By staff writer John Marcher
June 3, 2007
Author’s Note: The acts depicted in this story are real. The names have been changed for hilarious effect, for the sake of the rainforest. And not just any rainforest either, Ferngully: The Last Rainforest.
One time during college I was at a party with my good friend Tum-Tum Allibaster. Tum-Tum and I were frequent partners in crime and often attended parties together. We had a familiarity with each other’s capabilities that allowed for the execution of heinous acts of debauchery and flamboyance the likes of which haven’t been encountered since the days of Jack Dalton and Angus MacGyver. This party was turning out to be pretty lame, and that could mean only one thing: it was time to find someone to make a complete ass out of.
Just about the time I had pinpointed our target—some dweeb wearing a plaid brown sports jacket and a beanie—out of the blue came one of our mutual friends, and Tum-Tum’s frat brother, Ahmed. He claimed to be on the phone with four girls from Towson University who were drunk, alone, and wanted to dance. As you can probably guess, we didn’t pay any attention to that last part of that description. Once we heard there were four drunken girls, we immediately recruited a fourth member, Tum-Tum’s roommate Marcus, and set out for Towson.
“I don’t know how many times I can go over this sir, I’m not the one who’s railing your daughter, it’s my roommate.”
We arrived at the house to find a startling scene set before us. There were in fact only three drunk girls, and they weren’t alone. Their fourth counterpart had already commenced hooking up with the guy who lived upstairs in his bedroom. This harlot had upset the delicate balance of the much-coveted guy-to-girl-ratio. There was only one thing we could do at this point. We quickly headed for the kitchen, poured four shots of tequila (rail), and uttered The Man’s Oath. (If you’re a girl, you should probably stop reading this right now, because it will make little to no sense to you, or your ovaries.) We all agreed that we would let the girls choose for better or worse who they wanted to hook up with, and that there would be no cock-blocking of any sort by the guy who drew the short straw. As we were all men of chaste and honor, we downed our shots and proceeded to the living room.
What took place afterwards is one of the most primal experiences of my life. Walking into the room we were quickly reminded why we had been invited: to dance. The girls were in a conga line, prancing around the coffee table, listening to an indiscernible form of music usually referred to as techno. It was about this time I had an acid-induced flashback to my 6th birthday party, where a wild game of musical chairs ended with me body slamming Katie Keeney to take the title. Fighting the urge to recreate that chaotic scene, I did the only thing a white man can do when faced with the proposition of dancing: I threw caution to the wind and began gyrating robotically to what I took to be the beat of the music.
My friends followed suit and soon we were all immersed in the conga line, dancing around the coffee table in some pseudo-tribal mating ritual. The girls were eating it up too—giggling, prancing, jiggling, and gyrating like only females can. Dancing and Halloween costumes seem to be the only venues in which a girls’ behavior/attire is absolutely above respite, and these girls were well aware of that fact.
It was right in the middle of this ancient tribal ritual that their friend appeared, back from hooking up with the lucky bastard throwing this shindig. She was hotter than all of her friends as far as I was concerned, even though I have been told many times I lend extra credence to any girl with blonde hair. Her friends broke the conga line and went over to her in an attempt to assimilate her into our tribute to mankind’s’ African roots. She was having none of it though, and went on to tell her friends in dramatic fashion that she had been taken advantage of upstairs. Her friends dismissed this claim with a patented familiarity that could only have accrued from repeated exposure to such behavior.
I quickly conferred with Tum-Tum and we agreed that based on her friends’ reactions, this girl was simply trying to avoid being labeled a slut after giving up the punanny before the stroke of midnight. It was just about this time that she decided to grab a glass and smash it on the floor. It was like a moment from an MTV movie, where one of the characters says something inappropriate that brings the party to a screeching halt, complete with the sound of a DJ scratching his LP in an effort to stop it immediately. Her friends began to assault her with questions and concerns about what had happened, all of their previous reservations as to her stories validity a thing of the past.
Right then the homeowner appeared and began screaming that we were disrespecting his house and that we all had to leave. Needless to say, the events of the preceding sixty seconds were all I needed for encouragement to blow this Popsicle stand, and my friends followed suit. Ahmed, in the ensuing flee to our vehicles, convinced two of the girls, including the rapee, to follow us all the way back to Baltimore. I decided to relieve myself of the situation, and demanded to be dropped off on the way back to Tum-Tum’s place—something I would later regret immensely.
Although I was not there to witness the remainder of the night’s events, I am told this is what happened. Upon returning to Tum-Tum’s, it became blatantly apparent that this girl (the blonde) was intent upon finding yet another guy to hook up with. Ahmed began laying down his best A-game, because as I understand it, he had had a crush on this girl for quite a while. He even had her specifically in mind when we departed on this adventure earlier in the night, only to find out she had already found her Designated Hitter before he even got there. So when she came back and commenced drinking and flirting, he saw it as his chance to smash once and for all. Unfortunately for him, he did not count on the roundabout antics of one Tum-Tum Allibaster.
Now, you must understand, T.T. Allibaster is a master of manipulation. In fact, if there were a licensing or certification process for becoming a Sven golly, I’m sure Tum-Tum would hold one. This skill is extensively refined when it concerns the common day whore. Beyond that, earlier in that week, Tum-Tum had assured Marcus, who was a virgin, that if he listened to Tum-Tum’s advice, he would have him laid within the month. So here they were, 2am on a Saturday night, with a well-documented slut drinking like a fish and begging for a rodgering, and Tum-Tum knew he had his chance. He began encouraging Ahmed to drink, while blatantly making fun of him and his reportedly small penis, all the while encouraging Marcus to take things into his own hands and invite this girl up to his room to watch a movie. The plan worked to perfection in that it intoxicated Ahmed beyond comprehension, derailed his confidence, and distracted him to the point where Marcus and this two-timing harlot were able to slip away virtually unnoticed to the confines of his bedroom.
And this is where things get really interesting my friends.
While sitting in the living room listening to the rhythmic reverberation of Marcus losing his virginity upstairs, Tum-Tum stumbled upon the whore’s phone, some piece of shit Nokia, which she had left sitting out on the couch. I can tell you from personal experience that it is a horrible, horrible, horrible idea to give this man your phone when he has been drinking. His favorite thing to do in this situation is search the person’s contact list for their parents, and then call them and inform them what their child is up to at that particular moment, usually in the form of an elaborate voicemail. Drunk, bored, with no chance of pussy left, and some strong encouragement from Ahmed, who was pissed over how he had gotten burned twice in one night by the same girl, Tum-Tum looked up “Dad” in her phone and pressed send. The following is a culmination of my interpretation of the conversation that ensued, and the best fucking Jean-Pierre La-Crap style monologue you will ever read:
Hello… sir?
Who the hell is this? I’ll tell you who this is… this is the person whose roommate is railing your daughter right about now. And you wanna know what else? This is round two for that cheeky little tart.
Whoa whoa whoa… I see where your daughter gets her charm from. It was a similar kind of charm that got her kicked out of the house in Towson she was originally spending the night at.
Yeah, that’s right, earlier she was in another guy’s bedroom. When she stumbled down the steps where my friends and I were partaking in some rabblerousing, she claimed she was raped, and then changed her story to, “Okay, it was just bad sex… I need a shot… I’m not a slut or nothin, but if I’m going to get naked I want to get off too.”
Hahahaha and you wanna know what else? My roommate’s railing her again right now!
Hahahahaha, she’s been passed around like a bottle of rum on a pirate ship… your daughter’s a pirate whore… it doesn’t get any more despicable than that!
Do I think you’re not gonna call this number back?
It’s your daughter's phone go right ahead.
I hope you would have you daughter’s number sir.
Hey, while we’re on the phone let me ask you something: is your daughter on birth control? Yeah, ‘cause my roommate is pretty virile, and it’s kind of his first time so I wouldn’t be surprised if he dumped in her by accident or something…. But wait, that’s right, some other guy railed her earlier so there’s really no telling who the child’s father would be. Hmm, that is quite a conundrum if you ask me. Hahaha can’t you imagine it sir, my roommate’s sperm fighting it out with the dude from earlier, conquesting her ovaries like the Middle East circa the 12th century.
What are you talking about? Didn’t we just go over this? It wasn’t my roommate, he’s upstairs right now railing her as we speak…the raping took place like 2-3 hours ago man.
Sir, sir… there’s no reason to play the race card, I would think that a man who raised a girl open to sleeping with men from multiple ethnic backgrounds in one night would have a more open mind when it comes to this kind of thing.
I don’t know how many times I can go over this sir, I’m not the one who’s railing your daughter, it’s my roommate. How could I be on the phone with you while we’re fucking, she moans like a whore…. Very melodic though, earlier I heard her hit a high G flat, it was perfectly in tune. She’s very talented.
All right sir, well I’m sorry you feel that way. On any other day we might be sharing a beer, contemplating the meaning of life, and watching college football. Instead, my roommate’s laying pipe with your daughter and you’re acting like I’m the one who’s at her second sexual partner’s house the night that she just met with no friends, transportation, and I’m sure with a cell phone that if otherwise wasn’t dead, is most definitely going to be now. Which leads me to the point of my phone call chief: you’re going to need to pick your scally wag daughter up in the morning because I am not dealing with it!
2727 W. Forest Park in Baltimore….
It was a pleasure.