The Sit Up Theory (from Punk Minneapolis)


an excerpt from my published novel




(This excerpt from my published novel is censored for the internet)


(The scene takes place at a pizza parlor where Raven and Becky are working)




“No way. Everybody thinks yuppies are so smart so they can’t get away with anything. They think punkers are stupid so it’s easy for us to just stand there and void out the register even with the manager right there. In fact, once Big Foot actually did laugh at me like I was stupid.” Becky chortled.


“Anybody can follow the principles of the sit-up theory if they want to.”


“What’s that?” Becky asked.


“Weren’t you ever in gym class?”


“Of course,” Becky lied. “Only the retards and cripples got out of gym class. Do you think I was ever a retard or a cripple? F### you. What’s the sit-up theory?”


“Have you ever done a sit-up?”


“Of course,” she lied some more.


Raven explained, “Well, the sit-up theory is that at the beginning of the year when they count how many sit-ups you can do, you pretend to barely be able to do only one. Then at the end of the year when they retest you and you can do two, they give you a good score because they think you’ve really made progress. It fools them every time. But, you were able to do two from the get-go!”


“Oh yeah, I did that. I’m cool. I bet you looked really stupid in gym shorts.”


“We all did.”


Becky lied, “I wore black fishnets with bits of cool things hanging off here and there.”


“The Uptown Socialist People’s Union will not be crushed!”


“Oh shut the f### up. Punks are for Anarchy anyway, space ships and Atlantis, and safety pins. Not Unions.”


“Our union is about revenge. An organized revenge, and to have a lot of fun at it.”


She smiled. “Oh yeah, party party!”


The blond guy brought back his application. Raven and Becky both ogled it, as she read, “Oh, hi Brett Smith. You’re twenty-three. That’s getting pretty up there. I see you’ve kept your tummy trim for being a guy that’s getting older. How many push-ups can you do? It’s not written down here. How can you not be dead? Middle class culture is so awful I don’t know why everybody in it just doesn’t die on the spot. You just rot away. I barely got out in time, but you don’t look like you’re even trying to free yourself.”


“You’re free until you go to prison.”


“And, indeed, you graduated. Wooh. But we wonder… did you go to school on the long bus or on the short bus?”


“Stop that,” Brett ordered. “Just give it to the manager.” They did. He left.


“What a dweeb,” Becky said. “I know there was an Izod somewhere on him. Maybe it crawled up his nose and ate his brain AAA-AA-AAH and that’s why we just couldn’t see it.”





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