Round these parts we call those UCLA girls hideous and deformed. See here in the U&L we invented hot chicks. A guy I once speant some meaningful time with in a 12x12 room had a cousin who was married to the ex brother in-law of the number one master brewer who once shared a taxi with a Duckgirl, which last time I read cheerleader quarterly was easily the hottest compilation of female talent. If I broke with the characature that I have created and spoke the truth I would have to admit that the closest I've been to a cheerleader was the caledar on the wall of the garage where I was a grease monkey at. I remember it vividly, it was October of 1977, I was working on the seat adjuster on a 1972 AMC Pacer (for my money the best chick magnet in all the land. A guy I went to junior hs with is credited with designing the awesome body style, but it looks alot like the ashtray I made in art class...sayin) when the sleeve of my garanimal shirt got stuck in the slider mechanism. Well the head grease monkey was on a grub run picking up the best beef and cheese hogies in the world, or so I'm told. I know Philadelphia fancies themselves the cheesesteak capital of the world, but anyone who knows anything knows that the best cows reside in the U&L and the amaroso roll was an Oregonian original, but I digress. So while I'm pinned under the pleather bucket seat and whimpering a bit I see across the garage the calendar, Miss october in her pleated pre-nike Oregon issue cheer uniform. Well needless to say lil Dinsie popped to attention and since I had the requisite 30 seconds to kill I abused the little fella with extreme prejudice. Even though she had those big gross things filling out her sweater I was ready to pop. There's something about the combination of five year old farts permiating my face as I dug my chin into the pleather, and working myself into a froth with my wd-40 coated willy with my free hand, but I'm pretty sure it was love. I remember when I was at my best buds winery (merlot is for fags, pinot noir...now those little guys are survivors. My pal is making the premier Pinots on the face of the earth) regailing the story to Kevin Duckworth over some local salmon we had caught after playing a round and the #2 rated golf course this side of the Mississippi, fuck Torrey, Pebble etc.. Ducks (that's what his closest referred to him as, rest his sole) is busting my balls about the 5 I scored on the 13th hole (for my money the most picturesque whole in all of golf). He seems to think I shot an 11, but he's no mathematician. I assured him that round these parts, we invented modern math and two drives in the drink, a ball lost in the woods, three strokes to get out of a bunker, a foot wedge, and a nine foot gimme equals par. Once I got him on the right page we enjoyed some outstanding cigars. Fuck Cuba, Castro never wrapped his lips around a nicer stogie than the ones my buddies uncle has rolled in his basement down the road a piece. He has the northernmost tobacco field in the world and the soil up here in God's country is enriched with the perfect blend of minerals. I was showing the cuban roller guy the right way to put the filler into the wrap, thankfully he was a quick study and my bud's uncle stands to make a killing once the secret gets out.
"Gentlemen, it is better to have died as a small boy than to fumble this football."
-John Heisman
"Any street urchin can shout applause in victory, but it takes character to stand fast in defeat. One is noise --- the other, loyalty." Fielding Yost
Go Blue!