>>> The Strumpet's Trumpet
By staff writer Allison Parks

February 18, 2007

Perhaps you read last week’s column entitled “Knowing Your League in High School.” Maybe you didn’t adhere to my teachings. Perhaps you need a tale that you can apply to your hip college lifestyle, you flea-ridden, binge drinking harlot. Put down that King Cobra, get the RA’s testicles out of your mouth, and read this:

So now you’re older, wiser… you’re a sassy, slutty college gal. Men should be attracted to the fact that you’ve chosen to pursue a higher education, right? They should be impressed by your ability to down 12 Jell-O shooters and chow your BFF’s box in front of a crowded party, shouldn’t they? Wrong. Your metabolism is only getting slower, and that freshman 40 you’ve put on is really testing the suspension of your tube top.

You need to assess your looks, lower your expectations, know your league, and stay in it. Many people I know have outgrown “out of your league syndrome” since high school. But others still cling to the hope that Richard Gere will enter their tampon factory, romantically lift them from the assembly line, and carry them off to a glamorous lifestyle amidst a chorus of cheers and well-wishings. I am here to tell you, he never will. Ever. He can’t lift your lard ass.

“Fanny flung herself onto Jimmy, taking the form and movement of a flying squirrel.”

Let me first clarify that this is not an attack on singles. I would also like to make clear that if your goal is simply to hump that special someone, than that is easily attainable and honorable. These tales are meant for girls who:

1. Throw themselves at males who don’t like them and/or are out of their league.
2. Have forgotten that if you do want a boyfriend, looks matter.

Here is an example of a latent case of “out of your league syndrome.”

After high school my friend Fanny attended Vallejo, California’s Maritime Academy for college. Her stocky build and pirate-like nature made her well-suited for a life at sea. The Maritime Academy is overwhelmingly male, and because Fanny was one of about six girls, the young male cadets clamored for her beave, instilling in her a false sense of attractiveness.

One evening, Fanny and I went to San Francisco to visit our friend Sarah. Fanny quickly became infatuated with a friend of Sarah’s boyfriend. His name was Jimmy and he was a very charming hunk, way out of Fanny’s league. Their league difference could be equivalent to, oh I don’t know… let’s say, George Clooney and Mimi from The Drew Carey Show.

At the end of the night, Fanny flung herself onto Jimmy, taking the form and movement of a flying squirrel. I had never seen her move so fast. After about two minutes of conversation, she romantically took his wee-wee out of his pants, jerked him off, and when the moment of truth came, Jimmy made squirt-squirt’s on Fanny’s forehead. It was like a fairy tale. Apparently Jimmy’s semen was an elixir of love, because Fanny became obsessed with him immediately after that.

Even though Jimmy did not give Fanny the tiniest sign of interest, she hallucinated a budding romance between them.

“I think he was pissed I didn’t give him my number,” Fanny would say to me over the phone between aggressive bites of a burrito. I could picture her sitting there slouched over her desk with her hot pink “Your Boyfriend Wants Me”tee stretched across her gut and covered in beans.

Oh Fanny, why? What was I supposed to say to this? “Did he ask for it?” I inquired, already knowing he barely acknowledged her and swiftly threw himself out the door after impregnating her forehead.

“No, but I didn’t really give him time too, I totally blew him off,” said Fanny, devouring the remainder of her burrito and cackling, pleased with her sexy game playing.

Come on Fanny, he had the entire night, plus it would only take him one phone call to get it. Toothbrush, diet, mirror, come on. Ugh, what could I say to let her down easy? “Well, if he wanted it, he could get it from Sarah.” Translation: He hasn’t, therefore he won’t, therefore give up and find yourself a date at an institution for the criminally insane.

“Yeah, well I’ll just see him next week at Sarah’s birthday. I gotta go, though, so call me about it later, okay?” Fanny said eagerly. I hung up and shivered violently as I imagined Fanny as Kathy Bates in Misery tying Jimmy to a bed and shattering his feet with a tack hammer for refusing to chow her box.

The following Friday I arrived in Vallejo to pick up Fanny. I opened the door to find her primping in her make-Jimmy-want-me outfit: a very short polka dot mini-skirt, knee-high boots, and a bright yellow top that read “Mrs. Timberlake” in bright orange letters. The poor dear looked like a plump, homeless prostitute.

“Fanny, I think you should bring a coat, it’s supposed to be really cold tonight,” I pleaded, hoping to cover her monstrosity of an outfit.

“I don’t need it, I’m hot blooded!” she sang, fanning herself as she skipped out to my car. Fanny never wore a coat; her thick layer of blubber insulated her well enough to swim the frigid waters of the Arctic alongside the mighty blue whale.

We went out dancing with Sarah, her boyfriend, and a few of Sarah’s friends. Jimmy showed up around 1:30am while Fanny was plowed and gyrating on a table top to Britney Spears’ “Toxic.” Sweat poured off her face, causing an Alice Cooper effect on her makeup. She spotted Jimmy and attempted to climb down off the table. But much to the horror of the entire bar, she slid in her own sweat and came crashing to the floor, creating a thunderous boom.

I walked over, grabbed her arm and said, “Let’s go to the bathroom,” in the hope that I could clean her up and/or that Jimmy would be gone by the time we emerged.

“No! Jimmy’s here!!” she squealed, yanking her beefy arm out of my hand. She trotted over to Jimmy.

“Hey gorgeous!” she said with dreamy eyes, grabbing him in a sweaty embrace, leaving Alice Copper smears on his shirt.

“Hey there,” Jimmy said uncomfortably.

“You never called me! I HATE you Jimmy! Ha ha ha ha!” hollered Fanny somewhat maniacally, in a way that frightened and embarrassed me all at the same time. Images of Fanny Bates popped back into my head.

“Umm, I didn’t…” he mumbled.

Fanny cut him off. “Come to Sarah’s, I’ll do that thing you like again! Ha ha ha!”

Jimmy looked absolutely mortified, his face turned from white to red to purple. “I gotta go,” he groaned, and simply walked away. I watched him slowly slink out the door, and then literally break into a run once he reached the sidewalk. Fanny saw this too and started drunkenly bawling. Sarah and I got her into a cab and tried to calm her down.

“Why did he do that?! Why doesn’t he like me??!!” she wailed. Sarah and I had the answer, but neither of us could say it. Which is why this story was written for your benefit, fatso.

Moral of the story: If a man lets you touch wiener, it doesn’t mean he likes you, it means he likes you touching his wiener. And if he won’t even let you do that, than you’re really in trouble. Dexatrim + hairbrush + makeup – desperation = male interest. Don’t make me tell you again.

Stay tuned for: “Knowing your League Post College.”

If you’d like to read about a tale about knowing your league in your golden years, please refer to “Geriatric Holiday Incest.”