There's a commotion behind me. People are casting bored looks at the tv and then taking second glances. And thirds. And finally getting sucked in, their mouths open in the same befuddlement that salmon no doubt experience when a bear bitch-slaps them out of the water. What is happening?
I turn to look.
There is--can it be? No, not possible. But it is! Against any logic or sanity, Rick Astley is dancing his way across the screen. Well, I think you know what I mean by dancing, because if I can be frank, and I think we're all honest people here, I personally feel that sort of movement should be outlawed. Anyways.
"We're no strangers to loooooove," says Rick Astley's inexplicably deep voice. "You know the rules, and so! do! I!"
People are muttering. In the corner, someone is staring at the screen in a pose that suggests that his brain might be dribbling out his ears. Even our teacher, cool unflappable Ms. Glatter, looks like it wasn't worth leaving her old job teaching inner-city kids for this. And I? I have a cold feeling in my stomach, the one you get when you're either going to burst out laughing or die.
Rick Astley gyrates, shattering several laws of physics. And decency. "Oh, that's attractive," says someone.
But it's like a train wreck. A public flogging. Michael Jackson. You can't stop watching.
It stops. Oh god, it stops. Big, capslocked letters march onto the screen. RICKROLLED, they proclaim, following by no less than seven proud exclamation marks. (!!!!!!!, they exclaim.) (Really, seven?)
Ah. Yes, I think I'd figured that one out, thanks.
And they never did tell us what was for lunch.
Context, quipped, whole post.