of my youth (and honestly, I'd be amazed it didn't happen every night, weekend, and bank holiday). Hell, if egging my piece of crap vehicle keeps them from going after The Wife's or the neighbors' cars, I'm willing to lean into the strike zone.

It's just sort of depressing that ever since my high school days, I've never come across anyone else who enjoyed the time-honored exercise in dorkitude known as biscuiting.

Hey, *you* grow up in College Station.

P.S. The Spurs won.

[1] I hope
[2] It's the cleanest that side of the car has been in months
[3] That covered just about all of them