Pool Parties and Big Boobs
A story from your friendly neighborhood cab driver
It was mid-day and hot as usual in Tucson, the sun hanging there like an angry fundamentalist. Five sorority girls left their dorm building and walked down the smoldering sidewalk in flip-flops and pastel dresses: Gadabout bimbos with low-swung hips and lazy postures ambling along as if it was an almost unbearable burden to be so desirable. I was sitting in my taxi.
“Can you take us to the Standard?” squeaked one of the mall bunnies.
“Love to,” I said.
The Standard was one of the many off-campus housing complexes for the wealthy college kids from California and Boston and New York.
This was the University of Arizona, gathering place for mega-maniacal meat.
They all wore bathing suits underneath their pastel dresses.
“Pool party at The Standard?” I said.
They looked at me like I was a pervert or an idiot, or both. I was way too old to matter.
“Oh, yea-ah, poo-el party, dude,” one of them finally said.
Once a month one of the off-campus apartment buildings hosted huge, hideous swimming pool parties. Hundreds of brain-dead Uni-kids packed…
