I stirred my drink calmly in the corner and took in the ambiance of the elegant ball room. I looked down at my shoe to ensure the dog feces I had stepped in earlier wasn’t visible, even if the smell was strong enough to nearly be audible. As I moved my head back to its normal resting position, I saw that a small cadre of well-dressed young men were approaching. “I’m Blake”, the alpha male of the group said smugly with a gift of spittle that landed on my recently shaved cheek. “Hello, I’m-” “WE can SEE your nametag” another one of the group said, cutting me off. This fellow was more burly, obviously stupider. “He doesn’t LOOK Ivy League, does he, boys?” Blake said with a chuckle. “Does he, Cyril?”, Blake joked to the burly oaf. Cyril, what a name, I thought to myself. I wonder if his mother had any children that lived, I thought to myself.

“Waddya think you’re doing here, pal, if ya don’t mind us askin’, that is”. Blake was getting closer. He had an intimidating presence, towering over me, but I was not intimidated in the least. There were seven of them, I counted quickly. “We don’t allow retards in this here good college” Cyril said. I ran the fingers of my right hand through my hair and focused on preparing my chi, preparing for the worst I stirred my drink again and stared calmly into the eyes of the leader of the group, never averting my gaze. I knew what to do from years of working with packs of sled dogs in Alaska. “Say, pal” Blake said, emphasizing the pal. “What sort of material is that jacket made of?” he continued. In my bottom right peripheral vision I noticed him making a point with his index and middle finger. “Jacket looks like it’s made out of shit” Cyril said and then laughed heartily. The others in the group laughed in unison.

Blake moved his fingerpointer to within 10 centimeters of my breast. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you” I said. “Ooooh” he said in response. “Waddya gonna do, tell the Dean on me?” He then executed his plan and poked my breast, forcefully and without hesitation. I acted without hesitation myself and executed my counter-plan: I threw my drink right in his face and made a mad dash for the elevators. “HE GOT ICE IN MY EYE! DON’T LET HIM GET AWAY!” he screamed. They all followed me down the seemingly endless hall. “GET HIM, DONTRELL!” Blake cried. “Dontrell”, I thought to myself. “Must be an affirmative action admit”.

I ran and ran for what seemed like an eternity. Most of the pack was still pretty far behind, but Dontrell was catching up. He was fast. “Must be his larger Achilles heel”, I thought to myself. I could feel him breathing down my neck, and then all of a sudden, he was grabbing my coat. He was directly behind me, with each hand on my upper arm. As the coat was of very poor quality, the sleeves he was tugging on began to tear from the seam, and in a quick moment they tore away completely, leaving me wearing a sleeveless sport coat. “Thanks a lot, I love this look for the summer” I said as he stumbled, adjusting his balance and discarding the jacket sleeves to the side. “IMA KEEL YOO, MUDDAFUCKA” he slurred. “Not very Ivy League” I thought to myself. “Not very Ivy League at all.”

Dontrell caught up to me again and this time grabbed for something with a bit more permanence: my beautiful, pomade-slicked hair. At first, he had difficulty grabbing the slippery locks, but was eventually able to get a firm grip. He yanked hard and received a handful of hair. I was pissed. I could feel the air hitting a patch of bald scalp in the back of my head as I ran, and with each step I became ever more livid. It was right then and there that my five years of Tae Kwon Do paid off: I landed a spinning backfist right in my assailant’s cheek and he, in turn, spun to the floor. He was dazed.

My animal instincts took over, and I leaped on top of him. I made my way to his feet, and noticed a strange inconsistency: his dress was preppy, with pleated khakis, a blue button-down shirt, and a sweater tied around his shoulders. On his feet, however, were a pair of classic red and black Air Jordans. Curiouser and curiouser. Still enraged, I removed his right shoe and sock. I eyeballed his sweaty foot and engaged: I bit into his Achilles heel as hard as I could. He screamed out in pain as I ripped the tendon with my teeth. His blood tasted weird.

A few moments later, the rest of the gang caught up with Dontrell and I laid out in a puddle of his blood on the fine marble floor. As they encircled me, blades out, a shadowy figure emerged: The Dean. He pushed through the gang and grabbed my shoulder, hard. No one dared question The Dean. Pulling me up and through the crowd, he whispered “hurry” into my ear. We went through a series of rooms and doors, finally arriving in a dark room. He sat me down on an uncomfortable wooden chair and lit a gas lamp skillfully. Kneeling on the ground in front of me, he took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from my mouth.

“It’s okay”, he said to me. “It’s not your fault.” I didn’t really understand what he meant by this, but I was glad to be away from the wild mob, so I accepted his kindness. Suddenly, I could feel his hands on my thighs. He moved his head forward, ever closer to my crotch. He placed his mouth over my groin and breathed heavily: I could feel his warm breath on my nether regions. “Dean… Dean, I don’t” I began to say, but was interrupted as he placed an index finger on my lips and gave a low “shhh”. He unzipped my trousers and I closed my eyes. As I was going commando for good luck, he had ready access: he popped my flaccid penis into his mouth. I could feel his bushy, academic moustache on my mons pubis.

“Dean, that feels really good” I said without a hint of irony. “I know it does”, a woman’s voice said. I opened my eyes and looked down. The Dean moved off my dick and ripped off his moustache. To my surprise, and upon closer inspection, this Dean was a she, not a he! “I’m Pamela Anderson, pleased to meet you” she said in a smooth, attractive way. “Pam, you’re great” I said. “My Corvette’s parked outside, how would you like to go take it for a spin and get some road head?” she asked in a sultry voice. Maybe grad school wouldn’t be so bad after all, I mused.

 Turkey Tips recalled all of the powerstones they had squandered in years
past. She had used one to prop up the ping pong table in the basement of
the old house that burned down in an arson fire. There were the myriad
stones used to kill her husband, Turkey Grop. She had convinced all of the
villagers that he was a witch after she found out that he had flown a kite
without her permission. “WITCH! WITCH!” they cried as she handed out
powerstones, one by one, to the angry mob. T.G. had no chance.

She turned around to look back at the pond and saw Turkey Lips hunched
over Pangalushu, falling to the ground and grasping at Panga’s shirt. T.L.
was dead, and she knew it. She then attached her buzzsaw gloves and ran
over to Pangalushu and cut off his whole head and dismembered him real
fast.

“A MONGREL YE ARE, AND A MONGREL YE SHALL STAY” bellowed Colonel Gold.
His back was to the goose, with his hands clasped together, riding
crop held in the right palm. “THERE IS BUT ONE METHOD FOR A MONGREL TO
ELEVATE HIS STATION IN THIS LIFE, AND THAT IS THROUGH THE CONSTRUCTION
OF ARCHIBALDS.” Blasted towers, the goose thought to himself. Blasted,
blasted towers. Blasted blasted blasted blasted blasted. “WHO DID
THAT?” screamed Colonel Gold. Someone had passed gas. The entire
regiment only consisted of the Colonel and four other geese… he
would certainly find out. “WHAT DID YOU HAVE FOR DINNER, SOLDIER?” he
screamed at one, approximately one centimeter away from his beak.
“Pi.. pi.. pickles.. s-s-sir” the nerd duck stammered. “PI PI PICKLES?
WHAT IN THE NAME OF JAMBO RINGWALD IS A PI PI PICKLE?” The colonel
then stepped backwards 3 times in rapid succession, twisting his body
with each step. He unfastened the button on his belt pistol holder,
removed the pistol, cocked it, and aimed it at the head of the
unfortunate mallard. “PI PI PI PICKLES!!!” he screamed and then shot.

The gun was pointed downwards at a 45 degree angle due to the height
difference between shooter and shootee. It was evident to all that the
colonel knew his odors.

“Waddya think you’re doing here, pal, if ya don’t mind us askin’, that is”. Blake was getting closer. He had an intimidating presence, towering over me, but I was not intimidated in the least. There were seven of them, I counted quickly. “We don’t allow retards in this here good college” Cyril said. I ran the fingers of my right hand through my hair and focused on preparing my chi, preparing for the worst I stirred my drink again and stared calmly into the eyes of the leader of the group, never averting my gaze. I knew what to do from years of working with packs of sled dogs in Alaska. “Say, pal” Blake said, emphasizing the pal. “What sort of material is that jacket made of?” he continued. In my bottom right peripheral vision I noticed him making a point with his index and middle finger. “Jacket looks like it’s made out of shit” Cyril said and then laughed heartily. The others in the group laughed in unison.

Blake moved his fingerpointer to within 10 centimeters of my breast. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you” I said. “Ooooh” he said in response. “Waddya gonna do, tell the Dean on me?” He then executed his plan and poked my breast, forcefully and without hesitation. I acted without hesitation myself and executed my counter-plan: I threw my drink right in his face and made a mad dash for the elevators. “HE GOT ICE IN MY EYE! DON’T LET HIM GET AWAY!” he screamed. They all followed me down the seemingly endless hall. “GET HIM, DONTRELL!” Blake cried. “Dontrell”, I thought to myself. “Must be an affirmative action admit”.

I ran and ran for what seemed like an eternity. Most of the pack was still pretty far behind, but Dontrell was catching up. He was fast. “Must be his larger Achilles heel”, I thought to myself. I could feel him breathing down my neck, and then all of a sudden, he was grabbing my coat. He was directly behind me, with each hand on my upper arm. As the coat was of very poor quality, the sleeves he was tugging on began to tear from the seam, and in a quick moment they tore away completely, leaving me wearing a sleeveless sport coat. “Thanks a lot, I love this look for the summer” I said as he stumbled, adjusting his balance and discarding the jacket sleeves to the side. “IMA KEEL YOO, MUDDAFUCKA” he slurred. “Not very Ivy League” I thought to myself. “Not very Ivy League at all.”

Dontrell caught up to me again and this time grabbed for something with a bit more permanence: my beautiful, pomade-slicked hair. At first, he had difficulty grabbing the slippery locks, but was eventually able to get a firm grip. He yanked hard and received a handful of hair. I was pissed. I could feel the air hitting a patch of bald scalp in the back of my head as I ran, and with each step I became ever more livid. It was right then and there that my five years of Tae Kwon Do paid off: I landed a spinning backfist right in my assailant’s cheek and he, in turn, spun to the floor. He was dazed.

My animal instincts took over, and I leaped on top of him. I made my way to his feet, and noticed a strange inconsistency: his dress was preppy, with pleated khakis, a blue button-down shirt, and a sweater tied around his shoulders. On his feet, however, were a pair of classic red and black Air Jordans. Curiouser and curiouser. Still enraged, I removed his right shoe and sock. I eyeballed his sweaty foot and engaged: I bit into his Achilles heel as hard as I could. He screamed out in pain as I ripped the tendon with my teeth. His blood tasted weird.

A few moments later, the rest of the gang caught up with Dontrell and I laid out in a puddle of his blood on the fine marble floor. As they encircled me, blades out, a shadowy figure emerged: The Dean. He pushed through the gang and grabbed my shoulder, hard. No one dared question The Dean. Pulling me up and through the crowd, he whispered “hurry” into my ear. We went through a series of rooms and doors, finally arriving in a dark room. He sat me down on an uncomfortable wooden chair and lit a gas lamp skillfully. Kneeling on the ground in front of me, he took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from my mouth.

“It’s okay”, he said to me. “It’s not your fault.” I didn’t really understand what he meant by this, but I was glad to be away from the wild mob, so I accepted his kindness. Suddenly, I could feel his hands on my thighs. He moved his head forward, ever closer to my crotch. He placed his mouth over my groin and breathed heavily: I could feel his warm breath on my nether regions. “Dean… Dean, I don’t” I began to say, but was interrupted as he placed an index finger on my lips and gave a low “shhh”. He unzipped my trousers and I closed my eyes. As I was going commando for good luck, he had ready access: he popped my flaccid penis into his mouth. I could feel his bushy, academic moustache on my mons pubis.

“Dean, that feels really good” I said without a hint of irony. “I know it does”, a woman’s voice said. I opened my eyes and looked down. The Dean moved off my dick and ripped off his moustache. To my surprise, and upon closer inspection, this Dean was a she, not a he! “I’m Pamela Anderson, pleased to meet you” she said in a smooth, attractive way. “Pam, you’re great” I said. “My Corvette’s parked outside, how would you like to go take it for a spin and get some road head?” she asked in a sultry voice. Maybe grad school wouldn’t be so bad after all, I mused.

Weird Manners is an important skill for most to have, and a great book to boot. The first weird manner, also known as “the promordial”, is the Friend’s-Girlfriend-Goodbye. When you are hanging out with your pal or chap and his girlfriend wants you to leave but he doesn’t know, you must effect this manoeuver. Firstly, as the Girlfriend is saying she’s tired, immediately raise your body from a seated position and declare with utmost power of mind and spirit that you are “okay with hanging out more or also really okay with just going” (because it’s late and you wanna chill at home and think about some shit).

She will either then probably recognize that you are utilizing the Weird Manners system and will say that she’d “just like to talk to him, it’s been a REALLY long day.” “You’re tellin’ me!” is your response. That wasn’t one of the answers in the Choose Your Own Adventure book he was reading earlier that evening, he thought to himself. Hrmph. “A great book to boot…” Not sure how I feel about that one, the editor thought to himself. The Editor hated the author of Weird Manners because he had tried to write a book about Juice Manners but was rebuffed due to several bouts of inclement weather destroying the opportunity. Alas, they visited a country town where the people used all different words to refer to things. They called a bearded midget troll a “Girlfriend” and then the visitors entered the town. The author was flowing under the bridge, entering the township, when he noticed a bearded midget troll. He was flowing right on by in the powerful water current, carried by millions of atomic water hands, but he knew he had to inspect this bearded midget troll. “That’s a girlfriend, be careful sire!” a collapsible bicycle said to the Author. The Editor then appeared behind the collapsible bicycle holding a wrench in both hands over his head. *CLANG* he killed it. “You think you’re gonna figure out the wild river without you? I mean without me?” The Editor was more of a brute fellow, and his ability to swing a tool was only equated with his ability to ding der dool.