When Dick Vitale is older he'll birth his own (adult) diaper dandies (or, the definition of Punk)

Everything surrounding the Davidson College senior week excursion to Folly Beach was memorable, with the trips to and from serving as the unforgettable and often hilarious bookends. Specifically, just before departing, Will and I attempted to buy $100 worth of beer from the Davidson CVS with the remainder of my semester's funds -- the money my parents had put on my school card. Sadly, CVS doesn't allow Catcard purchases of alcohol or tobacco products, so after we'd stacked cases of beer 3 feet in the air, we had to lug them all back to the shelves.

Better yet, one of my rather prim and proper former neighbors witnessed the entire exchange -- I'm sure her mind recalled and reinspected, with panicky concern anew, the memories of nights I'd babysat her young, perfectly-combed, and immaculately dressed children, seeking any telltale but previously overlooked suggestion of corrupt, or worse, corrupting, caretaking. What follows is a semi-fictional dramatic recounting of our CVS encounter:

As I strode past her, cradling cases of beer up to my chin, my eyes locked into her stone gaze, our heads both swiveling like a child's who's unwilling to release some astounding sight rushing past his car window. However, this was no magical movie moment, no boy-sees-girl-of-his-dreams-who's-licking-a-lollipop-with-lascivious-intent, somehow-maintaining-eye-contact-through-a-mob-of-milling-distractions, accompanied-by-a-perfect-soundtrack moment -- even though my recollection, curiously shifted into a third person perspective, does flow in perfect slow motion.

No, this was (sur)real life. And so, to take advantage of my rare opportunity, both for unnerving effect and personal delight, I flickered my tongue then licked my lips in a moment charged with vampiric eroticism. Yet unsatisfied, and wishing to inflict lasting psychological damage, I curled my lips into (what I imagined to be) a sexy snarl and winked, immediately afterward whipping my head frontward with a cocky toss of my hair -- a habitual reaction that probably looked ridiculous after having shaved my head the previous evening, my first haircut in 7 months, a change to which I was yet unaccustomed.

I'm sure this short piece of semi-fiction would be fun to continue, but it's late and I need to go to work tomorrow. Maybe I'll expand on it later, or maybe it's better to end it like this:

Suddenly, just after discerning a gurgling that indicated a certain immediacy, I felt a lurching in my bowels. I turned back toward my neighbor and the cashier, dropped my shorts, screamed a primal scream, and defecated on the floor. Then I shot everyone and cannibalized several of the victims, stuffing the various orifices of those deceased Davidsonians I didn't nibble on with Vienna Sausages fresh from aisle 14. The police let me go because they said I was "rad" and "punk rock." So, for those of you wondering, that's apparently what it means to be "punk."