September 26, 2011


Did I ever tell you about the time in University when I had a steamy afternoon with Mavis Beacon?

I was walking across campus in early October listening to a new batch of sound effects I had downloaded the night before. Just as "Burp 3" was finishing, I noticed a group of well-dressed students filing into my second favourite lecture hall, the one that had the funny desk graffiti about John Candy. My curiosity got the best of me and I made my way over to see what was going on.

"What's this all about?" I asked an unassuming female dressed in her Orchestra/Funeral/Wedding/Job Interview outfit of a black knee-length skirt and well-pressed white blouse.

"Mavis Beacon is here today to talk about typing and maybe even teach us a thing or two about typing," she answered excitedly, while coyly eying my baseball uniform up and down.

"Play ball," I replied.

I wasn't as interested in the presentation so much as the presenter. Before my parents could figuratively afford to steal a computer from my neighbours who didn't even appreciate theirs and kept saying how "kinda dumb" they are, I'd spend time at my best friend's house looking up our favourite hobbies on Microsoft Encarta. Did you know that "Rugby" is named after the plac e where they invented it? All the while, this beautiful woman would stare down at me from the bookshelf that held software boxes and I'd get so horny that any words with "s" sounds would give me an embarrassing public erection of the dick. This woman was Mavis Beacon. Smart, beautiful, nice, rich, stylish, a girl. She had it all.

I managed to get a seat between the two ugliest people I could find, a lesson I learned from the July 1999 issue of Chatelaine, the one controversial one where Camilla Scott is on the cover with blood all over her face. Anyway, what a plan. It worked. Mavis took the stage in a black leather catsuit and before addressing the crowd she stopped, looked my way and licked her lips in way that suggested it was a natural instinct rather than a purposeful seduction. As her presentation began she couldn't seem to concentrate as I drew her attention to me by flexing my muscles for the entire three hours.

"Typing is, uh, hold on. Typing is... no, okay, the letters on the keys are the same as the alphabet and the numbers are there too, they're the same old shapes you know, that they usually are, like a 'seven' is the standard horizontal meets vertical and there are some symbols and the F keys, which are like, well you know, I mean, they do different things for different people."

With those words the presentation concluded and before I knew it I was neck deep in hanky panky with the world's most powerful keyboardist in a tiny storage room lit by an overhead projector we found in the corner. It smelled like dust at when we first entered, but we left it smelling like an old lasagna, know what I mean?

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