The Case of the Missing V-Card Part 6

Thumper was not having a good time. This wasn't how parties were supposed to be. Parties were for "Bro-ing out," as it was sometimes called. The pressure to get laid was ruining his good time. The massive dose of liquid depressants may have had something to do with it too, but that may just be me being overly judgmental (so much for the pretense of objectivity, I suppose). There could be girls around. The problem was when they became the focus. The whole thing was silly to Thumper. Why should the best way to prove your manhood be to stick your penis inside of a woman?

There are some parties where it seems as if you'd be better off just packing it in. Not going downtown. Not going up to hang out in someone else's room. Not hopping down the row to some GDI get-together. Just getting in bed, closing your eyes, and admitting that the night had been a failure. There's no shame in that. If it weren't for those nights, the good ones wouldn't stand out so much (or some other "There's meaning in everything" bullshit positive spin). And our hero, Thumper, was seconds away from reaching that critical point when the bitter puss of abdication is the only fluid that could quench his emotional thirst.

"Hey, buddy. You wanna do a shot with me?" Dallas asked Thumper as he walked by.

Well, let's try one more fluid before the bitter puss of abdication.

"Sure," Thumper said. The specific shot, of course, didn't really matter at that point.

Dallas was one of those minor members. He was a junior, didn't live in the house, and, despite his name, had never been within the boundaries of Texas in his entire life. "Dallas" happened to be the name of a stripper who had stolen the wallet of one of the Brothers four years before. The name was handed down a couple pledge classes later.

"Hey, man," Thumper said. "That chick you making out with earlier; she was pretty hot."

"Thanks, Thumper."

"Are you guys, like, together?"

"Yeah. We've been dating for like two years now."

"Oh. Just making sure."

"Yeah. I definitely introduced her to you at formal last fall. And probably at least twice since then. I can do it again, if you want."

"No, that's okay," Thumper said as he sulked away. Now he was sure that he'd be spending the rest of his night sucking the bitter puss of abdication out of the open wound on his ego. Fucking women.

Just as Thumper was leaving the basement, however, he ran into Goldy.

"Where you going?" Goldy asked Thumper, his voice sounding especially dragged out at this moment when time had seemed to slow to a tortuous slog through a mire of failure.

"I think I'm just gonna call it a night. I'm pretty tired."

"Oh, so you got laid already?"

"No..."

"Good."

"Why's that good?" Thumper asked. Oh, if only he hadn't taken that shot. He could have been stripped down and sound asleep right now.

"Because I promised to help you out at dinner and I plan to do it." Apparently, Goldy had been more lucid that anyone had given him credit for.

"Really? How?"

"Girls love drugs."

"Goldy, I don't know if I'm really in the mood--"

"Look, you don't even have to do anything. I've got two girls that want to get high and I just need someone else to be up there so I don't have to listen to them talk on and on about their frivolous new money bullshit."

"Okay. I'll do it!"

The bitter puss of abdication would have to wait for now.

The Case of the Missing V-Card Part 5

She was stunning. Her name was Julia. She was a freshman. Her glossy dark hair hung down straight over her tan shoulders, which were strong from years of varsity swim practice. She was taller than Thumper, but this was hardly a roadblock in his mind.

"Wow," Thumper said. "She's beautiful."

"Yes she is," Cooper said.

"You really think she'll sleep with me?"

"Trust me," he said with a smirk. "She puts out."

Cooper and Thumper approaches Julia, who was surrounded by a gaggle of less attractive friends. They all awkwardly held plastic cups full of beer in their limp wrists. Hard-drinkin', fun-times Fat Chicks these were not.

"Hey Julia," Cooper said, putting his arm around her waist.

Julia instinctively squirmed away from his touch. "Hi Cooper."

"I feel like I haven't seen you since the first week of school."

"This is my first time back since then," she said.

"You're missing out!" said Thumper.

"Julia, I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine. This is Thumper."

Thumper held out his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Julia limply shook it. "These are my friends. Betty, Katey, Ali, Jessica, Katie, and Jess."

Thumper shook hands with each of them. As he did so, Cooper leaned toward Julia and whispered something in her ear. Once again, she attempted to escape his grasp.

"Can I get any of you ladies a drink?" Thumper asked.

They lifted their still full beers.

"I can't believe you're not drinking."

"I think we might leave soon," Julia said, still trying to put distance between herself and Cooper.

"Really? I can't believe you'd leave so soon. The party just got started."

"Yeah girls," Cooper said. "Stay and have a good time."

"If you want, I can bump you to the front of the Cups line," Thumper offered.

"That's okay," Julia said.

"Excuse us. Me and my boy here need to take a quick timeout."

Cooper pulled Thumper aside and began whispering in his ear. "Thumper, you gotta get in there man. Haven't you been doing your homework?"

"I know, but you've been next to her the whole time."

"I'm helping you by doing that, brah. See, girls want you to fight over them. But in our modern, civilized society you have to do it in a more subtle way. Like, just position yourself between me and her and she'll know that you're willing to fight for her."

"Oh."

"And don't be afraid of body contact and touching. Did you see how I was doing it there?"

"Yeah. That was smooth."

"Anybody could do it. This girl is yours, brah."

"Okay!"

"Ready to get back in there?"

"I'm ready to get my dick soaking wet."

"Okay, well, don't tell her that. There's some immediate biological turnoffs."

Cooper returned to Julia's side and once again put his arm around her waist. Thumper strutted up to them and began trying to wedge his body between them. In the process, he jostled the beer out of Julia's hand and onto her shirt.

"We're leaving."

"Sorry, baby," Thumper said, placing his arm around her shoulders. "We can go up to my room and get you a new shirt."

"Good-bye." Julia and her friends stalked off.

"Hold on, brah. All is not lost." Cooper followed the girls toward the door.

"What's her problem?" Thumper said to himself. He began drinking the still half-full beers that Julia's friends had left. When he reached for the last one, a hand swiped it away. Thumper looked up to find Bob chugging the beer. Pat stood next to him, judgment beaming from his eyes.

"Well, well, well..." Pat said.

"Cash in that V-Card yet?" asked Bob.

"Did you see that girl that Cooper tried to hook me up with?"

"Thumper, Cooper never does anything for anyone unless he thinks there's something in it for him," Bob said.

"Oh. Well have you guys found anyone for me yet?"

"No, we haven't," Bob said. "And after you ditched us for Cooper, I don't think we're going to."

"But--"

"You made your choice!" Pat yelled, his Accusatory Finger firmly planted in Thumper's chest.

What was Thumper to do now?

The Case of the Missing V-Card Part 4

Fat Chicks. There is a common misconception that they are reviled by chauvinistic men everywhere. Their round, flabby, pock-marked bodies filling more than their allotted space in a crowded basement. Dumping beer and Jungle Juice down their gullets. Their too-tight clothing barely containing their guts and thighs. They somehow combined these traits, almost invariably, with bad hair, bad breath, and a distinct body odor reminiscent of canned meat. Most films and television programs portray these corpulent women, these so-called "Slam Hogs," being rejected at the door to any party. They are regularly passed up in favor of the up-and-coming starlets and left to sulk off into the background and at best become a source of cruel comic relief.

But at Alpha Tau Zeta, Fat Chicks were celebrated. They were bumped to the front of the line, at times. The best attended mixers were always with the least popular sorority, Delta Delta Pi, which was peopled by a more hearty breed of woman than the other sororities (though, to be fair, there were many more attractive girls than people remember all these years down the road. Our memories have simplified the group to their most prominent members, physically speaking). The overactive collective libido played a part in this. Fat Chicks were viewed as being "easy," as a teen in the 50's would say. To borrow a phrase from Chicago Cubs stalwart Mark Grace, Fat Chicks were often used as a "slump buster." That is, if you were feeling down in the dumps (be it romantically, mentally, or physically), a Fat Chick could be a good cure-all. They were like a tonic sold by a traveling pitchman during the Depression.

But it was more than that. Fat Chicks are fun. They drink hard. They're down for all the reindeer games. At Mardi Gras themed parties (and Cinco De Mayo parties and Anything For a Dollar parties and...) they are always the first ones to whip out their tits. Plus, it's much easier to have fun with a girl when you're not trying to sleep with her. They were also amused by our more extreme antics that tended to turn off the more attractive/rich/popular/in-shape girls. And of course, any encouragement of our hijinx was a major plus. Fat Chicks were just a solid group to have around.

And at this moment, Thumper was on the hunt for a Fat Chick.

Bob and Pat served as his faithful Blood Hounds, seeking out the most succulent prey.

"Her?"

"No. Not fat enough. She'd never fuck Thumper. I like the blimp in the pink."

"No good. She's going home with Todd tonight. He's been talking about fucking her all week."

"Todd's chubby chasing nowadays, huh?"

"He goes through phases. You know, maybe we should just let Thumper pick."

"Are you kidding? We can't trust him with a decision like this. We're talking about a man's v-card here."

Thumper approached them. "Hey guys," he said. "Any luck?"

"This is a very delicate process, Thumper," said Pat.

"I like the blonde over in the corner."

"Thumper..." Bob said, halfway in disbelief.

"What?"

"Thumper, that girl is making out with Dallas right now. Like, literally right at this moment."

"So?"

"I swear to God, Thumper," Pat said. "And I don't even believe in God. But for these five seconds, I do enough to swear to him that I will destroy you if you question us again."

"Okay."

"Here," Bob said. "Just sit down for a minute and let us figure this out."

Bob sat Thumper down in a booth with Port-o John, Goldy, Downtown Matt Brown (or DTMB, as he forthwith shall be known), a couple girls, and the narrator of this story. We were playing a game called Seven-Eleven Doubles (well, as a teetotaler I wasn't playing. The "we" was intended to save words, which, I suppose, it hasn't). The rules were somewhat complex but essentially you had to drink a beer before your opponent could roll a pair of dice and get either a seven, an eleven, or doubles. There were no teams, no way to emerge victorious, and was really only an excuse to drink quickly in socially semi-acceptable fashion. Port-o John was the house master at this particular game (and at many others including Asshole, Smash Pong, and the infamous Trail of Beers). As we rolled and drank (again, perhaps this is an inappropriate use of the word "we"), a lively discussion began.

"I've begun to have a growing interest in Soviet film," DTMB said.

"You take one Econ class with a commie professor and look what happens."

"I'm not a communist," DTMB said. "I just don't believe that we should automatically dismiss certain aspects of socialism just because they were demonized during the middle of the last century. But I'm not here to argue that. To me, the most interesting aspect of the Soviet era was the fact that they viewed themselves not just as a political super power, but as a cultural one. What other totalitarian regime actively promoted the arts so vigorously?"

"The Nazis," someone (me) suggested.

"That's true," said DTMB, in that sly way when he was about to show off his superior knowledge, "but with the Nazis art was used almost exclusively for propaganda purposes. The Soviets, however, always wanted their art to be viewed as being superior to that of the west, and thus they encouraged people to create through their own impulses and not through state controlled subjects."

"Hold on," Port-o John said, "what about the state censors?"

"True. But two factors come into play. First of all, even most Western countries have censorship. The MPAA and FCC here, namely. England, France, Italy, Germany; all have some form of state sponsored censorship. Secondly, the censorship was done after the fact. They could express themselves however they wanted, often with direct government sponsorship. And it seems that most of these films have remained intact and were even allowed to be shown outside of the country uncut. They just didn't want to rile up the citizenry. And let's be honest, it's never a good idea to rile up Russians, Ukrainians, Poles, and the like."

"Hey, I'm Polish you asshole," Port-o John said.

"Exactly. But as I was saying, I've been thinking about Soviet film and, feel free to jump in whenever you want girls, I ask you: what is the definitive Soviet film?"

"Potemkin! Boom!" Port-o John shouted and chugged down a beer.

"No, it's not Potemkin," DTMB said.

"Bullshit!"

"Potemkin isn't even Eisenstein's best movie," the narrator said, correctly I might add. "Ivan the Terrible is better."

"Have you guys ever done that thing with Wizard of Oz and Pink Floyd?"

"Goldy, what does that have to do with anything?" DTMB said.

"Well, you can do that with Tarkovsky. Pretty much any of his movies with any Pink Floyd album."

"Tarkovsky can't be viewed as the definitive Soviet filmmaker though," DTMB said, "because his films are far too spiritual for the official atheist stance of the Soviet Union."

"You want to talk spiritual? Watch the end of The Sacrifice and listen to Echoes at the same time with two tabs of acid pumping through your veins."

"The best movie of the Soviet era," the narrator said, "is Come and See."

"Come and what?" Port-o John asked. He was a bit testy after one of the girls had rolled the dice before his hand was even on the cup (one of the arcane rules of the game).

"Come and See."

"Idi i Smotri," DTMB said, helpfully. He knew his stuff. When DTMB said that he had become interested in something, it meant that he had done exhaustive research and become a temporary expert on the subject.

"Ohhhhhh, Idi i Smotri," Port-o John said with a thick coat of sarcasm. He was just angry that we weren't discussing Russian literature, which was more in his conversational wheelhouse.

"It's like the Russian Apocalypse Now. A surreal, intense World War Two movie about a little kid in Belarus who joins the resistance movement against the Nazis and descends into his own personal hell amidst the rape and slaughter and genocide of the war. It's awesome."

"Yes, but it's not the definitive Soviet film," DTMB said.

"Well then what is?"

"Earth."

"Gimme a break," Port-o John said.

"Did you say, 'Birth?'" Goldy asked.

"No. Earth. It's the Soviet ethos in 75 minutes. It takes longer to read the Communist Manifesto and that's a pamphlet. You've got collectivist farmers fighting against the capitalist land owners. You've got the triumph of the new era of technology to bring the peasant classes into the future. And you've got the same kind of editing style employed by Eisenstein mixed with the sweeping landscape shots of Tarkovsky. And the Soviets even censored parts of it!"

"I don't know..."

"You make a good argument..."

"You're such a homo..."

"Let's do a very un-Soviet thing and vote on it," DTMB suggested. "Who thinks I'm wrong?"

We three raised our hands.

"Looks like the nays have have it," Port-o John said.

"Hold on. The girls still have a vote. Oh, and Thumper too. What do you say?"

"I don't give a fuck about those stupid Commies," Thumper said. "They never made a movie as good as Wedding Crashers."

Cooper approached the table. "Hey Thumper," he said. "I think I found a girl for you."

Thumper jumped up from the booth and was gone with Cooper.

DTMB turned to the others. "You know, he never said that I was wrong about Earth."

The Case of the Missing V-Card Part 3

Alpha Tau Zeta was a dry fraternity. Let me rephrase that. Alpha Tau Zeta was a "dry" fraternity. For insurance purposes (though National headquarters offered up some moral excuse) there was no alcohol allowed in the house. This particular chapter, however, interpreted the rule as "No Alcohol on the First Floor" and "No Advertising Parties." Therefore, the ATZ parties were word of mouth affairs. The Brothers were each responsible for inviting friends, potential freshmen recruits for the following year, and, most importantly, girls.

In an all-male enclave, girls were the lifeblood. A party without girls impressed no one. Recruiting would dry up and the strong oak of the fraternity would wither and die. The occasional "Brothers Party" was fun in it's way. The rampant macho debauchery of drinking and friendly violence had its place. In fact, I almost preferred these nights. In my later years, I have experienced many parties with members of the opposite sex. Many nights at the bars. Many standard social gatherings that most would consider fun. But never again have I experienced those nights of joyous communal abuse. Re-enacting our favorite professional wrestling moves so as the Ric Flair open-handed chop (Woo!), smashing light-tubes over each other's bare backs, and playing a form of ping pong where the punishment for a miss was a full power shot to the bare abdomen resulting in welts that would last for a week. But I am of a rare breed. For most, the big parties with the inebriated girls were the draw. And it's not like I hated them or anything...

Thumper had been in the basement drinking for well over an our before the first female kindling for the fire of the party began to arrive. He played a Beer Pong variation that involved throwing three balls per turn (because, as Port-o John like to put it, "Why go thirty miles per hour when you can go ninety?"). His confidence brimmed over and spilled onto the early party- goers. He pushed around the freshmen guys who, hoping for a bid the following fall, said nothing about the offense. He hugged his Brothers and clung to their shoulder as if he would fall off a precipice if he let go. What he did not do, however, was talk to the women.

Sure, he yelled obscenities at his Cups (the Beer Pong variation) opponents who happened to be female. But he didn't have anything resembling a meaningful conversation. Or anything resembling a meaningless conversation, for that matter. Just a barrage of expletives and rambling, barely coherent taunts. I'm sure there must be someone who got laid using this tactic, but he would have had to possess a level of charisma that Thumper could never hope to attain. Only the legendary General Duck, who now existed only in the mists of time and fraternity lore, could have pulled off such a feat.

Bob and Pat observed Thumper from across the room. They couldn't hear the exact words, but they knew what he was saying.

"You think we should help him out?" Bob asked.

"Giving him attention only encourages him," Pat said. "But we did promise that we would."

Pat and Bob made their way toward Thumper but were intercepted by Cooper, who had just left the side of a very attractive, though very young, girl.

"Hey, brah," Cooper said to Pat. "I heard you guys are trying to get Thumper laid tonight."

The interruption had lit Pat's fuse and Bob, well-versed in these things, stepped in between. "We're trying to get everyone laid. Isn't that the point of these parties?"

Cooper looked at Pat. "I just don't want you guys polluting his head with talk of low standards."

Pat's eyes lowered into a squint.

Again, Bob attempted to mediate. "It's a special night for the kid. We'll make sure it ends with him shaft deep in a hot chick. Don't you worry."

"Good," Cooper said. "Because I don't want him hooking up with the kind of girls that Pat hooks up with."

Before I go on, I feel that I must state that Cooper and Pat were long-time friends. They had even been roommates the previous year. They ate together, drank together, and once even made love in the same room together (not with each other, of course). All the same, there was a rivalry between them. The ribbing that Pat was now subjected to was far from good natured. Pat, in turn, showed Cooper the level of restraint for which he had become so famous.

"Fuck your own face, faggot!" Pat yelled, his Accusatory Finger barely an inch from Cooper's face.

Bob pulled Pat away. "Alright, everybody out of the pool."

Pat walked right up to Thumper and positioned his Accusatory Finger squarely in the young man's line of sight. "You're gonna hook up with the fattest chick here."

Thumper, belly full of beer and head full of dopamine, was in a very agreeable mood on this particular evening. "Whatever you say!"

The Case of the Missing V-Card Part 2

Thumper, fresh from the high hopes of dinner, wandered the halls of the fraternity house. He was of the mindset that one set of advice was never enough. In fact, two or three sets of advice usually weren't enough for him either. Thumper loved to seek the guidance of just about every individual who was willing to give it. That's not to say that Thumper was controlled by others. Far from it. I myself, in fact, often grew frustrated with Thumper's independent streak. He would ask my advice on every topic under the sun and yet he never seemed to follow it. Perhaps I'm just a bad mentor. If he had asked my opinion on his current endeavor, I would have told him to wait for the perfect opportunity with a woman he understood--perhaps over the summer months when he could parlay the brief intensity of short term love into that rite of pleasure that would allow him to enter the ranks of manhood. But Thumper wanted to get laid that night and there was nothing I could have said to change his mind.

So instead of coming to my door, Thumper went to that of Cooper. Thumper knocked on Cooper's half-open door and poked his head inside. "Hey, bro," he said. "You mind if I come in?"

Cooper sat on the floor in his underwear. Thumper saw the toned, tan muscles of his back moving subtly as he stretched his arms out to the ends of his spread legs. Cooper finished his exercises before slowly turning his head around.

"Come on in." Cooper moved his legs in and pressed the soles of his feet together. He pressed his elbows down on his knees and tilted his head toward the floor. "What can I do for you?"

"What are you doing?"

"It's a form of sexual yoga I invented. Stretching out all the muscles, tendons, and ligaments that are crucial in giving a woman, or women, pleasure during the act of lovemaking."

"Cool. May I join you?"

"I'd prefer that you didn't," Cooper said. He lifted himself into a crab position and put his weight on the balls of his feet. His back arched and he thrust his pelvis into the air. He let out a long exhale that bordered on a moan.

Thumper looked around the room. Cooper eschewed the normal fluorescent lights on the ceiling of every room in the house. Instead, his room was dimly lit by lamps covered with red silk clothes. His walls were covered with quotes, written in sharpie (this was college, of course), from various philosophers and authors in their original languages; Nietzsche, Dostoevsky, Voltaire, Dante, Ovid. The quotes seemed to expand with each new text that Cooper studied. His bed was the biggest in the house and the rumor was that it was the same model that the Sultan of Bahrain slept on. The air contained the faint scent of Indian Breakfast Tea.

"Only three more hours until tonight's party," Thumper said.

"I know. And I still have to shower and give my pubes a trim."

"Do girls like that?"

Cooper gave a little chuckle as he turned over onto his belly and began to do diamond push-ups. "Girls like whatever you tell them to like."

"Damn straight, bro."

Cooper continued to do his diamond push-ups.

"You got a girl in mind for tonight?" Thumper asked.

"Well," Cooper's pace grew faster. Perspiration began to form on his flushed brow. "There's a couple that I've had my eye on. But I may go with the old standby."

"Which one's that?"

Cooper hopped to his feet and rolled his neck back and forth. "That girl Christina." Cooper began to do Hindu Squats. "I don't know what it is about her. She just has, like, the perfect vagina. The way it feels around my dick. I don't believe in soul mates or true love or anything like that. But, biologically speaking, we were made for each other."

"Cool, man." Thumper looked around the room and wondered when he would find that vagina that was made for him (biologically speaking). "Pat and Bob said they would help me find a girl tonight."

"Those jokers?" Cooper said with a mild scoff that may have just been a grunt from his Hindu Squats. "I love the guys, but they are not who you should be going to for woman advice." Apparently Cooper hadn't read the first paragraph of this entry. "They're gonna tell you to aim low, go for the first girl that shows interest. They're wrong. You're not a bottom feeder. You can have any girl you want. You need to remember that deep down hot girls are insecure. That's why they put themselves together the way they do. They want you to hit on them because they want to give it up. I'll tell you what. I'm gonna help you out tonight."

"You will?"

"I'm going to get you that hottest girl that shows up tonight. Well," he corrected himself, "the second hottest."

"I'd take the fifth hottest if--"

"No," Cooper cut him off. "You've already forgotten the first lesson: Never settle."

Thumper nodded. He marvelled at how generous his friends had been with their time and expertise.

The Case of the Missing V-Card Part 1

"You smell like a tub of ice cream."
"Excuse me?"
"I like to...eat...ice cream."

Pat and Bob stared at Thumper across the dinner table. The steam from their reheated vegetables, meatloaf, and potatoes au gratin rose in wisps.

"That's what you said to her?" said Bob with an incredulous inflection that was as lost on Thumper as the flavor from the three day old food.

"I can't believe it didn't work."

"I can," said Pat. "Very easily."

"You gotta admit it's pretty clever, huh?"

"No. Not at all." Pat's anger seemed to be on the burner, but was far from boiling. His Accusatory Finger was still laced around his fork as he picked around the potatoes.

"But in Cooper's book--"

"Jesus!" Bob cut short Thumper's nasally protests. Jesus himself probably would have done the same thing.

"Let me ask you something," said Pat. "How old are you?"

"Twenty."

"So, correct me if I'm wrong here, but you've been on this Earth for two decades now and you still haven't had a woman's labia wrapped around your penis?"

"No," he admitted. "But I have gotten two blow jobs."

"Listen Thumper. Do you want to be a homo like Brooks all your life?"

On the other end of the table, Brooks stood up. "No, no, no. I'm not involved in this. I'm leaving. You won't have old Bart Brooks to kick around anymore."

And so Brooks walked out of the narrative.

(Let's try that again)

"Listen Thumper. Do you want to be a homo like Port-o John all your life?"

Port-o John stood up this time. "You can make fun of me for being fat, because I am. I work very hard at being the Falstaff of the house and your mocking is the equivalent of applause to my ears. But I get laid a lot, for a man my size, and I don't appreciate being used as an example of a sexual incompetent or a homosexual in this case. Now if you'll excuse me, there's a gravy boat that requires drinking."

(Hmmm...)

"Listen Thumper. Do you want to be a homo like Goldy all your life?"

Goldy stared off at a rainbow dragon spewing purple fire in the distance. Bob snapped his fingers in front of Goldy's face, but got no reaction.

"That works," said Pat.

"Twenty's not that old," Thumper said.

"I lost my V-Card when I was thirteen," said Pat. "She was my uncle's girlfriend and it was awesome."

"Oh. What about you Bob?"

"Summer after Senior year. It was like the end of a raunchy sex comedy."

"Maybe you guys could buy me a hooker," Thumper suggested, a little too much hope in his voice.

"Number one," said Pat, "absolutely not. And number two, hookers don't even count."

"Really?"

"Really, Thumper," said Bob. "It's in the Bible."

Thumper picked at his meatloaf and lowered his gaze.

"Come on, trooper," said Pat. "Don't be so glum. We'll help you out."

"That's what we're hear for," Bob chimed in, "to facilitate your bad decisions."

"Thanks guys." They went back to eating. To Thumper, the food suddenly tasted better. The twice boiled carrots emanated gold onto his taste buds. The potatoes went down his throat and into his stomach like the warmth from a hearth. He chewed every bit of the meatloaf as if it was a fine steak, grilled to perfection over hot coals.

"I'll help too," said Goldy, still deep in his trance (though now it was closer to a 999 yard stare).

"I'll introduce you to some girls I know. And some things...I can do...and give you..."

(Yeah, I don't know what he's talking about either)

"Well there you have it," said Pat. "Tonight," Pat rolled up his sleeves, "we get you laid."

"After we get ourselves laid," Bob said.

"Of course."

Thumper, with glossy eyes, looked up at his older, wiser brothers. "You guys are the best!"

Thumper's Creation Myth

In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was God and the Word was with God. Then a couple billion years (give or take) went by. The Earth cooled, the dinosaurs came and went, man shed his fur, discovered the plow, and civilization was built. Language, religion, and trade brought small groups together while driving these groups into fractured tribes fighting for power, wealth, land, and prestige. The nation-state emerged. As the empires of Europe decided that the borders of their own continent were too restrictive for their constant wars and persecutions, they searched the globe for new and interesting places to spread their unique brand of civilization. Among these places was the continent of North America. After several attempts at genocide on the indigenous population (some inadvertently, to be fair...), the continent was settled and broken into colonies. In the very recent past, when you're talking about billions of years anyway, thirteen of these colonies decided that they could do the whole "rape the land for economic benefit" thing just fine without the guidance of their cousins across the sea. In the former colony and now state of New York, the township of Geneseo was formed. In the very, very recent past (again, as billions go), a young man and a young woman met and fell in love.

Ann Northrup, a native of Erie in the state of Pennsylvania (another alumnus of the American Revolution), had recently graduated from SUNY Geneseo (SUNY being State University of New York, of which there are several). Her interest in municipal politics and overall lack of motivation to leave the town that she had grown so used to in her four years of drinking and awkward pre-marital sex mixed with occasional studying and class attendance led her to accept an internship with the town council. A minor car accident (oh yes, I forgot to mention that the internal combustion engine had also been invented somewhere between the Earth cooling and the present time. Sorry for any potential confusion this may have caused) resulted in joint pain. She went to the town's young doctor, Donald Cornfield, for treatment. As her pain diminished, her visits became more frequent (and rarely occurred within the confines of his office). Soon they were sharing an apartment together, even though she no longer felt any pain in her joints at all.

They married in a secular ceremony. The state now recognized them, for tax and census purposes, as a single entity. A unit. This bond, they thought to themselves, is infinitely better than being alone. Throughout history, many have felt the same way. And, as is the tradition, they decided to procreate. It was unspoken, of course. "I want to procreate with you," isn't normally thought of as a romantic thing to say (though I'm sure that somewhere some "imaginative" sci-fi writer has used those words as a form of romance in an alien civilization. And perhaps it is that way on other planets, but I have decided to confine myself to Earth and its immediate surroundings until further notice). Dr. Cornfield did say many traditional romantic things, though. Among them were "I love you," "The happiest part of my day is coming home and seeing you here," and "I find you more beautiful every day." He never said, "I'm so glad you got in that car accident, or else we would have never met," but he sometimes thought it. Ann, in turn, also said romantic things to him. The ubiquitous "I love you," "I've never felt this way about anyone before," and "I never want to be apart from you." They attempted to procreate many, many times. Finally, one of Dr. Cornfield's sperm found its way inside one of Ann Cornfield's (nee Northrup) eggs. An as yet unnamed zygote formed.

In January of 1986, this zygote fully matured, emerged from Ann's uterus, and forced its way through her stretched labia and into the doctor's (not Dr. Cornfield as he was not a trained obstetrician) waiting arms. He (the former-zygote had a Y Chromosome, after all) was named Donald Robert Cornfield Jr.; being the second consecutive generation with this name. Ann chose the name. Her rationale was that the person she loved most in the world was named Donald Robert Cornfield and thus the person that she would also love should share the same name. He went through several monikers during his early life. "Donald" never seemed to stick, nor did "Don" or "Donny." "Junior" was tried for about six months, but when he entered Kindergarten there was another child named Andrew Rodgers Jr. who had already obtained a stranglehold on that particular nickname. I consider this a slight injustice, however, because the "Junior" in Andrew Rodgers's name was acquired on account of his father's vanity and not his mother's love. Next were "Robert," "Bob," and "Rob." After a flirtation with "Robby" during his youth soccer days, they backtracked to "Rob" and the name tenuously stuck. His schoolmates often used his last name and variations thereof; "Cornfield," "Corny," and "CJ." The last, of course, standing for "Cornfield Junior."

It wasn't until he graduated from high school, matriculated to a university two short hours away (via the great American means of transportation, the internal combustion engine-powered automobile), and pledged the Alpha Tau Zeta fraternity that the nineteen year old former-zygote named Donald Robert Cornfield Jr. found his true name. He knelt down on the piss-soaked cement floor of the fraternity basement and looked up at the hooded figure in front of him (a senior with a light class load who now works in upper management at a spice company). From the figure's mouth came the words, "Your new name, forever and always, is 'Thumper.'" And so it was was. Donald Robert Cornfield Jr. became Thumper. Forever and always.