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To Protect the Guilty

       It stands to reason that in the folly of our youth, we have attached to us adventures and escapades we might now find embarrassing to the point of wishing those who bore witness and remember would just go ahead and die. Be that as it may, the stories surrounding such social discomfort are likely quite entertaining for the rest of us. While none told herein exceeds in scope and shame those revealed, or personally related, about myself, I am honor bound by the pact that holds this protracted bull session together to respect the limitations of those who embarrass easily, or who may have spouses who are even remotely interested in these ribald old yarns. While the names and identifying details have been changed, and some may not even be about anyone likely to read this blog, if you do, I’m sure you know who you are.           

       Back in the glory days of Goodyear, there lived down the hall from us a remarkably attractive coed known to us only as Denise. As many of the gentlemen in the hallway oft gathered on Thursday and weekend evening to drink the fruits of the frequent beer runs, talk would invariably focus in on her many admirable attributes. Let’s be honest here, that is not how we put it, but maturity has overruled even my lack of good taste to repeat the vulgar ramblings of drunken 19 year olds at the height of their sexual powers. While the majority of the language was construction site standard (though always out of earshot), one person in particular always had a particularly imaginative list of actions he felt would be ideal in courting her favor. I believe the list included chains, peanut butter and a cricket paddle. Who were we to judge? He seemed like a normal enough fellow although I hadn’t known him long. In any case, his perverted ramblings inspired an idea.           

       I consulted Knaus, always a valuable resource when bouncing around a potentially bad idea. He was in favor and urged me on. I sat down at my desk, and in very slow, deliberate, looping script, I composed a hand written note taking into account his peanut butter paddling fantasies, then kicked it up to a whole new level of raunchy kink. I must say, it was a masterwork, and would have done even the likes of Mooney proud. Let me segue for a moment and explain why a counterfeit note written by me wouldn’t be instantly detected. Since my freshman year at Joes, when banned from doing so by Mr. Jakiel, I had completely given up script as a form of writing, turning exclusively to printing. When writing fast, my script is completely illegible, but when done very slowly, it could easily pass for that of a female. Chances are, no one in Goodyear had ever seen me do anything but print. I dotted the ‘i’s’ with little hearts for good measure, signed it from Denise, and slipped it under my unsuspecting marks door.           

       As expected, it was quite well received! The recipient was not at all reluctant to share the passionate listing of sticky brutal things the object of his lust was so inclined to put into writing. I could imagine the excitement this inspired, and the considerable distress the note seemed to have experienced since delivery bespoke many a vigorous reading. I am also quite certain that it also inspired some degree of terror, especially to a lad in his late teens. Many of the requested actions outlined in the note were certainly outside the experience of anyone our age, or anyone at all for that matter considering I made much of it up as I went along. A “slippery Mongolian double fisted butterscotch steamer” sounds descriptively intuitive, but I couldn’t give you the smallest clue on how to do one. Neither could he and I counted on that to keep the joke going for sometime longer.            

       The collective male population of the floor urged him on to action; to march down the hall, note in hand, and announce his intention to exceed every one of her expectations on the list. Caught in a vice between fulfilling the fantasy of every horny college boy to the level of demanding inclusion in Penthouse Variations, and the absolute certainty that she would be bitterly disappointed and no doubt broadcast his failure and shame throughout the building, he froze in indecision. In his defense, I doubt any of us would have done otherwise, but it was fun to see him squirm. Possessing still some degree of compassion, I decided not to let him suffer too long and moved to end the joke vis-à-vis ‘Three’s Company’ style.            

       To avoid the possibility of my authorship becoming known to the student body at large, especially with the two jabber jaws across the bathroom, I decided to consult only Knaus on how best to crush a young mans dreams. Knaus, a published expert in the field, was the one suggested the Jack Tripper special. In the wee hours of the morning, I put pen to paper again, accenting the loops and swirls, added some hearts, and told a tale carefully crafted as to indicate a mistaken identity. Given the disparate hairstyles of the lad and his roommate, I was able to word the note as such to indicate that it was the disinterested one of the pair Denise had her heart set on. As a little jab to the balls, I also included a bit of disparagement toward the lad himself. I slipped it under their door and snuck back to the room.           

       My ploy was successful and the lad was outraged at the very notion that he and his roommate would have been so mistaken; he being a known fixture in the hall and his roommate an oft absent fellow with no common interests in the jib of our conversations. His inclination was to march right down to her room and demand explanation. Free of the heavy burden of falsified sexual expectations, this suddenly seemed a lot more doable, and had there truly been no mistake, his raised dander would compensate for lack of a clue. I had not counted on this and was fortunate enough to catch him before he could do any such thing. No, I did not admit my part, but spoke the voice of calm reason. Once less worked up, her level of attractiveness was sufficient barrier to preclude direct confrontation.           

       What I had also not counted on was the brand new ability to communicate directly with someone without the need of pen and paper, or even a voice. A new thing called ‘email’ was sweeping the campus and the lad took to it as an acceptable outlet for his frustrations. In those days it was easy enough to find someone’s address if you had inkling on where to look (even I was able to figure this out in my campaign to become famous by emailing everyone and telling them I was). Still worked up about the note, he tracked down a Denise he felt must be the right one, and sent a detailed reply admonishing her for both leaving him the note and even more so for mistaking him for the roommate. When he described this to us, he admitted to ending the diatribe with “but I’ll still spank you if you want me to.”            

       Obviously, the recipient had no idea what he was talking about and sent a very strongly worded reply along the lines of “who the fuck are you and why would you say these things to me!” I think there may have been some threat implied. I’m not at all surprised, given first that no female hand wrote the note and that the person suspected, the winsome blond down the hall, turned out not to even be named Denise. Given the outrage in the response, I felt it best to keep secret my part in the prank and did so for many years thereafter.            

       The second incident in which I decided not to use names is probably also recalled by the principle as somewhat embarrassing, but elicited a barrel of chuckles from the rest of us when he first shared it. What makes it worth remembering is the near cinematic picture the story paints; you just don’t hear about such things very often outside a Farelly Brothers movie.            

       Everyone outside of Buffalo is under an unshakable impression that winter in Buffalo is a cruel and sadistic bitch whose time of the year eclipses in scope the rest of the seasons all together. While natives know this is not quite the case, the side effects have a way of sticking out a foot and causing a stumble or two. The poor fool in this tale was one such victim; caught unawares, and unceremoniously floored. Some say he was drunk, the condition accounting for the whole of the incident, and we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it was so. Alert and caffeinated, or three sheets to the wind, he suffered quite a tumble one day coming back from some best forgotten adventure. The result of the fall revealed itself once weight was reapplied to the affected limb, and down he went again. A poor circumstance in even the worst of days I’m sure.           

       Leg obviously fractured, although not to the level of having bone protrude, he made his way up the driveway of his dear mum and was able to raise himself to a level high enough to ring the bell and pound furiously though his miasma of pain. “Ma, open the door!” Her reply was not as he expected; a litany of questions rather than the affirmative of acquiescence. “Ma, just open the goddam door!” His insistence, and the demanding tone behind it, no doubt irritated the poor woman to some degree. It was enough already that she was put in the position to continue washing his skivvies, pouring milk on his Fruit Loops, and making him frosty delicious milkshakes with her brand new blender; was she now to be his butler as well, answering the door at command? I imagine it was with a sigh that she rose from her knitting and made her way over to facilitate entry.            

       Reaching the hall behind the door, with every intention of assisting, she enquired why just one more time. “Just open the goddam door you fucking cunt!” That about did it. It is my understanding (having never summoned the courage to use the term myself), that all women, of any age, really truly hate that word with a ferocious passion. The man’s mother was no exception, and to show her displeasure, double locked the door and strode off to parts of the house soundproofed against his outraged entreaties. On hand you can hardly blame her; even one’s own offspring waives the right of maternal sympathy for employment of such degradation. On the other you have a young man with a broken leg now locked outside in the winter and precious little likelihood of being let in anytime soon.           

       Lacking any other option, he made a long painful crawl up the side street on which he resided, to the main thoroughfare. There, a sad frozen heap on the ground, he used the last of his pain soaked strength to flag down a passing police car. Though the details never became fully clear, I can only assume he left some details out of the story, as the cop was inclined to take him to the hospital. Then again, he may have, which would have explained why the cop did not bring him home, which would have been the less inconvenient option. I’m happy to say that the incident was mutually forgiven and mother and son were reunited. It is assumed she gave him a ride home from the hospital, although not certain.           

       The final incident I am inclined to relate took place in the house at Comstock one otherwise uneventful evening. To this day I do not know the full story behind it, but it was the closest anyone came to experiencing enraged violence beneath that roof. Who am I kidding? We all suffered the effects of dire threats to our well being, but no one wrote about this one yet, so I thought I would give it a go, flowery writing and all.            

       I was sitting peacefully in my high armed chair one night enjoying a pleasant viewing of Flying Blind, featuring Tea Leoni’s perky tits on our 8 inch screen. A contingent of people came in the side door, and I could tell that there was some manner of disagreement in the making. I was irritated by the interruption and tried to pay as little attention as possible. It was made impossible, as a female voice exploded into anger. Apparently, the friend of her boyfriend revealed some information of the nature to cause a bone of contention to arise between the otherwise happy couple. To me it seemed frivolous and borderline inane, but probably because I had no idea what they were talking about, and frankly couldn’t give a rats ass.           

       The problem suddenly became more pronounced as the argument moved into the living room – the woman, her boyfriend, and the boyfriends friend all shouting and blocking the damn TV, and thereby Tea’s assets. Without warning, violence erupted and the woman lunged at the boyfriends BFF, as he tried to restrain her without incurring the bulk of her wrath. The BFF, obviously shocked at the attempt, fled into the kitchen without looking back. Undaunted by the attempted restraint, she worked mightily toward making her way in there with the intention to catheterize him with a 3 liter of Mountain Dew. By this time it had occurred to me to ask what was going on, but was ignored. The intensity of the participants was upon the drama, and probably fortunately, not on me.           

       During the fracas, I seem to remember Jason emerging from his room and making some comment on the proceedings. He too was interrupted as he watched his cable TV alone in the dung pit, not sharing it with the rest of us. Believing that he held some power of reason that even an enraged Irishwoman would listen to, he attempted to negotiate. Poor fool never had a chance. Without hesitation, she lit into him like a Doberman and he was wearing meat pants. The BFF realized at this time his good fortune and used the distraction to make his way behind her by scurrying into the dining room, through the living room (in my way once again), and bolting out the side door, and in to whatever conveyance he got there in.           

       I never found the source of the dramatic interlude, but to this day I still wonder what I missed in that episode of Flying Blind as the show was cancelled shortly thereafter and they never showed reruns. I look forward to seeing if anyone will comment.


9 Responses

  1. All I can say is. As usual, you got the story wrong. My brother was there too, and caused the whole problem by laughing at me.

    For the last one. I can guess who the participants were, but e-mail me the details. Okay?

    I remember Flying Blind. that was actually a pretty funny show, from what I remember.

  2. I forgot about Wolf’s plan to become famous by telling everyone so. It would work, given enough dedication, which our group lacked as a whole.

    As for email, I wasted a lot of time typing to stop Wolf from sending his messages in ALL CAPS. The fucker continued to do so just to irritate me.

    The second tale I forgot all bout.

    I look forward to any comments on this post, but I doubt there will be man, but perhaps this will help Louis in his writing of a tale to which the names of the guilty need to be protected.

  3. If that is all I got wrong, not bad for only hearing the story once 12 to 15 years ago. Alberto has a way of slipping one’s mind.

    It was a good show, from back in the day when Fox was maverick, flaunting convention with such groundbreaking hits as ‘Get a Life’, ‘Roc Live’, and ‘MWC’ on it’s fabled Sunday Night Lineup. The Simpsons remain the only carryover from those halcyon days, and I still watch it religiously much to the fighting consternation of my wife, as it’s one of the few things I absolutly refuse to budge on.

    Having found a way to irritate Aaron with only one small push of a button, who would not have taken full advantage? The downside was the stream of people replying to my ‘I’m famous!” messages getting all pissy because of all the shouting. I was like, “It’s a typed message!!! How could it be shouting!!! This is shouting!!!!!!”, but that only served as cause for them to reject my claim. I could have been a contender.

    I look forward to Louis’s tale once he pauses from creating ear mice and let’s go of Mammon’s shaggy tail and starts writing.

  4. That last story of the mix was one I was planning to write without any need for names to be concealed. I probably still will, unless someone can explain to me what would be wrong with that.

  5. Personally, I would love to hear the real story if you are so inclined.

  6. Yes, the real story please. You told me recently, but it needs documentation since Wolf posted his version.

  7. Yeah,
    We need the whole truth, not some Wolfed-Up bed of LIES!


  8. I don’t see what you are saying…. Too busy concocting a very explicit version of the Undie 500 race someone won…

  9. Undies 500! That is a story to tell.

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