I cannot whistle.
I mean, I can whistle with my lips. Oh yes, I can whistle the shit out of some Dixie. But I can’t do the stadium whistle. That’s the technical name for it, in case you weren’t aware. You know– where you stick your index finger and your pinky on either side of your mouth and blow really hard and somehow it creates a very loud, very shrill whistle? I cannot do that.
When I have nothing to do I like to try and figure this whistling thing out. I will sit there for hours inserting fingers and blowing and inserting fingers and blowing and inserting fingers and blowing until I am just covered in my own drool and there is a five-foot damp spot on the carpet in front of me. Because you just never know when you could be in a situation that urgently calls for a stadium whistle.
This keeps me up at night.
Like what if I’m lost in the fucking woods with a broken leg and I can hear the search-and-rescue team traipsing around shouting, “BRIANNA JOHNSON! IF YOU CAN HEAR US, PLEASE RESPOND WITH A STADIUM WHISTLE! THE ONLY VALID RESPONSE IS A STADIUM WHISTLE AND IF YOU HAVE ANY OTHER WAY TO RESPOND YOU SHOULD ABANDON THAT AND RESPOND ONLY WITH A STADIUM WHISTLE!”
See? In a situation like that, I am totally fucked. Bear food.
Even worse than dying inside of a bear’s stomach is this:
I am at a stadium with someone really cool. Let’s just say, hmmm, I don’t know, Zac Efron. I totally don’t have fantasies about him, by the way. I just picked his name out of nowhere. Really. Anyway, so Zac Efron and I are at a stadium. Maybe we are seeing a concert, maybe a hockey game, I don’t know– Use your imagination; I am not here to do all your heavy lifting for you. So we’re at this hockey concert and something spectacular happens and the only appropriate response is to bust out a stadium whistle. Zac Efron, being Zac Efron, makes it look so easy. Insert fingers, blow, make the whistle happen. And he does it with a wink. NOW ALL EYES ARE ON ME. And by all eyes, I mean Zac Efron’s two eyes. Do it, Brianna. Just fucking stadium whistle the shit out of that stadium. DO IT.
And I can’t. And the JumboTron camera pans to me, frozen, my own inability displayed on a ten-foot by ten-foot screen for Zac Efron and all the other people-who-are-not-as-hot-as-Zac-Efron to see.
I am going to die without Zac Efron, inside of a bear’s stomach, because I cannot stadium whistle.