www.morgypoo.com

Tale of college humor

I have always regretted that I was not able to be a part of the following episode. The fateful events of this weekend have been pieced together based on police records and others' accounts.

Picture the moon peeking from behind a cloud in downtown Macomb, the riff raff stumbling out of the bars and onto the streets, and the Boyzz howling into the night. It's just after midnight on this Friday the Thirteenth, and five of the Boyzz are about to enter The Prison Zone,

"Look, man, this parking meter is loose!" Banjo Jim yells with a laugh. That's all the challenge this rowdy gang needs. Twenty seconds later, the meter is uprooted and hoisted over their heads like a Stanley Cup trophy. But their smiles turn to frowns as police swarm the area and load up the paddy wagon. Soon the five drunken fools are sitting handcuffed at the County Jail, treating the event like a field trip.

The Boyzz are led, one by one, into a sound proof room for questioning. Banjo Jim is the first to go. As he is escorted away by Officers Bill Gannon and Joe Friday, he can be heard screaming, "No! Not the comfy chair! Please not the comfy chair!" Of course they don't actually use the comfy chair on Banjo; that method of interrogation has been banned ever since the tragic accident during the Nuremburg Trials of 1948. The only forms of interrogation employed on this evening are psychological ones, which are of little use with these head cases.

In response to each question, Banjo recites: "Jim, Banjo; Student; Captain Crunch."

The Officers are quite confused until one says to the other, "I think he's giving us his name, rank, and cereal number."

Musky doesn't offer much more help than Banjo Jim: "Muskazol; Senior; Fruit Loops."

Devin insists they were framed. And Lance, obstinate as always, demands that he be given a lawyer. A female lawyer. Blonde, slender, not too much make up.

Spanky is the most nervous gang member, and understandably so, for Spanky is a cop major. "Man, I can kiss my career as a cop goodbye," he sweats as they take him away for questioning. And the sad part is that Spanky tried to walk away as the crime was taking place.

After the spotlight torture is concluded, the G-men take fingerprints and mugs. Of course the juvenile offenders make light of it, asking for a group photo with the parking meter. But the laughs end abruptly when the cell door closes behind them. "When do we get out of here?" Lance demands to know.

"After you see the judge, Monday morning."

Two and a half days of incarceration begin with those words. The Boyzz are speechless, petrified, and trying like hell to believe this is actually happening. As they gaze at the bare cement all about them, Banjo Jim speaks in his best Barny Feif voice: "Here at the Rock, we have two rules. The first rule: obey all rules. The second rule: no writing on the walls."

Banjo is alone in his merriment. The other four men are, for once, serious and deep in thought. They seem to resent even a hint of joking. Banjo Jim realizes such and clams up for the moment, then calls top bunk and scales it like a playful monkey.

Spanky has the misfortune of being placed in a separate cell from the other Boyzz. But luckily for him, he gets a decent roommate in Harold. "So what are you in for?" Spanky asks Harold.

"Originally? For runnin' a lady over with my pick up truck. See I grabbed her purse n' took off, but she jumped out in front of me as I pulled out."

"And what'd they give you?" Spanky asks.

"Life."

"No way! Really? Seems like it was half her fault to me."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't sure if she was dead," Harold continues, "so I backed over her once more just to finish the job." Naturally Spanky is a bit concerned after learning he's locked up with a murderer. So imagine how he trembles when Harold tells him why he's at this particular jail, "They brought me here for a trial, see, 'cuz I set my cell mate on fire back at Stateville."

Eventually Spanky is moved into a bigger cell with the rest of the Boyzz, where he can at last breathe easy. The sentence passes slowly, incredibly so, and it doesn't help matters that the Boyzz don't eat. Lance, the experienced jail bird, convinces his cell mates that prisons "put salt peter in inmates' meals to cut down on homo activity." And so they starve themselves, but that's certainly better than the alternative: watching their "weenies shrivel up." They are lucky to have Lance’s wisdom.

Come Sunday, the glamour of prison life has all but worn off. And not having eaten for two days, the Boyzz look forward to their afternoon cokes. This is the only thing that's safe to consume, Lance tells them. So as the guard brings them their beverages, the five raggedy men talk of how they'll savor it, their one luxury that hasn't been taken away. To them, coke is freedom, and freedom is coke. Banjo Jim jumps to the cell door to be first in line, then smiles as he embraces his cup and walks eagerly back to his cot. He uses one hand to pull himself onto the top bunk, while the other hand slips and knocks his coke onto the cell floor. "Oh God!" he moans, his mouth gaping at the spillage below him. Spanky, God bless him, offers the broken man a sip of his own drink, but Banjo silently shakes his head as he tries not to cry.

When the judge finally sees the Macomb Five, he decides in favor of leniency. He allows Spanky to get off the hook after hearing the Boyzz affirm his story of trying to leave the crime. As far as the other four are concerned, Lance and Banjo Jim plead guilty to a misdemeanor charge, while Musky and Devin get off Scot free. And Harold, who knows? If Lance was right about the food, I imagine Harold's weenie has shriveled up and fallen off by now.

When the Boyzz returned to Higgindome, everyone but everyone knew about their blunder. They couldn't go anywhere without hearing people whispering: "Convicts! Those are the convicts!"

Had I been in Macomb at the time, I’m certain I would have been among the arrested. And I wondered, when I heard about their ordeal, whether I was to blame. Stealing a parking meter, it almost sounded like they were following in my trail, the thief of a urinal, birdbath, rifle, toy wagon, toilet seat, etc, etc. Nah, I doubt it had anything to do with that. Boys will be Boyzz regardless of whom they run with.

Late in December, close to Christmas time, I found myself doing some heavy thinking. I knew, in the back of my mind, that Macomb's fall semester was about to end. I also knew I had to go back for the upcoming spring semester. Being away from school for an entire semester was one of the toughest sacrifices I ever made. All those friendships, all the camaraderie and popularity that took so long to gain, it would soon vanish! Most of my school chums were planning to graduate or flunk out within the next semester, so you see, I had to grab onto my prime before it was too late.

Okay, so returning to school would be great socially. But what of my chances scholastically? Could I behave well enough to bring up my grades? And how about spiritually? I still wanted to change who I was, or at least avoid reverting to the Morg of old. Not that I had improved drastically, mind you, but I'd managed to slow down the degradation quite a bit.

I came up with a plan. "I'll go back to school next month," I foretold Lance over the phone, "and I'll give up booze for Lent. That way, I'll at least be sober for six of the sixteen weeks, so I'm bound to pass my classes." I couldn't do much worse than last spring's 0.75 GPA. Yes, I would return.

Upon my return to the land of Women In Underwear, I was on Academic Probation, meaning I had to get at least a C average. They stuck me in Henninger Hall, a freshman dorm, for the first three weeks. Me, a mature, 22 year old dorm veteran, surrounded by immature rookies who didn't know the first thing about advanced partying. To them, you could get no funnier than to draw penises all over your neighbors' doors and memo boards. Oh, the giggles that brought out.

So each evening, I blew that joint and walked over to Higgindome to join the Boyzz for dinner, and perhaps some hall frisbee afterwards. The Boyzz had seen some changes since my days with them, both in ranks and in spirit. Dad, the poor fella, had tragically graduated the month before. And Slim was now a floor cop in another dorm, becoming serious and responsible, and word had it he was settled down with a good woman. I missed having him around, but I was happy for the guy.

Lance also had a new squeeze, which was no shocker for Mister Chick of the Month. But this time it was Lacy, one of the Babes. That one was hard to figure. Musky compared it to Sweet Polly Purebred going out with Simon Bar Sinister. And Banjo Jim was actually seeing one of the new Babes recruits. I guess life was starting to happen to the gang.

Some new faces had replaced the old, one of those being Devin, a notorious parking meter bandit. Devin had cool written all over him, from the way he dressed, to the way he walked and spoke. I could see him being a street gang leader, the kind you wouldn't dare cross. Devin was said to be a partyer, and as such, he welcomed my arrival with great anticipation. "I hear you're ___ing crazy, man," he told me with much admiration.

"Darn crazy," I confirmed, giving my best Jack Nicholson look.

Devin invited me to a happy hour later in the week. "It’s Wapatui," he grinned.

I pictured some tall Africans doing a rain dance, until Lance explained it for me: "You know, a Wapatui party. You start with a big punch bowl."

"Or maybe my urinal?!" I suggested.

"Whatever. You fill it half way with Kool Aid. And each guest brings something to spike the punch. Everclear, Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, Smirnoffs…"

"Ty-de-bol," I added.

"Whatever. And you mix it all up and drink it down."

"Nasty stuff?" I asked.

"No, actually, it doesn’t taste too bad. And it tends to sneak up on you. Usually the people who aren’t big drinkers end up wasted, because they don’t realize how much alcohol they’re consuming."

"So we’re slipping them a mickey?" I asked deviously.

"Exactly. Remember Hurricane Jamie? The only time I’ve ever seen her wasted was when she drank two of those Hurricanes at your party. She was the life of the party… until she erupted all over the hallway."

I was pumped for this event. After being out of the college scene for eight months, I felt like a freshman all over again. It felt great to be part of the pack again, a member of a team, even if it was a drinking team. I slurped down glasses of punch like a man on a mission. But I noticed that no one else was on the same mission. Folks talked, they talked some more, but no one really partied. No one got silly. No one drank straight out of the punch bowl. That’s okay, I could wait. Soon it would be Palace time, and that’s when things would really get crazy. While most of the Boyzz were hitting the showers, I killed time with Disco and his lady, Hurricane Jamie. She was a sweet heart. I could tell Disco was a better man with her in his life. He looked complete. I guess that’s why he took a pass on the Palace that evening; he had everything he needed right there in his dorm room. I couldn’t blame him. I suppose if Sheila were still a part of my life, that might have been me too.

Next I bopped down to Banjo Jim’s room, expecting my comrade to share his wodka with me. "All out, Comrade Morg," my buddy lamented. I pulled up a chair and began getting to know his new girl friend. We talked and joked for a few minutes. She said she felt like she already knew me, based on all the stories she had heard from the Boyzz. "Well, I’m trying to tone down a little bit," I shared, letting down my guard for just a moment.

As I sat in their company, I began seeing a change in Banjo Jim. Once a man truly off the beaten path, he didn't seem as anxious to prove it any more. He seemed more quiet and domesticated, even content, no longer living life on the edge with the rest of us. He now sat back and allowed life to come to him. Another lion tamed by the presence of a lady.

As I meandered from room to room, waiting for the troops to deploy for the Palace, I carefully watched all the Boyzz and noticed subtle changes in their nature. These guys were not the same. Something was missing. Oh my goodness… they were normal.

Lance was the most transformed. His mind was somehow possessed or preoccupied. Instead of firing off lightning quick one-liners, he kept to himself a bit more. Like Disco and Banjo Jim, Lance was under the spell of a woman. But for him it was different. It wasn’t bringing out the best in him. His attachment with Lacy was a close one; so close that there wasn’t room for a third. I watched how they acted in a group, each paying more attention to the other's silent demeanor than to what us folks were saying. There in Lance’s room, as I'd seen a couple of times earlier in the week, you couldn't have Lance’s full attention; Lacy was imbedded in his mind.

All of these changes I began noticing in my buddies, some were for the better, some maybe not. At least one thing was certain: the team spirit was slipping. I could attribute some of it to the settling influence of girlfriends, but that couldn't be the only factor. With Spanky, the parking meter fiasco seemed to render him gun shy, toning down his wild spiritedness. His carefree and reckless streak gone, partying wasn't partying any more. I could sense that when he decided to stay in and do homework that evening. "On the first weekend of school?" I gasped, like he was nuts. That seemed like a strange way to start off the semester.

A moment later, Lacy talked Lance into staying in as well. This was getting awfully scary: Friday night in Macomb, and Higgins 8 is looking like a Geriatric Ward. Pinch me, I must be dreaming! Wake me up from this nightmare! But just when it seemed that I'd have to settle for playing bingo, Flick came walking into the room. "Let's hit the Palace!" he beckoned. I could have hugged the man.

At last we arrived at the Palace, the place of my great demise. Once I got my pitcher, I scouted the bar in search of the Babes. I did three laps and, strangely, didn't spot any of them. This didn't make sense, Friday night in Macomb, and no Babes at the Palace. And though the place was packed, nobody was playing on the foosball table. Instead, it was being used as a coat rack with people's jackets hanging from the rods. What a drag. One year ago, quarters were lined up all night long with spectators ooohing and ahhhing, but now, coats. It was depressing to be great at a sport nobody played any more. "Maybe I'll have to start asking girls to dance now," I reasoned within myself. "Yeah, I've got to get gutsy and start pulling the trigger more often. These women aren't going to fall into my lap."

Didn't happen, though. Every time I thought about approaching someone to dance, I chickened out. Some things never change.

When the bars had closed and the Boyzz were all tucked into bed, I felt rather lonesome. It wasn't the same as last year. I walked the deserted hallway feeling quite sad, but suddenly I snapped my fingers as I got a great idea. The Babes! Yes, the Babes! It's been much too long since I last haunted their wing.

"Just when you thought it was safe!!!" I bellowed as I stepped onto their floor. "Morgy Krueger is here to tuck, you, in." I walked the length of the hall twice just to loosen up, my imaginary spurs making a "kichink" sound with each slow step. Memories poured in like crazy. Alas, the Morg was back in action. Linda's door was my first stop. "Who loves you, baby?" I sang under her door.

"Morgypoo! I heard you were back in town! Hold on just a sec," Linda came to the door and gave me a warm hug. "It's good to see you," she said. "So are you gonna crack down and study this time around?"

"I'm gonna try," I answered. "So what's new with you ladies?"

"Well, Shellypoo graduated."

"Oh no! I'm sorry to hear that."

Linda continued filling me in on the latest dirt, then casually added, "And I'm engaged."

"Geez Louise, Linda baby, I thought you were avidly against getting hooked during your college days."

"Yeah, I know," she said. "I always laughed at the other girls for jumping into serious relationships and missing out on all the fun. But what can I say? It just snuck up on me."

"Does this mean you're not going to come out and play any more?"

She chuckled and said, "Oh, I'm sure I'll still go out and get trashed every now and then."

When Linda and I were done gossiping, she went back to bed, and I went back to doing wake up calls. I bounced from door to door, talking for what seemed like hours. And as always, if nobody answered, I stayed at that door the longest. Of course I had tons of material to use after such a long layoff. I magically quipped out lines as never before. Oh, MacKenzie would have been proud.

I wonder if they have the same bathroom décor? I swung the door open. Yup, Early Playgirl. I walked inside and grabbed a seat, all set to bomb the waters, and that's when I came up with one of my most brilliant works: a short little poem that I scribed on the inside of the girls’ commode door:

Henninger 3, you see, was the juvenile floor that I was stuck living on until I could process a room change to Higgindome. It was after this poetic prose that I first realized I had a story to tell, and perhaps a way with words. I guess you could say that poem started the book.

Later that morning, after a couple hours of shut-eye, I took part in the dreaded "Late Registration" rites. And although it was historically a nightmarish process, I actually got my classes approved with little problem. As I began to wrap up my paperwork, I noticed the girl next to me was having trouble figuring out her schedule. Being a veteran, I decided to play the gentleman and help her out.

I was surprised to learn, later that day, that this damsel in distress at Registration was a new member of the Babes on Higgins 5. Rikki was her name. Naturally I ran into Rikki fairly often when I visited the Babes. I suppose some mutual attraction developed between us, especially after a few gun fights. Dart guns, squirt guns, these were the weapons of warfare in our little dorm world. And Rikki enjoyed our gun fights, though she wasn't much of a shot. I somehow got the feeling she wanted to be more than just commando buddies, like maybe she wanted something romantic. I couldn’t decide if I was interested. Heck, she was semi pretty, and while a little on the heavy, she was extremely well endowed. Sexually, I was totally interested. Romantically or personality wise, though, it wasn’t there. So I held back. I just didn’t have a crush on Rikki. I enjoyed her company, and I was definitely attracted to her bod. But she didn’t make my heart race. I suppose that wouldn’t have stopped some of my buddies from pulling the trigger, at least back when they were single. But the thought depressed me. I could only think back to Megan, my first, and the hollow feeling that followed that conquest. I didn’t want to go there again.

Once my mind was made up against snaking on Rikki, she dug me even more. Funny how that goes. I can still recall that winter night at the Palace, when Rikki grabbed my hand and dragged me out onto the dance floor for a slow song. Her eyes lit up as she smiled and pulled me tight unto her bosom. I was 90% certain she wanted me. And I was 90% certain I wanted to avoid this affair.

Without any prompting from me, she massaged the back of my neck, sending chills right down my boots, then she ran her fingers through my hair seductively, breathing heavier with each beat. Why couldn’t this be mutual? Everything seemed right, the slow beat of the music, dancing close with a young lady, all the signals saying ‘take me home.’ But there was no romance in it for me, and I couldn’t snake just for the sex alone.

I certainly didn't want to throw out any go-signs of my own, so I drew my pelvis back as far as possible and didn't regrip at any time. I breathed a sigh of relief once the song came to an end, then realized the worst was yet to come: Rikki looked into my eyes like she was going to lay a big wet one on me. I countered by stepping back and holding out my hand to shake hers. I thanked her for the lovely dance, and I hurried back to the foosball table, where people leave your hair alone.

Some of the Boyzz talked of going to Keokuk on the following Saturday evening. "We're gonna hit the bars and shoot some stick, man," Banjo Jim foretold. This was an event I could not pass up: a road trip, ladies that didn't already know about us, and the chance to taste some big-city night life. Oh, I know what you're asking yourself: "Keokuk, a big city?" Well, compared to Macomb, yes. Spanky likened it to Andy and Barny leaving Mayberry for the wild and swinging town of Mount Pilot.

All the Boyzz expressed interest in going, but when departure time came, it was just Spanky, Banjo Jim, Devin and myself. As we piled into one car and pulled away from Higgindome, I suggested we make a pit stop at the liquor store. "No, we can't be drinking in the car, man," Spanky objected.

I raised my voice in surprise as I said, "Are you kidding? That's what road trips are for!"

"No way," Spanky insisted. "It's just not worth it. If we get pulled over, we're screwed."

I couldn't get over how responsible these guys were acting. "You're joking, right?" I finally guessed. "You're just trying to scare me?" I'm afraid it was no joke: these guys wanted nothing to do with law-breaking. Ever since their three day weekend in the county jail, they were very careful not to get into any kind of trouble.

You can imagine how anxious I was to tear it up by the time we reached Keokuk. I bellied up to the bar and offered to buy the first round: "Two pitchers?" I asked my buddies presumably.

"I'll have a grapefruit juice," one of them answered.

"Same here," said another.

"O.J.," Spanky requested.

This was like a nightmare, one hellish nightmare, and I fully expected to wake up in a pool of sweat at any moment. I sadly ordered up tropical juices for my pals, and a pitcher of beer juice just for my lonesome. Drinking alone, this was a new one on me. Oh well, you can bring a man to Keokuk, but you can't make him drink.

As the night wore on, I noticed something about the three Boyzz I was with: they all had muscleman physiques, slim at the waist, beefy in the arms and shoulders, and studly in their walk. Each one was into lifting weights, shooting pool, they all turned their collars up and wore their hair the same way. By golly, they were their own little group, separate and distinct from the Boyzz! A clique, you might say. Cliques are okay, as long as you’re on the inside. But where did I fit in? What was my role in this new group? I was used to being the Craziest of Crazies, now I was crazy among moderates. Where's the glory in that? Now don't get me wrong; I admired and respected these three amigos. They were as good natured as I used to be, and as I hoped to be again one day. Some day.

I lived through that hellish night in Keokuk, and I did some reflecting over the next few days. Perhaps a change was in order, a switch to a more sedate life style. The newer crop of Boyzz seemed contented men, and contentment was something my heart had not known in a long while.

As I'd feared before my return to school, I was getting back into a chain drinking groove, the kind where I habitually began drinking at noon on Friday and went for eighteen solid hours, then did a repeat on Saturday in case I left something out the first night. And the binges were cumulative: the second day's drunk was always bigger than the first, seemingly building upon it. Of course there were also Wednesday’s and Thursday’s warm ups. This was exactly the sort of habit I was hoping to avoid, because I really didn't want to flunk out and degenerate into a life long beer slug.

I was mighty glad that Lent was approaching, for I needed a good excuse to straighten out again. I wasn't strong enough to "cut down" on drinking, yet I felt I could actually go cold turkey, giving up booze for all of Lent. Most of the Boyzz didn't think so. "Forty days? He'll never make it!" was the typical response. But the Boyzz never knew me before I became a beer monster, back when I had some calmness in me.

On the eve of Lent, I was anxious, yet timid. Forty days without drinkypoo’s sounded like an awfully long stretch. Maybe I should whoop it up one last time and get it all out of my system, I reasoned. Yeah, I'll drink until midnight when Lent begins. That was the plan, but on a Tuesday night, bar attendance was always thin, so you had to recruit your fellow drinkers before going out. I tried the Babes on 5, I tried the Babes on 6, I tried the Boyzz on my own floor, and no one would let poor Morgy join in any drinking games. I pleaded with them, stressing that this was their last chance to tip glasses with me for six weeks. Still no go.

Even Lance declined. Since he and Lacy began going out, Lance had settled down greatly. Most of the time he seemed like the new Disco, content to have the steady romance and companionship of a good woman. Occasionally, though, he and Lacy were a cool couple with wordless feuds setting in, rendering both of them islands. It was plain to see that Lance's moods were subject to the ups and downs of a rocky love life. It was also clear that he was in it for all the marbles, for better or worse, committed to the tough task of making a dorm romance last. Some times I'd read that faraway look in Lance's eyes, that look of trying too hard in a relationship, and I'd almost be thankful that I didn't have the obligation of a serious girlfriend.

At first, not drinking wasn't so tough. I felt buzzed just by walking into the Palace at night. Flick claimed I had "achieved a permanent buzz" and no longer needed booze to stay in that state. Something to do with a drinker's nirvana, he explained.

After a week on the wagon, or the "Forty Day Disabled List" as Lance termed it, things changed. I felt very uncomfortable at bars. Time passed by slowly and I was very conscious of everything around me, the jerks looking for fights, the waste cases bumping into me left and right, people staring, all these things that I seldom noticed before. It was as though someone had removed the blinders from the sides of my eyes. And I didn't like being so conscious in bars; it wasn't at all the same. I was so very self conscious, so aware of how I looked and acted. Instead of my behavior being on automatic pilot, I thought out each sentence and each gesture. Stiff, that's how I felt, stiff and phony, while everyone else looked free and loose.

It wouldn't have been so bad if I could have foosed the nights away, but that sport was dying, and a part of me along with it. Now I felt like I was at the bars without a purpose or cause. And actually I was.

The days, in contrast, were much more enjoyable on the D.L. I had a lot more energy and a strong desire to be productive. What's more, I had some control over my behavior. I could actually shut up and keep obnoxious thoughts to myself if I wanted to. I could be sensitive. I could care more about others. All in all, being on the Disabled List was a trade-off: less fun, but more self control and better self-esteem.

You might think I would study and book down as long as I wasn't partying, but no. I still flipped coins on whether or not to go to classes. Sometimes it went up to best out of seven. The thing is, I never did have any study habits, so I didn't know where to begin. It sounds easy: "Sit down and study." But that was against my nature. My nature was to kill time and have fun, always doing the least boring thing I could think of. Just because I was sober, that didn't mean I could ace classes easily. I'll be honest: I'd never done any homework outside of school. For years I'd coasted on common sense. And that worked with 101 level courses, but the 300 and 400 level courses were killers, if you didn’t study.

I didn't hang out very closely with anyone at this time. The Boyzz were losing that cohesiveness they used to have. There were now two factions: the Body Beautiful Boyzz, led by Devin; and the Almost Married Boyzz, led by love and devotion. And what's more, the jock faction seemed to resent the married faction. Who knows why, maybe because they had forsaken the guys "for a chick." You know the wrap against a man who's whipped. I was fighting the temptation to buy that wrap myself.

As sad as I was to lose the closeness we Boyzz once shared, I couldn't be angered with any of them for changing. Spanky, he'd been a tag-along with the old rowdy Boyzz, but now he had a gang to fit his own clean cut, athletic identity. And his new pack wasn't a jail bound one. God knows he didn't want to go through that kind of ordeal again. As for the married Boyzz members, I certainly couldn't blame them for their direction. Lance, Disco, Banjo Jim, Linda, they had found special intimacy with their new mates. Beneath the playful armor of the Morg was a desperate hope for that same thing, a woman to be a soul mate for life. So I was actually happy for those Boyzz and Babes who found someone special. At least I tried to be. But it is depressing to see everyone go their separate ways when you don't have a way to go. That group was my biggest treasure, and now it looked as though it was only a temporary one. In the back of my mind, I began looking for something new, something more lasting.

I began dating a friend of Lacy's during Spring Break, a beautiful nineteen year old girl named Teri. She was attending junior college back in Chicago. It sure was strange to date a girl while not drinking. I found that I could actually be a gentleman, kind and considerate, without making an absolute fool of myself. Who knows, maybe this one had a chance of working out. Teri was an enthusiastic one, this girl of nineteen, so spry and full of pep, so excited about life. She actually made it hard for me to go back to Macomb.

Soon after returning to the land of Women In Underwear, I reached the end of my voluntary dry spell. Beer Crisis ended with a "Coming Out of Retirement Party" for the Morgster. As midnight came upon us, I chugged a cold one and watched the bettors pay off their wagers. "Double or nothing he gets the Kermit award tonight!" I heard Banjo Jim implore the man he owed.

Folks asked me all kinds of questions about my sabbatical. Was it hard to go that long without drinking? Was I ever tempted to give in? Would I ever quit drinking for good?

Yes, I admitted, it was tough to go to the Palace without my social crutch. Conversing just didn't come easy while sober. And no, I answered, I never thought about giving in. I refused to consider it. As for quitting drinkypoo’s permanently, well, I couldn't see doing that.

Cindy had one last question for me, one I didn't quite know how to answer. "Do you think you'll be able to control your drinking any better now, Morgypoo?"

"Nah, I'll still spill a lot," I teased.

She asked the question once more, hoping to get a serious answer. I could tell Cindy wanted to hear a yes, both for my sake and for her own. She was a junior Morg, just beginning to get over her head in lager, and she wanted to know if there was an easy way out. "Only time can tell," I answered. "But I hope so."

Turn to Chapter 14: If You’re Going to Pay the Fiddler, You Might as Well Dance…

http://www.morgypoo.com/ch14.htm