There are very few things that will inspire me to visit The Keg. I need a special combination of lonely and horny to make the long descent down Sketch Boulevard.
But when it comes to girls wrestling in pudding, I would climb the gates of hell to get a better view. Last Wednesday I found myself back at the old haunt for the first time in months. Where else could I get a ringside seat for the annual “Pudding Wrestling for Some Charity Thing” event?
The bar was packed with boys of all ages: from the paint-huffing high schooler to his depressed middle-aged father. This was an event for the whole family to enjoy. A few women had even slipped into the crowd, God help them. There was an inflated raft at the center of the dance floor, the bottom of which was lined with pudding. The spectators were leaning and pushing to get a better view. I felt like a 12-year-old watching colored static on the Playboy Channel.
The wrestlers climbed on top of the bar to introduce themselves; it was a scene straight from the Coyote Ugly blooper reel. A witty and charming announcer with a microphone conducted brief interviews with the girls, taking care to note nuances of personality and temperament. A gentleman from the crowd politely requested that the ladies might expose their chests. This would be the first of many such requests over the course of the night.
When the first match started, you could almost hear the pop of a hundred tiny erections. The action was broadcast on closed circuit TVs around the bar. No one could escape the depravity. Onlookers in the splash zone grinned while specks of pudding landed in their hair.
Nobody in the audience seemed to know what the girls were fund-raising for. Using my reporting skills, I narrowed it down to either the Show Me Your Tits Breast Cancer Society or the Public Masturbators for a Cure to Dyslexia.
It’s a beautiful thing when the degradation of women and Greek philanthropy collide. Nothing says public service like two girls going topless and making out for $100 each.
As my father used to tell me, good citizenship begins with nipple sucking.
I have always been a quiet advocate for women’s rights. I’m an honorary member of the College Feminists and own a VHS copy of A League of Their Own. With that said, kudos to the girls who showed us their boobies for money. After all, it’s for a good cause: giving frat boys something special to think about when they touch themselves at night.
Those of us present shared a night of mindless half-naked entertainment that’s hard to find these days.
If College Republicans and For Members Only want to start filling seats at their events, they should cater to the interests of their audience. Maybe Ann Coulter wouldn’t seem like such an uptight bitch if she was up to her chest in chocolate pudding.
Tony Evans is a Weinberg sophomore. He can be reached at [email protected].
