When my dad was pledging his fraternity he participated in something called The Olive Race in which a bunch of pledges had to run across a big room with an olive held in their asses, and the last place finisher and all who dropped their olives had to eat their cargo. I'm proud of my father for a lot of things, and one of them is that he finished first in this race.
This is out of character for my dad, seeing as he's a college professor who I've never seen drink more than two consecutive beers in one sitting. I mean, he's a jogger like me, so the race I can see, but things in our butts is not a Noisewater thing.
So, yesterday while standing around the appetizers, including olives, before Christmas dinner, I said to my dad, "Hey, do you fancy an olive race?" We all had a good laugh about that, as we've heard the story many times. I had to ask him this time who lost the race, and he knew his name straightaway: Ron Wilson. I asked if he got dysentery and died shortly thereafter, to which my dad said, "I hope so. I hated his guts." I guess old Ron Wilson flunked out not long after eating an olive that dropped out of his own butt. Not a good college experience, I'd say. Go Noisewaters! We're winners!!
