As referenced in the sidebar.
So was the first man I ever boinked. (11:30 p.m., after some hot buttered rum, Annandale on Hudson, New York, spring of 1972: “OK, I trust your funny little rubber things.”) What I learned from that experience was that men, as a general thing, don’t really have feelings; they just mime them because it seems expedient and makes things go more smoothly. What I remember, from late-night conversations that meant more to me than to the party of the second part, was line after line of text from a hilarious musical titled Cremora, executed by Cranbrook students during those twitchy Vietnam years when college deferments meant everything.
Harvard! Antioch! You can go to Princeton if you’re a jock!
Uncle Sam’s a-callin and you gotta do the college rag!
Art doesn’t exactly excuse everything, but does make it sit more comfortably, and he is probably a fat-gutted boring grandfather of four while I have deltoids like Keitt mangoes and can hang by my insteps from any crossbeam of a reasonable size.
I’ll challenge both of them mano a mano in any arena willing to host the contest — Mitt and Twit. But the musical was hilarious. Thanks to the enterprising youth who put the whole thing up on YouTube.