Ranting by Dolomite
Hello loyal readers. As the summer ends and the autumn begins, this tired old soul can only begin to feel the coming winter deep within himself. At least that's what some guy on the street told me when I refused to give him a dollar for wine. It is not that I am cheap, which I can be during drinking specials (lousy tolerance). It is just that I believe in only drinking midshelf liquors. Life is too short to resort to tasteless, and often brackish, liquors. At the same time, I am not made of money and what can the difference really be between a $20 bottle of whiskey and a $40 bottle of whiskey? Sorry about the little derailing of thought there, but cheap liquor always brings back bad memories whose brain cells should have died long ago.
This month's story is a bit of a short one. Sorry kiddies, but old Dolomite does tend to live a boring life from time to time. The best story I have happened quite recently. As any loyal or recent reader knows, I have been toiling at my college's dining hall for just over minimum wage all summer. At times, some of the workers have to haul garbage bags onto an old pickup truck and take the garbage to one of the many dumpsters on campus. Since the dining hall is currently serving seven sports camps, including a football camp, one can imagine that these trash bags get slightly heavy after awhile. Also, Dolomite is a large lad and a lot of small, weak women work in the cafeteria. This means that Dolomite usually goes on the garbage runs. Usually it beats cleaning dishes. Usually.
Last week, Bryan (the ex-marine) and myself went on a garbage run. While we are out and about, I ask Bryan if he minds dropping me off at one of the apartment buildings so that I can get my apartment key from an R.A. My roommates were going to come up the next day and I wanted to get my key to help them move in. The called me about it and reminded me of the address: 3927. So, he dropped me off at the building above my old quad. It was the first set of the 3900's, so I figured it should be there. I wave hello to a few cute girls walking nearby and head straight for the R.A's door. There was a small piece of paper on the door. It simply read:
AT A MEETING. BACK IN 15 MINUTES
BECKY, R.A. OF 3937
"Goddamn cunt is out? Dammit!" I yelled to no one in particular. I turned around to see a nubile young blonde with her parents looking at me wide-eyed. "Sorry," was all I could mutter as I went out the building. Thinking I was just off by one building, I went down the street. Who knows, maybe it was in my old quad and I never paid it any attention. Got to the old quad. Checked the addresses, and found out the highest address was 3925. Disgruntled, I got back in the truck and went back to work.
After a long day of work, I went home and showered. Feeling refreshed, I got the idea of going back over and double checking the 3937. Maybe the old guys got the address wrong. I got in the old Hyundai I call a car and went across town to the college apartments. I got to 3937 and there was a small light on in the R.A's apartment. With a smile on my face and a skip in my walk, I headed up the stairs and practically leaped up to the door. I was about to knock when I heard a soft moan. Wondering if I heard something, I pressed my ear against the door to double check. I heard another soft moan and something that sounded like a small motor. Needless to say, I did not knock but merely continued to listen. The moaning kept up, as did the whirling motor sound. With my shorts growing tighter, I pressed closer against the door. Entirely focused on the moaning, I did not notice the creaking of the wood. Next thing I know, I am flat on the floor of this apartment, the door having opened on me. I slowly begin to stand up, when I hear a female shout out something. Looking up, and pointing forward, I see a big hockey girl holding a bag of ice all over her knee with a small fan next to her, rattling as it tried to blow air on her. The 200 hundred pound behemoth looked very pissed off, especially since cotton shorts do not exactly restrain much. She began to get up, a sweaty imprint left on the couch, she began to charge. I ran for my life, out of the apartment building and down the street.
Twenty minutes later, I rounded the street corner, ran for my car, and got the heck out of there. When I got home, my roommates called again. They wanted to tell me that there was a small mistake in the address. I told them that I figured that out and pissed off our R.A. They asked how I could have pissed off John. I told them that our R.A.'s name was Becky. Within five minutes, I hung up the phone. I was extremely happy that mistake was with the 9, not the 2. Unfortunately, the college's girl's hockey team is coming through the dining hall tomorrow for a pre-practice meal. I hate fat chicks.
Dolomite