“You're young, you're drunk, you're in bed, you have knives; shit happens..."- Angelina Jolie (1975- ),
Actress and Adopter of Orphans* * * *
"If I can't dance, it's not my revolution."- Emma Goldman (1869-1940),
Anarchist and Feminist
OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- He's a regular Killer Diller, walking the streets towards sexual oblivion at three a.m., a cackling buffoon of a bottle blonde in six-inch heels leaning into him to avoid slipping on the High Street ice.
Killer and blonde were, as is often the norm for the local undergrad population, overdressed for a night out in a town where the "nightclub" hot spots tend to resemble the mail-order-bride filled discotheques in some former Soviet republics.
And, being a college town with not a whole hell of a lot to do after dark, well, they were beyond hammered. At that all-too-common, black-out-and-horny point, the benchmark where responsible, consensual sex becomes merely a quick couple of grinds, a squirt or two, and a convenient amnesiac hangover a few hours later.
Like I said.
The norm in this here college town when the undergrads are the only creatures of the night making anything but sweet music.
I myself have been struggling to get a female friend to my pick-up. Not, well, because either of us were drunk and horny.
No, we were simply done for the night. And she needed a ride home. Her car died a few months back, and her new puppy was eagerly awaiting his late night piss in the snow.
We were supposed to be heading to a party afterwards but...
As we pass Killer and his red meat, I can't help but laugh. The blonde's got what looks to be piss running down the back of her leg - homegirl's so drunk, she's just letting it rip and asking Killer if he really thinks she's the sexiest thing alive.
As one gets older, wiser, more mature, one learns when "one more drink" partying often leads to nothing but a head over a toilet, or a dick in the wrong vagina, or worse.
Like "pissing yourself in designer, cunt-cutting leggings and being dragged home by a Neanderthal looking motherfucker" worse.
- MORE -
With a devastatingly fast left hook, the 175 pounder's nose burst like an overripe tomato.
Headgear, even top-of-the-line amateur gear, offers little defense against a natural murderer, a butcher of cordoned battle.
Trust me. Had my eye split open, had geysers full of red life pour from my own nose in the bouts - headgear ain't nothing but putting a quilt over a steak and waiting for the meat tenderizer.
The other fighter, a kid from a Catholic university down in Cincy, pure raw glistening ebony, could barely find a neutral corner - even he seemed to be surprised by the blow.
Crimson drops beget purple dots on the canvas. The referee began the count. The bell rang the end to the first round not a moment too soon for the Ketchup Kid.
Saturday night was fight night on the Local U. campus. And the local amateur boxing club managed to pull in a half dozen other collegiate boxing clubs for a tournament.
Murderers. Tomato cans. Killers. Bleeders and white-knuckled gloves and Everlast mouth guards galore.
Glorious! Hosanna in the Highest!
"I can't believe you'd go watch boxing over going to the Charter Day Ball," she said in a text, "I mean, you can afford $50 for a ticket...I could've found you a date..."
There were a few hundred of us, spectators to the Higher Education carnage, willing to pay a donation of five whole dollars to watch a good dozen fights that night.
"Boxing is so stupid... how can you watch that shit?"
Yes, boxing isn't a sport of civilized men these days. No, Americans have no stomach for anything but corporate-owned mixed martial arts and television wrestling.
We are CIVILIZED these days, CULTURED, SOPHISTICATES! That's why we clamor over celebrity gossip, reality television, and let talk show hosts pick the president!
- MORE -
"So, tell me," the lovely Czech hitchhiker began, green eyes aglow in the natural dusk light of the apartment, "You are... really from Virginia? Originally?"
"Yeah," the other woman said, lighting a cigarette, "[The Italian Ex-Fling] said you grew up a cowboy or... is it... country bumpkin?"
Two young European women, the Czech included, and their Afro-French traveling companion were crashing with me for what was supposed to be a night and a day - my apartment ended up turning into a bit of a hostel for foreigners for almost two days and two nights, due to winter weather.
We sat around in a circle as freezing rain fell on top of the snow outside one Sunday evening, smoking cigarette after cigarette. It was six at night, a few days after getting over the flu, and I was doing my best to be a good host - giving tips on roads and cities to avoid, offering insight on the places to eat, things to see...
I'm not going to lie. It was lust at first sight, on my end, in terms of the Czech.
As annoying as it was to have a bunch of twenty-something European hippie-ish strangers squatting in the ol' Fortress of Motherfucking Solitude, I admit to being smitten with the ex-fling's flatmate - didn't help matters that she liked to shower with the bathroom door open and wasn't fond of bras in my nipply-cold apartment.
Hey, it's been a while, dammit - and ain't no crime in, ya know, looking. Alas, she brought her boyfriend with her on their North American walkabout.
"Yep. Grew up on a farm three hours south of Washington, DC."
"Really?" The Afro-Franc chimed in, "We haven't been there yet but we're hoping to see Monticello. It's in Charlottes...town?"
"CharlottesVILLE. Beautiful fucking place. Jefferson, for all his faults, was really a fucking badass-"
Suddenly, the Czech sat up in her sleeping bag and started laughing.
"________ warned me you had a toilet mouth. Very American."
"Bad American?" I was flirting. "Or good American?"
"No," she seemed to be flirting back. "Very, just, I'd say more fun than I expected. You talk like a teenager..."
We talked for a good six hours straight, she and I, long after her traveling companions fell asleep.
And I think, yes, I laid it on a bit thick. And she was flirting right back. Czech women, for the record, are some of the most dangerously fascinating women I've encountered to date.
Or do piče, to be more precise.
Why did couldn't she have left the boyfriend back in Europe?
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