We became pals back when I was a member of my first organized crime
syndicate. Oh, the times we had carjacking, distributing unAmerican propaganda, getting socially
unacceptable images and phrases tattoed on our upper-body, smuggling contraband from around the world,
ridiculing people we found to be physically unattractive, and being generally pushy and obtuse. Well,
that was then and this is now. We've all settled down in our old age. Joe is newly married, to the lovely and brillant Miss Amy Latimer (former kick-boxing champion of Maryland 1993-96), Lee is
co-head of Mens' Housing at ole' E&H, and I am, of course, going to be in school till I die. That is how things work around these here parts. If you don't like it, tough noogies. I make the calls. Quit staring at me!!!
There we were, quietly enjoying the pleasures of good friends and excellent, sober conversation in the finest of fine, the Hagarstown, Maryland Country Club, site of the wedding reception of Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Wayne Hodge. Well, quiet that is, until those Damnable Goosledorf Brothers showed up with their tequila and cards, their Jagermeister and shotguns, their strippers and honkey-tonk music. Needless to say, the proper and admirable quality of the event soon broke down into mere chaos, and the wedding party soon began singing foolish bar songs and fell to telling vulgar jokes. It was a truly pitiable sight. . . and those Damnable Goosledorf Brothers are entirely to blame for it. I mean, look at these men with their well-made attire and obviously proper breeding. . . who, I ask you, who would imagine them to be capable of the kinds of sins committed that evening? Not I. No, I tell you, it was those Damnable Goosledorf Brothers, with their trained monkeys and their party hats, their beer bongs and their George Jones CDs. . .
I remember when I first encountered the intoxicatingly beautiful and brillant Miss Fox. We were mere pups at Emory & Henry, whippersnappers unaccustomed to the great trevails of life. I saw her from afar and pledged that I would someday, someday marry that girl. Well, needless to say, I was wrong. Dead wrong. Out and out completely friggin' wrong. I mean hell, when I went over to ask her what her name was, her name, mind you, she slapped me and sprayed me with Mace. Mace! I mean, that stuff burns like sin! And there I was, rolling on the ground, screaming for help, and she starts kickin' me! Kickin' me and yelling very mean things at me, making fun of my hair and my clothes and my apparantly unattractive skin hue. She was so damnably cruel! But eventually we became friends. Well, friends is a pretty strong word, isn't it? Maybe I should say we were aquaintances. Yeah. That's the ticket.
Okay, she never really spoke to me. But at the restraining order hearing, man, she was digging me! She was so all about me! I mean, she couldn't keep those gorgeous eyes of her's off me. Like the part when she yelled, "that's the freak! With the glasses!!!" And when she started cursing me, just cussin' and cussin' and cussin', I could tell that she was truly moved. . . just laden with emotion. Wow. She wanted me. Er, heh.
Okay, so there we were, leaving a
conference in which the most distinguished student, faculty, and administrative leaders of small
colleges and universities in the Commonwealth of Virginia had gathered. We were on the campus
of Washington & Lee University and we were hyperactive, as might be expected when several 20-
something males have been forced to sit in one place for hours on end, with the only viable form
of entertainment available being the consumption of various high-caffine drinks. That was when
someone (alright, me) prompted the world-reknowned Chip Thomas to smooch the infamous Tyler G.
Kidd, thinking that a really humorous photograph would be the product. And you know what? I was
right! This is the best dang picture I have ever taken! I even got it published in the yearbook!
I mean, look at it! I even keep a copy hanging on my wall at school so that when I get tired of
reading about refugee movements in North Burma, I can glance at the wall feel myself reinvigorated
due to the natural hilarity of this very photo! Print it out! Put it on your wall! Its great!
Oh, and Tyler and Chip are my friends and stuff. . .
Alright. So there I was, Afghanistan, 1927. I was
strapped to the back of a Model-A Ford truck, stark naked, covered in honey
and stinging ants with only my tattoos to protect me. It wasn't a pretty
picture. It was then that two of my pals, Mr. Seth K. Vidal (left) and
Mr. M. Ben Lawson (right)
came tearing out of nowhere on camelback, guns blazing and mouths shouting
assorted slurs and vulgarities. They wrested me from my bonds, threw me an
overcoat and Colt '45 Special and frankly, well, the rest is history.
"You want the truth? YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!!" Thats right kids, even my simple life
abounds with mystery and intrigue, unexplainable natural phenomena that boggle the mind and
astound the eye. For instance, two of my best friends are in fact superstars, long believed missing
or deceased, but in truth, simply hidden, escaping the living hell of popular life for the calm
serenity of life in Emory, Virginia. Who are these men? Simple. First we have Mr. Sean Taylor (left),
better known as "Papaw" to his associates. But the world knows Sean as Ichabod Crane of Sleepy
Hollow fame. Sean has turned in his old gray nag for a maroon VW Bug, yet he has lost none of that
unparalleled freakishness that made his a star. On the other hand we have the world renowned
Neal Hutton (right), aka Mike Nesmith. Mike/Neil may not be with The Monkees any more, but that
doesn't mean the ladies hearts don't swoon for him still. Keep up the good work you heart-throb you.
Now, I've never been known for being the healthiest of men, so it was no surprise when I my
sophomore year in college I found out I had severe bronchitus, bordering on pneumonia. No thing,
I thought, I'll just go to town, pick up my antibiotics and curl up for a weekend of warm and
fuzzy recovery. Of course, I didn't have a car at school, but my pal Robert M. Stallworth
did, and needless to say, he was more than willing to drive me into town to procure the
high caliber drugs that would speed me along the path to recovery. Well, right at about the halfway
point on the interstate, what should happen but we ran outta' gas. Goodness, did I laugh and laugh at
our oh-so-funny situation. Then I realized that not only would Robb and I have to walk right at, say,
I don't know, five miles, to the nearest gas station, but jeepers, it was the middle of February,
and it was the middle of a snowstorm! OH how I laughed and laughed then. Needless
to say, Robb and I began the long trek to Abingdon, Virginia, the wind blowing so vigorously in
our unprotected faces that I began to mentally debate the philosophical ramifications of the concept
of "chapped." And yessir, I was still laughing (how very funny it was!). It was then that a
gentleman pulled over his 1973 aquamarine and rust Ford truck. "Hey, you boys need a ride?" asked
the gruff old fellow. "Certainly, sir," was our chipper reply. The laughing continued, though
stifled. After introducing himself as Eddie and warning us to not "kick the damn CB," our merry
trio made off to the magical Exxon station. I have never since smelled the mingled odor of HotFries
and PBR without thinking of old "Crazy Eddie." And whenever I hear the cold February wind blow,
I laugh. Oh my, do I laugh.
Now, in college one of my majors was art and I made a lot of pals in the
studio. 
Mr. Jared G. Trail
is just one example of such an artist, and frankly,
his stuff may be the only art produced in the history of Emory & Henry
College more twisted than my own. He specializes in the usual whammo-blammo nasty mo-dee
kinda' stuff, you know, aliens, demons, monsters, (ie. the first 10 minutes of any X-Files
episode). What does that mean? Yeah, he's a freak,
but he'll be a freak with more money than you or me. Trust me on this one.
I've met alot of extremely, shall we say, unique, human
beings in my short life, but few of them are truely comparable to the man known only as 'Culpeper'.
Andrew L. Bennett, lifetime resident of Culpeper, Virginia (and likely its most ardent nationalist
and advocate, scared, er, impressed me on the very first day we met, way back in our freshman year
in college when he lived down the hall from me. Indeed, his wacky, wacky personality was the frame
around which one of my most beloved comic characters, 'Tex' was built. Who can forget the time
good ole' Andy chugged a fifth of Jack Daniels in less than an hour, donned his red silk boxers
and his frighteningly short purple kimono and began singing assorted George Jones tunes at the
top of his voice. Oh, how funny it was when he relieved himself in the duckpond that night, how
delightful when he began wrestling his friends to the ground till their blood mingled tears threatened
to stain his odd little kimono. And goodness knows, the next day when we found him passed out
naked in the nearby Piggly Wiggly parking lot, the laughs were guranteed!
One of my favorite times of the
year is when all of my friends and I come together to celebrate Emory's Homecoming every fall.
Here we find several of my pals and I enjoying the pleasant aura of good companionship and a
rip-roarin' good football team. Yup. From left to right we find good ole' Joe Hodge (nice
shirt, sissy), myself (just back from my special guest appearance on Nash Bridges),
Steve Long (I have never known a man who could curse better than Steve, just further evidence that,
yes Steve, you WILL indeed be a great football coach), Chris Catron (and no, dammit, he doesn't
have a girlfriend, so everybody quit freakin' askin' me!!! ahem.), and of course, Julian Lewis Webb.
Damn. Look at that neck. I mean really. That is the longest neck I have EVER seen. Damn. 
When I joined my fraternity back in the Spring of 1996, well, I came in with one of the finest group of guys you could ever hope to meet. We were the Eight Deadly Sins, and damn, we were smooth. On the back row (left to right) you'll find Michael "Smiley" Meadows (looks just like that elf that wanted to be a dentist in the Rudolph special, a delicious coincidence considering that Mike himself is currently undergoing intensive, rigorous training in the same field), Michael Pennington (private joke: guys, really, I don't appreciate it, you know, since I'm an RA), me(I miss that hat. My dog ate it), and Jimmy Woods (Bath County rules). On the next row (again, left to right) we find his Holy Reverence, Scott Sikes (I know, you're not a Communist. You Communist.), Jonathon G. "Satan" Whittaker (need I say more?), Mr. Arthur Lloyd "Big Al" Mitchell (yes, he is the greatest), our fraternity sponsor since time immemorial, Allen "Poopie" Worrell (again, no words can truly elaborate further), and Richard "Dick" Schermer (who accompanied me on my first trek to China and somehow, against his best efforts, managed to avoid arrest and life imprisonment). Finally, up front are our pledgemasters, Wade Vidal and Craig Brinson, two gentlemen of the highest echelon who sought to, and I quote, "drop [us] some knowledge."
In further reference (and deference) to my beloved fraternity, I here present my frat line, The Presidents that Never Were as it existed upon my graduation from college. On the far left, well, that's Tommy "Salami" Lester. Tommy is my Little, Little, Little Brother. His claim to fame? Well he's memorized the entire dialogue from Austin Powers and he's pretty good at quasi-WWF wrasslin'. To quote Mr. Lester, "If you like it, you'd better learn to love it, "WHOOOOOOO. . ." (that last bit is onamotapia [I have no idea if I spelled that right]). Furthermore, Mr. Lester also notes, "you're gonna' do two things, nuthin' and like it." Pure class. Next door is my Little, Little Brother, Joe Hodge (such a happy man. . .). Beside of him is my Little (metaphorically speaking) Brother, Charles Kenneth Clark. He's orbilicious! Say hi to your Mom, Chuck! Then you have me in full scale cripple mode. How classy I am with my ultra-smooth cane! Beside me is my Big, Big brother, Wade Vidal (it was Wade who first helped me to understand the Beastie Boys as more than just peachy music, but as art. . . Next to Wade we find the man formerly known as the Bee, my Big Brother. In the guise of Michael Murphy the Bee no longer dances around in a silly costume as the heart and soul of Emory & Henry's concerted "pep" effort. Instead, Mr. Murphy molds young minds, preparing them for the rigors of the modern world and all of its general nastiness. I firmly believe that he does this through teaching those children dirty words. On the right of the Bee is Sean "Papaw" Taylor, the Bee's other Little Brother. I like to think of Sean as the Bee's "Bastard" Little Brother. Finally, Wes Boggs is one of the most brillant of all modern historians. His pledge name is worth noting, "Hemmeroid." Yup, he's anal, but he does it with style and charm rarely found among anal retentive historians.
Well, one day my old pals Troy Wills and C.H. Riley and I were visiting our traditional watering hole, Macado's. Well, all was well until suddenly, without warning, swarms of killer bees began to swarm from every direction, their buzzing filling the air like a thundering herd of lawnmowers. They began to sting us, over and over, and I, in my traditional 'tough-guy' manner, beat a swift retreat into what I thought would be a safe environ. . .the women's room. But alas, the bees soon began to pour in, through the ventilation shafts, under the door, even out of the toliet (apparantly they were equipped with tiny little killer bee wetsuits and scuba gear). They stung me over and over, my efforts to slap them away serving only to enrage them further. I just couldn't get those damn killer bees off me. It was then that Troy and C.H. burst into the Macado's womens' room armed with hoses and really big sticks. The hoses served to knock the bees into a stupor (as well as myself, considering the 240 psi Troy had set them to), at which point C.H. would crush the anarchic little arthropods with the sticks, laughing at their obvious physical discomfort in a manner that may only be deemed as heartless. You say that this story is false, that our adventure is a farce and a hoax? You ask for proof?!?!? Well, simply gaze upon this photograph, notice our bright red skin, a color brought on by the piercing steel of the killer bees' nasty, stinging buttocks. The killer bees, yeah, we know the killer bees.
My Junior year at Emory & Henry I was living in Waterhouse Dormitory for the second year in a row. It was then that I met a number of, shall we say, special people. These men, who had taken it upon themselves to create an 'illegal fraternity' (really more like a group of guys who were not yet eligible to rush but who wanted an excuse to drink, um, apple juice, together) called the "HIX". Yeah. I know. Anyway, these gentlemen would ultimately all rush and pledge my fraternity and in the Spring of 1999 they graduated from Emory (I feel old). Regardless, from left to right these men are Michael "Mop-and-Glow" Armbrister (militant tree-hugger), Chuck "Tinkerbell" Clark (turn up the stereo some more, Buddha), Scott "Slurpee" Sikes (card-holding Commie bastard), Joel "Jed" Coffman (crooked, heh), Jason "Kermit" Clayman (I swear, he really does look like a Muppet), Jeremy "I-can't- remember-his-pledge-name" Peters (Jeremy is a rare Wereamphibian, becoming a salamander under certain, um, supernatural conditions), and Wesley "Hemerroid" Boggs (two words: deliciously anal-retentative).
Fred Astaire was a great man, a sophisticate, a gentleman, a phenomenal singer, and perhaps most infamously, a phenomenal dancer. Rare is it when he have fruitful comparasions have been made between this master of the 'Rat Pack' and contemporary men, a sad account of our times' lack of true cultivation and development. But while I was at Emory & Henry College, I was blessed enough to meet another man bearing just these qualities. That man, his name was Scott "Scooter" Whitehead. I first became aware of his skills as a dancer early in my school career. We were both residents of the great Hillman Hall on Emory & Henry's campus, both simple men, merely seeking educational betterment. Then, as I went to visit with my pal Tyler on the first floor of Hillman, I saw Scooter, his large, shall we say "Buddhasque" body waying to the sweet sounds of the Indigo Girls as they drifted from his tiny dorm room. He was clad merely in a towel, and several of our dormmates were in the halls hooting and guffawing with delight. I laughed at his antics, and then, slowly, became intoxicated with the rythym. Scooter was a master of the art of dancing, his tiny little feet holding him high above the floor, like a ballerina. Time and time again Scooter would sweep the masses off their feet, his dancing being truly incomparable. We all wanted to be Scooter, to be the one dancing with those women, to be the "XXX-Large Patrick Swazye" man that he was. But we never, never could hope to achieve what he had achieved, never could have been what he was.
So, let it never again, and I mean never, be said that my boys and I are merely uncultured buffoons. . . Far to the contrary, in fact!!! Look at this photo, physical evidence that we are men of class, style, grace, and intelligence unparallelled. For instance, one might compare the great Jason Clayman with the great Odysseus, greatest of the Greek heros. Or examine the rugged countenance of one Mr. Tyler G. Kidd, an obvious heir of both the dynamism and military wisdom of Fredrick the Great. Or the original (and enviable) Mr. Joseph Wayne Hodge, whose endeavors in the field of aerospace and astronomy are oft compared to the contributions of such greats as Galileo and Chuck Yeager. Of course one may also find me, Eric Drummond Smith, dead-eye center. . . damn smooth, eh? Then there is Lee Campbell, an example of when John Wesley meets Ricky Martin. Sorta' hiding in the back, well that is Steve Long. His mastery of mathematics is reminscent of Sir Isaac Newton, his mastery of the art of coaching decievingly like that of Vince Lombardi. Finally one can see the latest installment of Joseph Wayne Hodge, just hours before his marriage. Look at that face. . . damn. Bill Gates meets Doogie Houser.
Now, I have to tell you this one. I went to Emory & Henry with this really hot girl, Melissa Fox. Now, damn, its obvious from the visual that she is hot, but let me fill you in on her 'details.' At age 15 she won her first Nobel Prize, for her work on genetics of the stinking corpse flower. At 17 she discovered the gene for hair loss while working with Phiser pharmaceuticals, and at 21 she was the US Government's Chief Counseler (Executive) on Biological Weapons and Warfare. Not only that, but she was a Victoria's Secret cover model from 1994 until present.
So, your tiny little attention span already lettin' you down, eh? Okay, dig. . . here you got three choices. . . choice numero uno: go Home. Choice numero dos: make for the beginning of the Post-Modern Version, and choice numero tres (pay attention, slacker), head right on the beginning of this here 'People' section. . . You got all that? Alright then. . . make for the Motherland, pooner (yeah Krishna, that one, that one is for you. . .). . .
