(WARNING: The following column contains volatile opinions about very important issues that, if misinterpreted by the right people, could leave the author lacking various important organs and/ or body parts. Therefore, if you are strong, big, or otherwise in a position to ruin my life in any number of ways, I suggest you move on to Mr. Wilson's column, for the safety of everyone involved. Don't say I didn't try to warn you.)

I don't like Homecoming.

I'm sorry! Don't hit me!

I've always tried to keep this dirty little secret under wraps. But there's just something about it that irks me to no end, always has. It could have something to do with the fact that the girls are expected to wear itchy knee-length taffeta dresses (except the extremely thin and pretty girls, who pretty much could wear a garbage bag and fuzzy bunny slippers and still get their picture on the cover of Glamour magazine) while the men could get away with khaki pants and a tie. Maybe it's the intensely bizarre notion of elevating two of your peers to the status of royalty-- in reality, would you want to be compared to Queen Elizabeth? The woman is a frog!

Most likely (and this is pretty much the pattern of my life thus far) my general dislike of the day in inextricably linked to the fact that I could never get a date. And when I finally did, he would only dance to songs by REM, and made repeated references to how my dress reminded him of a character on Star Trek: the Next Generation. The evening ended with a grandma kiss, and a deep hatred of women capable of finding socially acceptable men to squire them to dances.

(This gets funnier. I swear.)

Now, as I suffer pain easily and am of a weak build, I'd like to soften my inflammatory statements by adding that homecoming is really not all that bad. In fact, it can be quite dandy if you have the right atmosphere. And there's always the chance that someone could add a little something special to the punch (shall we say... grapefruit juice?), allowing hilarity to ensue, Happy Days style.

There's just a few things I, as the (obviously) self appointed queen of cool, would suggest to liven up the festivities:

1. Forget the old King and Queen routine: instead, simply crown a Lord of the Dance. Michael Flatley would be so proud!

2. Just for fun, dump a bucket of pigs' blood on someone. Make certain all exits are clear in case of psychokinetic mayhem.

3. Forget the cheesy homecoming souvenirs. Just give us the freaking AU cookies you promised us!

4. Every time a Celine Dion song is played, sacrifice a maiden to the angry god of power love ballads.

5. For the ladies: Bob Mackie sheaths and elbow length gloves. For the men: thongs, thongs, thongs!

6. Two words: monkey chaperons.

Clearly, there's nothing wrong with the dance the way it is now. In fact, it's probably the greatest event happening at AU this year. No; I may go even further and say that it's the greatest event ever to occur on the face of the planet. (Did that sound sincere? Because it was. Truly. Very sincere.) But sometimes even the greatest things can use a little help. I mean, I know that if even one of these ideas were implemented, I'd be there. Unless there was an angry mob waiting to beat me up. Then, maybe not.