The weather is warming up, the flowers are blooming, and spring is in the air. It’s the season of rebirth, growth, and reproduction — and everybody wants to get in on the fun. Bees carry pollen from bud to bud, preparing the plant to germinate anew. The flatworm Platyhelimenthes engages in phallic fencing. An observant scientist might even be able to catch a pair of ladybugs or beetles combining haploids in the midst of procreation (in layman’s terms: doin’ tha dirty dirty), a process which the renowned biologist Charles Darwin deemed “totally hot.” In short: It’s spring, and everybody is sprung.

The evidence for this is all around us. Boys try to improve their fit and up their swag to higher levels than ever, not unlike the male peacock touting its plumage in an elaborate mating ritual. Girls take advantage of the balmy temperatures to sport short-shorts so minuscule that the fabric used in their production was actually spun from a single cotton plant. Health class attracts far more interest than normal, and cases of in-class arousal by pubescent males are at a yearlong high. This is a difficult time. Fortunately, our culture has adopted several coping mechanisms to get us through the season. Hundreds of photos of shirtless sophomore boys and bikini-clad sophomore girls on the Hawaii trip are splayed across the internet. And of course, rapidly approaching on the horizon is the most important event of the season: prom. It’s the greatest night of high school, the culmination of years of tedious schooling leading up to the prom-night climax. There’s only one problem. Prom is a week away. And I’m a junior.

As a younger man, getting a prom date is no simple task. This is one night where a girl won’t settle — she wants the limo, the designer dress, the corsage, and Mr. Right on her arm. Somehow, I’ve got to fool a senior into thinking that I’m that guy.

I don’t want to let all this self-deprecating humor go too far, or you faithful readers might start taking me seriously. So now, let me be straight with you. I’m an immensely appealing candidate for a prom date. I’m smart, funny, romantic, and am currently being recruited to play NCAA Basketball for the University of North Carolina. I once performed open-heart surgery while simultaneously writing President Obama’s first national address and composing the chamber music piece for the inauguration. So I’m kind of a big deal. Nevertheless, this isn’t going to be easy.

One obstacle to my success is the complex etiquette that prevents me from taking the initiative. Any goober senior can get a date — all he’s got to do is pull off a really exorbitant, over-the-top invitation that the girl is too polite to decline. But as a junior, I can’t do the asking myself — instead, I’m forced to wait for the offer from the senior girl to come my way.

I’m not really into taking risks, so I’ve been brainstorming ways that I can acquire a date. I’ve got two primary stratagems at this point: the first is to act respectful and polite, and simultaneously suave and flirtatious towards every eligible senior girl I know. My backup plan is to genetically insert arsenic into every marijuana plant controlled by the cartel serving the greater Seattle area, which should incapacitate 97% of ’09 boys.

Things haven’t been going so hot. Despite all my efforts, I’ve come up empty-handed, save several restraining orders and a pending trial date. Plus, there was this one time where I thought I could help my chances by sneaking into an entire home for seniors. But get this — it was just a bunch of old people. Just my luck!

Still, I’m not stressing yet — there’s still plenty of time until the big night. On the contrary, I’m fairly confident at this point that I’ll be able to haul in a top-notch date. Nevertheless, if I fail for too much longer, I may get more desperate. I’ll be perfectly willing to settle for a sexually ambiguous date. If the time comes closer still, I might begin scouring my house for inanimate objects that merely look like high school girls.

If the whole prom thing doesn’t work out, there’s only one real solution: I’ll be forced to move up the age spectrum. I’m talking Baby Boomers. It’s Cougar season, and I ain’t talking about Washington State University.

UPDATE: MR. WENER-FLIGNER IS NO LONGER AVAILABLE. BLAOW!