Memento Pinchi

Since I have spent the better part of two weeks suffering from some type of bovine mega-flu--brought on no doubt by one of the drooling, anal-leakage-suffering visitors to my fine library establishment (my money is on the slovenly woman with the moustache whom I recently dubbed Burt Reynolds)--I have been trying desperately to heal myself without visiting the dreaded chump-and-mump fest known as the clinic. Sadly, the constant vomiting, horseradish enemas, garlic & chive wang rubs, cheese doodle inhalers, bean salad facials, & self-fellating flights of whimsy did nothing to alleviate my misery. However, during this wonderful stretch of bedsore-forming delights, I did have a lot of time to muse upon my stupid life--in particular my initial experiences in college after leaving the cold discomforts of home. So, I just felt that I should preserve some of the critical lessons that I learned back in the day to both instruct and horrify my future progeny. Butt first, have a listen to this wonderful little ditty from local Tampa troubadours, Have Gun Will Travel, and enjoy the enjoy:

http://hypem.com/track/682305/Have+Gun%2C+Will+Travel-When+We+Were+Kings
or
Star Maker Machine: The Aristocrats: When We Were Kings

Anyhow, to the lessons. The year was 1986; I was 19; I was a freshman living in a 1200 person dormitory; and I wore flannel.

Lesson 1: The Truth about Track Pants

Before I attended college, I assumed that these marvellously cozy pantalettes were worn exclusively by track athletes and Donkey Kong-playing tubbagoos. But I soon learned that there was more to these nifty numbers than I ever dared imagine. So much more.

My first observation concerning this particular style of pant came as I was dating a lovely young lass during the first few weeks of freshman year. Now this co-ed was extremely fashion-conscious, and was an ass & foot model, or something like that. So imagine my surprise when she appeared at my dormroom threshold one morning wearing baggy, standard grey track pants. What, I thought to meself, gives here? In a few moments, however, I had my answer. You see, it was quickly revealed to me that many young women who only have an hour between classes, yet still have an unquenchable thirst for the thrill of the boom boom, often prefer not to bother with the many difficulties involved with donning and removing jeans, and opt instead for the easy access and speedy drop-ability facilitated by the track pant. [Editor's note: Again, had the Tearaways business model been accepted and not openly mocked, there might be a velcro strap here to aid the youngsters in their quest for speedy tumbling. Just sayin'.]

So, given the recent sexual freedoms afforded many teens in the building since leaving the roost, the versatile track pant turned out to be quite a popular clothing option amongst the young women in the dorm. Stores began stocking pink pants, blue pants, puce pants--all the colours of the rainbow. In fact, this boom in sales also allowed the lads to see who might be more willing to round the bases with them after a night of kegstands and chardonnay bongs. What a time to be alive.

But, as with all things, fate played a nasty trick on the youngsters in the dorm. Seems that, for some odd reason, eating a steady diet of deep-fried dormitory foodstuffs for six months, while maintaining a lifestyle of sloth and asso-horizontology, might not allow students to maintain their high-school weight and shape. So, the lads got beer-bellies and sizeable love handles, as one might expect. But the women tended to experience exponential expansions of hemispherical rondure in the buttock region--at once eliminating jeans, cords, and skirts from the daily wardrobe, leaving only--you guessed it--the track pant to be worn. You can imagine the confusion. A young lad spies a lass in track pants at a floor party. Eureka, he thinks, I am to be soon bedded. However, after an inspired attempt at flirtation and seduction, the lass wearily exclaims, 'Buddy, I'm not horny, I just have a fat ass'.

So there it is. Lesson #1 from my college years: 'Don't judge a booty by its cover', or, more plainly, 'Life is ass'.

Stay tuned for Lesson #2.