Like an orange on a toothpick

I went to school with two kids who had extremely large heads.

The first guy had a melon that was proportional to his equally large body. His football helmet was a special order. When we were sized for graduation, the paper tape measure used for his cap size didn’t even reach all the way around his head. They gave him the largest size available but it still looked like a square, powder-blue, cardboard yarmulke. He was commonly known as Pumpkinhead Jones and while he certainly didn’t rejoice in the name he did little to stop its application. He was widely liked by the general student body.

The second guy had an equally humongous coconut but his body was of a normal (if not under-developed) size. He was widely disliked by the general student body.

As a trade-off to for this Barry Bonds-like affliction, God blessed him with a high IQ and powerful inner drive. Class President, Mensa member, head of Model UN, were some of the results. And like Barry Bonds, he was also a giant douche-bag.

This doucehery came to, uh, “a head” the summer after I graduated but while the D was entering her junior year. Several of the more attractive girls from the incoming senior class received letters from “prestigious modeling agency” claiming to be impressed by their good looks. They could easily secure high-priced contracts if they simply sent photos of themselves in underwear or bathing suits to the address provided.

Naturally, most of these girls saw through the classic Wyatt Donnelly Hustle and someone’s parents called the police. The address belonged to giant-head’s grandmother and the dots were easily connected. There were threats of criminal charges including, unbelievably, federal mail fraud but in the end the kid’s father had the whole affair swept under the rug or his giant pillow.

I guess it worked out because according to the D:

He went to either Yale or Harvard and sang in one of those a cappella groups that do the Martha Stuart xmas show.

The previous sentence should dispel any doubts to my claims to his douchiness. She came to this knowledge after she found out her class had its ten year reunion last week and she was not invited. The guy was supposed to be in charge of planning the event but didn’t. Instead, a few kids got together at a local bard and toasted his swollen head. She’s hoping to catch up with some of the participants this week to find out what else has happened to he classmates.

Either way, it won’t be as impressive as the kid from my class who invented Skinny Cow Ice Cream. That’s right, he invents ice cream for a living. And he’s better at it than you are at your job.