www.morgypoo.com

Tale of college humor

Late one evening I found myself on beer patrol, having run out of lager myself. So I did my usual covert scamming of beers from floor mates. Lance's room was locked, as was Spanky's & Bull’s. Next I tried Musky's door. Bingo! He had carelessly forgotten to lock it. I crawled in quietly, noticing Musky’s back facing me as he lay asleep in bed. "What’s up, Morg?" he asked.

"How the hell did you know it was me?" I asked, seeing how he never even turned my way.

But before he could answer, I said, "Yeah, I know, you sensed my force field." The man mystified me.

Next I tried Disco’s door, also carelessly open, almost begging to be robbed. I crawled into the dark dorm room, flashlight in mouth, worked my way over to his mini fridge, and found a nest of Budweisers left unprotected. But just as I was reaching for the goods, Disco turned on his bedside lamp. "Go back to sleep, you're dreaming," I told him. But then I noticed something interesting: the man wasn't alone. Hurricane Jamie was under the covers with him. A slumber party for two. You learn such interesting stuff on beer patrol.

Disco became a different man from then on. A happier man, to be sure, but also a rare sight on our floor. Jamie moved to the 6th floor to get a single room, but you could say Disco became her virtual roommate. Those two were like man and wife.

Through Hurricane Jamie, we met several other girls on 6th floor. They were a fun bunch, these new Babes, even if they didn't drink quite as much as the notorious Babes of 5th floor.

Us Boyzz thought it would be a polite gesture to formally introduce ourselves to the 6th floor women, and what better way than a good old fashioned shaving cream fight? So we marched down the stairs with cans of Foamy in our holsters and caught the foe gabbing out in the hallway. Sir Lancelot encountered heavy resistance from Hurricane Jamie and her friend Mandy. Lance didn’t see it coming, he just didn’t think it through. They didn't have any shaving cream to fight back with, but once they were creamed, they tackled Lance and rubbed their lathered bodies all over him. He squirmed around, sandwiched between two babes, pretending he didn't love it, all the while shouting, "Medic! Man down!"

Banjo Jim and I teamed up to lather Lacy, a cute little lady who laughed out of control as we turned her into a frosty white babe. Smitty chose a more covert mission: he slipped into the women's bathroom and foamed the white toilet seats, a little surprise for later on.

We soon learned that Lacy and Mandy came as a set. The Giggle Sisters, we called them. They had no control over it. Lacy would laugh at one of our antics, Mandy would in turn laugh at Lacy, and their laughs picked up in speed and intensity until they lost all control and broke into a high pitch that only canines could hear.

Mandy and Lacy were like the popular girls that everyone knew back in high school, before drinking and snaking became the prerequisites for popularity. These two were unscathed by college life. Everything was peachy to them. And what's more, they claimed their virginities were still intact. Me, I thought that was kind of cool. But Banjo Jim couldn’t buy it. "Do you know the odds of two attractive women at the same university being virgins? Astrological." It certainly wasn't for lack of opportunity: Mandy was a fair looker with French facial features, and Lacy was often the awe of the cafeteria, a cute and petite girl with innocence written all over her. But just when it seemed these sixth floor Babes were the kind you could bring home to meet mom, they turned on me. It was a horrible, ugly incident, the kind that can scar a man for the rest of his life. I don't like to recall it, so I'll simply provide my diary entry for that fateful night:

Perhaps the peak of this wild semester was Spring Formal, a ritzy dinner dance held for the residents of Higgindome. Folks donned their finest threads for this affair. Three piece suits, some even four piece, dresses showing lots of thigh. But the real show stopper had to be Flick's shoes. Four-inch heels, lace design, contoured and sewn back during the height of disco. I couldn't believe he let me borrow them. Needless to say, I was the envy of the dance floor. Oh sure some folks laughed, like Shellypoo, my platonic date. And Mandy nearly cried in hysterics. But that's the chance you take when you're setting trends.

I bore the responsibility of providing beverages for our group, and as I'd expected, those lushes drank a ridiculous amount of alcohol. Hurricane Jamie, Mandy, Shellypoo, what guzzlers. And hey, the Boyzz were no light sippers either. Banjo Jim kept forcing everyone to drink shots of vodka, only he called it wodka. "Comrade Morg, you drink wod-ka! Is good, no?" Nothing nastier under the sun, if you ask me. But you had to pretend you enjoyed it.

Lance was especially chugful on this April evening, for he was under a great deal of emotional stress. Several times he grabbed me by the lapel, pulled me aside and whispered, "Just friends, right?"

"Purely platonic, bud," I reassured.

"Then how come she keeps giving me the fish eye?"

"I told her you just needed an escort," I smiled. "Nothing more. Relax."

Lance glanced back at Mandy, the gal I'd volunteered him to for this event. She smiled like a bride, and the worried guy rolled his eyes at me before pledging: "I'll get you for this, Morg." Then he reached inside my dinner jacket and took a swig from my pint of 151, like that would take his mind off of things.

Now this was a splendid affair, ritzy and elegant in every sense, with no one throwing up or anything. The formal wear seemed to make us more grown up; no cheap theatrics would do on this evening. That means that when we gatored, neckties were to be worn as headbands.

After some chicken-fight dancing, Banjo Jim, Lance and I excused our selves from our dates to go downstairs and use the little boyzz room. I leaped down the last six stairs, making a doot doot doot bionic sound while air borne. But as I landed, my bionic disco heel snagged the last step and sent me tumbling head first onto the landing.

"The Six Million Dollar Dork," Lance laughed. "They rebuilt him, but they messed up."

Once Banjo Jim and I completed a game of Urinal Command, we noticed Lance peeking through a door that lead to the rest of the cellar. Inside, it was dark and creepy looking, but that only enticed the three of us to explore further. Of the many relics scattered about the dusty floor, one in particular caught my eye. "Hey, look! A urinal!" I stammered.

Despite Lance's pleas not to touch it, I picked up the porcelain piece and caressed it, exclaiming, "Wouldn't this be great to have back at the dorm?! We could mix booze in it like a punch bowl!" I clutched the urinal unto my bosom and buttoned my dinner jacket over it, making just a slight bulge. "What do you think?" I asked my compadres.

"Better not," Lance advised. "I think they check for those when you leave."

"Maybe if you crotch it," Banjo Jim suggested.

There seemed no practical way of pocketing the urinal without being obvious, so we left it in the cellar and returned to our dates.

We sat and pounded a few, drank some wod-ka, played some quarters, and occasionally danced a few numbers. All good clean fun, until "it" happened: Mandy's hand slid innocently off of the table and settled on Lance's knee. Lance immediately looked over at me, nostrils flaring, wondering why his "platonic" date was getting touchy-feely. I'd promised him this kind of thing wouldn't happen, but hey, you can't stop a woman in love. Before I broke out laughing, I excused myself from the table, allegedly to pee. I returned some ten minutes later with "cobwebs in my hair and a shit-eating grin on my face," according to Lance.

"Where have you been?" Shellypoo asked.

"In the bathroom," I claimed. I then turned to Lance and said, "I've got a surprise for ya out by your car. Remember that urinal I had my eye on? Heh heh heh . . . " Lance simply rolled his eyes in disdain and sucked down the rest of his drink.

As the pretend prom came to an end, I gathered some hors d'oeuvres and a beverage for the long trip home. Lance strongly objected, saying he didn't want anything spilled in his precious driving machine. "I won't spill, I'll be careful!" I pleaded.

Again Lance insisted, "You are not getting in my car with that stuff."

Now this is a judgement call. In my own mind, I was being neat, even extra careful. Lance and Banjo Jim, however, both insist to this day that my pitcher of watermelon mix was "sloshing around and spilling with every step I took." And my paper plate of food items, by their account, was "drooping on both sides, with gravy and sweet 'n sour sauce oozing all over the ground." I've let you hear both sides of the story; you make the call.

Regardless where the truth falls, Banjo Jim and Lance secretly conspired to rid me of any carry-on items. So as I walked toward the car, one man swatted my left arm, knocking the plate to the ground, while the other reached around from the other side and jarred the pitcher loose, clearly a reach-in foul.

I was very angered by this. The waste of good food wasn't the only injustice; the main issue is that they didn't trust me. I was a harmless drunk, but the one thing that got up my dander was lack of trust. Never tell a man he's too drunk to do something. And another thing: did they have to embarrass me in front of my date?

I was so infuriated that I sulked all the way home, refusing to say a word. Unfortunately, in my anger, I'd completely forgotten about the priceless urinal, as did Lance. So it was left sitting in the parking lot where someone was certain to lay claim to it.

Spanky hosted a post-formal party in his and Bull's room, where the main topic was "Morg and his spillage." And ordinarily, when it came to being the butt of jokes, I was an ambitious volunteer. But not this time. I couldn't get over the thought of that urinal being left behind. "You wanna go back for it?" a man asked from the doorway. It was the Phantom, the guy from 807 that lived in the shadows. I could not believe he was at a party. I couldn’t believe he was talking to me. I couldn’t believe I was going to catch a ride with him.

I jumped to my feet, my hope now alive. "Can we?"

"Dress warm," he muttered. "It's going to be awful damn cold on my bike." The rest of the Boyzz stared in shock as I left the party with the Phantom to retrieve a stolen urinal. I was a little nervous myself. But he turned out to be a pretty normal person. "The name is Slim," he shouted over the loud noise of his motorcycle. Seven months into the school year and we finally learned his name.

"I’m Morg," I answered. "Thanks for helping me out."

As we approached the site, the abandoned urinal was still laying in the parking lot where Lance had left it. "I can't believe nobody took it!" I shouted over the noise of Slim's motor. "So, uh, how do we carry this thing?"

My biker friend grinned knowingly. Two minutes later, Slim and I were zooming down the road to Macomb at incredible speeds, with the urinal safely secured to the sissy bar behind me. As my eyes watered, I peered over Slim's shoulder and could not believe what I saw: the needle was buried at 130 mph. "This is death speed!" I gasped, barely able to speak with the wind gusting in my face. I really didn't feel like dying that night, and I told Slim so.

"Trust me," he snickered.

"Like I have, a choice??" I cried in two short breaths.

Elsewhere, Lance had his own problems. All other Boyzz had bedded down, leaving he and Mandy with nothing to do. Lance sensed that Mandy had yearnings going way beyond friendship, so the last thing he wanted was to end up alone with her, in which case he might be expected to "put out," as he later recounted. So as a last resort, he and his date headed out to intercept Morg and the Phantom. Half way to the Formal site, his fuel gauge read close to empty, miles from any gas station. So Lance reluctantly pulled over and decided to wait for our return, never realizing Mandy would see this as a signal of surrender from her handsome date. Eagerly, she leaned over toward the driver's side, her body breathing heavily in anticipation. "Gosh, what's keeping those guys, huh?" Lance asked with a nervous laugh, all the while praying for divine intervention.

Mandy, inches away, looked into Lance Romance's scared green eyes and pursed her lips for action. Just to be polite, Lance pursed his own lips, yet he couldn't bring himself to lean over and make contact. A hungry Mandy closed the gap quickly, moving closer, ever closer to Lance's lips. "It’s them!" he suddenly shouted, pointing to a fast approaching headlight. Relief swept Lance's heart as quickly as Slim and I flew by. One millisecond made the difference, Lance escaping yet another perilous moment. "In all my years of driving," he would later admit, "that was my scariest moment behind the wheel." With no hesitation, Sir Lancelot cranked up the motor and peeled out in pursuit of the comet that had passed by.

Now to Slim and I, the headlights behind us must surely have been a cop's. Who else would park on the side of a deserted highway amid corn fields at four in the morning? It took Slim a mile just to bring us down below the speed limit, and two more miles before Lance's headlights caught up to us. As Slim came to a stop on the shoulder, he declared, "We're nailed, man! That's got to be a cop on our butt, the way he caught up to me." Now being clocked at 130 miles per hour is one thing, but two drunks trying to explain why a stolen urinal is strapped to the sissy bar, that's rather hopeless. I grabbed the urinal and made a run for the woods. Too late, the car pulled up right behind me, the headlights lighting up the white porcelain heist. I was busted for sure. Then the door opened and Lance jumped out.

"Lance! Lance!" I laughed in relief. "I thought you were the heat!"

I put the urinal on the ground and threw myself at Lance's feet with joy. Never was I so happy to see someone. As I clutched his ankles, Lance looked down at me and lectured, "She tried to kiss me, Morg! 'Just as friends', you said! 'Purely platonic', you said! Like hell! I'm riding home with you and the Phantom!"

And so it ended, the urinal rescued, and no one getting hurt, save for the lonely heart of a platonic date.

The urinal was just a start. I soon found myself feeling as though I had to bring something home every time I went out at night. Most guys settle for trashy women or a slice of pizza to go, but I was more into goofy artifacts and conversation pieces, things you would never think of buying for yourself.

The next weekend found me at an outdoor party. I was juiced up enough that I started talking to a cute girl, and she actually seemed interested. "Aren't you in one of my classes?" I asked her.

She smiled and said, "Yeah, how come you dropped?"

"I didn't. I've just been sick."

"For two months?" the girl asked.

"I was there a couple of weeks ago, remember? The mid-term, I came in late 'cause I couldn't find the room."

Just then three of the Boyzz came along, Lance, Spanky and Banjo Jim. They stepped in front of my lady friend and began slapping their thighs in traditional preparation for high fives. Not now, I was thinking, not while I'm making conversation with an interested lady. But I couldn't refuse: my first loyalty was to the Boyzz, to uphold the Boyzz' rowdy spirit. So I joined in the silly thigh slapping, then high-fived my buddies. Their faces were so happy and eager, so excited to bump into their buddy Morgy, and fully expecting me to lead them in some form of craziness. Now I just wanted to talk some more with this girl, but I couldn't brush off the Boyzz; we don't do that to one another. So I put on my twelve year old's face and conformed. And the lady looked right through me, her cold stare exposing me, then she vanished into the crowd.

That brief encounter showed me something: there was no way I could have the adoration of the Boyzz and an actual relationship with a respectful woman. To stop and be myself with a woman was to vacate my cherished role as mascot of the Boyzz. They called for two distinct natures, one a caring listener, the other a devil-may-care partier.

Banjo Jim certainly didn't have any problem snaking while out with the boys: he was all hands as we came across a townie girl named Irma. She was a sweetie pie, this Irma, a downright friendly lady. No defenses. Yup, she was ripe for plucking. The only reason Lance and Spanky didn't put up any competition, I suppose, was that Irma was a bit pudgy. These two had standards, Lance and Spanky.

Banjo Jim didn't bother with standards, and he wasted no time. A few tickles, a whisper in Irma's ear, and she was wandering off with him, no doubt sheets bound, another Boyzz' victim of love.

As I hung out with Spanky and Sir Lancelot, three foxy freshmen slowly brushed by us. "Hi," was all Lance had to say, though his eyes said a good deal more. All three girls stopped and smiled, each one wanting the handsome Lance Romance. As Mister Stud zeroed in on his choice, a second girl began chatting with Spanky, whose boyish eyes were sparkling in top form. The third girl looked rather bummed about not getting picked. She was standing in front of me, but she faced the two men her friends had landed. "How's it going?" I asked just to be polite. She glanced at me with meager appraisal, gave a disdainful "hmmph" and turned away.

Man, I'll tell you, that pissed me off more than anything. With every passing minute, I became more infuriated, though silently so. Rejection is one thing; laughing at someone for even thinking of approaching, that's another. It was rare for me to feel true hatred towards a fellow human being, but with this high-nosed gal, I felt it so intensely that I could not even look at her. To make matters more painful, Lance gradually switched over to the girl who'd laid me low. Now to him, she was sweet as could be, all smiles and compliments. Each pretty word she poured out to Lance made me want to gag, and made him want to take her home.

A short while later, I played a light prank on Spanky, typical Morg stuff that the Boyzz so loved. "You're cute at that age," Lance's girl said in a mature, condescending manner. Lance and Spanky laughed and chanted, "Ooh, face!" while I stood alone in her spotlight, again feeling very small and insignificant.

What a stuck-up you-know-what was all I could think, though I didn't dare say so. Sure I had my little quirks and an immature demeanor, but one thing I did not do was look down at other people or make them feel small. For this gal, that was an art. Yes, if you weren't as good looking as her, you were a lower life form that should stick with its own kind.

"Are you really going to bag this girl?" I whispered in Lance's ear while his target was drawing a beer.

Lance glanced over at her shapely butt and answered, "Wouldn't you?"

"I think she's a bitch," I replied before I could filter out the bias. "Of course, that's just my opinion."

"I know," Lance agreed. "She's not the kind you want to marry and have kids with, but what's one night gonna hurt?" I shrugged my shoulders, not wanting to harp on about my own dislike for the girl. Again he glanced over at her, then rationalized, "Hey, it's been two weeks, pal," as if that were an eternity in abstinence years.

"Well listen, if you're going to go for it, then at least make it hurt," I implored Lance.

The man laughed at the idea, then threw his pelvis forward as he snarled, "This one's for my buddy Morg!"

While Lance engaged the girl in conversation, I played the ominous part of Obie Wan Kenobe as I chanted from behind: "The Condom, Lance. Use the Condom." Lance pretended not to hear my advice, trying hard not to laugh. "Fulfill your destiny, Young Lancelot," I then pronounced in a Darth Vader tone, followed by gurgling and then, "Banjo Jim has taught you well."

Soon the beer ran dry, and my two buddies slipped away with their new lady friends. I should have been depressed. I should have felt like weak neglected anti-freeze, spat upon, laughed at, trampled under the wheels of a looks-oriented society. But instead I felt drunk and happy. I didn't need a woman. I just needed a beer or two for the walk home. But I didn't want to be the only one to go home empty handed, so I set out to find something, a souvenir or relic of some kind, perhaps something to go with the urinal.

Through backyards I journeyed in the dark of night, until I drunkenly stumbled up against a stone birdbath. I spilled over onto the lawn, stood back up and swore at the object, then realized it was exactly the sort of thing I was looking for. This would make a great gift. The thing had to weigh a good forty pounds, but nevertheless, I heaved it upon my shoulder and carried it home to Higgindome. As I walked in through the front lobby, I caught a strange look from the desk clerk, the same dude who'd seen me carry in a urinal the week before. Oh, but he was curious.

I'll bet Lacy and Mandy would like this, I thought as I entered the elevator. So I rode up to sixth floor and set the birdbath outside their door. "Who loves you baby?" I called underneath their door in a deep, masculine voice. No reply. "Morgypoo," I answered myself. Still no response. Somehow I knew the Babes were awake inside, so I did my monologue: "Okay, this eagle flies over a valley, and he sees a mouse on the ground below, so he swoops down and eats the mouse in a single gulp. Then he flies back up into the sky, way up there, and all of a sudden the mouse sticks his head out of the eagle's butt and looks down at the ground way below. 'How high are we?' the mouse asks. 'About ten thousand feet,' the eagle answers. The mouse gazes down once more, then says, 'You wouldn't shit me, would you?'"

Bingo, the Giggle Sisters went into an intense high pitch of laughter for several minutes. I told a few more jokes, and they laughed, but they sure as heck didn't let me in. They knew, as did all of Higgindome, that there was no getting rid of a drunk Morgypoo once you opened your door.

Eventually I let them go back to sleep as I set out for the Babes of 5th floor. "You wouldn't shit me, would you?" I tried under Cindy's door. Instant laughter. Linda's door: hysterical shrieks. At last, the joke that would not fail. Next I tried Shellypoo's door, but got no response. Even the eagle and mouse joke got no reaction. "Shellypoo, it's the Morg, Shellypoo," I announced to what I thought were sleeping ears. "Shellypoo, I'm not wearing any clothes." Still no reply.

With no one else to pester, I rode the vator up to 18th floor where there was said to be a mighty wild party. By this time of night, though, the only thing remaining was one body laying in the hallway, empty cans and the pleasant reek of yesterday’s beer floating in the air. "I knew it, I missed a good one!" I muttered to myself.

I nudged the man lying comatose on the floor, until finally he opened his eyes and asked, "Is it over?"

"Must be," I answered. "Good party?"

"Oh, the best, man! Chicks everywhere! The last thing I remember is playing racquetball in the study lounge."

A peek into the lounge revealed at least a hundred little holes in the walls where the ball had ripped through drywall. Amazing, that's all I could think. Simply amazing. The party of the year, and I missed it.

As I walked the length of the hall, that confiscating urge in me took over again: a fire extinguisher seemed to call out to me from behind a glass case, just begging to be rescued. "Shellypoo could use one of these," I decided.

I tried to break the glass quietly, but some girl heard the soft shatter and came out of her room to investigate. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she screamed, not to mention the many other obscenities she used.

At first I was really attracted to this girl, her cat's eyes and the cleavage bared by her nightgown, and I wondered if the feelings might be mutual. But after a few minutes, her screaming really turned me off, especially that foul mouth of hers. "I am not a dweeb!" I defended before finally giving up on her and the extinguisher. As I walked away, I looked back over my shoulder and got the last word in, saying, "You had your chance, babe."

"It's a good thing you didn't steal the fire extinguisher, because that's a felony," Spanky told me at lunch the following day. "Never mess with government property, man, 'cause that's a felony."

Being a cop major, Spanky knew the repercussions of various crimes, and he often advised us Boyzz on legal matters such as these. "How about a bird bath?" I asked. "That's small time, right? A slap on the wrist?" Spanky simply rolled his eyes, sensing the futility of lecturing the Morg.

Cindy and Shelly, who were sitting at the next table, overheard the story and told me the girls were all starting to worry about me. "You can't go taking all these weird souvenirs every night you go out drinking," Shellypoo warned. "Sooner or later you're going to get caught."

"T.H.E. Morg never gets caught," I assured. "Look at Morg Hall: they still don't know who pulled that job."

"Yeah, like it takes a sleuth to figure that out," Lance laughed.

"By the way," Cindy said with a grin, "last night when you were talking under Shelly's door, her boyfriend was inside."

I forgot she had one of those now. "Oops. Is he in town? Bummer. Did I, uh, did I say anything bad?"

"Just 'I'm naked, Shellypoo,'" Shelly answered somewhat teasingly. I always did have a poor sense of timing.

Just then Banjo Jim sat down next to me and breathed a sad sigh. "What's wrong, bud?" I asked. "Did Irma shut you down?"

"No, she just wouldn't leave this morning. I knew we should have gone to her place instead."

Lance, perhaps accustomed to that kind of situation, advised: "Look at the bright side, you gave the girl a night she'll never forget."

Banjo Jim then managed to cheer himself up by giving us his famous "Tennessee Tuxedo" impression. He had a slight waddle to begin with, so when he stood up and stuck a couple toothpicks between his upper and lower teeth to form a beak, he bore a great resemblance to a penguin. Then, in perfect nasal voice, he squawked: "Well Chumley, you've done it again! Mister Whoopie, you're a genius!" And of course his encore was the crowd favorite: "Tennessee Tuxedo will not fail!"

Oh, but there was something so comforting about that cafeteria. It mattered not that I was too hung over to eat anything but Jello or pudding. The simple presence of the Boyzz and Babes, that was immensely uplifting. We were killing time, the way a short-handed hockey team kills a penalty, surviving the deadness of our bodies until recovery came and we could compete once more.

As I thought about this, how hangovers had rendered our bodies physically aged and crippled for a spell, I envisioned this gang of mine at the crusty old age of seventy, all of us living in the same retirement home. I laughed at the thought, then I described my vision to the folks at the table. "Yeah, fifty years from now I'll be waking y'all up at the ridiculous hour of eleven o'clock at night," I teased. "Flick, he'll be cranking Bing Crosby records 'til all hours of the afternoon, and Disco, he'll be circling all the tasty new widows."

Smiles covered everyone's faces as they pictured us as seventy year old dorm kids. "Banjo, you'll still be raiding our refrigerators at night," Lance laughed. "And Slim, he'll be the oldest thing in biker boots. Only he won't have his big Harley, he'll have one of those little electric scooters for senior citizens."

"Shit, Musky, you'll be completely bald by then," Spanky noted of the thin-haired one. "Hey, maybe we'll all be bald," he then added as he rubbed his own forehead.

"Geez, I can't see Lance going bald," I laughed.

Musky grinned and said Lance Romance would likely have a full head of silvery white hair, perfectly sculptured with not a strand out of place.

"Hey, if it gets the chicks," Lance pretended.

Imagining such a thing was comforting to me especially because, unlike these others around me, I didn't have a future outside of Higgindome. These pals were my everything. For Morgypoo, college was not a stepping stone to bigger things, nor a pit stop on the way to adulthood. This was all I had, the present, and anything beyond it could only mean loss. I'd chosen to peak now and pay the fiddler later. I speak this way not only because my grades were soaring deep into the alphabet, but because my heart had become fully invested in these fun people around me. Surely life could not offer half as much out in the real world.

Just when folks thought I had no control over my liquor intake, I surprised them by going on the wagon for six days straight. I had a goal that was pushing me: a foosball tournament. I spent the eve of the tourney at the Palace, where Linda and I annihilated all opponents, sweeping sixteen games in a row and retiring from the table undefeated. Oh, how people hated losing to a woman.

I was anticipating a similar success at the tournament the following evening, but it didn't work out that way. The bar allowed all foosers to drink for free during the tourney, an opportunity I couldn't let slip by. "I'll just have one," I told myself as I ordered a free beer. After one, I vowed I would quit at two. After ten, I revowed to quit at twenty. By the time my match rolled around, I could only watch as the little white ball became a blur. "I'm usually pretty good at thish game," I apologized to my partner, using the rods to hold myself up.

After being blown out of the competition, I sat down in recluse and pondered how I'd allowed myself to get so wasted when I didn't mean to. Sure, I know, people always say they're going to have "just one drink" and then end up hugging the toilet. But I had never even tried to set limits on myself before. Just this once I tried, and I could not stop. The strange part is that I was alone and I still couldn't say unco, not because a party was to be maintained, but because I was compelled to carry the buzz to its fullest progression.

"Oh, what the hell," I decided, "I can at least get my money's worth in brewski's now." So with one hour left on the free drink offer, I put 'er into overdrive. What I couldn't drink on the spot, I stashed under my cowboy hat on a remote table in the corner. I had shots of Amaretto, Jack Daniels, Southern Comfort, wodka, Jimmie Walker, you name it, all sitting there, waiting for me, soup in the cupboard.

When my hat ran dry, I stopped by the Palace for one. Ah, the Palace. Music pumping, bodies pressed in against each other, the mating game in full swing. And the Boyzz, naturally they were there, and naturally they were as hammered as me.

Lance and Musky were laughing their butts off as they watched Flick crawling around the bar looking for loose change, a nightly ritual that usually netted him about two bucks. It didn't seem worth the humiliation, though, crawling around people's legs, getting beers spilled on him, having some obnoxious football player saying, "Here, Fido! Here, Fido!" Only Flick would stoop so low. And boy was he bummed when I beat him to the last quarter.

Come closing time, Lance piloted us homeward to Higgindome. Lance and Musky decided to call it quits for the night, but Flick and I were just getting warmed up. The only problem was we were dry. So we headed down to the Babes floor to scrounge for beers, a covert mission that usually failed since the Babes were now in the habit of locking their doors at night. Only this time, one of them got careless: Cindy left her door unlocked. Flick and I crawled in, flashlights in mouth as we scampered over to her fridge like raccoons.

"Who is that?!" Cindy called out from the dark.

I held my flashlight underneath my chin and laughed gruesomely. Cindy only laughed. "It's Morgypoo, here to sleep with you." And with those words, I climbed up into bed with Cindy and nuzzled along side her, unabated. I couldn't believe she wasn't kicking me out. So then I pushed my luck: "Hop in on the other side, Flick!"

"What??" Cindy laughed. "I don't think so!" She stubbornly refused to let Flick join us, so he settled for the couch across the room, poor guy.

I lay next to Cindy for a good half hour, just enjoying being close to a woman. But then I got curious and, being a task oriented man, I began to strive for more. I casually slid my hand over her waist, half waiting for a rejection. "What are you doing?" Cindy asked. I simply whispered that I was caressing her hips. "Okay," she answered, apparently not minding the attention. Those curvy hips enticed me to scout further, to the northerly regions. "What are you doing, Morgypoo?" she again asked.

"Feeling your breasts," I answered, trying to sound matter of fact. I expected her to push my hand away or verbally rebuff me, but she did neither. The only sound came from Flick, giggling from the couch across the room. I forgot he was there. No caution or warning from Cindy, though, no resistance whatsoever. I could only assume that meant I had the green light. But I didn’t want to go any further. A couple months earlier, I had a major crush on Cindy, but now we were just buddies. And you don’t have sex with a buddy. So I just wrapped my arm around her waist and faded off to sleep.

Cindy never said a word about that fondling stuff. She just climbed out of bed the next morning and asked Flick and I to vamoose because she had to get ready. But she wasn’t uptight or hostile, or weird in any way. Everything was cool. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

I wondered whether anything would come of that affectionate night with Cindy. What would it be like the next time I ran into her? Would it be awkward and embarrassing, like we made a big mistake? Or would we both be hot and heavy for each other? Or would it be like it never happened? I wasn’t sure which I wanted, to be honest.

At the lunch table that day, Flick eagerly pumped me for details. "Did'ja go all the way with Cindy?" he asked.

I looked around at the rest of the Boyzz dining with us and said, "No, Flick, that's not her style. Cindy's more the pure and innocent type, kind of like everyone's little sister, you know?"

"Who, Cindy?!" Lance asked in disbelief.

"Yeah, I think she's kind of timid when it comes to love."

Lance's eyes widened as he said, "Cindy? Give me a break. She's made it with half the guys on our floor." He then turned to Slim the Phantom and said, "You nailed her, right Slim?" The biker casually nodded. "Spanky, I know you did. I did a couple times. And Musky. Even Flick here."

I could not believe my ears. Not Cindy. No way.

"And you must have, right?" Lance finished with me. I shook my head no. "You're kidding," Lance laughed. "You're the only one here who actually dated the girl, and you never slept with her?"

"Never touched her."

The Boyzz all laughed, and so did I, at myself. I had to ask: "Well how did you all get that far with her, if you never took her out?"

Lance shrugged and said, "I gave her a ride home from the Palace one night."

"And?" I pressed.

"And when we got to my room, I just said, 'Here, let me take your blouse for you.'"

"I should have thought of that," I said in retrospect.

Slim was the next to explain: "I walked her back to her room, and the next thing I knew, I was kissing on her. I wasn't planning on jumping her bones or anything, but hey, once she started getting frisky, well, I got missile lock."

I looked at Spanky to get his M.O. "She did it, man. She put the moves on me."

"Musky?" I asked next.

Lance jumped in saying, "He asked Cindy to help him find Hitler's treasure."

The Boyzz laughed, save for Musky and I. "I asked if she felt like sleepin' with me," Musky smirked. "I told her up front: 'I don't wanna get serious or nothin', I just wanna have some sex and companionship for a night.'"

I sat in shock at all these revelations, then looked up at the man I'd have thought least likely to score. "Flick?" I asked, wondering like hell.

"I just asked if she wanted to see my black-light posters."

Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable. Even Flick. I looked at Cindy differently from then on. I still liked her as a friend, but no more of that little sister stuff. And I really lost interest in her romantically. Now there was no mystery left, no special catch that other guys would overlook.

Cindy looked at me differently, too, after the night that I crawled into bed with her. She began dropping subtle little hints and innuendoes that she wanted the Morgster, then not so subtle hints. I didn't take the bait, but we did become closer pals. Each evening after dinner, the lady came by my room to watch TV and kill time until we headed out to the Palace. Okay, her goal wasn’t to kill time, it was to make a man of me. And I wasn’t interested, but I loved her company all the same. It felt great to have a girl for a buddy.

The Babes had gradually rubbed off on Cindy, making her more boisterous and fun-loving, an instigator of fun and jokes, just like the rest of us. I enjoyed Cindy more now, but I cherished her less. It was sad to see the girl's innocence die. That precious innocence she brought in January, it reminded me of what I'd left behind, and now she was following suit. Cindy wanted intimacy, the 'right man,' and in searching for that got fooled easily. She wasn't a sleaze, just an innocent and pretty girl consumed by college. She came to school not knowing what she wanted, and thus was blown around like a ship without an anchor. Oh Macomb, you turn the purest of babes into downright lushes.

It's tough to put a monetary value on life, especially the life of a close friend. I think most folks would pay any ransom for the return of a loved one, but one's first instinct in the event of a kidnapping is to track down and rescue. And so it was that Saturday afternoon, as I walked into my room and found the terrorist’s note, the words pieced together with magazine clippings. "WE HAVE RAUL," the message read. "The cost: $6 million or two pitchers at the Palace."

I nearly cried as I eyed the bare wall over my desk. Raul was a mighty close comrade of mine, that ol' buck. I'd taken him to happy hours, ball games, I even promised to bring him to the zoo one of these days. Together we'd sat up many a night talking about women and philosophizing about the meaning of life. He was a good listener, that Raul, but now he was gone.

I couldn't go to pieces, though. Raul needed me. I had to think. Who would do such a thing? Well for starters I knew it wasn't anyone from my own floor; we had an unwritten code that we would never pimp one another, only outsiders.

Perhaps the ransom note could offer some clues. "The Palace." The kidnappers knew me from the Palace. That narrowed the list down to fifty or sixty suspects. I drew up a list of possible suspects, then circled two names as most likely, the motives being as follows:

Lacy, the darling babe of 6th Floor. Two reasons. First and foremost, I wanted to frisk her. And second, I pulled an identical kidnapping scam on Lacy's stuffed animal just two weeks earlier. And although her Ookum Shnookums was returned safely, there had to be some lingering feelings of resentment on her part.

Cindy, my most frequent visitor. She'd taken everyone else home with her, why not Raul too? And she had plenty of opportunities to case Morgy's Playhouse, study my daily routine, and pull off the job without being seen. But what was her motive? Romance, perhaps? Yeah, she was using Raul to get to me.

Lacy and Cindy: both were viable suspects. I had to act fast, before they had a chance to move Raul out of Higgindome. So I took the staircase down to 6th floor and barged into Lacy's room. "Shakedown!" I shouted, scaring Lacy to her feet. Of course she played dumb, but I wasn't about to be fooled by her beauty and innocence. "Against the wall, spread 'em!" I commanded this petite little lady. Next I frisked her very carefully, tenderly, but professionally, then mirandized this shapely little vixen. "You have the right to remain chaste, moral and pure. Should you give up that right, give me a call, we'll go out, do some dancing, maybe go back to my place. . ."

Lacy was deep into a high pitched giggle by this time, either from the rights I read her, or from the ticklish region I was searching. Once she was able to speak again, she turned around and asked me what this was all about. "Friendship, that's what. Somebody kidnapped Raul, my best friend. I don't see him here, but that doesn't mean you're off the hook."

"I'm sure," Lacy pretended, "why would I want to steal your stupid deer head?"

"Because I took your Ookum Shnookums."

"That's right. . . ha, serves you right, Morgypoo."

Next stop: 5th floor, Cindy's room. I turned the knob slowly, then kicked the door open T.J. Hooker style and hollered, "Okay--shakedown!" Cindy jumped out of her chair in fright, covering her heart as though she'd had a coronary. "So, got something to be afraid of, do you?" I asked.

"Morg, you scared the living hell out of me!"

"Good, maybe now you'll talk. Where's Raul?"

"How should I know?" she asked with brilliant ignorance.

"Because he's been kidnapped, and I think you took part in the crime."

"Well I don't know what to tell you," Cindy play-acted. "Search the room if you want, you won't find him."

Hmmm. Her answer confirmed my suspicions about who-dun-it. This woman was too ready to let me search and find nothing, yes, she was a little too anxious to be cleared of guilt. They must have been holding Raul at another location, I figured, so how could I come up with proof that Cindy was the culprit? Suddenly it hit me. Her garbage can! I pulled it out from under her desk and rifled through the refuse. Twinkie wrappers, old homework. "You got an A on Calculus?" I asked in disbelief. She was smarter than she looked. I dug deeper, looking for, bingo! There in the bottom of the waste can were magazine clippings, used to make the ransom note. "Where is he, you sick woman?"

"Not to worry, Morgypoo, he's perfectly safe. As a matter of fact, he's in the company of several young ladies right now."

My mind wandered as I envisioned what the poor little buck might be going through, tied up and gagged, held against his will by a bevy of wild young coeds, a prisoner to their every desire. "You savages!" I snapped. "Why? Why Raul? Why couldn't it have been me instead?"

"Ha! You'd love that, wouldn't you?" Cindy teased.

"Let's just say I could tolerate it better than Raul. I've been in that situation before, and I know how the female mind operates."

An interesting dilemma faced me: I knew who the kidnapper was, but the hideout was still a mystery. I couldn't go to the police, not with Raul being wanted on a weapons charge, so I had no recourse but to comply with the terrorists' demands. First I tried raising the six million bucks, but after coming up short, I opted for the other payment plan: two pitchers at the Palace. "Here you go, babe," I said as I handed the suds over to Cindy that evening. "So where's Raul?"

"Come to my room after the bars close," this foxy terrorist demanded. "Alone. No cops, or Raul is a dead buck."

Come to her room, alone, late at night? Sounded like she was looking for payment in another form. I wasn't so sure this was a good idea, but what choice did I have? Raul was counting on me. So I went to this little vixen's room, half expecting her to be waiting there in some skimpy little negligee. But to my surprise, I found Cindy to be hosting a party in full swing, some thirty people getting rowdy and obnoxious. This was more like it.

I took Raul back to Morgy's PlayHouse, then returned to the girls' party and joined them in playing Mexican, a game of bar dice in which the loser chugs a glass of beer. Once the beer ran out, we switched to shots of vodka, and quickly lost most of our players. Only the staunchest of guzzlers remained, real men like Wango, Trojan, Dave, Linda and myself. Now we could do some serious drinking. After getting nailed with three shots in a row, I politely excused myself and stepped into the ladies' john to see if I could win back the Kermit award from Banjo Jim. "You gotta want it, Morg," I told myself, using my best Mickey voice from Rocky. "Like that last time, that was beautiful!"

I somehow dug down deep and made it happen, my fifth kermit in two months, an NCAA record. And a minute later, I was refreshed and back in the game. Dave frowned at me and said, "Shelly told me you were throwing up. You sure you want to keep playing?"

"Why, I'm not disqualified, am I?"

Dave shook his head disapprovingly and declared, "A man ought to know his limit."

I reflected over that guideline for a moment, then countered: "Shoot, I'm trying to learn my limit, Dave, but it keeps going up." Dave just stared. Some people just don’t get it.

The party soon moved across the hall to Linda's room where more beer was flowing. I found myself chatting with some of the men of 5th floor of whom I never really got to know: Wango, Gunther, Mister Ed, Midget, your typical college guys. The subject of booze came up, namely Everclear. 190 Proof. 95% alcohol. "That stuff is poison to the human body if you drink it straight," one guy insisted. "A couple shots of it can kill ya," added another, a glazed look in his oh so serious eyes.

"Nah, I could handle it, no problem," I boasted. After much debate, they bet me I couldn't drink just one teensy weensy little shot and hold it down for ten minutes. I was already pretty looped, granted, but one shot certainly couldn't hurt. So I shook on it.

The owner of an Everclear bottle soon returned with seven or eight guys trailing behind him. "Who's the one that says they can drink this stuff straight?" one of them asked.

I pointed to Shellypoo and said, "She did!"

"No way! That stuff is wicked!" Shelly objected.

All the pre-shot hype was beginning to make me doubt myself. If everyone was so sure I would ralph, maybe they knew something I didn't know. But it was too late to back down now, so I took a deep breath, slammed home the shot, and chased it down with beer. The crowd watched closely and expectantly, which seemed odd to me; if they were waiting to see if I would blow chunks, then I don't know why they were standing so close.

A few seconds passed, and nothing. It didn't burn, I couldn't even taste anything. "No sweat," I grinned. But wait, I did feel something going on down in my throat, some subtle volcanic activity, just below my adam's apple. No chunks, I told myself. No chunks. Not this time.

As the ten minutes expired, I smiled and collected on my wagers, then resumed drinking. Yet I must be honest and confess that I did kermit again that night, several beers later. Two kermits in one outing, a first in this man's career. I simply had to tell someone. "Yo, buddy!" I shouted underneath the crack of Lance's door. "Guess what? I had a twi-nighter tonight!!"

"Really?! Two chicks in one night??" he answered back in utter amazement.

"No, silly. Two kermits in one night."

Lance paused for a moment, then congratulated me, remembering how much pride I took in every kermit. "Way to go, Morg, I knew you had it in you."

At last: The Kerminator was back.

Turn to Chapter 10: Multiple Beer Noses… http://www.morgypoo.com/ch10.htm