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We entered the pregame with high expectations. It was a summer weekend, the moon was full, and a combination of restlessness and savagery had us rearing to raise some hell and lay some rail. Armed with a dirty dozen of Natty and a pack of L&Ms, I knew that their emptiness would signal success on my quest for trim. I was with Hooch, and that big dummy was about as horny as a Kardashian at a Wu Tang Concert. We’d been informed that it was Sandy’s birthday, and we all knew that meant the bar wasn’t the only place that would be rocking by night’s end. As sweet as that girl is, she got wild when she let her hair down. And if the cards were played right, her hair wouldn’t be the only thing going down.
It was immediately apparent that Hooch was the lucky one when it came to Sandy. She got him in one of those hugs where they wrap their legs around you. That’s about as good an opening as possible. I got the more classic variety, but I was too busy cracking number three and scanning the room for a dance partner to care. I decided to chat up a cutie that I’d been in Marketing with, since the only things bigger than her self-esteem issues were her cans. Chicks, man. They can have great grades and a slamming rack, but they still need to break out the Hoover to look you in the eye.
The night wore on, and, by the time we’d left for the bar, it looked like both Hooch and I were well on our way to making whoopee with our respective marks by night’s end. We carpooled out with Dixon, but there was only one issue — it seemed that Sandy’s “monitor” for the night, who farmers would describe as a “heifer,” was a real Sweaty Betty, and insisted on tagging along with us. She was giving Hooch the same evil look she usually saves for salad bars or non-diet sodas. It also looked like Chesty McJugs would be riding separately. That meant I was stuck with Sandy and Hooch, who were likely to start going at it right there, and Bowser. Now don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with a hefty gal. They usually spring for the drunk food and are downright nice chicks. A big girl who’s also inherently bitchy? Now that’s just two strikes with no need for a third pitch.
We got to the bar and proceeded to party. It looked like my girl with the cannons had dipped out, so I got a few shots and made my rounds. The amount of available talent was definitely down a few notches than usual. As is common, I managed to get plenty drunk in the next few hours. Then Dixon approached me. Last call, time to roll out, and Hooch was getting a ration of shit from the mother hen. I wandered over to see what the matter was, and sure enough, Sandy wanted to come back with us while Rotundzel was dead set on getting her back home. I knew there was only one way to defuse a situation like this, and it wasn’t going to be pretty. I walked past Hooch and shot him a glance that told him he owed me.
“You know, Quasi-hoe-do,” I said in my politest, drunkest voice, “you can come too.” A couple compliments and some good natured ribbing later, and she agreed. “To take care of Sandy,” she squealed. The ride back was a blur, as I prepared myself for what I thought would be the worst night of my life. We got back, and within ten minutes I was in my room with Miss Two by Four. What happened next was downright incredible.
She tossed me on the bed and got down to brass tacks. I guess she had way less self-esteem than the girl I’d planned to tango with, because this girl was looking for some validation from the neck up. I’m about 85 percent sure she used to be a softball catcher, because she handled my globes like a pro and didn’t leave a squatted position once. It was like that scene in Gladiator when Russell Crowe is dying, except I was coming alive. When she was done, I was so awestruck that I couldn’t help but toss that dog a bone. Two nuts despite whiskey dickery?
From now on, when I hear a call from the crow’s nest, you’d better believe I’m harpooning that whale..