I was reminded of this story today, and felt it necessary to share. It's senior year of high school. Advanced Placement English class. My classmates and I were off in small groups, creating short stories. I don't remember the details of the particular assignment, but the stories were incredibly random. Really, that is neither here nor there, because the story, itself, is irrelevant. It was the title. The title of our story brought all the glory.
I was in a group with a few boys. Put me and three 17-year-old boys together to write a story, and well, chaos. One of them, who shall remain nameless, had a brilliant title. We hemmed and hawed and giggled before finally writing it down on paper. The title was vaguely relevant to the story. It was about a car that was involved in a small crash.
The words of our story took up one full page of notebook paper; the title plastered on the top line. Our teacher, a young, good-looking man, collected the stories with the intention of reading them aloud to the class. Again, I don't know why. But that doesn't matter...
Because when our young, attractive English teacher took to the front of the class and read, aloud, "My Dixie Wrecked," my life was never the same. Not. Ever. I will laugh for the rest of eternity.
(Tip: read the title of this post out loud)