As I exited Blenders on State Street the other day, I heard a commotion just up the street. I looked up to hear honking and several people running around a few cars. I couldn’t quite make out the details.
I got on my bike, balanced with my smoothie, and began my ride down State. Upon coming to the first stoplight, I fortuitously coincided with the previous commotion, which turned out to be thus:
Two cars full of sorority girls, all but three of them exceptionally good looking. They would begin honking at the red light, and then all of them would get out of the car, pull down their pants to expose their g-stringed asses, pull up their skirts and dresses to expose bras and underwear, run a few circles like a sesion of musical chairs, then jam back into the cars and drive strategically, such that they had to get out at every intersection.
Well, their speed coincidentally matched mine, so that at every stoplight, I was rewarded with a honking, half-naked sorority girl show. This happened all the way down State until the dolphin fountain on Cabrillo Boulevard: a total of about six blocks.
The funny thing is, the show never got old. There were meatheads in their respective vehicles, almost driving off the road trying to ask the girls if they wanted to party. One gentleman of about 50 was riding his bike in tandem with me, and he had a disgusted look on his face, as if this show of glowing, scantily clad beauties was the most abhorrent thing he’d ever been privy to.
“Wasn’t that fucking awesome?” I asked him, at the end of the show.
He merely breathed through his nose and turned his head away, as if I’d just offered him the carcass of a dead rat discovered in his kitchen.
Maybe he had a daughter attending a college somewhere. Maybe he forgot his inner child, and that he was once a budding lad in search of girls that smell like plumerias. I can’t imagine how demoralizing and tedious it must be to hang out with him. He probably takes his game of golf very seriously.
