OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL:On the Dangerous Situations Women Put Themselves Into at Colleges and Universities Every Weekend, Everywhere...

A RARE PROLOGUE

"So what you're saying..." said the drunk undergrad earlier in the night,"is tha...if... if I was completely naked and all over you right now, you wouldn't fuck me... because I'm wasted?"

"Exactly," I whispered back in her ear. "But you can call me when you're sober."

"That's fucked up."

"Well, maybe, but women usually appreciate that one fucked-up thing more than the others..."

And with that she wandered off, disgusted, and started grinding her very fine ass into the crotch of some other guy.

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) – So I found a drunk college girl passed out in the bed of my pickup last night.

Found is an understatement, actually - at a stoplight at three-thirty in the morning on a frigid Saturday, on my way home from the bars, I looked in my rear view mirror just as she knocked on the back glass of the cab from inside the camper shell.

So a zombie of drunk-ass, Oompa Loompa tan chick gave me a fucking horror-movie perfect scare, almost gave me a goddamn heart attack when she realized she'd passed out in a strange dude's truck WHILE the truck was moving...

That would be a way more appropriate way to start off this dispatch from the Rich White College Kid Holy Land.

You had to be there.

Better that you weren't, actually. I ended up gunning through the light by mistake, almost running into a government building in my rush to stop the truck.

* * * *

Poor kid was so wasted she could barely communicate anything beyond repeating that her friends had abandoned her and that she'd lost her purse.

Too drunk to explain coherently how she'd come to black out in my truck. Too drunk to provide me with any directions to get her home safely. Too drunk to give me any information beyond calling me Chad, apologizing for being too drunk, and telling me that she pissed herself.

So long story short...

I ended up adopting a petite, brunette, 19-year-old puppy for the night.

And no, not like that.

Please. For the last time now: I. DO. NOT. DO. BLACKOUT DRUNK GIRLS.

* * * *

Tough call, actually.

It was either give her a place to crash or drop her underage ass off with the Po-Po.

I chose the route that would get me in bed sooner rather than later, the route involving no paperwork, no questions about pressing charges or testifying-if-needed.

I helped homegirl to the passenger seat, drove home, and carried my impromptu boarder up a flight of stairs to my apartment. I laid her out on the kitchen table, positioned her head over the trashcan, gave her a blanket and a pillow.

And then I went to bed. Alone.

* * * *

When I got up at 11 o'clock, she was still there, snoring. She'd puked, missed the trashcan almost completely. Rather than wake her up - or eat my breakfast surrounded by the smell of vodka-tinted vomit - I went back to my bedroom, hopped on my new Ubuntu OS netbook, and surfed the web.

Eventually, I heard a thud in the kitchen, followed by a string of profanity and a call of Um...hello?

That, yes, was my cue to walk out and make an introduction to someone who, hopefully, got the shit scared out of her.

She was so embarrassed that she pretty much cleaned my apartment while waiting for her boyfriend to come fetch her.

Waiting for her boyfriend. In a strange older dude's apartment. After a night of drinking that she can't remember.

How'd ya like to be a fly on the wall in the ol' Fortress of Motherfucking Solitude for that knock at my door this morning...

* * * *

Like I said, long story. You just had to be there. And it's better that you weren't, really.

But the story probably wouldn't have ended as well had she passed out in some less honorable guy's pickup.

Oxford Fucking Ohio is, after all, a college town. And not everyone here is as honorable or ethical as certain sorta local blogebrity types...

- # # # -

THE OXFORD (FUCKING OHIO) DICTIONARY OF QUOTATIONS: Ringing in 2009 with Donut-Covered Boobs, Ranty Emails, and Destroyed Lucky Jerseys...

"I'm not drunk, I'm surreal sober. Now put that somewhere... wait... did somebody take my bra off?"

- Recently minted Local U. alumna,
On her last weekend in Oxford

Yeah, we'll leave it at that. Fun first weekend back in ol' Oxford Fucking Ohio, really. And I can honestly say that I've never eaten a donut off of a drunk woman's tits before last Friday night.

* * * *

"Hey, it worked in Blazing Saddles..."

- A Buddy's Facebook Status,
The Day After the U.S. Presidential Election

True enough. Maybe Hillary will unite the world by holding a chili bean fart-off in an effort to end the Iraq fiasco?

* * * *

"Until I was fourteen, I divided humanity into three categories: women, little girls, and buffoons."

- From Le Sabotage amoureux (1993),
by Belgian novelist Amélie Nothomb,
English translation, 2000

One of the most disturbingly hilarious French-language writers living today. A blog reader recommended this book to me before Christmas; I haven't laughed that much while reading a European writer in a long time...

Ha, while Tom Waits may be big in Japan, apparently I'm big in France...

* * * *

"Baltimore Ravens fans are all murdering egomaniacs. You suck, The Wire sucks, your team sucks, and you're unOhio for being a Ravens fan."

- A Cleveland Browns fan/Ex,
via drunken voicemail, Jan. 7,
On my choice of sports teams

Hey, it's not my fault Ohio's pro football teams are, well, pathetic. Blame the ownership. And while I may suck, The Wire is one of the best urban crime dramas ever. Thanks for returning my Ray Lewis jersey, albeit vandalized, after three fucking years.

Hope you enjoy the remnants of your Grady Sizemore jersey. The delivery driver who picked it up said his company often returns boxes full of ashes to loved ones. Especially Cleveland Indians baseball fans...

* * * *

"This presidential inauguration is brought to you by your starving friends at Corporate Welfare. Remember: for the price of a few hundred billion in taxpayer bailouts, you too can accomplish wallet-padding Change CEOs Can Believe In (by privately financing Rick Warren and Oprah's pet goat.)"

- The ZenFo Pro, via email,
To someone "shocked and appalled"
he "refuses to trust and accept change..."

The natural enemy of the People is the State, I told my Republican-voting mother over Christmas, And the moment the People's Hero becomes the State, he becomes not a savior but the same old incompetant tyrant in a new suit.

Best not to bring that subject up with someone who is completely not buying the Hope shit. I think I've made that pretty much clear as day. I'm, politically, a Libertarian Lefty - why would I change my views to accommodate yet another flavor of American Neoliberalism?

* * * *

"Just you watch - one day, those motherfuckers are gonna start having Martin Luther King Day sales...Free At Last, Buy One Get One Freedom sales..."

- Angry Black Activist,
On What's Wrong with MLK Day.

No explanation needed, really. And I wouldn't put it past retailers.

* * * *

"I think I may have broke my penis."

- C'mon, who HASN'T slammed
a that in the car door before?

-# # # -

ON THE ROAD 2008: Welcome Back to Caliporn...Er...California! May I Crush You with my Boobs?

PASO ROBLES, Calif. (ZP) -- I didn't think anything of it at first.

A group of very drunk women in the midst of a pub crawl, eight in all, with one hollering something about knowing me from somewhere, staggered past me as I pulled cash from an ATM.

These things happen. Particularly when there's drunk women involved.

I look like a lot of people. Sometimes famous, sometimes high school boyfriends, and once - from the mouth of an ex - I was told that I resembled a favorite coach at a Catholic school at the worst possible time a woman could bring such a thing up.

Rarely does anybody ever tell me that I look like, well, me.

I laughed as the women passed. One woman - the one who claimed to her friends that she knew me - reached out and grabbed my shoulder.

"YOU! I knew it!" the strange creepy gal yelled. "Oh Gosh... did you used to date _____?"

Her English was accented, northern European. An appropriate voice, too, given the fact the woman slurring into my face looked like Thor and Barbie's lovechild - luscious blond hair, full red lips, fair and spotless complexion, and enough surgically enhanced boobage to keep custom bra manufacturers in business for years to come.

Funny thing. Though a few years older, she looked familiar to me, too. I must've stared for a good twenty seconds, without blinking and head cocked to the side, like some Cocker Spaniel watching its master shit for the first time.

And, well, I did once date somebody with the name she'd given me...

* * * *

Wait! I think I know this drunk chick! my neurons screamed. Hmmm... ____'s friend? Name?

Think! DAMMIT!

Okay... breathe... I'm thinking Vegas... 2005... The Venetian's pool ... Don Julio shots... jumping jacks...

Yeah, now that was a fun morning swim.

...Got IT!

* * * *

I shoved my forty bucks in my pocket and smiled back. I had a name, dammit. Even if, well, I couldn't figure out why a SoCal-based actress just happened to be in Paso Fucking Robles, California, two days into the New Year.

"Well, look at this shit! _____ ______, in the motherfucking flesh! How are the fuck are ya, honey?"

The tall blonde not-so-stranger shimmied towards me, skirt riding up her thighs, an army of latex marching across battlefields of porcelain leg. A quick hug and a peck on the cheek, artificial double-Ds crushing my ribcage, holiday greetings exchanged with all the honesty and sincerity of a faked orgasm on a junior high prom night.

Seriously.

Few things outside of organized religion are as plastic and ritualistic as the Los Angeles Hug-Kiss-Kiss.

* * * *

"Wow! I almost didn't recognize you! Cheri, hey, this guy used to date ______. And he lives in Cleveland..."

"Um, well, Cleveland's on the far side of the Ohi-"

"Oh gosh, you just look AMAZING! How ARE YOU? I heard you were, like, dead or something."

"Gee, thanks, chica. Looking pretty hot yourself. So you're still in the adult busin-"

"Oh my God! You remember? Wow! Gosh, like, you probably don't know this but..."

She went on for twenty minutes without pausing for a breath, oblivious to the fact that we only hung out one night, years ago, in Las Vegas. I now know more about her career, sex life, her dogs and cats, and her ex-boyfriend's little premature ejaculation/fidelity problem than I ever wanted to know, really.

In the one place in the world I generally expect to NOT run into THAT ex's friends...

Wow, I thought as she pecked my other cheek, The Central Coast really is looking a lot more like the San Fernando Valley every fucking year.

* * * *

I'd been on my way out for the night; the group of women were done for the night, headed back to their hotel. And they were all pretty much too drunk, by their own admission, to head back out to the few bars Paso Robles has to offer.

Thank God. No offense, ladies.

Last time I hung out with Ms. Double-D, I woke up in bed next to four women, complete with a Nordic-pale leg wrapped around my neck, somebody's ass beneath my head, and the then-girlfriend's passing out with her twat in my slumbering face.

Long night. And equally long story. These things happen. Especially when there's drunk women involved.

But, well, there's a reason I have no desire to ever return to Las Vegas.

- # # # -