We Are Rantasaurus Rex, Hear Us Roar

Joe Drinker, hanging like meat in a bucher shop 

Way back when I was in High School, my church youth group went on a “missions” trip to Jamaica. Some missions marketing genius finally figured out that if you want people to pony up a ton of their own money to fly around the world with you to build houses in the jungle, there had better be some perks included. Hence, Jamaica. Two weeks of work, with time off for touristy stuff. Count me in!

Now, despite the fact that this was, as I said, a church group, it was, more importantly, a group of high schoolers. High schoolers with raging hormones, senses piqued in anticipation, going to be further away from our families than any of us had ever been before. Yes, some good would come out of this trip, but, ah, not the kind you can print in the brochure.

In the airport, when we first arrived, my buddy and I did what the rest of the guys did: we scoped out the co-eds who would be accompanying the group, and there were many. This is going to be great. As soon as I saw her, I was a goner: tall, with long brown hair, big brown eyes, a crazy tan, the cute baby-doll face - I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I was speechless.

On the first flight, fate dealt me a cruel blow by putting her seat way up towards the front of the plane, in what seemed to be the “beauty queen” section, while my friend and I were seated towards the back of the plane, near the lavatory. Bad for me, but good for my friend, because he didn’t seem to get along too well with air travel. Flying from Phoenix to Chicago to Florida, around Cuba (don’t want to get shot down), and on to Kingston, Jamaica, not once was I anywhere near the girl of my dreams. People around me must have thought I was super-spiritual with all the praying I was doing, but truth be told, I was really counting on a force greater than myself to orchestrate the meeting, falling in love, staying in Jamaica forever plan. Because I was incredibly shy, unless I was going to be seated next to her by an outside mandate I probably would never speak to her.

And I didn’t. For over a week, even though I was continually in her group as we went out in teams into the jungle to do, uh, whatever it was that we were supposed to be doing, I went along with her. And about 12 other people, but still, I’ll take what I can get.

Then, finally, one of the much-anticipated days off. In the Caribbean. This is the place where people come to honeymoon – love is all around us, flowing like, um, well, you get the point. It just couldn’t get any better than this. The planets had aligned. I made my move.

I worked up the courage to talk to her for a little bit at Montego Bay, and then when the group headed over to Dunn’s River Falls, we talked and walked together. By this time I was infatuated. We got to the falls, and, being the gentleman that I am, I held her hand, leading her up the slick rocks. It just got better and better. After several hours, we loaded the bus and we all drove into Kingston searching for food. It didn’t take long - real high school food straight ahead: Burger King!

We walked inside together, and when we got in line, she moved up a bit to giggle with some of her friends, and my buddy came up from the end of the line to talk to me. This must have been the only fast-food place in the city, because it was hopping. While standing there, I started to get really cold, but I thought it was just because this was the first air conditioning I’d felt in ten days, but something just wasn’t right – a draft, brushing me someplace it shouldn’t. Not wanting to make a scene, I ask my friend if I had a tear or something in the back of my swim trunks, he immediately begins shrieking in laughter. Not just a good hearty chuckle, but an all-out, hyperventilating uproar, complete with pointing. Not a good sign. Once he can breathe, he suggests that I may want to head to the restroom to fix the issue with my shorts.

Once in the restroom, I undo the drawstring and the shorts basically turn into chaps and fall off. Somehow, I managed to rip the seam from the waistband in back all the way between my legs to the bottom of the fly in front, effectively creating a peep show with every step. These shorts weren’t the kind with the netting failsafe netting sewn into them either. I was humiliated.

“Hello beautiful stranger. I’ll be your escort through this romantic hideaway. I’ve worn my special crotchless shorts for the occasion. Enjoy the view.”

The second week there was spent avoiding her and her friends, and since there was no way that the rest of the team wasn’t going to hear about it, I was shunned. An outcast, I spent most of my remaining time with the locals. I even found a few who hadn’t heard about my “incident,” and they let me hang out with them during our free times.

And that, friends, is how I learned to play cricket.

Rantasaurus Says: See, that’s the problem with your human clothing. I walk around with no pants on, like Donald Duck. I lay it all out there and wait for the ladies to come a-knockin’. Not too many ladies so far but… um… nevermind.