>>> The Strumpet's Trumpet
By staff writer Allison Parks
December 3, 2006

Three years ago I painstakingly graduated from Junior College and transferred to Sonoma State. (Perhaps my JC education is to blame for my poor writing skills, mild retardation, hunch back, speech impediment, and elongated labia.) On my first night in the bustling metropolis of Rohnert Park I hit the bars with some gal pals. We infiltrated a sausage fest shithole called the 8 Ball. I went to get drinks while a mildly hideous young man we'll call “Manford” asked my friends about me. These were my Long Island Iced Tea days when I would make out with any hair-lipped gremlin with a pulse and a kind word—kind word optional. Manford met these requirements, so naturally, I made out with him.

After that I ran into Manford at the bars quite regularly and if no one better came along, I would exchange slobber with him, and then we'd go our separate ways. Several months later, about six Long Islands deep, my friend Amy and I attended a party at Manford's sickening shack of a home. I was considerably shit-canned. My first act of stupidity was falling down the stairs. My second was taking a wee and throwing the toilet paper outside the bathroom and cackling hysterically while poor Manford picked it up.

“It seemed as though time and vodka had dulled the shame of his drooping noodle.”

As the night wore on, the party died down, Amy left, and eventually it was just me and Manford. There I stood, vomit smeared on my forehead with one eye open and I proceeded to make the worst decision of the evening: I decided I wanted to hump Manford.

Manford seductively removed his hat, and I literally gasped at the horror that stood before me: Manford's hair began halfway up his head. “No wonder he never took off his hat,” I thought to myself, or possibly said aloud. Then Manford uttered those six little words every young girl dreams of hearing, “I hope you like chest hair!” followed by an unveiling of the densest rainforest of chest hair I have ever seen on any man, woman, or gorilla. There was, in fact, no skin to be seen through the brush, and I wondered whether there even was a chest behind the curtain, or whether I could’ve reached deep into his body and pulled out a black rabbit. To add to the bizarro, there was not one hair on his back. “Doo youzz wauxx your baaack?” I slurred, my eyes darting around the room for an escape.

Fortunately, I was so drunk I did not realize how drunk Manford was. Poor Manford could not even get it up. I blame the booze, but perhaps I just repulsed him. Manford apologized and pretended to go to sleep, so I called Hubcap, Rohnert Park's chief cab driver, who always delivers a swift ride with a smile and a side of wisdom. Hubcap picked me up and I went home.

Months passed and I didn’t run into Manford. Then one night, my friends Sarah and Kathy visited from San Francisco. We hit up Friar Tucks, the local karaoke shed. Manford was there and it seemed as though time and vodka had dulled the shame of his drooping noodle and my terror over his freakish hair patterns.

Once again, Manford wore his trusty hat, causing me to forget all the dreadfulness beneath it. Around 1ish we started making out. At last call, Sarah, Kathy, Manford, Manford's friend Ugly Larry, and I all got a cab together. Ugly Larry lives a block from me, so the cab arrived at his place. We bid Manford and his friend and ugly goodbye and started walking to my apartment.

Along the walk, I told the ladies about Manford and his limp dick. We had a good laugh, then began to skip and sing, “Manford has a limp dick! Manford has a limp dick!” We skipped faster and sang louder, overcome with drunken delight. Nothing could stop our joyous tune, until….

The sound of 30” tires came screeching up directly behind us. We spun around, and inches from Sarah's face stood Limp Dick Manford on his bicycle, scowling.

Without thinking, my fight or flight instincts kicked in, and I took off running, leaving a cloud of dust (and my friends) in my wake. Sarah looked back to say something to me, but I was gone. She turned to Kathy, but Kathy had taken off running too. Then she turned to the bald, angry, flaccid Manford.

“Hi Manford,” Sarah uttered awkwardly.

“Really nice…. Oh, I see how it is,” said Manford, struggling to turn his bike around.

And with what little manpower he could muster, Manford pedaled off into the night while Sarah walked back to my apartment to find Kathy and I hiding under the coffee table with the lights off.

Thankfully, I never saw Manford after that. But I did take a valuable lesson away from that night: Never talk about people when you're drunk because they're always standing/bicycling behind you.


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