The Walk of Shame

If there's one thing I miss most about college life [besides, of course, Free Hooker Wednesdays and Put Your Balls in the Dean's Mouth for Charity Night], it's the Walk of Shame. You know, that long, agonizing, seemingly endless crawl from the room/apartment/wigwam of the troglodyte you screwed the night before -- after Goldschlager had its way with your sense of judgement -- back to your place. Noting my proclivity for bagging every wookiee on campus, my friends went to astronomical lengths to capture me on said Walk, eventually establishing an elaborate network of telescopes and videocameras just to catch me in the act of the Walk.

One particular evening, when I awoke underneath an upperclassman who actually referred to herself as "Sasquatch," my first thought -- after, "Am I alive?" -- was "I know those bastards are out there, waiting." And I had to elude them.

So I figured I'd wait them out. I played the "attachable guy," the one who wants to stay for coffee, tea, backrubs, minor housework, etc. Because I knew they were out there. And I wasn't gonna let them get me this time.

Finally, by 6:00 that evening, with Sasquatch reaching even her limits of patience with my weenie ass, I broke for the door and dashed home, only to be greeted by the lot of them, on a sofa, outside the dorm. A "Welcome Home Ken" banner -- complete with crude sketch of a Sasquatch putting me in a cage -- hanging over the door. Busted.

And, man, do I miss that feeling. So to anyone making the Walk of Shame this morning, here's to you.