Saturday, May 30, 2015


I shuddered.

I’d met this person at least one thousand times throughout my life. 

Know what I mean? 

It’s like you KNOW a person, nearly all about them, before you get to officially know them. You can already predict each one of their opinions, each of their ideas about living. 

Cues come in all sorts of ways: dress, mannerisms, phrases. You develop a shorthand for recognizing who it is you’re attracted to or comfortable with. Nothing mystical here. Naw, it’s the power of stereotyping – and it can be quite handy in efforts to avoid social pain.

As it happened I was on a college campus recently, rummaging through library stacks.

A small group of eager, newly minted sorority sisters were hair-flipping and discussing the world as they saw it. 

These are the loneliest people in the world, people who have to buy friends. In my day, we called them little mattresses, a play on the phrase little sister to denote their pecking order position in the sorority. They seemed to exist for no other reason than to act as walking sperm banks for fraternity bros. 

They didn’t want the college experience to be more than 13th grade, a continuation of high school. 

The Greek system provided them all with steady identifications, oaths, colors, mantras, hierarchies, and excuses to dress up and socialize. High school, only this time they could be openly slutty … all in the name of “trying new things.” They’d continue creating their own milieu throughout their lives: country clubs, religious groups, and so on. The pattern repeats ad infinitum.

Hey, guy, one of the little mattresses flirtatiously whispered toward me, loud enough to interrupt her fellow mattresses, lemme get a hit!

My bag was opened, exposing my leather-covered stainless steel flask. 

NOTHING gets the blood of a little mattress pumping faster than the thought of inebriation. Oh, what she will do with the veil of pretending not to know what she’s doing! 

The flask, which is fucking sick-looking by the way, has my last name monogramed, and it does appear I keep alcohol near at all times. 

Uh, I stammered, you’re too young, baby.    

She arched back, laughing derisively to her buddettes, as if to suggest who was I to dare challenge the honor of her speaking to me. 

I grabbed the books on my table, and I began to search the lobby for a less whore-infested area to sit. 

Fuck. Nowhere.

Oh, look, he’s trying to escape!  another one of them teased. 

They cackled together, as only sorority sisters can, amusing themselves at my expense. I smiled, resigned. Putting the books down, I fuddled around my bag for the trusty ipod. THERE! Took it out, slipped in the buds, and the tuition hookers were muted instantly. The bold one kept at it, waving her hand to get my attention.

She walked over to me, squatted down like a catcher, and pointed at the flask. She then forced her hands in the prayer position, and gave me a pouty, pleading look.

I groaned. Pushy prostitutes are ANNOYING.

Okay, I grumbled, but this is hard stuff.

She lit up. 

I continued, It’s a combination of scotch and whiskey, and you have to kind of hold your nose and swig it FAST. I had her FULL attention. Dumb bitch. Hahahaha. 

She nodded aggressively.

Now, ask yourself, WHO DOES THIS? What kind of gal approaches a guy who looks like me and asks to drink from his shit? Again, I’ve met her one thousand times at least. She holds no interest for me. None. In fact, I am utterly repulsed by her kind. She’s typical. Who wants typical? Not me. She’s overfilled with confidence, a confidence she hasn’t earned and doesn’t deserve. 

She … is … the … problem.

I repeated my instructions, and she mimed the nose-holding in practice, pretending she was diving or dancing to a Beach Boys song. She looked back at her hoes for assurance, and they gave her the requisite thumbs up while covering their mouths in astonishment.

All systems go.

I looked around sheepishly, making it seem like we were doing something wrong – the little mattress LOVES to be naughty. I sold the whole experience. God, I am such an asshole. 

I unscrewed the top, repeating, Fast! Try not to taste it. She grinned widely.

Dutifully, she took the flask and GULPED down a great amount. 

Swallow. Swallow. 

I snatched back my flask, twisting the cap and placing it back in my messenger bag.

She put her hand to her chest, and her eyes bugged out. She started coughing and coughing. She fell backward on her ass. Her friends guffawed in delight.

Was that … she yelled in between coughs … Was that … MOUTHWASH?

Gave my college call girl acquaintance the patented fuck you smile.

And I mean it. 

Craig Edward Kelso is the author of Anarcho-Capitalism (2014), a primer on the philosophy of peaceful, stateless cooperation. His curriculum vitae include a Bachelor of Arts in Political Science from San Diego State University, and a Post-Baccalaureate secondary education credential in both Social Science and English Language Arts. Kelso taught for nearly a decade in the American public school system, and was voted by colleagues Teacher of the Year, twice in his short tenure, earning numerous accolades from chambers of commerce, mayors, state assembly persons, governors, congresspersons, senators, and even Wal-Mart. Currently he struggles to earn an opportunity to be employed, working as a laborer, dishwasher. He is deliriously happily married to Myra Kelso, living in Southern California with their adorable children.

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