It is a sordid tale of lust, gluttony, sloth, and nun-beating--one that I am quite embarrassed to share, yet one that simply must be told for the sake of the innocently angelic souls of future collegiate mascots everywhere. It is most certainly too late for me, for I was lost to the siren's lecherous song of fame and fortune long ago, but it is for the youth--those that may still be yanked back from the coal-black abyss of utter moral destruction--that I relate my nightmarish three years of collegiate cheerleading hell. Whether it was the numerous parties consisting of performing Mountain Dew keg stands and playing strip cribbage or the seemingly eternal van rides to the flea-infested armpits of the world (i.e., Huntington, West Virgina--where all the men are men, the women are too, and all the sheep are nervous), the salacious ribaldry made its home in my heart and psyche, never to vacate the premises of either ever again.Maybe one day, I shall write a tell-all book, narrating my foul escapades for all to witness and for Oprah to pity. Only then will my spiritual catharsis be complete, and maybe then I may be saved from the smutty squalor of my past.
Maybe.
May George Bush (or God--whichever) forgive me.
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