Quitting Smack

It was the early 70’s. The Vietnam War was just coming off its peak, and the traffic of young men back and forth between America and Southeast Asia brought new, cheap and exotic goods back to the states for consumption by those deferred, rejected or too young to fight. The products of that trade consisted primarily of stereo equipment–cool-looking Pioneer brand speakers were one particularly hot item–and heroin.

Listen to Blue Cheer through these bad boys and your brain will never be the same.


I was introduced to heroin–a/k/a smack, junk–by my friend Bobby, when we worked at his father’s appliance store. Bobby had a big brother Tommy, who was right in the middle of the draftable bandwith. Tommy knew more than his share of servicemen returned or on leave from Vietnam, and one day Bobby surprised me in the delivery truck by unfolding an aluminum foil package containing brown powder.

“Dig this,” he said, or something similarly prideful as he showed me the stuff.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Heroin–from Vietnam. You want to try some?”

I knew of the dangers of heroin–addiction, a life of crime and so forth. On the other hand, a number of the men and women I looked up to were known users, current or former: Miles Davis, Billie Holiday, Lenny Bruce, Keith Richards, Durward Kirby, William Burroughs, Ben Franklin.

Ben Franklin, stone junkie.


Just kidding; I threw Durward Kirby in there just to make sure you hadn’t nodded off. As junkies are wont to do.

“Will I get . . . hooked?” I asked nervously.

“No way, not from one snort.”

That sounded promising. “You mean you don’t have to shoot it up?”

“Nope. Tommy tells me up the nose is the safe, easy responsible way to take heroin.”

That sounded good to me, but we had a refrigerator to deliver, so I stopped him as he rolled up a dollar bill. “You’re going to do it now–before the last install?” I asked.

Bobby’s face took on a look of deep thought as he considered the issue of timing. “I don’t know. I think it’s like acid or pot–it takes a while to kick in. I think we should do it beforehand.”

“We’ll have you set up in a jiffy, Mrs. McKelvey . . . bluagh!”


I figured he knew what he was doing–he was the crazy one, after all, not me–so we took turns snorting lines of equal volume, then drove over to the house of an old woman who’d bought a brand, spanking new frost-free refrigerator.

We got the appliance out of the truck, with me pulling the dolly and Tommy doing his best to avoid heavy lifting; I, after all, was the former middle linebacker, while he was the kind of kid who’d lie on his stomach while everybody else was doing push-ups in gym class.

We got the refrigerator up the porch stairs when I felt even the semblance of effort from Tommy’s end cease. I heard a noise like a sink backing up, and saw Tommy puking his guts out over the railing onto the shrubs below.

“Jesus–are you all right?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” He leaned against the rail, whiter than the underbelly of a trout, and tried to collect himself.

“You’re not going to die or anything, are you?”

“No, I feel better now. Must have been the cheeseburger I ate for lunch.”

I looked at him to make sure, then rang the doorbell. At this point, I was clearly the more presentable of the two representatives of the appliance store on the porch.

The old woman greeted us and showed us into the kitchen, where what should have been a routine hook-up job was made more difficult by the effects of the drug that supplies pushers around the globe with their daily bread.

“Would you boys like some lemonade?” I recall her saying as I tried to properly position the refrigerator, using a bubble level. My guess is given my condition, she never saw a well-formed ice cube out of her freezer compartment until the day she died.

“No ma’am, but thanks,” I said, trying to bring the transaction to a conclusion. I got her to sign the receipt and we headed off to the truck, with Tommy a festive combination of green, blue and white hues.

Bob Seger


We went back to Tommy’s place–his parents weren’t home–and listened to “Stone Junkie” by Curtis Mayfield, over and over. I don’t think it was by choice; back in the day, as they say, a properly screwed-up record player would repeat an album over and over again until you got up to turn it off. Which, if you’re on heroin, you’re incapable of doing.

That was the sort of trouble you could get into in a small town in the summer, surrounded by kids who were, in the words of the Bob Seger song of the time, young and restless and bored. When I returned to college at the University Chicago in the fall, I genuinely believed I would never get near the stuff again, but I fell in with a bad crowd; pre-med students.

There is probably no more daring group of drug consumers among the undergraduates of this country than the boys who will some day become men with the power to dispense pharmaceutical products to average schmoes like you and me. Their willingness to risk their lives by exposing themselves to drugs in varying dosages, or dubious purity, and unknown origin is admirable. By the time they get their long white coats and stethoscopes they will have sampled just about every item in the Physician’s Desk Reference pharmacopoeia–and then some. It’s almost saintly, when you think about it; these guys wouldn’t expose a patient to a substance they hadn’t tried–in highly excessive quantities–first.

I had immediate credibility with the Doogie Howsers avant la lettre; I had not only taken heroin, I’d installed a major, big-ticket item “white goods” appliance while under its influence. I wasn’t some tyro, I was–as Jimi Hendrix might say–experienced. A drug kingpin among mere wanton boys.

Leopold and Loeb: I named my cats after them.


Why, you might ask, was a group of high-SAT scoring undergraduates driven to such desperate pastimes? I can’t answer that. Perhaps it was because we lived in the dormitory that had housed Leopold and Loeb, the UofC thrill-killers whom Clarence Darrow spared from the electric chair after their botched attempt to commit the perfect crime. With that sort of aura permeating the halls, you needed to do something more dramatic than play “Gimme Shelter” so loud the graduate dorm monitor told you to turn it down in order to assert your innately stupid young manhood.

Curtis Mayfield


But these guys were serious technicians, not two kids slurping stuff up their noses in a delivery van. They had hypodermic needles and syringes, and could calibrate dosages with precision. I trusted them the way you trust your family doctor. If your family doctor sells controlled substances out the back door.

And so I became–off and on, over a period of months–a more-or-less regular user of heroin. You learned to spot other users; the willowy blond in 20th Century French Drama with the little bruises on her feet, where she had to shoot up because she couldn’t find a vein in the crook of her arm and didn’t want the marks to show on her hands. We had gone out on a couple of dates the year before–then she discovered she knew more about jazz than I did. She ended up becoming an anchorwoman in L.A.

With that descent into the hell of heroin, dramatic changes in my life occurred. I got involved in a steady relationship for the first time in years. My grades improved dramatically; straight A’s in Aesthetics and Ethics–bringing me closer to Phi Beta Kappa than I’d ever been before. Those hopes were dashed when I earned my customary B in Genetics, but I had an excuse–my high school biology teacher had gone walkabout when he suddenly came down with amnesia. When my girlfriend broke up with me, a girl I’d been friends with in high school sent me a postcard saying she was coming through town, and we hooked up. I was rolling in it; the Big H, horse, whatever you wanted to call it–it was like pixie dust!

But despite all the positive changes that heroin produced in my life, I knew I couldn’t continue to use it as a crutch that helped me focus on my studies and improve my interpersonal skills. For me, smack had one fatal flaw; it was expensive, and was starting to crimp my budget for record albums. That’s right; the most powerfully-addictive drug known to man was no match for my deep-seated cheapness.

And so I sit before you–actually, before my computer–clean and sober tonight. Straight edge, hard core, as they say. I went cold turkey and got the monkey off my back, to mix my animal metaphors. I can laugh about it now, sure, but back then it was a serious thing. I still can’t believe how close I came to a life of complete and utter degradation, dissolution, and depravity.

If I’d done just a little better in Genetics, today I’d be one of those dorks wearing a Phi Beta Kappa key in his lapel.

Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collection “Chicago: Not Just for Toddlin’ Anymore.”

For One Group of Boys, Donated Cars Mean a Way Out

SOMERVILLE, Mass.  This densely-populated near suburb of Boston is known as the Rebuilt Engine Capital of the World, in much the same way that Rome is the City of Fountains and Paris is the City of Lights.  Still, the glamour that comes with that renown is meaningless to the young boys who roam its crowded streets after school, desperately looking for something to take their minds off homework assignments.

“It ain’t easy,” says Earl “Chick” LeGrand, who had a few run-ins with the law growing up here, and who now serves as the city’s Assistant Recreation Director.  “There’s not a whole lot of room for soccer, so the most exercise some kids get is flipping baseball cards.”

“I’ll trade you a Don Mossi for . . . a piece of pre-chewed bubble gum.”


But it was the inspiration of little Matty Halloran, a twelve-year-old with a quick smile and a smart mouth, to change all that.  “I saw this ad in the paper asking people to donate their cars to charity,” he recalls as he stuffs a wad of chewing gum in his mouth.  “I thought we oughta have a program like that.”

Weasel-based amusement device

And so Matty and a number of similar entrepreneurial-minded friends banded together to form the Somerville Young Boys Club to distinguish it from a national organization that threatened to sue if they used the name “Boys Club.”  “We were a start-up, and they had deep pockets,” says Matty’s dad Chuck, a journeyman papier mache worker at an electric train shop.  “I told the kids don’t get hung up on a name, just get out there and hustle yourself some cars.”

So the boys–ten at first, a number that grew rapidly as word of the wholesome fun spread–prepared flyers, signs and tax receipts for donors, and soon were “off to the races,” according to Matty.  And what kind of athletic equipment did they decide to spend the money on, this reporter asks.

“Who said anything about athletic equipment?” Matty says as he hops in the driver’s seat of a 1998 Toyota Corolla LE sedan whose interior is marred only by a few cigarette burns.  “We’re goin’ drag racing on Monsignor O’Brien Highway.”

Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collection “The Spirit of Giving.”

Of Poems About Figs and Farts

When Prince Rainier III asked an expert whether there was a literature of Monegasque, the native language of Monaco, her research produced a suggestive ode to a fig and a poem about a fart.

The Wall Street Journal

“You couldn’t have stifled it until the photo shoot was over?”


It’s not easy being official archivist to the poet laureate of Freedonia. People think a life in poetry is a cushy job, but the problem with literature is–the paperwork!

We’ve got reams and reams of the stuff, going back through the entire eight hundred years of our country’s glorious heritage. The long-suffering people of Freedonia have gone by many names, we who have suffered as the dodge-ball target of central Eurasia: Swervakia, Carjackistan, for a brief period in the forties as part of a franchise deal “Howard Johnson’s,” until finally, as the tanks rolled out of Zworbnik Square in 1956, pelted by day-old yorkblies (our traditional breakfast pastry) hurled by my courageous compatriots–Freedonia!

Because we have been subjugated throughout our history, we are a linguistic smorgasbord, always taking on the native tongue of our oppressors (and try saying that five times fast). We are a veritable graveyard of dead languages; Attic Greek, Esperanto, Pig Latin. As such, much of our nation’s literature flies under the flags of other languages. It is my sacred charge and duty to discover poems written in Gludaresq, the native tongue of my people. Yes we have songs and plays. We have plus size romantic novels of the early 18th century, when a taste for the zaftig in women capable of hefting a brood sow over a stile found expression in works that gave rise to Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther and American bodice-rippers of the twentieth century.

“I haven’t got time for poetry–I’ve got to go milk the donkey.”


But where are the poems? Where is the written record of the blorzaks, the merry lyrics recited by our yeoman as they mucked out stables? Previous attempts to establish Freedonia’s rightful place in the universe of little magazines that pay in complimentary subscriptions have not been fruitful. A banana here, a box of raisins there, but we have no erotic ode to a fig, as the snooty Monacoids have to recite to their luscious fruits late at night in their native Monegasque.

You know you want it.


Hmm . . . what’s this. Looks promising: Ode to an Artichoke. I’ll just get out my Eurozone-approved Metric Scanning Device and give her a whirl:

I love thee, little artichoke,
I’m usually not a lustful bloke
But you, you’re all green and gnarly,
and so let us commence to parley
about the things a doe and buck do
and how much I would like to . . . kiss you.

Have to say . . . not at all bad. As good as any fig-lust sonnets I’ve seen come out of a certain tiny Mediterranean country whose principal export is postage stamps!

But still . . . if we are to take our rightful place among the nations of poetry, I feel we must have our own variation on the classic of men’s room walls, the one that lights the fire of poetry in young boys’ souls, never to be quenched until they are dead and cold in the grave. Let’s see . . . wait . . . is it . . . could it be? It is! A Freedonian variation on the universal theme so dear to the hearts of the male of the species:

Here I sit all broken-hearted,
paid 12 glotkies, a niklosh and 4 norgeshes to shit
and only farted.


Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collections “poetry is kind of important” and “Hail, Freedonia!”

Releasing Your Inner Bigfoot

“A”                                “B”

Dorothy Parker once observed that Katherine Hepburn’s emotional range ran the gamut from “A” to “B”.

The average man’s mid-life crisis doesn’t even get that far.

There is the Automotive (sports cars), the Athletic (late-in-life marathons and Iron Man competitions) and the Amorous (making passes at young lasses).

“Just passing through.”

To this triple-A club, allow me to add a “B”–Bigfoot, the apelike creature who walks upright like a man.

Since grainy footage of the creature first became available in the ’60′s, I have dreamed of owning a Bigfoot costume.  Now that I’m in the autumn of my years and I’ve begun to reflect on what I want to accomplish before I die, it is time to put on the sasquatch suit and go into the woods west of Boston deliberately, like Thoreau.

Farrah Fawcett, not Thoreau

In the ’70′s, Bigfoot was romantically linked with Farrah Fawcett, spotted in an Arkansas 7-11 with Elvis, and tabbed the front-runner to be Secretary of the Interior had Gerald Ford defeated Jimmy Carter.

He has since avoided the spotlight, resurfacing only for serious scientific study such as a 2002 National Geographic article.  As with J.D. Salinger, Bigfoot’s mystique has been enhanced by his private nature, and his Garbo-like attitude has opened the field to imitators, like me.

J.D. Salinger:  “Bigfoot?  Yeah, I’ve seen him around.”

Those who have longed to dress as Bigfoot in the past but were deterred, like transvestites, from shopping publicly have found a haven in the internet.  There are numerous high-quality Bigfoot costumes available on-line for sale or lease.  Ask your accountant which is right for you.


If you’re the handyman type, try the do-it-yourself models available on hunting websites.  These strikingly realistic outfits can be fashioned from a few items you probably already own–camouflage, foam padding, jute and Shoe Goo.

Be sure to work in a well-ventilated area as prolonged exposure to glue fumes can cause behavior that would be considered erratic even for a creature that eats housecats.

Like the Evangelist you may ask, “What doth it profit a man to gain a Bigfoot costume, and lose his wife’s faith in his sanity?”  I’ll tell you what it doth profit as soon as I can untie my tongue from these frigging fricatives.

Roger Patterson, the man who faked home movies of Bigfoot, made a bundle selling prints to supermarket-checkout line tabloids.  Our property borders conservation land, a perfect setting for the sort of Blair Witch Project cinéma vérité-style that is de rigeur for any Bigfoot flick.

After spending an afternoon staggering around your backyard in a sasquatch costume in front of a video camera, you’ll have college tuition for the kids pretty well covered.  Then the little woman will think it’s a good idea.

Having a Bigfoot costume can also extend the life of your pets.  If coyotes are moving into your neighborhood, there is nothing like the sight of a yeti to send them packing.  No cruel leg traps for your neighbors with the PETA membership to complain about.

And then there’s the matter of convenience.  No one likes to wait in line, but everyone wants that wake-up cup of coffee first thing in the morning, causing caffeine gridlock across the country all weekend long.

“Uh, sure–you can cut in front of me.”

If you want to clear out a Starbucks in a hurry, try showing up some Saturday morning dressed as an 8-foot tall mammal!  You’ll find plenty of empty seats, and maybe even a newspaper someone in a hurry left behind.  Probably needed to feed his meter.

Fashion tip: Remove costume before meeting wife at Talbots.

“I love this cable knit cardigan . . . oh my god!  It’s Bigfoot!”

Kids love furry animals, and you can make a lot of money at birthday parties with your new outfit.  The going rate for a three-hour gig is $200 and can go higher if you’re willing to do a little face painting–assuming the kids will come out from behind the sofa.

That first check will seem like found money.  Take your wife out for a meal at a nice restaurant–a well-timed growl from “Bigfoot” will get you the best table in the place.

Psychologists describe the mid-life transition as “middlescence”–the second coming of adolescence, without the complexion problems.

What could be more adolescent than staggering out of the house at night, hair down to your shoulders, dressed to scare people, smelling of Shoe Goo?

Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collection “Yes I Can’t!”

To a Prolific and Prurient Authoress of Flash Fiction

Darling, believe me, we’re all getting sick
of reading about your boyfriend’s dick.
I’m sure the thing can spring to glory
but must you include it in every story?

If your intent is to shock and awe
by revealing the thing that he likes to paw,
frankly, my dear, I find it a bore.
I’ve seen its like many times before
each morn as I stroll through the locker room-
hence my air of cranky gloom.

Take the word of this poor bard–
darling, you’re trying much too hard,
and if that advice has a punnish sound
consider the company you’re hanging around.

In sum, in my mind there is no doubt
you’ve better things to write about.
You’ve made his organ of generation
the singular object of your veneration.
You make me feel like a party crasher
and I get the sense you both are flashers.

A Divine Gate-Crasher at the Antique Car Show

Saturday morning: my usual routine–swim, town dump, dry cleaner, coffee–is brightened today by festivities on the lovely greensward that graces the center of our town, like so many others in New England. I don’t mean our greensward travels around to other towns, they have their own; ours stays right where it is.

“*sniff* I just love the smell of old money!”


The occasion? The annual antique car show, organized by the old codgers who only leave their estates to go to their summer homes in quaint towns on Cape Cod (where there are also antique car shows, so they don’t miss a beat) or to come to Town Meeting to vote against the bond issue for the new fire truck. The one we have is perfectly fine–it’s only forty years old!

You know how it is; you make your first ten million and you’re suddenly seized by the impulse–perhaps for the first time in your life–to give something back. To yourself! All that self-denial and delayed gratification gets to be tiresome after sixty or seventy years.

I pull into a parking space near town hall and survey the scene. There’s something for everybody here today. For descendants of families that came over on the Mayflower who’ve been lovingly maintaining the automotive heirloom with the single digit license plate issued to an ancestor by Cotton Mather when revenues from witch-burnings dried up, there’s a Stutz Bearcat. For those with more whimsical tastes, there are “woodies,” station wagons with real wood panels, not the fake kind. For the parvenus, les nouveau riche, there are Jaguar XKE’s from the ’60′s. It’s a car lover’s dream, even for a guy like me who thinks of cars as appliances on wheels.

“Hey you can’t park there!” I hear somebody yell, and I look up from my reverie.

“Why not?” I ask, all ingenuous flip-flopped boy with cheeks of tan.

“That space is for cars that are entered in the competition.”

I size the guy up. I figure him to be the scion of one of those old Boston Brahmin families whose name used to be part of some money management firm–White, Weld, Smith, Barney, Upham, Felton, Shore & Bladda-Bladda–but they got squeezed off the letterhead by a merger or an attempt at re-branding. I think I can take him.

“What makes you think I’m not going to enter?” I say with a cocky air.

It’s his turn to look me over, like a butterfly pinned to a specimen box. “A 2006 Pontiac Torrent?” he snorts. “Please–don’t make me laugh.”

I’m third from the bottom, right hand row.

He’s got me on a technicality. I check the program, and I see there’s no 21st Century Orphan Model division, so I’m going to have to fake it.

“This baby’s a classic,” I say, extending my arm in a gesture of display the way the models do at car shows. “V-6 or V-4, I forget. Plush polyester interior. Six CD-changer. It’s cherry.”

Car-show girl: Probably not cherry.

“Cherry? What’s that mean?” the guy asks. I guess he’s so old he’s forgotten some of the cool slang adolescent males have handed down since time immemorial.

“Virginal. Clean. Low-mileage, one-owner. It’s hymen’s never been penetrated.”

The guy snorts again–must be allergies–and points to the hatchback. “Then what are all those boxes and crates?”

“Those? Oh–those are for recycling.”

Another snort–I offer him a Kleenex but he declines. “What’s the point?” he asks, and I have to admit he’s got a point. When I first fed deposit bottles into one of those automatic recycling machines and heard them get crunched up into a million pieces, my childhood illusion that there was some big room where they washed the bottles and returned them to the vending machines was shattered, along with the bottles.

Your local recycling center: A great place to meet earthy babes!

“It’s sort of my religion,” I say.

“Religion? Please–religion is that over there” he says pointing to the Unitarian Universalist Church across the green where, as the old joke goes, the last time they heard the words “Jesus Christ” was when the janitor fell down the stairs.

“I disagree,” I say. “I’ve been recycling since 1972, on the South Side of Chicago. I moved on to the western suburbs of Boston, down the street from where Larry Bird lived. I graduated to the Town Dump in Wellesley, Mass.–to my knowledge, the only dump that’s ever been featured on the front page of The Wall Street Journal. And I just came back from our quaint little town dump–it’s not Wellesley, but it’s ours.”

“Why do you say it’s a religion?”

“Because I do it out of faith, with no demonstrable evidence that it has any actual effect on my life, just because it makes me feel–better.”

“But it doesn’t involve God.”

“It’s got Gaia, primordial earth goddess of ancient Greek religion.”

“She’s not the God.”

“Dude,” I say, draping my arm around his shoulder. “Monotheism is way overrated.”

“It is?”

“Sure it is. You want to have a little competiton among vendors in your godhead shopping. I went to your little church one time, when our kids were young.”

“What happened?”

“The sermon was ‘Why Timothy McVeigh is in Heaven Today.’”

He looked at me like I’d come to his daughter’s wedding with my shirt untucked. Which it was.

“Well, I’m . . . uh . . . sure there was some deeper meaning . . .”

“Bullhockey!” I snapped, unleashing the full force of my extensive vocabulary of non-obscene curse words at him. “You know your fellow parishioners–they’re out there every sunny Saturday with their anti-war/anti-nuke signs. You know they had a sermon of love for the 9/11 highjackers. And I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that tomorrow’s sermon will be “Why the Oklahoma Beheader Isn’t Such a Bad Guy.”

The look on his face appeared to concede that I might–just might–be right, even though I went to the wrong schools and grew up in the wrong part of the country and didn’t have a crocodile on my shirt.

“So you recommend . . .”

“Polytheism, jack. If you don’t like what your god’s puttin’ down, you can shop around. Try Gaia, or Shiva the Destroyer. You want a god who’s willing to kick some fuc–”

He cut me off–we still have a blasphemy law on the books here in Massachusetts.

Shiva, one kick-ass divinity.

“Okay, maybe I’ll give it a whirl. Say–are there any books I could read to sort of, you know, learn a little more about the vengeful gods they didn’t teach us about in Sunday School?”

“I’d start with H.L. Mencken’s ‘Treatise on the Gods.’ He compiled a catalog of more crazy-ass divinities than you can shake a stick at.”

The old guy seemed geniunely grateful. “Thanks,” he said, “thanks a lot.”

We shook hands and turned to part when he stopped me. “Say–you don’t really expect to win a prize up against all these old-money classics in mint condition, do you?”

“With my Lord and Master Zoroaster,” I said, “anything is possible.”

Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collection “Oh . . . My . . . God.”

US News to Add Female Leg, Armpit Hair to College Rankings

WASHINGTON, D.C.  Responding to criticism from elite institutions of higher learning, U.S. News & World Report today announced that it would include female leg and armpit hair as a factor in its annual ranking of the best American colleges.

“We have been rightfully chastised for focusing on trivial measures such as the number of books in a school’s library and student-faculty ratio,” said Robert Flanigan, managing editor of the newsweekly that has turned its ratings of colleges into a profitable sideline.  “You should probably know what the word ‘chastise’ means if you want to get into a good school,” he added.

“We’re #1!”


The decision placated faculty at several colleges that had refused to participate in the survey because of its focus on raw data over subjective indicators.  “There is no more accurate sign of a school’s academic rigor than the unwillingness of its female students to shave their legs and armpits,” said JoEllen Murada, First Deputy Assistant Vice Provost-Elect of Stanford University.  “After all, what does ‘placate’ mean?” she asked rhetorically; “(a) to soothe or mollify, (b) to remove scales from an object, such as a fish, or (c) an almond-flavored custard.”

“Anita, there’s either a mouse in your dress shield or you forgot to shave your pits.”


Mary Ellen Robinson, head of the American Association of University Women, said she was bemused by the magazine’s decision.  “Why isn’t there a comparable index for male students?” she asked, adding “‘bemused’ means I’m confused, not laughing.”

Flanigan responded that U.S. News would welcome input from female faculty and administrators but that standards applicable to one sex did not necessarily produce useful information when applied to the other.  “Poor hygiene in males appears to be independent of I.Q.,” he noted.  “If that’s one of your criteria, Harvard would be full of Bruins fans.”

Rush committee, I Felta Thi sorority


Schools where sororities are a prominent feature of campus life were caught off guard by the decision, and student leaders vowed to assist in the recruitment of women who could boost their colleges’ academic standing.  “I’m going to go out and beat the bushes to find some groaty girls to bring our average up,” said Cyndi Lynn Anthony, a Chi Omega at the University of Missouri.  “Just as soon as I finish plucking my eyebrows.”

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