The city of Cincinnati was riding high with the excitement of the upcoming Reds' season. The campus of Xavier University was especially excited after notching a win over rival University of Cincinnati in baseball, and to celebrate this momentous occasion the off-campus bars were practically exploding with people. They lined the streets, played kazoos, ran around with thunder sticks, and made jokes about the weight of one Cincinnati pitcher. It was an electric scene, and one JP Macura stood before all of it.
Macura is typically a shy boy, not one to cause trouble, but on this night he felt the need to be mischievous. As he sat in his dorm room and schemed a way to obtain a fake identification in order to peruse the local drinking clubs of Oakley, he eventually found a student who sort of looked like him. Macura accosted the young man and demanded to see his identification for, "a research paper," and immediately ran off with the proverbial golden ticket.
Feeling the jolt of adrenaline he'd never felt before when betraying another man, Macura soon succumbed to a delirious state in which his actions carried no consequences. Unfortunately, obtaining an alcoholic beverage was Macura's central plot, and once he fooled the bartender with the identification, he soon found himself leaning against the back wall of a bar, looking too nervous to talk to anyone. He found the courage to ask an attractive woman, "are your legs tired? You've been standing a lot and its got me thinking about standing desks and if they're actually healthier than sitting in a desk chair all day. Can I get you a beverage, perhaps some water? I don't want you to get dehydrated." The woman responded by lecturing JP about the impact of discovering gravitational waves will have on scientific studies.
Hours passed as JP was lectured over and over about science, politics, and classic Russian literature. The more he learned about the world as a whole the less he understood it.
Eventually JP ended up at R.P. McMurphy's Irish Pub where he was immediately accosted by the doorman.
"Identification, please. We cannot have anyone underage at this establishment because we serve alcohol," the doorman stated with a deep, baritone voice.
"Here you go my good friend who has the silky smooth voice of a R&B singer," Macura replied.
"Friend, I know you from the hardwood courts. You most certainly are not the man on this identification and I have read up on you, as you played in the Madness of March. I cannot allow you into this establishment."
"Please?" Macura replied sheepishly.
"OK you can go in on one condition: name four authors from classic Russian literature."
Macura's eyes lit up. This was his chance, his opportunity.
"Kantemir, Sumarokov, Radischev, Derzhavin."
"Very good. You have gained entry into this Irish Pub. Please do not get rowdy."
Macura heeded the man's words and did not get rowdy. He went to the bar and ordered his Guinness and proceeded to the back of the bar where he propped up the back wall as his eyes darted around the room. There was a group of young women just to his left who were conversing about the inequities that railroad slaves faced in the early 1800's. There was a group of dudes in Abercrombie polo shirts who were waxing on about potential central American trade partners.
There was a mixed bag of folks who were talking about butt implants and the dark side of the potential side effects. One woman turned to JP, who was still quietly listening to each conversation, and asked him his opinion on butt implants. JP began to blush; he didn't know a whole lot about butts. He stammered and gulped, eventually rambling off a few nonsense buzzwords in quick succession. Another woman at the table noted JP's butt and questioned if ever had implants. This set the bar ablaze with laughter and JP was quick to defend himself.
"No ma'am, I most certainly, uhm, no I don't have butt implants! I would never, my mother would kill me!"
The bar shouted, in unison, "Prove it!"
His face more red than before, JP sheepishly looked around. All eyes were on him, begging him to drop trow and show the patrons his butt. So he did, revealing no scars and no sign of recent surgeries. The crowd booed and hissed, and eventually the police showed up to see if JP was lying about having butt extensions put in. When they found nothing, they put him in the back of their cruiser and took him down to the station for booking. His identification taken from the police and his butt now known as good, but not surgically enhanced. It'll be a grave mark on his permanent record.
JP Macura will never forget this night. He will forever be scarred for having no scars.
It's a shame that we live in a society where, if we have a bodacious butt, we cannot show off the butt without persecution and empty accusations of enhancing the butt from our fellow man. We can do better. We can be better.
(Note: this is clearly satire and meant as a joke. These things probably didn't happen, but who's to know?)