Twenty-two articles have been written in this column since the beginning of the year and as Chuck and I sat down to write this week’s we were again reminded by our all too predictable styles of writing. Being the more prude and image conscious writer, I suggested my normal “there’s no way Chuck can make this perverted” topics such as the end of Lenten promises, or how I cannot seem to wean myself off Easter Baskets. Chuck, on the other hand, pointed out that we have been writing about holidays too often and should somehow get back to basics; why not an article about a sexual encounter of some sort? I didn’t know what weird “encounters” he had in mind or had experienced, so we agreed a roast might be in order. Thus, I write a story based on the wisdom of our famed He Said, entitled “I love it when you wear panties, I love it when you don’t wear panties.” l l l It’s a typical spring night down at Fairfield Beach. Picture me, the boozehound ladies man I am lounging back in a chair on my beach house deck. I’m sipping on a little Courvoisier when I hear the Miniskirt Mafia stroll by my house and enter inside. Enter stage right, a dime-piece who is scantily clad in miniskirt and skimpy top. Being the king of my castle, lord of the manor, I naturally do what any college guy would do. I approach the girl, invite her for a keg beer, proceed to hump her leg while smiling my delirious smile (which nine times out of 10 results in a lay), and casually ask her to be my Beirut partner. All related conversation during the game goes according to plan. We establish her bra size and her legitimacy as either an 18-or 19-year-old. The conversation is heightened when I find out she actually checks my weekly updated AIM links to the He Said column and has been dying to see my room…along with another girlfriend standing near the other side of the room! Unable to control my salivary glands or motor senses, I drool on her top and grab for a boobie touch. She questions my intentions for a minute, but I explain I’m covering her up because she may have gotten a little excited, accounting for the drool stain prominent on her shirt. Her intoxication with me breeds tomfoolery and tomfoolery breeds my missionary-style utopia dreams. It is for these brief moments of meaningless and unattached passion that I heart the crap out of college and will continue to pursue these hot babies as long as possible.
This week’s magic number: 2, the number of dragons this article turned out to be.
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