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RL 8, age 18 and up
A 301 Citrus Book
War Room Edition / 2000-2007

is an illegal copyright infringement of
a registered trademark of Bantam Books,
a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.
Registered in U.S. Patent Office and elsewhere.

Original sweet concept by Edward Packard,
who later fucked up the series' direction,
which is why we've taken the concept back. In yo face!

Copyright 301 Citrus. For marketing rights, holiday recipes, and job offers, contact


Do not read this book / blog straight through from beginning to end! These pages contain many different adventures on your journey toward the kegger. From time to time as you read along, you will be asked to me a choice. Your choice may lead to success or disaster!

The adventures you take are the result of your choices. You are responsible because you choose! Fucking righteous. After you make your choice, follow the instructions to see what happens next.

Remember, you cannot go back! Think carefully before you make a move! One mistake can be your last. . . or it may lead you to fame and fortune! God speed, pilgrim . . .


Wham! Your roommate Chad slams the door. You lift your head from your introduction biology textbook, startled from an impromptu study nap.

"C’mon bro, you have to stop hitting the books so hard," Chad says as he grabs a 40 oz. of Mickey’s from your small rented fridge. "All I see you do is study, study, study. What you need is a break. You should go out on the town with me tonight."

Chad does have a point. You’ve committed yourself to some intense studying since you started at Greenville University almost two months ago. You’ve enjoyed the rigorous challenges of college life, and you feel that you owe yourself a respite. Your neighbor from down the hall, Manuel, told you about a kegger going down tonight that perked your interest. You ask Chad if he's game.

"Screw that. I’m heading over to the Boobie Barn," he responds. "I want to see some poozle without having to play any reindeer games to get there. Are you game?"

Do you have your heart set on the kegger? Solidify your plans to page 16.

Do you decide to join Chad and go see some T & A? Invite yourself along on page 13.


"No thanks, ladies. Smoking pot is illegal,not to mention unhealthy," you say.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Lisa replies.

"Thanks for the update, dork!" says Julie as they storm away in a huff.

"Buh-bye," you call after them. "See you after supper."

You turn your attention to your flute, realizing you have a recital tomorrow that you haven’t rehearsed for yet. You play for a good 45 minutes when Lisa and Julie reappear at your door.

"Hey, we’re sorry about getting mad before," says Julie.

"Yeah, we want to make it up to you. Here’s a home-made brownie. It’s kind of chunky, and really good," says Lisa, holding a plate with a large, moist, glistening brownie upon it.

Playing the flute sure worked up an appetite. A brownie might hit the spot, but then you remember you have a dentist appointment next week. You might not want to tempt Mr. Cavity.

Are those chocolate chunks? Put on your bib on page 11.

Not the novocaine! Keep your pearly whites shiny and bright on page 6.


"Let’s all get fucked up together," you announce.

"How considerate," says Julie. Soon, you are as high as a kite in the sky.

"Its like, you’re the Steelers, I’m the Cowboys, and we just smoked the 'Super Bowl,'" says Lisa.

"Oh, hey... I know of... this... kegger..." The words stumble out of your gums. "Should... be… sweet."

"Whoa, it’s totally 4:20 in Hawaii right now," giggles Lisa.

"Kegger, yeah," responds Julie. "We’re going to this party at Alpha Omega. It’s tiki-themed, with coconuts and windsailing and shit."

"Illegal use of the bong, offense. Repeat fourth down,” continues Lisa.

Even in your drug delirium, you know you can’t get into a fraternity house party without being pals with one of the "brothers." And you’re pretty set on the kegger anyway. So no harm, no foul.

"Whatevers," you sigh. Lisa packs another bowl with glowing emerald weed and passes you the bong.

Another hit? All right, it’s your future. Smoke up on page 8.

No peer pressure. Pass the bong along to page 37.


Manuel ditches you at the campus hospital, where doctors soak your dick in diphenhydramine and instruct you to rub anabolic cream on your nuts every 6 hours. You then trudge back to the dorms, unable to resist the urge to scratch. Finally, after a month of occasional break-outs, runny scabs,and gauze galore, you can walk upright without feeling a burning below.

On your first day back to class, you see that there's an internship fair going down at the Career Center. You apply for a summer position that will send you to Ireland to direct a musical at a children's theatre camp. You decide to tell your father that you're going there to intern in the field for the Red Cross.

Among your other creative forays, you've have your heart on turning the TV hit "Growing Pains" into a two-act play, focusing on the episode where the principal accused Mike of cheating on his math test in getting an "A", when he actually studied with the new girl on campus to win her attraction. A sub-plot will involve Ben also learning about the ways of love, getting beaten up every day at lunch by the new girl's younger sister. You plan to play Mr. Seaver, and hope the ginger kids in your charge have the stage skills to match.

"Wait till they hear my thick Irish accent. Alan 'Thicke' that is!" you exclaim to the the application director, who nods her head slowly. Ha ha ha!



What the heck? you think. As Father Patrick always said, "Every penny counts." Sound advice. You and Chad climb into Luther’s brand new Honda Civic.

"You’ll dig the sound system. It’s the bomb," proclaims Luther, turning up the stereo and pulling the car forward. You’re on your way.

Luther leans over Chad. "Excuse me, bro," he says, as he opens his glove box and pulls out what appears to be a cigarette rolled in brown paper.

"This is some mad chronic, yo. Let’s burn it." He lights it and takes a hit.

"Thanks, L," says Chad, who takes it and puffs on it. He points it toward you. "It’s all right. It’s only a blunt."

Hmmm, you think. What would Father Patrick say about this?

Do you take a hit? Ride that magic carpet to page 19.

Thanks but no thanks. Keep your head straight on page 14.


"I appreciate your apology, ladies, but I’m standing by my convictions," you answer. "Now good night and God bless."

"Fine, whatever," they respond, returning to their room.

You pack up your flute and head down to dinner. You treat yourself to an apple for dessert. You return to your room, and after a little Bible reading, you decide to pass on the kegger and go to bed early . You brush and floss and put on your pajamas. They feel so soft and warm, especially with the fall weather getting chilly. You tuck yourself in, close your eyes, and say a good night prayer.

Pretty soon, you’ll be in slumberland. Hopefully you have that carnival dream where you’re an astronaut and win a magic unicorn in the Pie Eating Contest. Then you’ll be up and at 'em in the morning, ready to perform at the recital and later hit the books. Face it, you’re going to be valedictorian.



“Boo-yeah!” cries Manuel as he budges his way back into the room. “Let’s celebrate.”

You and Manuel bring out the bong, pack a bowl, and proceed to get blazed. Manuel begins to tell you stories of his high school pranks, which soon deteriorate into sad tales of yore.

“I had let Bowjangles off his leash when he got hit by that truck ” he sobs at one point. “My Dad said I was the milkman’s son. And Veronica Wu broke my heart! She broke it and stomped on it.

A knock interrupts Manuel’s melancholy admissions. Manuel opens the door to your floor R.A. Jeff, who does not seem happy.

“Did you guys throw a bag of shit into the next room?”

“Hell yeah!” screams Manuel. “It was fucking hilarious ”

“Yeah, I thought you did," he replies. "You’re both in big trouble."

You never make it to the kegger. Instead, you and Manuel spend the night scrubbing diarrhea of the wall.



"No escape, no surrender!" you exclaim.

Another couple hits later and you are flat on your ass. You hear strange voices and feel the carpet tingling beneath you. You feel stuck in place, like gum underneath a desk. So you wonder about the past, present and future.

Mostly about the past. Specifically about last night, when you made eye contact with the Art Chick down the hall. Her smile was like Mona Lisa’s, and she smelled of warm peaches. You wish you could call dibs on girls like you could on bird-watching binoculars back in your scouting days. That yellow-tailed wren was sure a beauty.

"We should really get our grub on," Lisa says sometime later, and the three of you amble down to the dining hall and load up your food trays.

After saying grace, you commence to devour everything in sight, including five helpings of pudding. You and the girls gab about stationary, horse racing, and the intricacies of American politics.

Clear your table and head back upstairs on page 18.


THC, T & A, F’d-up, it doesn’t matter. Nothing beats a little JC in the AM. An early morning mass will clear up your puff-the-magic-dragon mind. You hope that Father Patrick will read from the book of Revelations. That shit is wild. If it ever does rain fire and brimstone, you hope that you’re wearing your galoshes.

You light some incense, lay down to sleep, pray to God your soul to keep, cause if you die before you wake, this night was your final bake. You fall into a deep sleep. It’s like a canyon of unconsciousness filled with howling coyotes.

Or is that your alarm? How long has it been going off? Curse the cheeba! It’s already noon! You’ve overslept again. Hope they have sunscreen in the afterworld, sinner.



You look at the book cover: Adventures of the Samurai. Good title. You open it. In an instant, you are sucked into the pages like a vacuum. Inside, you find yourself at the foot of a lake bordering a golden temple. Suddenly,a samurai bounds out from a bamboo forest and appears at your side. Man, are they quick!

“You have come looking for answers, young traveler,” he says, “But what is the question?”

You ponder this. What is your question?

What is the meaning of life?" Wax on wax off to page 60.

"Why does Ranch dressing taste good on everything?" Cowboy up on pages 89 and 90.


"Wow, ladies, thanks! And no hard feelings!"

The girls smile and leave you to your chocolate feast. Soon you are staring at a plate of crumbs. Snack-tastic. You’re reminded of how Mom would make brownies wheneveryou would earn a new Boy Scouts badge. Man, you miss home.

Later, you’re making paper cranes out of origami paper, when the room starts to get blurry. You try to stand up and make your way over to the window, but your legs are like strawberry jello (yum) and give out under your. You collapse on the floor admist your crane creations, which flutter about you.

"Konnichiwa! Konnichiwa!" they begin to sing, as they scuttle over your chin, cramming themselves intoyour mouth and nostrils. As you suffocate to your death, you realize that drugs are the true devil. At nine o'clock, Chad arrives to find you motionless on the floor, frozen in the act of feeding yourself paper. Snap.



"A lap dance would be wonderful," you coo, forking over a Jackson. And it is. There’s more grinding going on than a squaw making cornmeal. In fact, it’s so transfixing that you faint and slam your head on a striptease pole.

A throbbing headache wakes you up, and you find yourself in the hospital. Through the window, you see the sun perched high in the sky. You missed last night’s kegger! Let that be a lesson to mixing strippers with excessive drinking, which you realize is a good paper topic for your chemistry class.

As a consolation, the hospital TV carries the USA Network, which is playing your favorite show, Life Goes On. It sure does, Corky, it sure does.



“Sure,” you say. “I’ve never been to a strip club.”

“Listen, I’ve got an Economics mid-term right now,” Chad tells you. “Speaking of, remember to bring lots of single dollar bills. Let’s meet back here at nine."

Chad bails, and you return to your desk. You spend the rest of the afternoon working on your theatre midterm assignment, writing a play entitled Plymouth Rocks!, a musical based on the Pilgrim’s early adventures. You’ve shown an early draft to your professor, Mr. Nunes, who commented that it would be perfect for the student Winter-Fest drama show. You couldn’t agree more.

You’re up to the part of play where John Smith is in a stand-off with Squanto’s brother, Balding Eagle, and at a crossroads as to where to take the action next.

Make Pocahontas run in between the two combatants? Intervene on page 57.

Have John Smith slay Balding Eagle? Manifest your destiny on page 95.

Put the play of until later? Procrastinate on page 35.


You know the road to H-E-double hockey sticks is paved with good intentions, and what Chad’s offering is a free ticket.

"Thanks Chad, but I’ll pass,” you say. No devilweed corrputing these lungs, you think. Luther and Chad, however, continue to smoke it up and have strange conversations.

"You know, you need three people to play tag, realistically," says Chad.

"Man, getting high is all about getting in touch with your senses," says Luther.

“Yeah,” replies Chad. That’s why I want to 'see' me some titty."

"I 'hear' that," says Luther, taking another toke off the dutchie. His driving starts to freak you out. You’re on a 35 MPH road, yet he’s going only 10 MPH. You’ve seen License to Drive enough times to know this kind of situation only leads to trouble.

You want to ask Luther to let you out, but the drug may have already sabotaged his brain, leaving him nothing but a soulless pawn of Satan himself.

Get out of the car A-Team style? Hurl yourself over to page 29.

Ask Luther to drop you off so you can get enough sleep before church? Politely excuse yourself on page 38.


Eventually, you hear the sounds music blaring and people vomiting from one of the apartments up ahead. The kegger is on. Magic feet, don’t fail me now, you think.

The house party is already in high gear. You see people strewn out throughout the front room. A garage band is rocking out. The television is playing “227.” Jackie could sure make an entrance. How are you going to make yourself known?

Before you do get your game on, you need your vitamins and minerals. You look over to the dining table and see a long row of grubbage, including one delectable-looking chocolate cake. You also need to be hydrated, but you don’t see the keg. Where is that sweet little baby hiding, eh?

Suddenly, the music stops cold. It seems the band has stopped playing. Something’s gone amiss.

No more munchies! Eat some cake on page 76 and 77.

Sobriety sucks. Find your blue-ribbon oasis on page 79.

We need music. Find out what’s up with the band on page 42.

“Chad,” you begin, “paying ten bucks just to sit around with a bunch of drunks hollering while watching some chick gets naked just isn’t doing it for me.”

“Whatever, fag. Your loss.”

Chad leaves your room, and you continue working on your assignments. Biology really doesn't do it for you either. But according to dear ol' Dad, whose "writing the checks," you'll be a doctor just like him and his father, or whatever else he damn well wants you to be. Aide-toi, le ciel t'aidera.

You study biological taxonomy for the rest of the afternoon. You can't decide whether "kittens pounce clumsily on furry green spiders," or "kids prefer cheese over fried green spinach" is a better mnemonic to remember Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species. Speaking of food, you soon start hearing voices out in the hallway, as fellow students begin to head down to the dining hall. Your door opens to Lisa and Julie, your next-door neighbors.

“Hey, we’re going down for dinner. Do you want to join us?” asks Julie.

“Nah, I have to finish this case study. Thanks anyway,” you reply.

“Looks like someone needs a 'case' of the munchies, says Lisa. “Why don't you come over for our room for a group 'study' session?"

Concerning intoxicants, you're strictly on a liquid diet. Just say no on page 2.

Botany sounds a lot better than biology. Join the ladies on pages 27 and 28.


Hai! A haiku has seventeen syllables. The meditative scene around you dissolves, and you find yourself standing amidst a party with a cup of beer in your hand. Somehow you’ve been transported to the kegger!

During the evening’s festivities, you and Senor Alcohol become such good buddies that you begin to high five and hug people you don’t even know.

“Strangers are just friends I haven’t made yet,” you confide to a those around you.

As dawn ascends upon the land, you grab a half-empty bottle of vodka and sit in a lawn chair next to a girl you think is in your theatre class. Or is it biology? You can’t really remember. Thinking makes your brain hurt.

“Here’s to higher education,” you say as you finish off the bottle.

“Exactly,” mumbles the girl, right before she hurls.



Back up in your dorm room, you feel totally bloated. That Rose sure can make a good grilled cheese. You’ve still got a couple hours before heading the kegger. Right on schedule.

Who else is going to this thing, you wonder. It’d be pretty lame to how up solo and not know anybody.

Lisa and Julie are going to that frat party. You thought about rushing when you first arrived on campus. The suds 'n buds you could've easily managed, but the peer pressure that goes along with it? The only guy that's gonna make you do naked keg-stands while singing the school fight song is you.

Manuel told you about the kegger in the first place, and that guy’s a riot and a hoot to boot. Or just maybe it’s time to muster the courage to ask that cute yet steely art chick at the end of the hall.

See if Manuel is going? Find your party pal on page 33.

Press your luck with love? Hit no whammies on page 55.


You inhale deeply. Eventually you exhale, and enormous cloud of smoke erupts from your mouth. Instantly, you begin to cough and can’t seem to stop.

"Dude, are you okay? You look a little green," says Chad.
"He better not puke in my car. That’s new leather," Luther warns.

You finally stop coughing and look out the car window. Time seems to slow down, and you feel as though you’re floating.

You’re high.

Soon the neon glow of the Muff Wagon sign emerges, and Luther drives into its parking lot. You get out of the car and shake off the dizzies. Its time to meet your destiny.

However, after some time in the Muff Wagon, you come to understand why there’s no admission charge. The girls are fuh - uh - gly.

"Guys, let’s get out of here," you say. Chad agrees. But Luther wants to stay, and he’s your ride. If you leave, you’ll have to wait for a bus for the long ride back into town.

Stay here and suffer? Grit your teeth on page 30.

Bail? Walk out the door on page 25.


(pet le tigre)

"Eye of the tiger"


"Yeah, sixty dollars,” you say, trying to sound as cool as a cucumber.

“I need the money before we go any further,” Havana Jane states. “Comprendres?”

“Right, right,” you stammer. You reach into your wallet, pull out your fives and singles, and, with a nimble sleight of hand,perform the “Fuddrucker Foldover,” a trick that your magician Uncle Jimmy taught you back when you were a kid. To the innocent eye, your inadequate sum is transformed into sixty big ones. She smiles and beckons you to her.

After running the gamut of sexual indulgences, you and both lay on the floor exhausted. But you know you must summon enough strength to pick yourself up, tiptoe out, and skedaddle.

“Eye of the tiger,” you whisper to yourself. You’re almost fully dressed when the temptress stirs.

“Donde vas?” she asks. This, you realize, is the point of no return.

Make up an excuse and hope she falls back asleep? Rub that rabbit foot on page 61.

Get out of Dodge? Lace up your sneakers on page 71.


You are committed to making it with this girl by any means necessary, just like Malcolm X.

"Hi there. Nice dress. It would look great on my floor."

"I'm sorry?" she says.

"Let's party. My place. Ten minutes. Have your panties come on down."

"You perv!" she shouts.

"Guilty as charged. And speaking of Johnny law, if there was a Supreme Court of Gorgeous, you'd be Chief Justice."

“You are beyond lame,” she snaps.

“And you are beyond beautiful," you reply. "Truly, you are one in a million. There are a hundred people in China just like you."

Whoooosh!!! Her beer soaks your rayon shirt and Dockers khakis to their core. Everyone around laughs at you, like they did to Beethoven when he went deaf and could no longer hear his own symphonies. At least he didn't have to hear them laughing. Duh duh duh damn.



“A whole bowl to myself would be nice,” you muse. The last time you solo-smoked an entire bowl was last summer in Grandpa’s shed after Uncle Jimmy passed out. Poor Uncle Jimmy.

You smoke and smoke and smoke some more. By the time you’re done you are fully stoned, too wasted to even get up and go to dinner with the ladies.

“Just close the door when you leave,” says Julie as they depart. “After dinner, we’re heading straight to a frat party.”

You continue to lie motionless on the floor. Seconds turn to minutes, minutes to hours. Finally, you are able to crawl over to a desk and pull yourself up. You try to focus your eyes and look at bed clock. It’s 11 PM!

Hang out another hour to truly arrive fashionably late on page 69.

Whoa, mass begins at eight tomorrow morning. Get some shut-eye on page 9.


Havana Jane’s dance gets you harder than the mightiest oak. As Gloria Estefan echoes your mind, her body entrances you like a snake. She is truly an artist. She climbs to the top of her strip-pole, crosses her legs, and slowly circles back down until her long black hair touches the floor. At this point, you are nothing but a drooling slave.

As “Living La Vida Loca” erupts from the stereo, she dismounts the pole and begins gyrating her crotch in a way that just plain makes you blush. You almost want to tell her to stop. Almost. She seems to be giving you a lot of attention.

“You want to come back into my dressing room, gringo?” she coos in your ear.

You have no words, but nod quickly. Havelshamp, in contrast to his marching band reputation, is no liar. Havana Jane does go all the way.

Once Ricky Martin finishes his ballad, you are already at her dressing room door to greet Havana Jane.

“Bienvenidos,” she says as she opens the door.

Enter on page 80.


You and Chad leave the Muff Wagon, and not a moment too soon. Luther, however, seems like he wants to set up permanent shop.

“Man, Luther sure does like it here,” you say as you exit the establishment.

“Yeah, he comes here all the time,” Chad mentions between spittles and deep breaths.

You walk over to the bus stop and patiently wait. Ms. Manners would be proud. However, your patience starts to melt, like a snowman on a frying-pan, as a hour passes with no buses in sight. Fucking public transportation.

Chad is no help as he helped himself to one too many of the $2 Margarita specials, and is now heaving in a nearby bush. This night is going nowhere fast.

Hold out for the bus? Keep waiting.

Hitchhike? Look presentable to oncoming traffic on page 93.

Find shelter for the night? Go homeless on page 68.


You stride into the club, confident for a rendezvous with lust. But even with your high expectations, you are awestruck by the rustic grandeur of the club. What a barn it is, as if all the animals had transformed into beautiful women, the haystacks into stages, and the tractors into... more beautiful women!

At the back of the room, next to the main stage, you see guys receiving lap dances. Yee haw! On a side stage to the right, a beautiful blonde shoves her humongous tits into some trucker’s face. Ten four, big daddy! Your Pokemon playing days are a thing of the past.

The three of you find some seats and order some five dollar Cokes. You’re rolling your shoulders and other warm-up stretches when a gorgeous brunette, dressed only in matching pink bra and panties with garters.

"Hey there, handsome. Do you want a dance?" she asks.

My Lord, you think. God does work in mysterious ways, blessing those who are pure of heart as well having the money to pay for the pleasure. You feel like the luckiest man on earth. Yet you wonder if you should hold out for Havana Jane.

Fork up the cash for a lap dance from this honey pot? Pay the lady on page 12.

Keep your sex drive in neutral? Continue to twiddle your thumbs on page 39.


(scratch and sniff)

"This is some supreme shit."


“Cool beans,” you answer. “Let’s smoke.”

You amble over to the girls’ room, which reeks of patchouli and weed. Cypress Hill rolls out of the stereo. A poster emblazoned with a pot leaf fills one wall, while blue-prints of the residential hall occupy another. Julie takes out a bong with a large bowl, two chambers, and a long, serpentine neck. This is getting serious.

“Sit down, relax, and we’ll fix you up,” says Julie. You take a seat in a bean bag chair in the corner. The girls rest their laurels on the floor and place the bong between you.

"This is some supreme shit. My cousin starting growing in his closet, and then on his roof. He later started growing it in the neighbor’s backyard,” Lisa explains.

The dude could’ve grown the weed out of his paranoid ass for all you care. Lisa holds a large zip-lock bag filled with sweet, sweet cheeba. You can see that some leaves are a translucent, violet color, and glisten when they catch the afternoon sunlight.

“Do you want a whole bowl to yourself, or want to just pass it around?” Lisa asks you.

Feeling greedy? Fuck yourself up on page 23.

Are you a good little boy who follows the Golden Rule? Puff puff give on page 3.


This might be the only chance you have. There’s a curve in the road up ahead, and Luther’s coming into it really slow. You open the car door and leap out.

Thud! You roll right off the road and into a briar patch. You crawl out and limp over to a streetlight to give yourself a look over. Except for your torn jeans, scratch marks on your arms, a dull ringing in your ears, and a bloody nose, you’re as good as new.

Luther and Chad are apparently oblivious to your escapade, as you see the car’s tail-lights fade to black. Some night this turned out to be. The dangers of illicit drugs really made their presence felt. You start walking back the way you came and reach into your pocket to try to find something to clean your nose with. You pull out a piece of paper - the kegger flyer! Beer’s still legal. Maybe you can make it.

Jog on over to page 15.


"Pussy has no face," you mutter to yourself, accepting your fate here at the Muff Wagon.

As you sit through the spectacle, your mind begins to wander. You remember your first bass-fishing trip at Mission River. Those quarter-inch crawdad lures really worked miracles. You caught your limit by noon and spent the afternoon composing poetry. ‘My life is a river, “ you wrote, “marking time like the beats of a drum-roll.’ That‘s some fancy figurative language!

Since then, you’ve spent hundreds of hours filling dozens of journals with your linguistic sophistication. Like the musical you wrote in high school called King Louis, Lewis, and Clark, based on the Louisiana Purchase. It was good, but not as groundbreaking as Plymouth Rocks is going to be. Squelching the violence made all the difference.

While your friends work at the campus coffee shop or in administrative jobs, you just let the ‘big beat’ lead your writing. You’ve never worked a day in your life - a single jungle brother, no kids no wife.

Break it down on page 66.


George Washington proceeds to get himself, you, and his officers blazed through the course of the night, the stately general still ripping off pipe hits when you finally pass out. As a result, he fails to lead his soldiers across the Delaware River for a victorious suprise attack against the Hessians. You say farewell to a weary Washington the next day and crawl back into the cave, which eventually leads you back out to Greenville.

In the spring of 1777, Washington's morally depleted army surrendered in New York. More than two hundred years later, you find yourself in your dorm watching the Boston Shires take on the New York Knackers in the World Series of Cricket. During winter quarter, you study and attend classes instead of skiing over what was once President's Day Weekend. And Britain later colonized Mexico, so there went the 4th of July and Cinco De Mayo.

"Fucking Washington," you mutter as "God Save the Queen" plays before Colony Broacasting Channel turns off for the night. The wanker.



The car speeds off for the Boobie Barn, with the bass thumping, adrenalin pumping, and you hoping to get a li’l sumptin’ sumptin’. God, it’s great to be alive. Even sitting in the back seat, you have a clear view of your future.

"A toast, lads," you holler.

"Doesn’t this damn fool know I don’t allow no drinking in my car?" Luther fumes to Chad.

"A mock toast, Luther. No offense, I appreciate the ride. But let’s raise our fists in sovereignty to whatever glory awaits us."

“Shut this idiot up!” barks Luther, as you pull into the Boobie Barn parking lot.

Get ready to rumble on page 26.


You walk down the hall to Manuel’s dorm room and knock on his door. When he opens it, his eyes are full of intense anxiety.

“Dude, this is so perfect,” he crows. “I fully need your help.”

He pulls you into his room and hands you a brown bag. It is heavy with some sort of wet substance, like runny eggs.

“We’re going to hit the place next door with this bag of shit,” he expounds, walking over the window and sitting on the ledge. “Your job is to hold onto me. Whatever you do, don’t let go.”

You grab his leg with one hand and his belt with theother. He leans out just enough and hurls the bag through the neighbor’s open window. You hear an unmistakable SPLAT. Bulls-eye.

The hijinks continue on page 7.


You search far and wide for your little Van Gogh loving patootie, checking all seven floors of the library, yet she’s nowhere to be found. The computer lab was deserted. The women’s bathrooms on every floor were empty, but strangely sweet smelling.

Eventually, you retire to the foreign language section and listen to some Celtic tapes that you need to memorize before Friday’s midterm. But the soothing sounds of thatancient Anglo-Saxon tongue lull you to sleep. You gently fall into dreams of green fields and Guinness...

It is days before your body is found underneath the piles of rubble. The “Aloma” earthquake was the most destructive tremor in fifteen years. That the library had never been seismically retrofitted is no longer a concern for your little head. Leave all that bureaucracy for hippies who care.



You watch some TV, have dinner, and review some class notes before getting back to your play. However, you still can’t think of what to write next. You figure a run around the campus will help remedy your writer’s block. You lace up your Pumas and head out into the crisp evening air toward Founder’s Grove. A dazzling full moon guides your path. The moon, however, appears to be moving, and it’s moving toward you! You realize it isn’t the moon, it’s a UFO!

The spaceship deftly lands on the quad in a cloud of smoke. The hatch slowly opens. Visions of terror run through you head, yet your heart feels warm and at peace, like your butt-cheeks after giving into a squishy fart.   A shadowed figure steps out of the hatch.  You can’t believe your eyes.  Is this a Jedi mind trick?

“Hey there,” says the creature, a human, a woman!  “I’m Gloria.  Like the song.  My parents had their crazy days, and I was a product of ‘em, name and all.”

Continue the conversation on page 67


That dastardly bastard Havelshamp will have to do better than this to defeat you! The day is young, and so are you. That “impromptu” nap was actually pretty invigorating. And by the look of encroaching suburbia up ahead, it appears you’re not that far from Las Vegas.

Ergo, it’s time to show that town who's the boss.  You don't get to gamble that much back home, as it's illegal in California unless it’s on Indian land. We owe them that much.



Something deep inside your soul holds you back from taking another hit.

“I fold,” you tell Julie. “I’ve reached my limit.”

“Don’t be like that,” she responds. “After you take down this bowl we can talk about the intricacies of the government.”

In your stony haze you stare at Lisa and Julie. When you were sober, they appeared to be two normal girls fresh from the bread-basket of Americana’s oven. But now, in your drugged state, the details begin to rise to the surface and take shape: Lisa’s suspicious mid-western accent, Julie’s “cute” military issue combat boots. The pewter gray bean-bag, with wires running from it to the stereo. Could it be? Yes! The girls are spies, the weed is the bait, and they want you to bite.

Try to escape? Make a dash for the door on page 41.

Scream for help? Whoop it up on page 43.


“Hey Luther, I should have told you earlier, but I’m gay. Seriously, I bat from the left side of the plate. I don’t think that girls are going to change my hitting position, if you get me.”

“What’s that?” Luther replies. You smile, seeing that homosexuality is still a taboo, even in these progressive times.

“Do you mind just dropping me off?” you ask.

“Uh, sure, whatever.” Luther slowly drives to a nearby card and collectibles shop. “Better luck there, bro. Sorry you’re gay and everything.”

You remind him that there’re no S-O-R-R-Y in G-A-Y and hit the concrete. While walking, you check your pockets for any spare change you can put in the church basket for even thinking un-pure strip club thoughts. God forgives a giver. You feel around and pull out Manuel’s kegger flyer. The party place isn’t too far away, but you’ve grown weary of footing it.

Suddenly, a brown Honda Civic rolls up next to you. It’s your band buddy Havelschamp driving the fancy wheels.

“Need a lift?” he asks.

“Is the sky blue?” you reply.

"Actually, the sky is translucent, but light reflecting off the atmosphere..."

"Shut up and just drive, brainiac."

Buckle your seatbelt and head out on page 50.


“No thanks,” you answer. “But do you know if Havana Jane’s working tonight?”

“Is she ever,” replies the stripper. “I’ll pass the word that you’re looking for her. But if you’re hurting for a real woman, you can find me... later.”

She gives you the once over with her cobalt blue eyes, pushes back her sensuous blonde hair behind her milky shoulders, and cooly turns away from you. And you thought the Olsen twins were sexy!

As you continue to watch her walk away, a miniature devil doppelganger appears on you left shoulder, chewing on a cigar and with a twinkle in his eye.

“Listen, moron, she wants you. Go for it. Go for it. Havana Jane? She could be fifty years old. Who knows? You might get laid. For once.”

Instantly an angel doppelganger appears on your right shoulder in Counterpoint.

“Remember what Havelshamp said: ‘Ten dollars a base,’” the angel reminds you. “That’s the closest you have to a sure thing.”

Man! Both of these little guys made sense. This is going to be one tough decision.

Go for Blondie? Dagwood did. Give in on page 48.

Wait for Havana Jane? Maintain your poise on page 52.


“I hear Havana Jane puts out if you tip BIG,” adds Havelshamp, ”Like ten dollars a base.”

You ponder this as you add Tapatio hot sauce to your meal. Ten dollars a base seems a little steep. But hell, it’s now or never to lose your virginity. You continue to think about your sexual possibilities until you are completely alone in the mess hall. Eventually, Rose, the cafeteria cook, reminds you that you need to leave.

“Beat it kid. It’s nine. I gotta mop,” she scowls.

You finish your meal and head up to your room to meet Chad, who is already there with a friend.

“Hey, meet my main man, Luther,” Chad tells you. “He’s our ride tonight, and he’s got a good idea.”

“Yeah, listen up. The Boobie Barn’s got a twenty bizzle kizzle, but check it, I know of this other place called the Muff Wagon that’s totally free, the only trick is that it’s about an hour awizzle. What do you sizzle?”

Chad looks at you. “Well?” he asks.

Barn full of Boobies? Check out the cup sizes on page 32.

Wagon full of Muff? Bring a mix tape for the road on page 5.


Just like always, you think, it’s me against the world. Screaming out would just make you look like a pussy, as well as prove your father right about you. But he who fights and runs away lives to fight another day. It worked for George Washington, who fought for the liberty that these girls are trying to take away from you.

You make a run for the door, but Lisa blocks your path and pulls out a pistol.

“I see you have figured out our true identities. We work for S.A.S.S.Y - Secret Agent Super Spying Youth. We have been targeting you ever since you began writing for the Greenville Daily. Your American mind would be an asset to our cause. Otherwise,” she says, pointing the weapon at your forehead, “the last thing that will be ‘smoking’ is this pistol.”

Betray your country and join S.A.S.S.Y.? Enlist on page 94.

Call das bitches' bluff? Bleed red, white, and blue on 59.


You walk over to the Motifs, who are arguing amongst themselves.

“Hey guys,” you say. “Are we going to rock the house tonight? Ain’t no party like a Motif party, right?”

“You would think so,” their guitarist replies, lighting up a clove. “However, our singer just puked and passed out in the bathroom. He thought drinking would make him the life of the party. But now,” he continues with a somber stare, “it could be the death of the party.”

You sang in your high school choir and played Bernado in the drama department’s production of West Side Story. In fact, Bernado and Tony’s knife fight inspired your climatic scene between John Smith and Squanto’s brother Balding Eagle in Plymouth Rocks. Telling a story through music is like drinking a gallon of milk in an hour, only it's possible to do without throwing up. Apparently the band's singer believed the opposite. You, however, are just drunk enough to give it a go, yet still sober enough to hesitate.

Is it time to tell your story? Bring the noize on page 56.

Butterflies in the belfry? Flush 'em out with beer on page 49.


“Help! Help!” you holler. Your subscription to Sissy Quarterly just might pay off. And damn well it should. You’ve suffered enough slings and arrows from people teasing you about it to supply an Indian war council.

Then you recall the gag you played on your floor earlierin the month when you pretended that you had a heart attack. You remember a paramedic giving you C.P.R. and you trying to hold in your breath and laughter. It seems you missed that day of grade school when the teacher read the parable of the boy who cried wolf. Thankfully, someone starts banging on the door.

“Open up!” a voice of authority calls out from the hall. It’s Jeff Garber, your R.A. Lisa grudgingly opens the door.

“Jeff,” you say, “these girls are spies. They think I know about national security secrets, and they tried to make me talk by getting me high on the devil weed!”

“Shut up, you capitalist swine ” cries Lisa.

“Yeah, well I’m writing you all up for smoking in your room and assigning you to cafeteria duty,” replies Jeff.

You spend the night with the girls serving pot roast and taters. Later, you clear tables and wash dishes. Way to go, squealer.



As you squiggle right, you see a hazy light bathing off something perched upon a rock. You make your way further down the cave, upon which you realize it is an old man leisurely smoking from a hookah.

"Who R U?" you ask, laughing. If only there was a white rabbit dropping acid with a door mouse. And tea and cakes. The English got that right.

"I am a philosopher," the old man says, "who, when asked to choose a time, instead chose timelessness, so that, although nothing would ever happen in my life, I would have all the time in the world to think about it."



(step inside and seat yourself)

"The Chicken Cordon Bleu Barstow Burger is one lean, mean, poultry machine that'll turbo-boost your taste buds. And large lemonades for the kids?"


Miracle of miracles, a car soon pulls over. “Need a lift?” asks the driver.

“I need to get back to Greenville, California,” you say.

“Well, I’m heading as far as Baker.” You accept the ride and begin to head west. Eventually you see a giant thermometer alongside the highway marking the end of your ride. You decide to call Jeff, your R.A., from a pay phone. Youreach into your pockets for change and realize they’re empty. Even worse, your wallet’s gone.

You try to hitchhike all afternoon but no one will pick you up. How will you make it home? Desperate needs require desperate actions. At the nearby Bun Boy, you take a waiter position and sleep in the storage room at night. Predicting the next day’s temperature becomes your hobby. In fact, you’ve become quite good at it, earning the esteem of Clyde and Honeysuckle, the rats who share your residence of the Bun Boy storage room.

“Eighty seven degrees on the dot! Another winning pick!” you declare to your rodent friends. “Cheese for everyone!” You raise a brick of Irish Cheddar in exhilaration.



You stumble towards your room and open the door. You spot two stalls, two urinals, and a row of sinks. Looks like you’ve walked into the bathroom. Right on.

“This shit is really good,” you think to yourself. Or did you say that out loud?

“What shit is good?” asks a voice from the third stall. “My shit?”

You quietly exit and head back to your room, change into your finest duds, and try to focus on the kegger flyer:


A few minutes later, you and Manuel hit the pavement and head down Hummingbird Avenue toward your destiny.

"Damn, homie, I took a hella shit tonight. People’s were even talking about it," he says.

"Right, great," you reply.

Continue your saga on page 15.


“Gosh darnit, little doppleganger, you drive a hard bargain.” You run after the blonde and tap her shoulder.

“Yes?” Her voice cuts as sharp as glass.

“I’ve changed my mind. I would like to go for a ride,” you say as your fingers reveal two crisp Andrew Jacksons.

“Smart,” she says. "I just might put your money where my mouth is."

While figurative speech is not her forte, she can whip up a nice slice of ass pie. Mid-lap dance, as the blonde’s gyrations brush up against your eyelids, you realize these are two cheeks you’ve dreamt about before.

“Melanie?” you ask.

She turns and stares into your baby blues. “Oh my God! I haven’t seen you since high school ”

“Yeah, five months now. Wow.”

“I’m about to go my break. Want to share a smoke?”

You nod, forgoing your biology professor’s lecture on the dangers of tobacco. Then you see Chad and Luther by the door, motioning for you to join them. They want to skedaddle.

Conundrum of conundrums, you think. The lads are your ride home, but then again, Melanie’s mighty pretty. You reminisce about her enthusiastic cheers for the dance squad, and quickly drown yourself in erotic, pom-pom fantasies, proceeding to chub like a sundial.

Revisit senior year and stick around on page 84.

Live in the now and check out on page 91.


The Motifs best days are behind them. You wish the band a solemn “Bueno suerte” and push your way through the throng herded around the keg on the balcony. Eventually, you fill your cup and slurp down your golden treasure. It’s only Pabst, but, like Martha Stewart, you’re a big believer in quantity over quality.

You prove your theory over the course of the evening, treating the keg like your liquid bitch. But if revenge is a dish best served cold, then it comes back warm and acidic. You can feel barley and bile-tinged barf defying gravity and surging up from your gut as you make your way down the hall.

You see a long row of people waiting to use the bathroom, and cutting in line is the worst kind of bad karma. That’s how Manuel lost one of his fingers. Or so he says.

Breathe through your nose on page 70.


Now that you’re heading to the kegger you feel like you have a fresh start. What’s done is done. You’ll just have to play it cooler this time around. Speaking of, you size up your companion. He is sofour hours ago.

“Havelschamp, not to throw tact out the window, but there is no fucking way I’m walking into that party with you. Drop me off down the street."

Havelschamp’s face contorts in a visage of loneliness. He slowly pulls forward towards the street corner and stops the car. You get out, and he does the same.

“Dude, what are you doing?" you question.

“Something I should’ve done a long time ago,” he answers, stepping toward you. A knuckle sandwich comes fast and furious into your jaw. The last thing you remember is the trunk door closing over you.

Come to your senses on page 78.


The Boobie Barn’s women are everything you could have hoped for. You slip singles into so many strippers’ panties, you feel like a gold-drenched pimp. You are the Man. Every girl seems to be giving you the wink. Their adoration is overwhelming, considering this is your first time at a strip club, and you’re pretty much a geek. Capitalism kicks ass.

Chad and Luther drink pitcher upon pitcher of MGD, and get lap dances to boot. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves immensely. That is, until two masked gunmen burst into the establishment and demand the cash from the register. That bums everybody out.

When the bartender refuses to hand over the loot, the crooks spray the club with bullets, tearing you, Chad, and Luther into bite-sized bits. Happily, you have your face nestled between a pair of double Ds right when the fateful bullet lodges itself in your scholastic brain. Even better, the dorm cafeteria later memorializes the milk machine in your honor.



This Havana Jane seems like an experience you have to try at least once in your life, much like making a pilgrimage to Mecca. Islam is cool.

“Hey fellas, thanks for the advice, but I’m sticking to my guns,” you tell the miniature duo.

“Bless you,” says the angel, as the pair disappear into nothingness.

Then seconds turn to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to even more hours, and still no Havana Jane. You haven’t waited this long since spending all night trying to buy tickets to the Bryan Adams concert. Then, just as you’ve lost hope, a single spot lights up the stage.

“Muchachas y muchachos,” says a voice over the loudspeaker, “it’s your lucky day. You’re gonna wanna tip big for this ‘buena vista’ from Cuba...Havana Jane!”

Miami Sound Machine tears through the speakers as Havana Jane takes to the stage like a lioness to her prey.

Stare at the stage on page 24.


You rush across campus towards the art building. Along the way, you remember your first crush on Kim Singleton in the 3rd grade. You were positive that the two of you were going to get married one day. Hah, youth.

You’re still giggling to yourself as you arrive. Grow up, son! You got serious business to attend to. You slip in through a side door and cruise the art studio until you find her working on a painting. The Art Chick. She turns towards you, her figure obscuring the canvas. When she realizes that she doesn’t know you, she turns back to her work.

You introduce yourself. Nothing. “I’ve seen you around,” you stammer. “We live on the same floor in Governor Hall.”

Her back is still to you, but her words chip away at the frosty air. “I need a model,” she says.


“You’ll do,” she says. “Will you stay and submit your body to my art?”

You are mesmerized by her command of the situation. But you are also thirsty for some suds and lager.

Do you stay? Take off your cardigan and pose on page 62.

Give male modelling the finger? Get to the kegger already on page 81.


To avoid danger, you play their little game. What some would call a ruse.

“Sure, this country’s a joke, and I’m thankful that somebody finally noticed,” you say. “Of course I’ll join.”

“Excellent. We had a good feeling about you,” says Julie.

“Now, your first mission, says Lisa. “You will take the guise of a sailor on shore-leave...”

Lisa is suddenly interrupted by a crash. Havelshamp and Eddie, your friends from the marching band, burst through the window and point their AK-47 assault rifles at the two girls.

“Sorry ladies, but the gig is up ” yells Eddie.

The girls curse in a language you recognize from oneof the movies you watched in your Foreign Cinema class. Sadly, Crocodile Dundee was not on the syllabus.

“Good work, friend,” Havelshamp says. “We’ve been tracking these two for years. The President will sleep well tonight.

“We could use a man like you,” continues Eddie. “That is, if you’ve got the guts.”

“Is there a secret handshake?” you inquire.

They nod. It’s on.



You knock on the Art Chick’s door. Her door opens, but it’s some other girl. With her clothes on. Apparently studying. Lame.

“Is your roommate here?” you ask.

“Which one?” she asks.

“Uh...the art chick.”

“She HAS a name.”

“I know, “ you stammer, “I’m sure it’s a pretty one.”

“She’s on campus somewhere. You could try the library. Or maybe she’s in her art studio.”

“And you could try improving your manners and your fashion sense,” you respond.

Man, what’s gotten into you? All that testosterone you’ve built up is making you mean. Do you like to slop around in mud? Do you like to eat Farmer Bill’s leftovers? Then don’t be you-know-what.

Apologize and head to the library? Take your Great Expectations to page 97.

Try to catch her at the art studio? Be drawn to page 53.


You and the band jam all night. You sing like your life depended on it, and the crowd goes absolutely bonkers. What elation!!! Your stint as a rhythm-broom guitarist during your junior high air-band days provides you with some solid gig experience. The Motifs are more than impressed.

"That was swinging!" extols Jayson, in charge of keyboards.

“Do you want to join us?” asks Cooper, the guitarist.

“Sign my t-shirt!” says a blonde pre-frosh.

“Thanks, yes, and definitely,” you reply, “but there has to be some changes if the Motifs are really going to fly.”

“Yeah, I’m mean, sure, whatever you say,” chimes in Mac, on bass.

“First, we’re changing the name of the band from "the Motifs" to "Infinity Plus One." And second, you’re all getting haircuts.”

Rock on to pages 72 and 73.


You decide to have Pocahantas rush between the two men. She orders them put down their weapons and smoke a peace pipe instead. No blood shall be shed, you think to yourself. Yet. You continue to write your chef-d'oeuvre through the afternoon.

Writing about Thanksgiving gives you the growlies, so you head out for supper. The dining hall is already packed when you walk in. You notice a couple of your fellow marching band-mates, Eddie and Havelschamp, and join their table.

“Hey guys, what’s the haps?”

”We were watching the All-California High School Band Championships,” Havelschamp informs you. “I had my money on the Stockton Highflyers, but the Rio Vista Stallions pulled it out on a bitchin' tuba solo.”

"Dude, that's so last year."

"Yeah, well...," mutters Havelschamp, staring back at his plate.

You tell the guys about the strip club and your date with it.

“Sounds wicked,” quips Eddie.

Dive into your Yankee pot roast on page 40.


Holy guacamole! It's George Washington! "I'm an American!" you proclaim. "From the 21st century!"

He looks you over before breaking into a wide grin. "An American. Yes, one day we will all be Americans, ridding the word colonial and British tyranny from our lives and into the books of history."

"Yep, all that, and then you become first President of the United States and get your face on both the one dollar bill and the quarter. They even name a state after your ass!" You follow these relevations with more stories about the future and all of its marvels.

"... and then "Airwolf" premiered, but everyone thought it was a lame send up of "Blue Thunder," so it only lasted two seasons . . ."

"Young squire," interjects George Washington. "You have so much to tell us about our lives and their imprint on the course of history. Let us retire to the officers' tent where you can talk further and explain the mystery of this 'George Forman Grill' you mentioned earlier. Perhaps a little of Mount Vernon's finest crop will trigger your memory."


“What it’s going to be?” Lisa asks. “Headquarters is going to want an answer.”

“The glamour and intrigue of the super-spy life means little in the face of patriotism," you gallantly respond. "Tell your boss that what I know about life, liberty, and Christmas dies with me.”

“Suit yourself,” says Lisa as she pulls the trigger. You die a hero. Later that year, Santa Claus gives your little sister that puppy in the window, the one with the waggely tail.



“What is the meaning of life, sensei?” you ask the samurai.

“Life is like a haiku,” he responds, “Fluid and structured. Sweet and salty. Lochness and Sasquatch. If you understand THAT, you’ll understand life.

He turns, whistles, and cartwheels into a lotus grove.

You sit on a stone and contemplate his words. Philosophy is one tough cashew to crack. Wait, what did Professor Fox say in your last Eastern Studies class? “That’s my seat, yours is with the other students.” No.... Of course! The number of syllables in a haiku!

Live it up on the correct page, Mr. Smarty-pants . . .


“Oooh, Havana Jane, I’ve have to take a major dump, now that my innards are all loose and ready after such blissful love-making.”

“You’re not el primero hombre to dice eso,” she replies before passing out.

Incredible. You’ve had one rowdy night with Havana Jane, and even though your crotch has begun to ceaselessly itch, you know you’ll be the envy of all your band buddies.

You leave the dressing room and head back into the club. No sign of Chad and Luther. You spot Manuel, your friend from down the hall.

“Manuel!” you holler.

“Yo, holmes! I didn’t know you came to the Boobie Barn. You seen Havana Jane?”

“Seen her? I just DID her,” you boast.

“Ah, bro, you got that rash now, huh? Shitty. Soon it’ll feel like you’re pissing gasoline. I better take you to the hospital."

Receive medical help on page 4.


“Sure ” you volunteer. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Nonetheless, you check for skid-marks in your briefs. Looks like the brake pedal has been working overtime. Next, you take off your favorite t-shirt and fold it extra carefully. You don’t want to put a crease through Angus.

“Just relax on these pillows and feed yourself grapes with your right hand,” the art chick instructs you.

You lie down and eat and gawk at your chest. More hair seems to appearing daily. When your mother sat you down to discuss puberty, hard-ons, and donkey punches, she never mentioned that awkward hair-growth would continue into college. You’re like a wooly mammoth, hunted to extinction during the Ice Age.

“God damn Eskimos,” you stammer.



“Hey, I think I’ve seen you around campus. What’s your major, hot stuff?”

“Puh-lease,” she replies. “If that isn’t the most asinine, clichéd attempt I have ever heard. You’re in college now, freshman. Girls are no longer naive little kittens that will lap milk from your hands just because you say so. Let me tell you how ‘women’ like and deserve to be treated...”

A tirade of demands and insults follow. You are trapped in her verbal tractor beam that slowly sucks the manliness from you. When she finally steps off her feminist soapbox, the stars have stopped their twinkling, the sun has begun to rise in the east, and the keg has long since been tapped out. You hear the birds beginning their morning calls. Po-tweet. Chirp chirp.



You break into the Student Union arcade, fish out your quarters, find the tried and tested Galaga game, and get down to business. Right away, your second ship gets caught in a tractor beam, but you blast the guilty bug, retrieve your ship, and double-blast your way to level 34, earning the top score on the machine. Sadly, no one witnesses it but you.

You don’t know how to feel about that last part. It reminds you of 5th grade and Bobby “Fire Fingers” Lee’s mythic marathon game. He said that after he passed level 99, the game cartridge blew a fuse, causing the carpet to catch fire. He showed you the singe marks, but it was still hard to believe it really happened, like a tree falling in the forest with no one around to hear it. Was it the fury of a storm that made it fall? Termites? Root decay?

Bobby later dropped out of school and moved to Australia, worked as a caterer, and married an aborigine princess. Meanwhile, you’re closest contact with royalty is taking king-size shits after Chimichanga night. Hay caramba!



“A friend told me that your services only cost twenty-five bucks,” you proffer.

“Lo siento,” she replies, “but I have another mouth to feed at mi casa. Baby Pedro is two months old now. And this fucking empleo no pagar maternity leave.”

“Do you know who the father is?” you ask.

“Oh si. A strange-looking gringo with glasses. He sang “Strike up the Band’ the whole tiempo.”

Havelschamp! That rogue, scalliwag, and prince of thieves! He who you thought was just innocent bystander in the game of life. Irony had never dug its knife into your heart this deep. There was the lifeguard incident, but almost everyone lived and you got your picture in the paper.

You place your wallet on the nightstand.

“Take it. There’s not much cash, but my Greenville Go Card has fifty points on it. You can use in at the Student Union to buy textbooks, Taco Bell, whatever."

“Diapers?” she asks.

“Sure,” you answer. But in truth, you have no idea and want to keep it that way.



Your Dad, whose wife is your Mom, wants you to be a doctor. You appease him by taking science classes, but your passion is for the humanities. Especially “women studies.” You just love the ladies, ones you can talk to, rub noses with, confide in… not these freak-show acts before you. You can no longer stand it. Ride or no ride, you need to leave.

“I’m taking off, guys,” you say.

"Yeah, so are we,” Chad says. “The Muff Wagon’s a total bust, instead of it busting my nuts.”

“I know of this kegger.” you offer.

“You do, do ya?” replies Chad. “Then let me welcome to the Big-Leagues, Junior. Time to take off the training wheels and walk the tightrope without a net.”

He and Luther laugh it up as you stagger out to the car. You get in, put on your seatbelt and say a prayer. Soon it’ll be showtime.

Carpool on over to page 81.


Gloria tells you about her life growing up in the back of VW vans and at organic farms. You also talk about your parents, your Dad’s desire for you to go to medical school, and your family trip to Joshua Tree just before school started.

“That place is just awesome ” she exclaims. “I thought there was just one Joshua tree, you know, like on the U2 album cover. But there’s thousands. The stars look like crystals out there in the desert.”

“I pump myself up before a test by playing “Desire,” you divulge. “Maybe I should’ve listened to that instead of jogging to cure my writer’s block.”

“Than we would’ve never met,” she replies. The two of you continue to exchange stories until campus police shows up and shoot her.



You stumble into the woods looking for shelter. Your Boy Scout training really comes in handy, as your other senses make up for your lack of sight. You hear a steady “Whoo” in the distance. An untrained ear may mistake that sound as an owl, but you, Nature-Boy, know different.

You creep over toward the sound and come across a small cave. The air passing over and in the cave’s opening is making the noise. Much like blowing over a bottle-top, Scout-master Sam told you years ago. And he was right, too.

You feel out the size of the entrance with your hands. It’s no larger than keg, strangely enough. You get on your back and wriggle yourself in. You expect to bump against the back of the cave, but instead it keeps going, and the tunnel gets larger the deeper you go.

Soon you’re able to walk standing up. And instead of there being a wall, you actually see a faint light coming from the far end of the tunnel. Just like an Edward Packwardian Cave of Time. And what a spelunk-athon that was! As you make your way, you see that the cave narrows agains before spliting into two, each new tunnel "glowing" with possibilities. Which way do you go?

Left? Crawl your way to page 86 and 87.

Right? Squirm like a worm to page 44.


The party can wait for ME, you think. You bide your time by investigating Lisa and Julie’s room. Their place is fantastic, filled with girl stuff you’ve only before seen in catalogues.

You open the closet and find some sweaters and dresses. You next open some drawers and find silky underwear. You instantly need to put them on. Stripping off your own clothes, you feel as if you are a snake shedding the skin of your old life and growing a new one, complete with a beautiful strapless gown.

You gaze at yourself in wall mirror. What a pretty lady you are. Now you know why Blackbeard was so unrelenting,so resolute in his quest, for you’ve discovered your own Treasure Island and are wearing its riches. You model the outfit for yourself until you hear the doorknob turning.

There is nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. You’ll have to face the consequences. Julie and Lisa come through the door, see you, and, surprisingly, start to laugh.

"Wow, we had no clue!" chirps Lisa.

"We like to play ‘dress-up’ too," says Julie.

They begin to kiss all over. Erotic fantasy galore! Those lonely late-nights of Internet porn are over. For now.



Finally, your case of vomitosis becomes unbearable. You run back out to the balcony to heave over its edge. You’re a step away from salvation when you lose it.

The surge of your puke throws your head back, and you lose all sense of direction. When you regain your bearings, you realize that you’ve covered the keg, and some chick tapping it, with the milky remnants of your dinner and drink.

“Would you like fries with that?” you ask her. Always the shuckster.



“I just wanted to see the other performers, uh, wish them well, give them props . . .” you stutter.

“Lo siento, honey, but once you’ve had Havana Jane, you never go back.” She tries to pull you back to the floor, but you wriggle free and dart for the door.

“Tony! Tony! Help! Ayuda! Hay un freeloader aqui!”

You fling open the door and barrel down the corridor. A burly ox of a man, Tony, comes out of the shadows and throws you up against a wall.

“Dining and ditching, eh? Nobody rips off Havana Jane!”

His fist slams into your stomach again and again until you black out. When you wake up, you find yourself in Pablo’s Pizzeria’s dumpster. You have three broken ribs, a busted ankle, some old pepperoni in your hair, and AIDS. Sucks to be you.



(rock on with yourself)

"It's all about the music."


You and the band print up shirts and stickers and hawk them around campus, trying to drum up support. Infinity Plus One plays anywhere you can set up your amps – Pablo’s Pizzeria, Morgan’s House of Sherbet, the Ice Palace... Slowly, your fan base grows. With rehearsals, gigs, and class, it almost seems like too much to handle. But you persevere.

Five years later, Infinity Plus One plays a sold-out, homecoming show in Greenville Amphitheater. All the hard work paid off! The money, women, parties, and drugs make the long, painful climb to the top worth it. Though it’s still about the music, you muse as you inhale that last bit of blow off some chick’s ass. Sure it is, boss.

(Sniff!) THE END


A glowing book? Déjà vu! That’s right, freshman. You’re no stranger to witchcraft. You started practicing the black arts two summers ago at Enchantment Camp, remember? Or did your memory spell work too well? You almost didn’t stop the Archangel Karak from engulfing the Western United States in molten lava. Since then, you’ve done your best to avoid another encounter with the arcane. Sinister stuff.

You make peace with the librarian, leave the library and jog across campus towards the art studio, making good time. Maybe you should try out for the cross-country team! Nothing like a nice long run in the woods with the guys.

Hustle and flow on ova' to page 53.


“Cool beans,” you answer. “Let’s smoke.”

You amble over to the girls’ room, which reeks of patchouli and weed. Cypress Hill rolls out of the stereo. A poster emblazoned with a pot leaf fills one wall, while blue-prints of the residential hall occupy another. Julie takes out a bong with a large bowl, two chambers, and a long, serpentine neck. This is getting serious.

“Sit down, relax, and we’ll fix you up,” says Julie. You take a seat in a bean bag chair in the corner. The girls rest their laurels on the floor and place the bong between you.

“This is some supreme shit. My cousin starting growing in his closet, and then on his roof. He later started growing it in the neighbor’s backyard,” Lisa explains.

The dude could’ve grown the weed out of his paranoid ass for all you care. Lisa holds a large zip-lock bag filled with sweet, sweet cheeba. You can see that some leaves are a translucent, violet color, and glisten when they catch the afternoon sunlight.

“Do you want a whole bowl to yourself, or want to just pass it around?” Lisa asks you.

Feeling greedy? Fuck yourself up on page 23.

Are you a good little boy who follows the Golden Rule? Share on page 3.


(blow out the candle)

The munchies are a bitch.


C-A-K-E. You reach your hand down into its rich layers and scoop up a slab of chocolate deliciousness. It’s like rubbing the food-Buddha’s belly. You feel enlightened. Still, the munchies are a bitch, so after indulging in cake, you decide here and now to forgo your new diet altogether andsearchthrough the cupboards and fridge for more food.

Walnuts, cookies, taquitos, honeydew melons, - all are yours to do with as you please. You gorge yourself until you are the size of the entire kitchen, busting through the walls. As you continue to stuff yourself, you outgrow the apartment complex until you finally tower over the whole town.

You have become a giant. You use your new-found powers to end world hunger, build dams, collect cats from trees, and plug active volcanoes.



You awake to a throbbing headache and the sun burning down on you. You rub your eyes and take in your surroundings: sagebrush, sand, and billboards. Havelschamp must have driven out to the desert and left you for the buzzards! Fucker.

One billboard in the distance reads "Flamingo Girls at the Tropicana." The bastard ditched you en route to Las Vegas! Home of the Rat Pack, Sigfried and Roy, and strippers aplenty! You are just full of exclamations.

You stumble over to the highway and debate your destination. You’re probably missing class, flute recitals, and French club meetings back at Greenville U., but playing the slots and seeing those white tigers in person has always been your fantasy.

Head east to Sin City? Place your on page 36.

Follow the sunset back to school? Stick out that thumb on pages 45 and 46.


You fling yourself into the teeming masses, searching for the keg. But like Ponce De Leon’s quest for the Fountain of Youth, your search becomes futile. Every corner, every room, every hallway seems occupied with people, and your energy soon becomes drained trying to push through all of them.

The wisdom that age grants you only leaves a dry, chappy taste in your mouth. You stumble to a back bathroom, less crowded than the other rooms, and take a sip of sink water. Has it come to this?

You sit on the toilet seat and sob to yourself. Then something dawns on you! Maybe the keg never came through, and it’s a beer-bottle party. And where would they keep the bottles? In the tub! You fling open the shower curtain, only to discover an empty, somewhat moldy, basin.

Turn to page 85, Sherlock.


The room is luminescent with red light. But you’re not stopping! Havana Jane walks over to her corner cot and sits down, her naked flesh discreetly covered by a long silk scarf. Her large breasts, though, stand exposed and at full command. It’s time to separate the men from the boys.

"Would you like to join me, cowboy? It will only cost you sixty dollars."

This isn’t good news. You look in your wallet and see that you’re twenty short. Fucking inflation!

Legend says he who finishes second is the first loser. Scam your way into bed on pages 20 and 21.

Start the negotations on Page 65.

Remember when Mom cried at your Eagle Badge ceremony? Make her proud again by being honest about your financial straits on page 83.


Following your earlier adventures, you finally arrive at the kegger. Better late than never! "But better never late," your music camp counselors would croon, you reminisce, after you had slept through morning recital in your younger days. And they wouldn’t stop there...

"You’re late, you’re late, and you’re ugly! U-G-L-Y, you ain’t got no alibi, you ugly! M-O-M-M-A, that’s just how you got that way, your momma! D-A-D-D-Y, that’s another reason why, your daddy!"

You push away those awful sing-song memories as you push your way onto the balcony. There, glistening in the moonlight, is the keg. Now there’s a true friend. Pretty soon, your cup has been filled and re-filled, you’ve made some new friends, and are getting busy and feeling dizzy. One chick who goes to fill up her cup is a real looker. You see that other guys are checking her out as well. Now’s the time to strike like the king cobra you know you are. Get your hissnit on that shiznit!

Tell her your final exam story? Be funny on page 82.

Ask her what she’s studying? Inquire on page 63.


You stroll up to the girl. She’s listening to some people talking about the death penalty. When there’s a break in the conversation you begin your scholastic tale.

"Yeah, cruel and inhumane, great. So last semester, I took Communications 101, anyone else take that class, there’s like 400 or so of us enrolled, and the class is packed, everyone there for the final. All of us are writing in our bluebooks, people heading down to the professor’s desk and dropping it off when they’re done.

"Near the end of class, the professor calls out, ‘All right, ten minutes left,’ and more people start getting up and turn in their finals, which are slowly forming a huge pile on her desk. This whole time I’m still writing, and writing, and writing…"

Continue to amuse your audience on page 92.


"Senora Jane," you proclaim, "In my days of scouting, I earned my Cougar Badge by helping old Mrs. Sullivan massage blood into her legs and ankles. I earned my Bobcat Badge by selling the most Popsicle stick ornaments at our Christmas bazaar. For that honor, I shat Choco-fudge for the next month. What I’m trying to say is, I’m twenty bucks short. Can we find a compromise?"

"Cuba taught me three things," she replies. "The first was to hate those Puerto Rican bastardos Menudo at all costs. The second was that honesty is the best policy. The third was to never trust chorizo on an empty stomach."

"Wise words," you reply.

"Venga aqui," she coos, and pulls you in. Santa Maria! You’re going to have intercourse! You weren’t prepared to go from Weeblo to Scoutmaster this soon. You figure that’s why God invented boobies. Holla!



Fuck it. You're staying.

"Go ahead with Luther," you tell Chad. "I’m going to chill with one of the strippers."

"Wow frosh, I didn’t know you had it in you. Good luck."

"Thanks Chadwick," you coolly reply, "but I don’t need Lady Luck. I’ll be just fine without her."

You join Melanie for a cigarette, even though you’re fully aware of the Surgeon General’s warning that accompanies each box of cancer sticks. Melanie lights you one, and you take a small puff. What a contraption! You then deeply inhale, and your lungs cry for help as you gag on the smoke.

"Are you all right?" Melanie asks. "Guess you liked it."

"Absolutely," you say. "Its like huffing charcoal without having to barbeque."

"I wouldn’t know," she responds. I’m a vegetarian." Melanie tells you about the wonders of vegetables and how human mouths lack the incisor teeth that meat-eaters have. It turns out that you’re an herbivore, which is sweet considering you love smoking the herb. God bless gateway drugs.

"Let’s go to Soup Plantation!" you shout, and Melanie smiles in pride. Well done.



So close, and yet so far. You reach for some toilet paper to dab away your tears. You’re reminded of the great Lionel Richie song. No, not "All Night Long." Maybe it’s a celebration for others out there in the big bright world, but not you. Not tonight. Not without the keg, wherever she is...

I've been alone with you inside my mind
And in my dreams I've drank from you a thousand times
Sometimes I feel my cup will overflow
Hello! I've just got to let you know
Because I wonder where you are
And I wonder what you do
Are you somewhere feeling lonely?
Or is someone tapping you?
Tell me how to drink your heart
For I haven’t got a brew
But let me start by saying
I love you



(play in the snow)

Valley Forge does not welcome strangers.


You see a pale light glowing in the distance. As you edge toward it, the light goes brighter. As you near the cave’s entrance, you see people huddled around a campfire in the middle of the woods. Snow covers the trees and ground. Makeshift cabins and tents dot the hillside. You see a tall man with white hair standing before the others.

"I know the men are weak and tired, sergeant. But one of our spies in the colony of Pennsylvania has reported that the Hessians are making preparations for a Christmas morning smorgsaboard, as they call it. And so we must make our own preparations to row across the Delaware and..." He suddenly stops and turns towards you with his saber gleaming.

"Halt there, young squire! Valley Forge does not welcome strangers. State your allegiance."

Address the General on page 58.


Kegger versus Bonfire. That’s like deciding between a fudge sundae and chicken curry. They’re both so scrumptious, it’s hard to choose. Mira Monte Lake during a full moon, though, intrigues you. Legend has it that half-jellyfish, half-horse creatures lived within its murky waters. That would actually be cool if it wasn’t such a bunch of bullshit.

After arriving at the bonfire and scarfing down a dozen s'mores, you stumble to the lake’s edge to wash off your hands and mouth. As you scrape the last bit of marshmellow from under your fingernails, an icy tentacle wraps around your leg and drags you into the frigid water. Your screams are heard but not investigated. Drinking will do that to people.

Cold black water begins to fill your lungs as you are pulled down to your watery grave. While losing consciousness, you realize that, instead of this shit, you could have spent a simple evening at the Boobie Barn, sticking dead prezzies down a stripper’s g-string while chugging down Natty lights with your fellow home-skillets. Or an even simpler one in your dorm room, jamming out a Bach sonata on your flute, leaving the rest of the world to fend for itself.

On the bright side, you did always let that hottie from the 4th floor go ahead of you in the cafeteria line. Hopefully that good karma will get you reincarnated as a basketball hoop that Shaquille O’Neal dunks on. Now that would be sweet!


89 (sweep the leg)

"Your wisdom is revealed in your question."

The samurai lowers his eyes humbly, drops to one knee, and ceremoniously lays his sword at his side.

"My gaijin sensei, your wisdom is revealed in your question. I give my life to you. Here is my sword as a token of my devotion."

As the samurai gestures toward where he places his weapon, he realizes that his blade is upon him. The burning sensation is felt by his mind long before he is able to apply any words to confirm its existence. Cold. Cold is what he first noticed. And heavy!

As the samurai collapses, you see the ninja-clad culprit stalking toward you.

"The Western way of ranch dressing will corrupt our Zen way of life," he says. "I shall bury your culinary knowledge within your corpse. Flying Crane! Yi-haw!"

The ninja lunges at you, aiming his deadly foot at your pulsing heart.

"Eye of the Tiger!" you counter, cold-cocking your flying foe in mid-leap, just like what the Italian Stallion did to Drago at the end of Rocky IV. Viva America, bitch.



"What's the rush, fellas?" you ask Chad and Luther.

"Luther just realized he was supposed to visit his grandmother in the hospital tonight," says Chad. "I thought I'd scope out the nurses while there."

The three of you drive for a half hour till ariving at Daly Veterans Hosptial. You watch a little of Matlock in the waiting room before deciding to stroll through the halls. Suddenly, you hear wheezing a voice straining through one of the patient room doors. "Paulo, Paulo, is that you? Oh, my dear grandchild, bring me my syrup."

You slip inside. An elderly gentlemen is lying on a bed, his breathes straining under the weight of age. What an excellent time practice your hypnosis skills! "Tick, tock, 12 o'clock," you coo. "Seaweed, werewolf, mind unlock!"

For the next half an hour, you learn that the money is buried under the porch steps, olive oil should be added to the pasta only after its boiled, and the Japs had it coming. Beat that, History class!



There’s an excitement tremor in your voice as your story nears its fabulous punchline.

"‘Five minutes,’ the professor later calls out to the class, but I ‘m still not finished. Then, ‘One more minute,’ she warns the last of us left, but I have to finish this paragraph. Finally, I head down to her desk with my test, but she stops me and goes, ‘Unfortunately, time is up. I gave you numerous warnings which you failed to heed. And so you fail.’

So I come back with, "Do you know who I am?’ and she said ‘No!’ I replied ‘Exactly!’ and stuff my bluebook into the middle of the stack and ran off."

You get some guffaws from others, but the girl herself simply smiles. But that’s something, isn’t it? A smile could change the world, as Sister Beatrice once told you in Sunday School, as she paddled you with a crucifix.

Just testing the waters? Fry some bigger fish inside on page 96.

She is the one. Devote yourself to her conquest on page 22.


“Let’s hitchhike Chad. That way we can head straight into town,” you argue.

“I don’t know,” Chad answers, wiping barf off his chin. “Hitchhiking’s dangerous.”

“Then wait for the bus! I can still make the kegger if I can get back in time!" After some more bickering, Chad finally gives in. The two of you stand on the side of the street, thumbs extended, when a car pulls up.

“Need a lift? I’m heading into town,” the driver says.

You and Chad thank the driver, hop into the car, and speed away. You’re glad to be free of the Muff Wagon and on the road, like beat-whacked Jack Kerouac. You remind yourself to plan a trip to San Francisco. Those chowder-filled sourdough bowls are the tastiest!

You notice that the driver occasionally swerves the car back and forth. Then something rolling on the floor hits your shoe. You look down to see an empty whiskey bottle.

“Pull over!” you howl to the driver. But it’s too late. The last thing you see is the foot of the cliff before you disappear off it. Drunk driving, it seems, is also dangerous.



"Don’t get your panties all tied up in a pretzel," you grumble. "I’ll spy for your organization, but only in exchange for some German Apple Cake. I have a serious case of the munchies."

"We will give you a slice of German Apple Cake," replies Julie, "if you give us the recipe for American apple pie."

"But that’s treason!" you respond. "I could go to federal prison and have to drop out of school! My parents would kill me!"

"Not if we kill you first," contends Lisa.

You take a moment to consider your options.

"Fuck it. Four baked apples, two spoonfuls of Crisco, one cup of flour, and five tablespoons of sugar. Mix and bake at 325 degrees for one hour. Cool and eat. Now give me some cake and let me do my job. Starting with the women’s showers."



"I don’t want to do this, Balding Eagle," shouts John Smith, thrusting his dagger into his foe's chest. "Squanto is my friend, but you have gone too far!" Balding Eagle collapses to the red earth like a toppled oak.

Your writing erupts furiously from your fingers onto the keyboard. Now that you’ve killed a pivotal character, much like Tybalt’s demise in Romeo and Juliet, your play is in full throttle. You spend a couple more hours writing, editing, and tying up loose ends, like revealing who stole the Chief’s favorite canoe.

Finally, you complete your opus. You pull the last page from the printer, add it to the pile of pages, and stand back in admiration. Well done, auteur. You celebrate by buying yourself some strawberry ice cream and talking a nice stroll around the pier. Waves roll in from the dark beyond. Crusty fishermen fart while hooking worms.

You jog back to your dorm, feeling a little older yet a little wiser. And naked chicks are on your horizon! College rules. Chad and his friend Luther show up at your door at the intended time.

"Let’s head over to the Boobie Barn," says Chad. "Some queer in the cafeteria was bragging about their headliner, Havana Jane."

"It’s ‘can’t stop, won’t stop’ pussy at the Muff Wagon," suggests Luther. "And there's no cover."

Muff? Turn to page 5.

Boobie? Turn to page 32.