“Guys! GUYS! Can you help me name my date’s boobs?!?” my date screamed to a bus filled with his drunk brothers and their dates.
How did I end up in this situation? More importantly, how had I gone 19 years of my life without knowing that my boobs were supposed to have names?
So there I was, on a bus going to my first Woodser. For those who are unaware of Woodser protocol, you dress like a sexy lumberjack (I’m talking full flannel and cowboy boots), get drunk, and take a bus ride into the middle of the woods where you are left for hours to do basically whatever you want in the woods (use your imagination).
Before we even got to the bus, my date and I were sloshed. Luckily, my date’s big brother was well stocked in booze that we quickly drank. This night was a turning point for me and alcohol. I probably drank half a bottle of Malibu. Now if I even smell the sickening sweet aroma of coconut rum I, run the other way. So after pregaming, we filled my bubba keg with one part coke, seventeen parts Malibu and stumbled onto a bus that would take us far from the comforts of my date’s fraternity house.
We headed to the back of the bus, just like the cool kids are supposed to do, and instantly all the boys had to pee. I don’t know how it’s possible for fraternity men to have such small bladders. Isn’t pledging supposed to teach you how to hold your alcohol? I swear we had to stop in the middle of the highway for some of these guys to run and pee on the side of the road.
A fun tidbit I learned about my date was that, even though he is super-hot and crazy smart, he gets a little self-conscious when he’s drunk. He started feeling down so I said the first thing that came to mind:
“Will grabbing my boobs make you feel better?”
Of course it would. Grabbing boobs would make anyone feel better. So he grabbed my boobs and then proceeded to yell to the whole bus that he made it to second base, because we were on a school bus, might as well act like we were in middle school. Cheers emanated throughout the bus as I sat in shock, confusion, and just a tad bit of pride. Brothers started coming up and high fiving both of us until a random shitfaced pledge asked what my boobs’ names were.
Completely neglecting to acknowledge that this was an absurd question, my date swung his head over and stared at me. I swear he gave himself whiplash. I admitted that my boobs were currently unnamed and that’s when the fun really began.
“Guys! GUYS! Can you help me name my date’s boobs?!?” I just sat there. Mortified. As fifty frat guys just stared at my boobs and yelled out names ranging from normal (Allison and Amanda) to porn star (Rainbow and Kandy). Eventually the hollering slowed down and one brother who I actually knew (and respected) came over and suggested we go biblical. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my boobs are biblical.
After much drunken debate we settled on my left boob being Esther and my right, Miriam. And did they perform miracles that night? That’s another story..