Home
Site News
Personal
About me
Pictures
Professional
School
Work
Resume (PDF)
Hobbies
Cooking
OFP
Programming
Writing
Old GDT Articles
Published
Links
Contact
by Rocko Bonaparte
The topic here, of course, is players. Not the talented RIT players, I'm talking about the "playah's" for once. You see, I'm quite jealous of them, and you should be too. Why do I think so? Well, look at the Riverknoll apartments. They're falling apart. Do you know why? It's not because of the little holes people put in the walls there, and the other normal wear-and-tear. Rather, it's from abnormal, particularly perverse, wear and tear.
Male RIT students that don't know better need to satisfy themselves. But using one's hands is unsanitary, and too "icky" for quirky engineering majors. They've found less-troublesom solutions by doing one of two things: humping the bed, or humping the wall. In the former, the bed and the floor has to take up the extra, rythmatic vibrations. In the latter, the wall takes the brunt of the force. In either case, a rythm is started, which has a frequency and an amplitude. Anybody who managed to pay attention in physics [survival] class know about resonance. In a nutshell, the wall and the floor have resonant frequencies. It's a magic frequency at which it will vibrate. Contributing something from the outside, like humping the wall, at the right frequency, and you could cause the wall to explode. Well, in theory at least. What usually happens is the wall tilts sideways and cracks. Looks a lot like Riverknoll now, doesn't it?
On the other side of the spectrum is my pal Corey Thibeault. His name has been printed with his gleeful permission, with his reason that he wanted to show his poor mother this article. Anyhw, he doesn't have to hump the wall, bed, or floor. In the land of RIT, where the women have plenty of men to choose from, he gets a good, long consideration. By the men and the women. This leads us to a story of his from a week ago. Note that some poetic license was added here in order to make the story incredibly offensive.
So our friend T-bone (which is what his last name sounds like said real fast) was showering at the "Student Lift Center" last week. Well, he probably left the shower more dirty than he was when he arrived. Being the pimpdaddy he is, he smuggled himself in a nice young lady to share the shower -- the men's shower with. I would reason he would just go into the woman's shower and take em' all on, but I hear the women's shower is about the size of a bathroom stall, and that's all it really is. That's what was left when the SLC's architects did the math for the girl shower based on the guy/girl ratio from years ago.
What was bad about this was the girl later told Corey some guys where checking them out while this was going on. I wouldn't blame any guys passing by for paying attention to this situation. However, the facts are more sinister. The guys in question were more fascinated with our protagonist's B-hind than the lady's. At this point I was wondering how the girl got in there in the first place. Corey's solution was simple -- he put a bag over the girl's head, which worked as a disguise. Yes, the girl consented. I then asked how the girl saw all this going on, because T-bone was obviously too busy ... showering. The solution was equally elegant, he had poked two eyeholes into the bag. Can't deny a girl the right to see their sugar daddy. I can see this working, since men here are so out-of-training with women that a bag would be enough to confuse them.
Now I can't say I really have that much of a problem with T-bone. But quite frankly, I wish I had such good fortune. I suppose I can genetically-engineer my son to be like me, but look like him. However, I think my poor boy will get a lot of this:
"You're so damn hot, but I'm sorry . . . you're scary."
We can do this through genetic engineering, or I can accept the inevitable: T-bone will sleep with my wife and produce this child sooner or later.
I'm not
sure what else to do here because I'm not going to piss my genetics into
the wind too easily. If I did, then my son would just be a whigger. I will
not have a whigger for a son. I will not have a whigger for a friend,
either. Corey's not a whigger -- he was, but he's in a twelve-step program,
and step twelve involves having sex in the shower. I guess that means he's
just been cured. So good for him, but I hope he chokes on a kite or something.
Then I can play the role of the sympathetic friend to all the nice ladies
mourning at his funeral. Failing this, I'll just have to resort to bait-and-switch
tricks with him at parties. He does all the talking, and then we switch
when they're not noticing. It's the best I can do...
Return to GDT Index