I was enjoying a nice evening watching Ohio State football team get their asses handed to them when I overheard a conversation at the bar:
“Does she have big boobs?” asked an overweight, balding dude in an Iowa Hawkeye T-shirt to Friend Dude.
“They’re about medium,” Friend Dude said.
“Does she have a nice ass?” Fat Hawkeye asked.
“Not one to write home about, but she’s really funny,” Friend Dude said.
“Well she better at least have a six-pack,” said Fat Hawkeye, whose T-shirt was the color of breastmilk-logged baby shit.
I took away a couple things from this conversation. One, I learned that a hawkeye isn’t a bird of prey. It’s not even a bird. It’s a furry with an “I” on its chest. Birds of prey have Superman eyes and strong talons that can snag a small pony out of a field. A Fat Hawkeye couldn’t snag a lap dance even if he owned his own stripper.
Next, I pondered the phrase, “not one to write home about.” Does Friend Dude pen a letter to Mom and Dad when he dates someone with juicy body parts?
Dear Mom and Dad,
I’m dating this broad Bella. Her mom and dad named her after Kristen Stewart in “Twilight.” Lame? I guess I don’t mind a teen fantasy romance. But I wanted to be sure I apprised you of Bella’s physical attributes. Bella has a medium rack, maybe a B-cup. Her tits seem nice and firm, but I haven’t put my paws on them yet. (No match for your beauties, Mom. Those double-Ds should be a national monument.)
Anyway, her ass isn’t as juicy as I’d like. It’s a little flat — like Dad’s, but with a little more heft. But I guess that’s moot because I really only like playing with my own asshole anyway. (Remember when you guys found that Costco box of anal beads under my bed in high school? Lolz. Dad asked if he could try the anal beads, and I was like, “Gross, bro, get your own!”
My buddy Chubs, from Iowa, told me Bella should have a six-pack if she doens’t have prominent T&A. What do you think? She makes me laugh and we have a good time together. Anyway, see you at Thanksgiving. Love, your son.
We’ll chalk this all up to “dude talk,” I guess.
Girls talk, too. We’ve equated your penises to pencils or Spam cans.
But at the bar, I was judging Hawkeye because he was annoying. I was in earshot, but I didn’t have to be. The slobbery mouth on him was loud enough that patrons of the Berkeley Inn across the street could hear. He was looking around to see who was listening to his remarks and thriving on getting a hoarse chuckle out of an aging barfly.
The moral of the story: Iowa Hawkeyes suck. Strippers aren’t property. We should snail mail our parents more. Let’s all use our inside voices when we talk shit. And if you have juicy body parts and come across a Fat Hawkeye, run.