Musings of a Mack

Jim-Dogg
Web Master

To the reader: This article originally appeared in Student Life’s annual April Fools’ issue. Please don’t take anything in it as fact. We made it all up.

Check it: When it comes to the ladies, I am a Mack par excellence. I wine ’em, dine ’em-and when I’m through, I move on to the next. Bitches is bitches, as far as I’m concerned. I simply gets my swerve, then kicks ’em to the curb. And I’ve never had any complaints.
But I must be slippin’, because this chick in my psychology department is totally doggin’ me.
You know the one I mean-titties out to here, so much junk in the trunk I could set my drink on her ass. She sits two chairs in front of me, and I’ve had my eye on her for most of the semester. But last week, when I sidled up to her to offer her a heaping dose of my sweet lovin’, she turned me down. Point-blank. No hesitation. Just like that.
At first I thought maybe she misheard me-thought I was asking to borrow her notes or something. So two days later, I asked her again, and this time I made specific my intentions. “Girl, you look like some kind of freak,” I said. “So when are we gonna hump?”
She slapped me.
Damn.
Now, I know I’m a good looking guy. I wear fashionable, contemporary clothes. I keep my hair cut in the styles of my favorite television and movie celebrities. And fellow deans agree: My sideburns are absolutely to die for-mid-lobe in length, perfectly even, thick but not bushy. I put that guy on The Practice to shame.
Most women can’t keep their hands off me. I can count any number of strumpets on campus who’d sell their soul just to get into my pants. To paraphrase Snoop Doggy Dogg, I have to scratch women off my balls with my muthafuckin’ paws. And you know I settle for nothing less than the best. I don’t mess with any B-rate women. Uh uh. I’ve got nothing against all those easy, sleazy women out there. But why drink Kool Aid when you can sip champagne?
Ya dig?
All this is completely new to me. I’ve never been rejected. Never. Not once. Like I said before, when it comes to corralling the fillies, I’ve always come correct.
So I have to ask myself, Who is this girl to give me the cold shoulder? Who is she to deny me my ber-player status? Doesn’t she know whom she’s dealing with, here?
I know I shouldn’t fret over this. There’s definitely plenty more fish in the sea, most of whom I could easily bait. But I can’t get the thought out of my mind that maybe my days as Washington University’s premier bachelor are over. Is this the beginning of the end? Will the Era of Ass-Getting and Female Objectification soon melt into air? Will I remain a playa? And, if so, will I continue to crush alot?
I’m not gonna lie: I’m scared. Real scared.
You know what? I shouldn’t even sweat this chick. I mean, yeah, she definitely dogged me (and so effortlessly, too!). But so what? Such a fact only slightly diminishes my sexual prowess, which all will attest far eclipses that of any other male on this campus.
Still, though, I have to protect my reputation, which could be severely damaged by the revelations I’ve put forth in this column. I have an image to preserve, the foundation of which will surely crumble if my advances should be met again with such swift and impartial rejection.
My only recourse, now, is to revisit my playa days of yore-to initiate, in short, a sexual renaissance. It’s time once again to kick it old- school style. Standing aloft but alone atop the apex of libidinous sensual indulgence has left lethargic my once spry skills as a Mack. I need not be slapped again to know that. And while 90 percent of women at WU are still yearning for me to give them The Business, I must strive for more.
Consider this my manifesto, a kind of Jerry Maguire-esque memorandum to reform the principles that define my sexual bravado. I want each and every girl (including but not limited to that stingy heifer in my psychology class) to crave the carnal bliss only I can provide. I want once again to cast my lecherous gaze upon a group of women and know, in my heart of hearts, that they not only want, but need the thunder of my loins.
Let it be known:
The Mack is back.

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