Infiltrating the Meat Factory
Meathead <>: College-aged male, weighing at least 175 lbs, having a below average IQ and above average sized biceps. Often they sport at least one tribal tattoo, most commonly around the bicep or on the upper back. They communicate with each other in a strange language last used by cavemen in the late cretaceous period.
Meat Factory <>: Any location where a large number of meatheads are gathered.
When I think of spring break, I think of good-looking people dancing, making out, binge drinking, and hooking up with each other. But not me. I am not one of these people. While I would definitely partake in the binge drinking, I probably wouldn’t do much else, being too shy to and unattractive to participate in said debauchery. Besides, I figured that kind of behavior was strictly for meatheads to enjoy.
And for the first half my 2005 spring break, I was strictly an observer of all meaty activity. Until one drunken afternoon, my loyal cohort Sweeny and I, after losing our battle with a bottle of Two Fingers tequila, decided to infiltrate the Meat Factory.
Only a few hours earlier, it had merely been a pool. Most of the spring-breakers, including us, were relaxing poolside, catching some rays. But by late afternoon, with no footballs to throw around, the meatheads had grown restless and decided they needed to cool off. Apparently, one of them had discovered the hotel pool was the perfect place to view all of the rooms’ balconies.
Their next genius discovery was that if enough of them chanted “show your tits” at unsuspecting females standing on these balconies, some of them actually would. As we sat poolside, clutching our bottle of Two Fingers, we watched in awe as every meathead inPanama City
Sweeny and I sat in amazement at the events unfolding before our eyes. Getting a girl to remove any article of clothing in my presence had always been a difficult task, and now here I was, watching girls disrobe and all it took were the grunts of a group of Cro-Magnons. I looked over at Sweeny in disgust. I could see in his eyes he felt the same way. We began hitting the bottle hard.
I’m not sure whose idea was to enter the Meat Factory. But as soon as the idea surfaced, it was as if a higher power was calling us to that pool. Standing 5 foot 6, weighing a buck thirty, I was no meathead. Standing well over 6 feet tall, but somehow weighing around the same as me, Sweeny was definitely no meathead. In fact, he bared an uncanny resemblance to a stork. We sat back and forth, debating.
“Benson, dude we should totally go in there.”
“Sweeny, no way.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“No man, maybe we should go in.”
“Alright man, let’s go.
“Jesus Christ, are we really going in there?”
“Fuck it; I’ll do if you do it.” I couldn’t say no to that. It was on. My bird-like friend and I got up and jumped into the pool, too inebriated to worry about what the consequences might be. Would the meatheads sense their holy land had been infiltrated? Would they throw us out? Drown us? Eat us? Would our scrawny bodies be able to yell and grunt loud enough? Would girls stop showing their breasts once they saw a skinny Jew and a stork staring back up at them?
Much to our surprise, the meatheads embraced us as one of their own. Apparently, our interest in half naked girls was all we needed to become one with the Meat Factory. Soon we were chanting along with the rest of them.
It was a surreal, almost out-of-body experience for me – partly because of the amount of alcohol I had consumed, but mainly because it was the first time I let go of my inhibitions altogether. I wasn’t shy. I was a loud, obnoxious, frat boy yelling at random girls to show me their chests - something I though was “beneath me” and immature. Remarkably the meatheads, who I had always been jealous of for their looks, ability to have no dignity whatsoever, and their talents with women, were not the mean, brutish cavemen I thought they were. They were nice, brutish cavemen.
Then things got weird. Sweeny became not only one of the pack, but rather the leader of the pack. His ability to come up with new and improved chants left the meatheads hanging on his every word. The meatheads, who we always thought were superior to us, were now our minions, listening to Sweeny’s every command, amazed that “show your tits” wasn’t the only thing you could say to coerce a girl into taking her top off.
While it lasted, it was paradise. But no parade of shirtless girls can last forever. Security was called because apparently our behavior was lewd and disruptive. We were all unceremoniously kicked out of the pool, and the Meat Factory became a pool once again
And so my adventure came to an end. I had learned a profound lesson that would stick with me the rest of my life. Ok, so it wasn’t really that profound of a lesson. And I’ll probably forget the entire spring break by the time I’m 25. But as someone who had spent his teens and early college years watching the fun others were having with a jealous eye, it was nice to finally let loose.
I felt a sense of triumph as well; we had been able to have a successful interaction with the meatheads we had felt at odds with our entire lives. I at last came to understand their meaty ways, and no longer felt threatened by their kind. In fact, I felt as if I was a 50 pounds and one tattoo shy of being one myself. Plus, I saw more breasts in that one afternoon than I had seen in my entire life.
Meat Factory <>: Any location where a large number of meatheads are gathered.
When I think of spring break, I think of good-looking people dancing, making out, binge drinking, and hooking up with each other. But not me. I am not one of these people. While I would definitely partake in the binge drinking, I probably wouldn’t do much else, being too shy to and unattractive to participate in said debauchery. Besides, I figured that kind of behavior was strictly for meatheads to enjoy.
And for the first half my 2005 spring break, I was strictly an observer of all meaty activity. Until one drunken afternoon, my loyal cohort Sweeny and I, after losing our battle with a bottle of Two Fingers tequila, decided to infiltrate the Meat Factory.
Only a few hours earlier, it had merely been a pool. Most of the spring-breakers, including us, were relaxing poolside, catching some rays. But by late afternoon, with no footballs to throw around, the meatheads had grown restless and decided they needed to cool off. Apparently, one of them had discovered the hotel pool was the perfect place to view all of the rooms’ balconies.
Their next genius discovery was that if enough of them chanted “show your tits” at unsuspecting females standing on these balconies, some of them actually would. As we sat poolside, clutching our bottle of Two Fingers, we watched in awe as every meathead in
Sweeny and I sat in amazement at the events unfolding before our eyes. Getting a girl to remove any article of clothing in my presence had always been a difficult task, and now here I was, watching girls disrobe and all it took were the grunts of a group of Cro-Magnons. I looked over at Sweeny in disgust. I could see in his eyes he felt the same way. We began hitting the bottle hard.
I’m not sure whose idea was to enter the Meat Factory. But as soon as the idea surfaced, it was as if a higher power was calling us to that pool. Standing 5 foot 6, weighing a buck thirty, I was no meathead. Standing well over 6 feet tall, but somehow weighing around the same as me, Sweeny was definitely no meathead. In fact, he bared an uncanny resemblance to a stork. We sat back and forth, debating.
“Benson, dude we should totally go in there.”
“Sweeny, no way.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“No man, maybe we should go in.”
“Alright man, let’s go.
“Jesus Christ, are we really going in there?”
“Fuck it; I’ll do if you do it.” I couldn’t say no to that. It was on. My bird-like friend and I got up and jumped into the pool, too inebriated to worry about what the consequences might be. Would the meatheads sense their holy land had been infiltrated? Would they throw us out? Drown us? Eat us? Would our scrawny bodies be able to yell and grunt loud enough? Would girls stop showing their breasts once they saw a skinny Jew and a stork staring back up at them?
Much to our surprise, the meatheads embraced us as one of their own. Apparently, our interest in half naked girls was all we needed to become one with the Meat Factory. Soon we were chanting along with the rest of them.
It was a surreal, almost out-of-body experience for me – partly because of the amount of alcohol I had consumed, but mainly because it was the first time I let go of my inhibitions altogether. I wasn’t shy. I was a loud, obnoxious, frat boy yelling at random girls to show me their chests - something I though was “beneath me” and immature. Remarkably the meatheads, who I had always been jealous of for their looks, ability to have no dignity whatsoever, and their talents with women, were not the mean, brutish cavemen I thought they were. They were nice, brutish cavemen.
Then things got weird. Sweeny became not only one of the pack, but rather the leader of the pack. His ability to come up with new and improved chants left the meatheads hanging on his every word. The meatheads, who we always thought were superior to us, were now our minions, listening to Sweeny’s every command, amazed that “show your tits” wasn’t the only thing you could say to coerce a girl into taking her top off.
While it lasted, it was paradise. But no parade of shirtless girls can last forever. Security was called because apparently our behavior was lewd and disruptive. We were all unceremoniously kicked out of the pool, and the Meat Factory became a pool once again
And so my adventure came to an end. I had learned a profound lesson that would stick with me the rest of my life. Ok, so it wasn’t really that profound of a lesson. And I’ll probably forget the entire spring break by the time I’m 25. But as someone who had spent his teens and early college years watching the fun others were having with a jealous eye, it was nice to finally let loose.
I felt a sense of triumph as well; we had been able to have a successful interaction with the meatheads we had felt at odds with our entire lives. I at last came to understand their meaty ways, and no longer felt threatened by their kind. In fact, I felt as if I was a 50 pounds and one tattoo shy of being one myself. Plus, I saw more breasts in that one afternoon than I had seen in my entire life.
posted by Benson | 9:24 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home