Thoughts From an Alum’s Weekend Back at School, Part 1

Rob Fox13 years ago

On Monday morning I found myself sitting in the parking lot of a HyVee grocery store in Columbia, Missouri. I had just returned a keg that I purchased the moment I arrived in town 72 hours earlier. I was hungover as balls and facing a 13-hour Bataan Death March-esque drive back to Austin. I called my TFM bosses to let them know I wasn’t going to be in until the next day. Thankfully they didn’t care, because at the TFM office being hungover and halfway across the country is an acceptable excuse to miss work.

The weekend I had just experienced was nothing short of excellent, so I was feeling far too satisfied to care about the fact that I was probably going to fall asleep at the wheel and drive off a cliff somewhere in Oklahoma. Everything I set out to do that weekend, I accomplished. There were even a few pleasant bonuses that I didn’t expect, like a filthy stripper putting my pledge brother’s nose in her b-hole. These are a couple of my observations from my weekend back at school.

Strippers are HILARIOUS

This can technically be learned in any place women take their clothes off for money, but I was given a pretty big reminder of how funny strippers are this past weekend. A month earlier I had been asked to organize a bachelor party for one of my pledge brothers. He wanted to have it in Columbia so that as many of our brothers as possible could attend (most of them still live in Kansas City or St. Louis). Thankfully, organizing the party wasn’t that hard. Facebook events and the ability to shop for strippers online made the whole process pretty simple. Shopping for people online is hilarious and surreal by the way. It’s like if Facebook existed in some dark, twisted, sexually deviant, dystopian future. Or, you know, an Internet café in Bangkok. God bless the 21st Century.

I got to town on Friday around 2:00pm, picked up one of the guys I was staying with (a house full of kids who were pledges my senior year), and booked it to the HyVee to buy the keg. The keg was a bribe of sorts. A week earlier I asked the guys who lived in the house if they minded hosting the stripper festivities. They said that while they didn’t mind some used up townie rubbing her weathered muff on their furniture and what not, they needed compensation for having a bunch of drunk assholes potentially tearing up their house for an hour. Fair enough. Keg purchased.

At no point during the arranging of this bachelor party did I plan on hiring a hot stripper. There are two reasons for this. First, my shopping was limited to mid-Missouri. Actually locating a truly hot stripper couldn’t even be considered finding a diamond in the rough. It’d be more like finding the sparkling, platinum eye of God inside a dense black hole. Second, hot strippers are boring. You have huge fake tits? Cool. I’m over it. Dirty strippers are where the real entertainment is at. I didn’t want the bachelor to enjoy his lap dance. I wanted him to endure it.

I’m happy to report that our little meth princess accomplished her mission, and then some. Few things are more entertaining than watching one of your best friends with his face engulfed by the ass of a “Teen Mom” character. My only regret is that one of my other pledge brothers and I were too drunk to remember to give the bachelor his dick gear before the dances started. By dick gear I of course mean the bachelorette party favors adorned with and shaped like dicks. Why did we get him dick gear? Because why should bachelorettes have all the fun? The centerpiece of our collection was a take on the classic Groucho Marx glasses (thick rims, big eyebrows, big nose) except in place of the nose was, you guessed it, a dick. After I found out that the bachelor’s nose had actually snuck inside of the stripper’s b-hole I spent the rest of the night kicking myself. A stripper being sodomized by X-rated Groucho Marx glasses might have been the most glorious thing I could have ever witnessed in my sad, perverted life.

In case you were wondering, the bachelor said the stripper’s b-hole was “minty.” I still can’t decide if that thought makes me want to giggle or gag. The part that does make me giggle is that at some point during her pre-dance routine she has to “mint up.”

Nose-butt action and being an inbred townie aside, to me the funniest thing about this stripper is that she was only 18-years-old. Granted she isn’t the only 18-year-old stripper in the world, and I’m sure I’ve seen others without knowing it, but this was the first time I knew. I couldn’t help but think, “Who starts stripping at 18?” Seriously, who does? I find it hard to believe that she or anyone could make enough poor decisions in their lives that they had to resort to stripping at 18. What that meant to me is that she turned 18 and thought, “FINALLY, I can strip! Peace out Dairy Queen!” Clearly her high school guidance counselor was having an off day the last time they met. Stripping at 18 is like forfeiting a football game right after the kick off. She didn’t even want to give community college a whirl? Being a dental assistant seemed that terrible? Bad news sweetie, sooner or later you’ll be handling dental dams regardless.

Also amusing was the tattoo the stripper had on her left side. It was of a small mammal that none of us could readily identify. We narrowed the possibilities down to a gopher, a beaver (lolz), or a mongoose. I’m inclined to think the tattoo was of a mongoose because mongooses kill snakes, and this stripper killed boners. But that’s probably not true, because strippers don’t understand irony.

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