Coach & Rhino’s Big Adventure the 453rd
(This Really Did Happen)
Copyright © 2008 by rhino
‘Twas the afternoon of 05 October 2008, when Coach and I did find our mild-mannered selves passing through Bloomington on our way home from the pistol match at South Central. As is our way, we were innocently minding our own business and quietly pondering charitable, Christian thoughts of chastity and other virtues. Ordinarily we prefer to return home as quickly as possible, as our primary goal is to arrive safely and spend quality time with our families and perhaps engage in prayer. Unfortunately the best laid plans of coaches and pachyderms oft go awry.
For some reason that eludes explanation and could very well baffle the best minds of our generation, Coach’s truck somehow found its way to 3rd Street. As we proceeded in the general direction of home, something unusual did appear in the periphery of our vision. Something “different,” something subtle, something out of place about a large house on our left caught our attention. Naturally we remain ever alert and vigilant for safety reasons, so few details escape our notice. Upon closer examination, we concluded that approximately 30-40 sorority girls were jumping up and down, gesticulating wildly with their arms and other appendage, and vocalizing in order to attract attention.
At this point you, the gentle reader, must bear in mind that Coach and I are civic-minded, altruistic individuals who are unable to disregard a cry for help. Clearly the young ladies demonstrated signs of distress and it was our Christian duty, nay, our responsibility as fellow inhabitants of the Earth to stop and lend assistance in any manner within our capabilities.
The clever monkeys among you may deduce at this juncture that the two of us had stumbled across a car wash at a sorority house on the Indiana University campus. If you are among those whose powers of logic and sheer intuition led you to such an unexpected yet factual conclusion, I salute you.
So there were: driving past the ΠΒΦ house when we both spotted the girls doing everything in their power to entice us to patronize their fundraising activity. My mind was starting to boggle while processing the massive visual input while simultaneously attempting to cope with the multiple scenarios (both possible and otherwise) that immediately began forming in my overactive mind’s eye. Time seemed to slow, yet as I realized we needed to stop, the vehicle remained in forward motion. I was unable to react immediately, as I could not decide whether to grab the steering wheel and turn it violently toward their driveway, or shout at Coach, “WHY THE F*&% AREN’T YOU PULLING INTO THAT F*&YING BABEFEST?”
Negligible time elapsed when I heard Coach exclaim in a determined voice, “We’re going back.”
The next five minutes resembled a cross between a car chase in a French action-adventure film and the urgency you feel when you’ve just finished that Big Gulp and the next rest area is 153 miles down the freeway. It would be difficult to trace our path without a set of maps and GPS coordinates, but somehow we made a loop around and through campus and made our way back to the Promised Land (i.e. the sorority house).
As Coach smartly executed a deft left-hand turn into their driveway, the girls all started cheering . . . for us . . . as we arrived. They cheered. For us. As we arrived.
By this point I was giddy due to the simultaneous heart attack and stroke I was experiencing. Yes, it was that good. Two middle-aged, creepy old guys in a pickup truck, awaiting a team of forty nubile college girls, all scantily attired in the shortest of shorts and flimsiest of tops, to remove the filth from the vehicle. Unfortunately, they lacked the means to address the similar conditions of our respective imaginations, but that’s another issue.
I’m not sure if anyone reading this can fully comprehend the sensory overload we experienced. It was impossible to decide where to look and for how long, as the combination of soapy water and flirtatious coeds melded into a living diorama of pure visual goodness. If you’re not still with me I shall recap:
- Hot college girls numbering two score or more
- Immodest (to be generous) attire
- Water
- Soap
- Flirting, smiling, and pretending to not know why we were all there
- Sponges
- Slightly sweaty like beach volleyball players at the beginning of a game
- Assorted buffing implements
- Cleavage
- Thighs
- Wetness of thin clothing
- Bending over for quite a bit longer than was actually necessary while facing away from us
- Giggling and squealing (from the girls too)
Another guy arrived in an SUV to our right and immediately asked, “Where’s the bathing suits.”
The reply from one of the girls was (and this is an exact quote), “We’re tryin’ to keep this classy.”
That line in and of itself would have made the entire experience, yet it was only a small piece of the puzzle.
Another favorite was, “I’ll start on your front,” accompanied by a little smile.
I had my window down, and the girl showing me her cleavage as she leaned toward the truck asked me, “So where are you coming from?”
My urge was to say, “About a foot away from you right now,” but then I realized she wanted to know where we had physically been before we arrived. I couldn’t remember.
I had to ask Coach. He blurted out, “Seymour,” which I relayed to my new friend and conversation partner, Miss I’m Wearing This Incredibly Thin, White Top That Falls Away from My Body When I Bend Over Just So Guys Like You Can See My Goods.
She asked me, “Where’s that?”
Of course, I couldn’t tell her. My brain no longer had sufficient resources to communicate with actual language effectively. I said something about 45 minutes away and she was favorably impressed that we had driven so far just to “help” them. News flash: I’d have crawled that same distance on my hands and knees over broken glass and then slid down a 40-foot razor blade into a giant tub of alcohol had I known what was waiting for us in Bloomington. Yes, it was that good.
Then my personal favorite, “Jessica, you rub that side.” And trust me: Jessica rubbed that side. Oh, did Jessica rub that side. In fact, while Jessica was rubbing that side, I concluded that she was my personal, most favorite of my forty new favorite friends: beautiful little brunette, aqua colored tank top, dark blue shorts . . . what was inside the shorts and the tank top . . .
They even had one of their members wearing brainy-girl glasses and collecting the money. I suspect she was an accounting major and one of the house’s GPA boosters. And of course she was FREAKIN’ HOT!
Granted, I’m a creep old guy, and all young college girls look good on some level. You’ll have to trust me when I assert that each and every one of them was totally hot. It was almost impossible for me to believe so many of them in one place at one time and none were even close to being “plain.” Did I remember to mention they were wet and soapy and just a little sweaty from all of their hard work? Did I remember to mention it was FREAKIN’ AWESOME?
And then, all too soon, it was over. It was time to leave, and return to our pathetic, regular lives.
On the way home, after we could speak again, we mutually concluded that we’d just had one of the best days of our lives, even though it was only about ten minutes of quality time with the girls of ΠΒΦ. After high-fiving each other a few dozen times, we started calling everyone we knew who lived in the area so that they too could partake. I must publicly apologize to INGO members soundslikejosh and Gump for forgetting to call them. It was an unforgivable omission on my part and I hope that someday they will forgive me and my failure. In my defense, I was not in command of my faculties at the time, but that is merely an explanation and not an excuse.
It truly was an experience to which I could never do justice with mere words. In the future, we have vowed to never leave home without a camera (or twelve). One of the few things that could have improved the experience would have been ample photographic evidence of the spectacle. In lieu of that, we have our memories. Well, our memories plus the inevitable “artistic embellishments,” but anyone who did not mentally append the latter hasn’t been paying attention.
Finally, here’s the kicker: they only charged Coach $5 for the wash and they did a good job washing his truck. That, kind ladies and gentlemen, is what I call a bargain.
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for the College experience! 
