This is from the beginning of Dave Lundy’s new novel (still in development) called, “Zero F*cks Given”, a prequel to the best-selling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.
Much to Zabka’s displeasure, an eighteen-wheeler slowly merged onto highway 290 in front of him. Zabka laid on the horn, slammed the Camaro’s gas pedal to the floor, and swerved around the trucker, taking the exit’s curvy offramp at a screeching 75 mph.
Zabka released his tight grip on the steering wheel once he straightened out on Main Street. “Did you see that asshole?” he said to his passengers.
From the seat beside him, Bob answered, “Yeah, the nerve of that guy.” He looked back at Lighthouse, cramped between their luggage, and they chuckled.
It was a sunny afternoon, and Zabka stuck his arm out the window to enjoy the breeze.
“Dude, what happened to the tunes?” Lighthouse asked.
“Yeah, Bob.” Zabka whacked his friend. “Fix that. You’re in charge.”
Bob slid in a Jackyl CD, selected the song he wanted, and turned up the volume. Soon into it, the guitar riff got their heads banging. Zabka eyed a car full of girls with a UB bumper sticker and sped up next to it. He looked over at the girls and sung along with the chorus, “But she loves my cock! — Loves my cock! Loves my cock! Loves my cock!”
The girls were beyond repulsed — so much so that their faces seemed to throw up.
Having witnessed Zabka’s behavior many times before, Bob wasn’t at all shocked — his friend was the poster-child for “not giving a fuck.” But, on the flip-side, the girls’ reactions did make Bob take notice. And a few of their faces seemed familiar — Were those Third Base girls?
As would be expected, Zabka was incredibly pleased with himself. He gunned the engine and took off down the road.
Bob turned down the music. “You know, not to sound lame or anything, but I feel like the way we approach girls might be a touch off-putting and could probably use… oh, I don’t know… some refinement. What do you guys think?”
“What are you talking about?” Zabka replied. “Those chicks loved me!”
Lighthouse offered his thoughts, “No offense, Zabka, but I didn’t get that impression. Bob might be on to something.”
Zabka brushed off his friends. “You guys are crazy.”
“No, really,” Bob said. “Okay, so how many girls did we have in our house last year?”
Zabka shrugged. “Plenty, I’m sure.” He contemplated for a moment. “To start, there was Earthshaker — that ginormous chick from The Base that you banged. Good lord, you truly have no shame.”
“First of all, I did not ‘fuck her.’ We barely got outta the bar before her mouth was playing Hungry Hungry Hippos with my balls. She was like, ‘Nom, nom, nom…’ and just went to town. It was nuts — literally! I’ve never had a girl focus on my sack like that.”
From the peanut gallery, Lighthouse remarked, “I bet you’ve had dudes focused on your sack like that.”
Bob rolled his eyes. “And secondly, we didn’t go to our house. Her house was around the corner, so we went there.”
Lighthouse looked up and tapped his chin. “Oh, I know. There was the woman that hooked up our cable. She was kinda hot.”
Bob replied, “Dude, she was as old as your mom. Plus, she worked for the cable company, so that doesn’t really count. Okay, so who else?”
“Hmm… oh, I remember.” His redheaded friend pushed an imaginary button. “These girls rang our doorbell and I invited them inside.”
“You mean the ones selling cookies?” Bob shook his head. “The Girl Scout and her mom? Come on.”
The three of them sat in silence, racking their brains.
“You see my point now? We did a pathetic job last year.” Bob glanced back at Lighthouse and then at Zabka to make sure they absorbed what he was saying. “But here’s the good news — this is a new year and we’re in a new house — the reset button has been pressed. Plus it’s our last year in college. We need to go out on a high note.”
“Should we set a goal?” Lighthouse asked. “Like the number women?”
“Well, there are six of us in the house, soooo… we should easily be able to pull in two girls each. Real girls — not girls working for a utility company or selling shit door to door.” Bob did the easy math. “So that’s twelve.”
Zabka offered, “Shit, I could pull in a dozen myself. What are you guys gonna do?”
Lighthouse said, “Yeah, I could do that too.”
Bob laughed along with Zabka who was slapping his knee.
After Zabka composed himself, he said “But seriously, we need to think this through. The others in the house are Satan, Jimmy the Italian, and Narong — a stoner, a short guy who’s prematurely-balding and talks like he’s been kicked in the nuts, and a puny theatre major from Thailand. Something tells me their contributions ain’t gonna be shit.”
Bob agreed. “Yeah, they’re completely useless.”
Zabka nodded his head. “Yep, so that just leaves me and you, Bob.”
“Hey, what about me?” Lighthouse asked.
“What about you?” Zabka replied. “No offense,” he winked at Bob, “but this is clearly a two-man operation.”
“Yeah, Zabka’s right.” Bob grinned. “But don’t let that stop you from giving it the old college try.”
“I’ll show you guys.” Lighthouse folded his arms. “I may even decide to get a girlfriend.”
“Highly doubtful. But even if you did, that’s not gonna help us much with the numbers.” Zabka passed Grover Cleveland Golf Course — named after the former mayor of Buffalo and President of the United States — and crossed Bailey Avenue. “Hey, there’s south campus. We’re officially back in Buffalo!” He honked the horn twice. “And it feels daaaaamn good!”
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