A Letter from Bob
I recieved this note from the famed Bob one pleasant day in september. This is classic, for lack of a better word/phrase.
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Perhaps for your Tech humor page (written by me in a fit of
remembrance this morning for someone else):
At NMT there is a golf course. In the summer this course would be used
for a form of partying called "ice-blocking", I'm sure some of you
have done it. The point is to drink and get naughty, but the activity
ostensibly involves sitting on a block of ice and going down a steep
hill of grass. There is something remarkably amusing about achieving
speeds of 25-30MPH perched up on a 1' by 2' block of ice.
Anyway, a long time ago, must have been the early 90s, we lumbered out
to the iceblocking hill on a brilliant starlit night. 20lb blocks of
ice numbing our hands, lugging gallon conatiners of "Randy Sours",
Kamikazees, and "Brown Lemonaid", the typical drinks for such
gatherings. As is typical for parties, we were the core group who
actually started partying several hours earlier. Usually, after
claiming the iceblocking hill and commencing, full-throttle, the
journey to dislocated shoulders, vomiting, and organic hallucinogen
use, the rest of the people would wander in all night until the party
reached a cliimax of fourty to fifty people. Then newly-formed pairs
of people would start to wander off to do intensly organic things to
each other.
On this particular night, however, the iceblocking hill was already in
use. More precisely, at the bottom of the hill were two couples, at
the moment coupled, in drunken state of copulation. The core group
paused at this dimly lit, shadowy, lewd display of poor sexual
technique. Not only were the participants extremely drunk, but it was
obvious that they were horribly inexperienced.
Being beyond the halfway point to intoxication ourselves, and lacking
any tact or class, we continued on our merry way to the top of the
hill to have our own party.
Soon, one of the participants from the fumblefest below appeared at
the top of the hill. The individual looked to be about thirteen years
old and male, but it was hard to tell by starlight. He proceeded to
stagger about and ask if we had anything to drink. We were disinclined
to share, however, and he soon passed out cold. We rolled him onto his
side so he wouldn't asphixiate on his own puke.
Some very loud vomiting sounds erupted from the remaining coupled
couple, and a few minutes later a prepubescent, drunk, and piercingly
noisy girl arrived at the top of the hill.
"FUCK ME DOGGY STYLE" she wailed.
We tried to ignore her.
"MOMMY SAID ITS THE BEST FUCK ME DOGGY STYLE" she moaned.
This was too funny.
Then she pointed at the young gentleman passed out behind (although
probably not the one she was coupled with) and claimed "HE CAME ALL
OVER MY BUTT!". It was very clear to all of us that it was not come,
it was vomit. And it wasn't on her butt, it was on her lower back.
"FUUUCCKGGG MEE DOGGY STYLE" she implored at the top of her girlish
lungs.
"MOMMY TOLD ME THAT THAT'S THE BESHT!" she added.
We decided that it would be a good idea to escort her to
civilization. A small posse of us gingerly led the vomit stinking,
presumably recently defowered desert rose out of the golf course. The
other two participants had left the scene at the bottom of the hill,
so I assume they made it back to town. During the entire hike to town
she kept being very vocal.
"FUCK ME DOGGY STYLE!" and "HE CAME ALL OVER MY BUTT!"
Upon finding a road, we sat her down and were about to return to our
festival when a jacked-up, unmuffled 4x4 pickup roared onto the scene,
and an improbablyenumber of surly youths leapt out.
"I'M HER BROTHER, WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!" the most angry-looking young
man announced.
It was at this precise moment, that the vomit-soaked little lady
screeched with pride "HE CAME ALL OVER MY BUTT!", and pointed
swayingly and randomly to a member of our group.
In the stunned and sober silence that followed, suddenly the stupidest
member of our group launched into a logic-ridden and factual
explanation of everything that happened, while earnestly walking
toward the angry and, should I add, quite musclebound brother. To
everyone else's astonishment, both our group and the brother's
friends, the brother seemed to focus on the stupid guy's babble. While
they were thus occupied, the rest of us loaded the girl into the back
of the pickup. Eventually we got bored, waved farewell to the
brother's cronies, who bid us fine evening in return, and left our
stupid friend still trying to bend the brother's mind into his version
of reality.
As we were heading back into the darkness and trees, "FUCK ME DOGGIE
STYLE" rang out and echoed off the various buildings and houses in the
area.
--
Bob.
http://www.nmt.edu/~bob