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I hate to be bitchy, but bwahahaha...

I was chatting with several people last night, including one who has been trying to get me to "drop by" for months. Drop by...right...as though I'm a part of the Avon cartel and we're going to have tea and cucumber sandwiches while reviewing the benefits of astringent.

After dubiously confessing that he had not masturbated since last Thursday, he launched into a self-perpetuating cybersex session complete with the alarming prominence of a sling. Fortunately, my participation was unnecessary. I was expendable and only required to listen. It's a good thing, too, because I was carrying on three other conversations. It's difficult to maintain an erection with one person while looking at drag queen photos with another...for most of us anyway.

After finishing himself off, dude badgered me to go out on Saturday. "No, I don't want to." But, you promised you would go out with me! "No, I didn't." I guess this is all I can get from you then? "You didn't get anything from me, you did all that yourself." Fine! Click. Signoff.

I should say that there is little danger of me dropping by for a sex scene which cannot be successfully executed without the benefit of a carpenter, an electrician and a building permit. But maybe I'm a prude.

.::Da Pimp::.

"Tourists swarm to see your face, Confucius has a puzzling grace..."

Unfortunately, I missed spending quality time with my local Grand Dragon when I was a youngster.

A night in the life:

Obviously, I have updated the look of my site. Actually, downgraded is probably a better word. I am terrible at design, I admit it. "I feel no personal shame or guilt about this, but I must keept it a secret or I will lose my job on security grounds." Fortunately, no one is coming to ghettopimpin.com for design advice anyway. No one is coming period. Bitches.

Tubby, the dude who tried to get me to come over for a deviant sex act, is now threatening to stop by my mom's store to see me sans invitation. He has worked up a new fantasy. This time he will be "the mysterious stranger" who flirts with me as I help customers. He doesn't suspicion that the fantasy will end when I become the raving bitch who tells him to get the fuck out. I've been practing the role for a lifetime. Tubby, I will not be pleased by this antic.

My mother is ranting at the television because some controversy is going on somewhere. She is outraged.

And Joe says I'll go straight to hell for using a Windows font.

update: 10.04.02

First there was Rate Your Rod...now comes Rate My Camel Toe!

The administrators of the University of Kentucky have generously provided students with a little breathing space today known as Fall Break, the duration of which runs the gamut from AM to PM. Since I'll never be able to fill this expanse without a structured plan, I'd better get started on one. Here goes...

Call the Kentucky Revenue Cabinet and inform them that their harshly-worded demand that I comply with the tax code by filing a 1998 return is not at all threatening since I did not live in Kentucky in 1998.

Take my stepfather's scatterbolt vehicle down to Bimbo's Body Shop for an oil change.

For extra credit, prove that the log[a]x / log[b]x = C for all a, b and C. Channel Newton to do so.

Wonder what possesses a dude to stick his head in a urinal or what possesses me to post such a thing.

Treat myself to a plate of fried chicken livers with white gravy at Lawrenceburg's infamous Broadway Dinner House. Watch as the servers hurtle from room to room looking as if the entire world situation has just gone to pot while never managing to refill my water.

Attend a sale at Wood's Auction House with my mother and wonder "Why do I come to these things?" as Mr. Wood haggles with another old fool over dollar ticket items and the crowd collectively goes limp with boredom.

.::Da Pimp::.

"You can go and look for tennis balls!"

update: 10.06.02

As I was studying yesterday, I came across this unbelievable experiment on conformity.

Ready for a virtual tour of Kentucky? I couldn't find any horses to photograph, but welcome to the Bluegrass nonetheless. And as Mr. T might say, I pity the fool who don't have a cable modem!

9:00 AM
Our hero, preparing for adventure. "Come on and get in this car, cuz I'm a playa gurl...a playa playa fo real!"

9:15 AM
Leaving the homestead, ready for an exciting day. Our house is one of the few things I like about Kentucky. You often hear cows lowing in the morning.

9:50 AM
I arrive in Shelbyville and park across the street from the courthouse. Several cops watch me take this picture but, despite the promises of gay porn, none attempt to seduce me.

9:51 AM
Entering my mom's store, The Ruby Rooster. This place is quite unassuming, eh? The hapless visitor has no suspicion of the terrible she-dragon which resides inside. "Abandon all hope ye who enter here."

10:30 AM
My camera and I wander around the 20,000 square foot store and disdain photographing priceless heirlooms in favor of this.

2:55 PM
I pass the castle at 75 mph, eating Funyons and running late. Motorists rage as I swerve wildly along the road, simultaneously trying to control my vehicle and my camera.

3:10 PM
After arriving at the UK's William T. Young library, I spend the next five hours reviewing Calculus with my new chum Mary. I have to say I am quite impressed with the technological capabilities of this place. You can check out laptops hooked to a wireless LAN and spend the entire day on AIM instead of in the stacks.

8:30 PM
I arrive home to discover a care package from Lil' Miss Brooklyn. Woo-ho! To top it off, Darren called and said he might be coming down for a visit in early November! I can't wait!

.::Da Pimp::.

"If I don't get out of here I'll die."

update: 10.08.02

So, Cory, what are you going to provide for ten dollars? A picture that doesn't look like it was blown up 500%?

Come spend an evening with C.S. and John:

My stepfather looked through his first Vogue earlier and maintained a constant erection. He didn't realize you could see naked women without buying a Penthouse. He's a perverted codger who can't find pornography on the Web and tonight he's outside putting a cabinet together.

In the meantime, my mother is buzzing around me, painting the room a hideous blue. Woodland Juniper, "distinctly middle class." I convinced her that the computer could not be disconnected because I was busy writing a program and, therefore, I go on chatting while she edges the trim and asks me to hand her a glass of water.

Yes, Mother, is there anything else I can do?! Huff. Puff.

"You took my chair!" as she tries to set a paint can down.

No, I didn't.

"Well your butt's on it!"

I play Joan Jett's "You're Gonna Make it After All."

"Does anyone have any original songs these days?!"

I am temporarily in her way so she sends me outside to help my stepfather. The wardrobe he is putting together looks like a Trigonometry problem, with 45 degree angles where ninety degree angles ought to be. He says he doesn't need help and I pass along the message.

"Oh, bullshit!"

Real Audio: Adult

"That's a heck of a song."

Next up, George Michael since she used to have a crush on him.

"Is that Boy George?"

My mother cannot distinguish between George Michael and Boy George, though I don't know that this is much of a failing.

I argue, Mom, it's like 11:45!

"I know, but I have to get this room finished!"

A few seconds later she spills the entire paint can over me, probably in retribution for writing a dismissive entry about her, and I have to rush off to the shower.

I knew she was looking over my shoulder.

.::Da Pimp::.

"She's jeering at the shadows, sneering behind a smile."

update: 10.10.02

The odyssey of the redneck neighbor.

Yesterday, I told my supervisor that I'm thinking of transferring to NYU or the University of MD. She immediately disqualified one school by declaring "New York is just filthy. I only consider flying up there for dinner and a show and then coming right back." Well how decadently fabulous. She gave her wholehearted recommendation to the University of MD, though, because she took a few classes there herself. As she described College Park and the DC metropolitan area, it occurred to me that she had forgotten I lived there for ten years. So I reminded her.

"Did you? Why, you never told me that!"

I'm sorry, you're right. Aside from the thirty times we've discussed it, I never said a word.

This inattentiveness reminded me of a woman I worked with in DC named Gwen, another Southern lady of distinction. A series of coincidences connected the two of us, none of which she could be troubled to remember: first, we had the same birthday; second, our mothers lived just outside of Frankfort, KY; and, third, we lived within a mile of one another in Miami way back when. While none of these is remarkable, most people would probably remember that they had this much in common with a stranger, right?

February 20th arrives and I cheerily say "Happy birthday, Gwen!" She coos her thanks and sweeps on. Later, when the staff rolls out two cakes, she is a study in how to graciously accept an embarrassment of riches while remaining convinced of your entitlement.

"You shouldn't have given me two cakes! It's really just too much! This is good, though, it's just what I needed. I'm having some people over tonight and now I won't have to stop by the grocery store on the way home!"

Uh, Gwen, it's Robert's birthday too.

"Robert, you never told me!"

Sigh.

Gwen eventually quit the government and moved to Kentucky to work in public relations for the Wild Turkey distillery. Later, I gave up government employment and moved to KY to attend school. One afternoon I was sitting in class when Gwen glided by the door. Another coincidence. I chased her down the hallway and shouted her name. She clutched her bag and raked her eyes over me, obviously unaware of who I was. Hello?! Washington, DC. Federal government. Office of twelve. Barely three years ago. Is it that hard to remember?

"Oh yes. Hello, Robert."

I returned to class with my tail tucked, sufficiently chastised.

Now, on Saturday I was lazily flipping through one of these magazines Kentuckians specialize in producing which refute the charms of elsewhere in favor of the glories of the Bluegrass, when I spotted a photo of Gwen beaming out at me. It was followed by her new monthly column. This entry was entitled "Coming Home," and detailed the traumas she experienced in the "cold and unfeeling" big city, where no one could be troubled to consider her importance. Fortunately, now that she's "back home" (apparently lapsing into twang for the magazine's benefit), she is getting the attention she deserves. Thank goodness.

I'm sure we'll meet again; our lives seem to be intertwined. I'm equally as sure that she will have forgotten me by that time and I'll once again feel foolish for presuming to address her. And you haven't been put in your place until you've been put in your place by a Southern belle.

.::Da Pimp::.

"I just saw you yesterday, Taffy...come sit on your aunt Chicklet's lap!"

update: 10.12.02

Prepare for the Caucasian Invasion! It's coming!

My mother is having a dinner party tonight and, based on the amount of preparation she has put into it, I suspect Sydney Poitier is dropping by at the very least. Normal hosts spend the week before an event shopping for food and tidying up the place; but that's plenty of time for C.S. to remodel every room, purchase all new tablecloths, tableware, even the table itself, and still prepare a twelve-course extravaganza. With Martha Stewart apparently headed for the Big House, I believe my mother is more than qualified to act as her replacement.

She has spent outrageous fortunes on this soiree so far but then, the coffers are never empty when she has a scheme brewing. However, after I made some innocent remark about going to NYU the other day, she fretted "I just don't see how you'll be able to support yourself." This is C.S. code language for "Don't come to me for money."

"Don't worry, I'll be fine."

Airy assurances will not satisfy my mother, though, because she generates a complicated algorithm even to go to the bathroom. Since I didn't have a detailed plan of survival--I haven't even filled out the paperwork after all--she imagined all sorts of gruesome scenarios. Finally, my mouth fell open in horror when, in the middle of the Broadway Dinner House, she stage-whispered "You wouldn't consider selling drugs would you?"

"No, Ma, I'm more of the moll type."

So I've retreated to the basement every night in order to ride out the storm known as Hurricane Sue. Finally, the big day arrives and I imagine the forthcoming bliss of typing on the computer without my mother hovering over me like a specter. And then she steps into the room this morning and, after surveying it with her hands positioned on her hips, says "We still have so much to get done before Thanksgiving!"

.::Da Pimp::.

"Donald and Donna Dasher are joining us for a small, informal buffet!"

update: 10.14.02

Another contribution from Mike: "The Movie 'Signs' in Four Easy Steps."

My mother's dinner party was a smashing success! However, she was so exhausted by the effort that the promise she made in a sunny voice the night before--"You can take tomorrow off!"--became an angry demand the following morning--"Are you taking today off?!"--and as I headed for the RR Antique Mall, she reclined on the bed, staving off exhaustion.

S'alright, my stepfather and I ran the store and I worked the checkout without interference. "Do you wanna come behind the counter and ring?!" and "Let me tell you something, kid..." before my stepfather cut me off.

Afterwards, I came home and was finally able to work on my programming assignment. As I complained to Mike "This thing is becoming monstrous...it's eighteen pages already. Apparently, he expects us to write an operating system." Mike was unsympathetic, but regained interest when I sent him a picture of a shirtless homosexual; after all, the discussion had turned to circuit parties and musclebound offenders.

And that about wraps up my weekend. I'm at my other job now and the boss is away for the week. I have a full hour to goof off. Lessee who's updated...

.::Da Pimp::.

"This sucks on so many levels!"

update: 10.15.02

I like to occasionally link to Eric...

Tubby Strikes Back

Tubby:
I think you don't like sex because you've never had really good sex
Rob:
yup and I'm also a fag because I've never had the right woman
Tubby:
well maybe I can help you with that
Rob:
what, you're the right woman?
Tubby:
I got a man pussy for you to fuck
Rob:
they make pills for that
Tubby:
so are their any nites you will be here in Lex after 5pm?
Rob:
why, so I can come over and fuck your "man pussy"?
Tubby:
only if you think you are man enough....don't want some boy who will put it in and shoot as soon as my hole tightens down on his throbbing cock
Rob:
tight....right
Tubby:
Yep...nothing has been up this hole since July and it was Sept of last year before that boy
Rob:
and it was a fist on both occasions

I submit that the words tight and manpussy should not be used within one hundred yards of each other nor should a person who violates this maxim be allowed Internet access. I further submit that anyone who uses the terms manpussy, boy and throbbing as seduction tools has probably forgotten what it means to be tight.

.::Da Pimp::.

"I object!"

update: 10.17.02

Are you familiar with Sri Harold Klemp and his shiny blue suit?

I have received another New York University promotional booklet, this one filled with 73 pages of material. As I longingly flipped through it, I was unprepared for the brutal reality of the last sentence: "Typical tuition and fees are $26,646 per year."

Well, this is a fine little scandal, I thought. There is some consolation for the shell-shocked, though--the faculty shares in the horror. "Many of us at the University are equally concerned that some students simply assume that they will be unable to handle the cost of an NYU education and do not even apply for admission." Really. The strategy of lowering the admissions cost seems not to have occurred to anyone. Perhaps I should drop them a note.

Additionally, the cost of living is said to be in the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars a year. From this figure, I deduce that students are boarded in the neighborhood of Appalachia and bussed up the New Jersey Turnpike every morning. I certainly paid more than ten thousand a year for room and board in DC and I doubt Manhattan is cheaper.

But seriously, I was familiar with "the cost of an NYU education" so it's not a great start to see it in print. I was also aware that I will probably not be going there, though roughly 75% of the undergraduate class receives tuition assistance. And I am going to apply to the University of Maryland, too. So we'll see what happens.

.::Da Pimp::.

"There is no need to know about presidents, wars, numbers or science!"

update: 10.19.02

Ah, back in the day..."Betty Boo...Betty Boo just doin' the do."

I believe that my C++ professor, the walking spasm I discussed earlier, is a homosexual who wants me.

On Thursday, I dropped by his office. And "dropped by" does not translate into slinking through the doorway and intoning "Excuse me, Professor" as though I'd like to have my bottom penetrated with a beer bottle. Nonetheless, he was thrilled to see me and, as we discussed my program, I noticed his eyes roaming lustfully over my body. I felt undressed.

In order to avoid his wanton gaze, I turned towards the wall and, just then, noticed two photographs of Cincinnati's somewhat defunct Coney Island amusement park hanging there. Regular readers of this space are aware of my preeminent expertise on all things coaster-related and will not be surprised that I casually announced "These are pictures of Coney Island." But the Professor was.

"Yes! How did you know that?"

Now, to interrupt my narrative flow and backtrack slightly, I shall mention that at the beginning of the semester we were asked to compose an essay detailing our previous computing experience. An additional requirement was an attached photo. I discussed my fabulous career as a government employee in DC, producing highly-important budget documents for presentation to Congress and the President, and paperclipped a seductive Glamour Shot to the essay. He undoubtedly viewed it with an erection and, having read of my adventures, wondered if my youthful appearance belied a more advanced age. "Is he old enough to seduce?" he questioned. And finally, here was the chance to find out!

He casually stated "The park must have closed before you were born."

"Yup. I was born in '71. I believe it closed sometime around then."

Success!

"Yes, I was ten when it closed. So I'm ten years older than you."

He obviously revealed his age in order to convince me of his worth as a potential sex partner. It's obvious to me, at least. I mean, his name is Dick, after all, and he is very probably a homo. I believe one plus one still equals two. Quod erat demonstrandum. So in spite of his oddly-shaped body and bald head, I imagine that my professor intends to seduce me in a manner straight out of a scandal sheet. I shall receive his attentions languidly and keep you informed of the circumstances surrounding this exciting development.

.::Da Pimp::.

"You suck! Let's buttfuck!"

update: 10.22.02

Well, this is just cruel. Oh my!

Why do I continue to get up early to come to this job? Is it really worth two hours a week? Last Wednesday, I actually forgot that I was supposed to work. I was at home happily clicking away on the computer when I suddenly realized I wasn't where I was supposed to be. Worse, I had the brazen audacity to tell them the truth when I called.

This is unlike me. I generally have the discipline of a drill sergeant and don't just forget commitments; I have not missed a class since starting school and never took a sick day in two years of working for the government. Should this lapse be telling me something?

I have already mentioned my supervisor... Now, a colleague recently stopped by the office to exhibit a new Lexus. After witnessing the spectacle of a luxurious vehicle not parked in her own drive, my supervisor expressed heartfelt and obligatory delight. And, as her friend sped off with a wave, she shook her head sadly and declared "I could never pay $60,000 for a car. It's just ridiculous."

Testify, sister.

But I misunderstood. The principle was not the issue, it seems to have been only a matter of timing. She meant she couldn't pay $60,000 for a car last week. Because as I stepped out of Bubba this morning, my supervisor roared up in a high-end Mercedes.

"Why, Robert, have you seen my new car? The old one was acting up so I told Jim it was time to visit the dealer!"

As she smoothed her bob in its tinted windows, I wondered if she had ever heard of a mechanic. Perhaps I should set her up with Bimbo, our man in Versailles. I'm sure she'd like to help the working man. After all, she's very liberal and even generously employs a "Mexican" housekeeper. Although the woman is actually from Nicaragua, "Mexican" is apparently a catch-all for anyone with pigment. But I have digressed.

So my supervisor, the unsuspecting colleague and the Mercedes itself have a lunch date this afternoon. The poor woman has no idea she is about to be ambushed, but I can sense the plan. As my supervisor leads the awestruck colleague towards the flashy new phenomenon, she'll holler out "Let's take my car, honey!" and then speed off triumphantly, leaving the unfortunate Lexus and all the charm of its eggshell interior sitting in the dust.

.::Da Pimp::.

"Emotionless and cold as ice...all of the things I like."

update: 10.25.02

Imagine your mother walking in while you're looking at this!

Various offerings:

There is a boy in my Sociology class whom I am desperate to bully and harass. He is short, cute as hell, and very likely a queen. I'm not sure what he thinks of me, though, because whenever he turns around, I scowl and give Thug. However, when the professor reeled off questions today during our review session, I answered them all like an ersatz Emile Durkheim. Following my impressive exhibition, the little queen asked me to help him study. Of course I was all "Well, I might be able to..." while looking at my watch as though in expectation of pressing engagements. You know, gotta keep my soon-to-be bitches in check.

My new programming assignment, and they just get more outrageous by the minute. Next, we'll be calculating the flight arc of the Martian lander.

My stepfather went out of town the other day. I kept my mother company as she relaxed on the sofa and restlessly flipped between the Iron Chef and Fox News. She has an opinion on everything from the appropriateness of Today's Featured Ingredient (carrots) to the railroading of Martha Stewart (birds of a feather, you understand). Her running commentary was non-stop and truly dizzying. I cheered my stepfather's return.

We dined at the Broadway Dinner House last night. My mother told us that a woman recently came into her store, walked over to the big side, let out a "blood-curdling" scream and then announced "It's just so big in there!" I cooly turned to my stepfather and asked "Has a woman ever said that to you, John?"

And, finally, this excerpt from an article in The Anderson News, Lawrenceburg's local paper, entitled "Lawrenceburg and New York City have a lot in common":

"Take a stroll through New York City these days and you'll find more similarities with Lawrenceburg, Kentucky than you might imagine. They've got flowing fountains downtown and we now have one too. On the west side of the Big Apple you'll find a cafe where scenes from the You Got Mail movie were filmed (Editor's note: This is apparently a hillbilly version of the film You've Got Mail). In Lawrenceburg, we have a downtown restaurant, that used to be a craft shop, that once was a coffee shop, that used to house another restaurant, that originally was a drug store, and when it was a drug store, former Miss America Phyllis George Brown left her pantyhose there. NYC may still have the edge on tall buildings, but they don't have a courthouse tower with fake bird calls emitting from it."

Stand back. I'm sure the forthcoming exodus from the five boroughs will be of stampede magnitude.

.::Da Pimp::.

"You're just a big old shitbag, aren't ya Bob?"

update: 10.26.02

In keeping with today's entry, "Park Avenue snob Millicent wants to play the perfect hostess..."

First, she was Hoovering the hardwood floors above my head at 6:30 AM. Minutes later, there was a commotion like every dish in the house was being smashed to the ground. Then, she shouted down the stairs "Robert, are you awake yet?" and that was the proverbial last straw. I woke up spitting like a scalded cat.

"WHAT do you WANT, Mother?!"

"Shall I make Beef Vindaloo or Tandoori Chicken tonight?"

You see, my mother is having another dinner party and has waited until early Saturday morning to plan the menu in order to maximize the chaotic effect. I can't take much more. The strain of any future dinner parties will probably finish me off. I already have the sunken cheeks and ringed eyes of a ghoul.

Since there was no point in doing anything foolish like trying to sleep, I stormed up the stairs to prepare for the day. Before I could get to the bathroom, however, my mother loomed in my face forbiddingly.

"Do me a favor!"

"NO!"

"But you're already up! Now just take this drill and..."

I rolled my eyes and stomped off to brush my teeth. She whipped out her entirely familiar rallying cry "I've got so much to get done!" but stood rooted in C.S. position number one--hands on hips, puckered brow, and thoughtful gaze.

As I prepared for the day, I had plenty of time to wonder when we became the Socialites of Shelbyville, because it suddenly seems to have happened. When I look into my future, I see endless banquets with Lawrenceburg's Ladies Who Lunch on fried chicken and potato salad. I feel like I'm trapped in an Edith Wharton novel.

And to top it off, she's not even making puris.

The Victims - Glenda, Lucinda, Christina, John, Jim & Billy

.::Da Pimp::.

"If I have to eat with Gator, I'll spit food!"

update: 10.29.02

I love this time of year because I can hear the silly Monster Mash on virtually every radio station. Yes, I know...

I was strutting around campus yesterday when I heard my name being shouted across the schoolyard. Turning, whom should I see advancing towards me but the little queen from Sociology? As I watched him approach, my first thought was perverse and my second was "Good Lord, he's short!"

I was on my way to get a cappuccino and asked if he wanted to come along. He claimed poverty and demurred. Being a smooth pimp, I sputtered for a moment before saying "I'll get it for ya." He jumped on the offer and asked if I had time to help him study for our upcoming midterm.

"I could probably spare an hour or so today after class."

He asked what class I had next and then...

"Ooh, Calculus! Maybe you can help me with math too!"

"Who am I, Aristotle? Do I have nothing else to do?" He laughed.

For the next ten minutes, we discussed our career paths over coffee. He is full of noble intentions; not only is his major social work but he also wants to "do good." I am less noble, however, being a mere mercenary computer engineering major. After listening attentively to his lecture on the evils of money, delivered between sips from the cappuccino I paid for, I told him he might feel differently when he is living within the confines of a forty-dollar-a-week food and gas budget. He didn't agree but moved on to the next topic.

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-one."

"I didn't know you were that old!" He smiled slyly and said "That's OK, I like older guys."

I didn't know what to say. It's shocking to discover that one is both older and being flirted with at the same time. I mean, who would want me? I'm an old grouch! But, I smiled and thought "This is getting scandalous."

About this time it occurred to me that I had already agreed to help my friend Mary study for our upcoming Calculus exam after class. I told the little queen we would have to postpone our session (heh!) until Tuesday or Wednesday. Then, he tried to implement a power play, and in a very snooty voice no less--he would have to let me know if he could make it. Let me know...like I'm waiting by the phone to define occupational specialization for him.

I think he expected me to beg him to reconsider. To repeat, you are dealing with an old grouch here. The chances of me begging some little queen for anything are nonexistent. So I said good-bye and went to class. And that's the end of the story.

In other news:

Today is Taj's 30th birthday! Happy birthday Tish! Vous etes la vrai Bertra for one day at least.

And, nine days until Darren arrives and we terrorize the Light Up Shelbyville festivities. Wooo-ho!

.::Da Pimp::.

"I have my books and my poetry to protect me."

update: 10.31.02

Are you aware of urinal etiquette?

Well, Tuesday night was a bust.

I went off to study with the little queen of course. Did anyone actually believe I was going to sit at home just to prove a point? Unfortunately, the little queen's best friend, a bosomy would-be sex goddess, came along. She was a study--thick layers of orange pancake and oozing cleavage--and looked like a young Edith Massey.

It went downhill from the start. The little queen is so damned dumb. He has no understanding of anything in the book, the class, the school, the city or the world in general. I don't know how one goes about majoring in Social Work and failing Sociology 101 simultaneously. It was like discussing detente with Anna Nicole Smith.

And the sex goddess, who is also in the class, was just about on equal footing. In her defense, there was hardly time for her to concentrate on the subject what with the busy schedule of hair twirling she maintained. Occasionally, however, she stopped long enough to emit a sly double entendre. During our review of the sexual orientation chapter, I cringed every time she drew breath.

Later, when I stood up to go to the bathroom, the little queen said "Oh, I have to go too," and trailed along behind me. The sex goddess giggled as we left the room.

I know nobody thinks I'm going to be engaged in some sex escapade in the library bathroom, right? Cuz it ain't happening. But it was still a "very freaky scene." The dude stood at the urinal next to mine and carried on an uninterrupted conversation. It was unnerving. Afterwards, he watched me wash my hands without getting near the soap himself. I'm no OCD queen, but would it hurt to splash a little water on your hands after taking a piss?

For the next hour I tried to implant some sense into the little queen's head. Just as we were getting into the last chapter, the bosomy sex goddess sprang out of her chair and announced her departure. She asked that I give the little queen a ride and was out the door before I opened my mouth, leaving only the slight scent of Avon perfume behind. Her scheme could only have been more obvious it had been preceded by a knowing wink. I'm hardly worth this level of subterfuge.

So I was forced into giving the little queen a ride back to the dorm, all of a quarter of a mile away. He barraged me with inane questions and I slipped into monosyllabic responses. When he thanked me for my help and added "We'll have to do it again for the next test!" I only grumbled. Finally, we were at the dorm and I was able to throw him out the door and speed off.

The midterm exam is this afternoon and they're both going to fail. Maybe they'll drop the class after that. The annoying thing is, after enduring the stupidity of both the little queen and his best friend the sex goddess, I still want to bully and harass him.

.::Da Pimp::.

"A man may be a doddering great-grandfather and still love only a strange girl he saw in the streets of Cheehaw one afternoon two decades past."