Monday, September 16, 2002

Feathers seem to ruffle easily in here. Anyway...

Not all that long ago in a galaxy right on top of us, we gathered at the round table during yet another happy hour. There was much joking and goofing and wondering who would be first to spit beer out their nose. Somehow the talk got onto 'the sensitive guy' of the eighties. Bill expanded on this theme by coining the acronym SNAG (Sensitive New-Age Guy), which really sent our tiny male kill-or-be-killed brains into fight or flight mode. Finally, in an attempt to learn by example, we asked the ladies to just point out the most sensitive guy in the pub. To a woman they all named Franky! You can imagine the difficulty our how-can-I-get-laid/are-you-going-to-eat-that brains were having comprehending this. Just as a control in this little experiment, we polled the rest of the women in the pub, making a total sample of about nine or ten, including those at our table. ALL chose Franky. The next day it was made official when the owner put this phrase on the Quarterback's marquis: HOME OF MR. SENSITIVE.

Doug: Psychic Sex Turnip.


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