‘Back to school’ might mean setting the backyard on fire

Jason Offutt

Back to school.

For some students, it means new pencils and a fresh box of 64-count crayons.

For others it means new shoes and a haircut.

For the college boys who live behind our house, it means stacking up a bunch of wooden pallets at 2 a.m. and setting them on fire.

I’m not sure where a bunch of early 20-somethings can get enough pallets to make a bonfire. I’m also not sure why 2 a.m. seems to be the best time to light it and toss a Frisbee around.

But I guess a Frisbee is a better choice than a football because a Frisbee only takes one hand. They all have a beer in the other.

I think 6 p.m. would be a much better time for a pallet party. Better for their GPA, and better for all the cranky neighbors who have to get up and go to work.

“I need to tell them to shut the hell up,” I told my wife one night as I looked out our bedroom window.

The Pallet Boys stood around a bonfire listening to country music. If they were going to blare music at 2 a.m., they could at least play something I liked to hear at 2 a.m., which is nothing at all.

“You were in college once,” was all she said.

That’s all she needed to say.

College students do stupid things; it’s their nature.

I slid the window shut and went back to bed.

I’m pretty sure if there were a medical condition to describe me between my freshman and senior years of college, it would be Chronic Post-Pubescent Dumbassery. Studies show this affliction occurs in roughly 49 percent of the population.

According to U.S. Census data, 49 percent of the population is male.

Hmm, that’s odd.

In college, it was common in the winter for my roommates and I to go outside in the snow, fire up the grill, sit in lawn chairs and drink beer.

It might be 15 degrees with the wind blowing and we’d be bundled up, a boom box on our front porch playing an odd mix of Judas Priest and Jimmy Buffett, and we’d play horseshoes.

You ever throw a horseshoe into a snowdrift?

It’s a lot like looking for D.B. Cooper. Something flies through the air, disappears into nature, and is never seen again.

“Shut the hell up,” our landlord yelled more than once. He needed to; we were loud — just like the Pallet Boys.

My roommates and I also sat outside in lawn chairs and drank beer during tornado warnings. Why not? We lived in a trailer.

So, fellow cranky old farts, the next time your college-age neighbors light fire to something in the middle of the night and set off fireworks, remember when you also suffered from Chronic Post-Pubescent Dumbassery and give them a break.

Unless you have to get up for work the next morning, then feel free to yell at them to shut the hell up.

Jason Offutt’s novel, “A Funeral Story,” is available at amazon.com.