The party was held in the gym, and as school parties

went, it started out as good as any. In fact, it was a heck of

a lot better than most of the parties held by the officially

sanctioned clubs. There was a band that did some Beatles

songs and even tried to do stuff by The Temptations. We

had plenty of food and lots of decorations. The decorations

were extremely weird because they were made to look

like parts of the cell, including ribosomes, endoplasmic

reticuli, and mitochondria. It all looked pretty accurate

according to pictures from the biology books. But then

again, decorating the whole side of a gymnasium with

ribosomes was strange. A huge cardboard mitochondrion

hung from one of the backboards. The centerpiece was a

green blob of stuff that was supposed to be the nucleolus.

Phil told me that the crazy artist Andy Warhol would

probably really appreciate the decorations. Of course, that

was before the trouble started.

Jonathan was just about to pick the king and queen

of the cell, when we heard some yelling over in the far

corner of the gym. Nobody was sure who had started

the argument, but it looked like it was turning into an

argument between a Golgi body and a ribosome. Then

other Golgi bodies came to the defense of the one Golgi

body, and a bunch of ribosomes came to the defense of

the ribosome. Well, soon some endoplasmic reticuli joined

106 | The Revolt of the Golgi Bodies

up with the ribosomes, and some mitochondria took the

side of the Golgi bodies. Then somebody started throwing

food, and soon there was an all-out food fight. They

started throwing around pieces of scenery too, so there

were chunks of mitochondria and pieces of ribosomes

flying all over the gym along with bologna sandwiches and

Fritos. It was full-scale biological warfare. The combatants

were destroying everything. They started tearing away at

the nucleolus structure. Finally, Mr. Little tried to come

to the rescue; he grabbed the microphone from the band

singer and started yelling for everyone to calm down. But

nobody was about to listen. Then Mr. Little got hit with

a piece of mitochondrion scenery with a little mustard on

it, so he gave up and hid over with the band.

It looked like the fight was going to go on forever,

until Jonathan got another one of his brainstorms.

We were huddled under the remains of the nucleolus

structure, when Jonathan got the idea that if he could get

Mr. Little to say, “Sock it to me, baby,” and get a bucket

of water thrown in his face, maybe the kids would stop

fighting to watch their principal be humiliated. Jonathan

sent Phil out to get Mr. Little, who was hiding behind the

bass player, and he brought Mr. Little with us into what

Jonathan was calling the command bunker. I figured

Jonathan felt that if he was going to be the president and

the commander in chief of our armed forces someday,

then this would be a good place to start using military

lingo. He explained his plan to Mr. Little, who shook his

head and ran his hands through his thinning gray hair.

Jonathan told Mr. Little that he was our only hope and

then tried to butter up old gullible Mr. Little with stories

about heroic acts by great Americans, such as Teddy

Roosevelt and the Rough Riders and John F. Kennedy

and the PT-109, and then of course, he had to throw in

Bob Gibson and his performance against the Yankees in

the 1964 World Series. I gave Jonathan a glare because he

knew the ’64 World Series was a sore spot with me.

Mr. Little proved to be more gullible than I thought,

and he bought the bait hook, line, and sinker. “Well, I

guess somebody has to do something,” he said with a stiff

upper lip.

I went to get a bucket of water, but Jonathan whispered

to me to take along Phil and get as many buckets of

water as we could. Phil and I went out to the nearest slop

sink, ducking flying pretzels, bowls of onion dip, and

strawberry-ice-cream-covered endoplasmic reticuli along

the way. When we got back, each with two buckets of

water, Jonathan was at the microphone with Mr. Little

alongside him. There was a spotlight on them. Jonathan

had the drummer play a drumroll.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jonathan said, “and Golgi

bodies of all ages, your principal has something important

to say to you.”

The fighting subsided a bit, and a few kids looked

over. I gave a bucket of water to Jonathan. Mr. Little

stepped up to the microphone and yelled, “Sock it to

me, baby!” Wham! Jonathan threw the pail of water at

Mr. Little. Some of the kids were watching, but most of

them were still throwing around Kraft American cheese

slices and bits of ribosomes. Then Mr. Little yelled again,

108 | The Revolt of the Golgi Bodies

“Sock it to me, baby!” Jonathan threw another pail of

water at Mr. Little. Some of the kids stopped fighting and

cheered. I raced out for two more buckets of water. Just

before I got into the hall, I heard Mr. Little say, “Sock it

to me, baby!” again, and there went another pail of water.

The kids started cheering more. Finally, after nine shouts

of “Sock it to me, baby!” and nine buckets of water, all

hostilities ceased, and the partygoers gave Mr. Little a

standing ovation.

Ole Mr. Little had saved the day. He was a hero—

pretty darn wet but a hero. He told us that things

were a lot different in the days of the founding of the

technicians’ club, back in 1952, when that guy Ike was

elected president. According to Mr. Little, back then,

things were a whole lot simpler.