Straight man sticks 1% in; tries hand at homoerotica. Good humor & spankings for all!

[LaurenceO]

PART ONE OF JULY'S DANDLEBERRY OMEGA NEWSLETTER:

Dear McMuntry Alumni,
The name is Archibald Grist, class of ’64. I’m old and bald now but still with my trade-mark hairy back. I realize it’s long remembered by those who knew me when. The news is, I’ve not let down my Fraternity brothers. Yes, good news or bad, spanking is still my reluctant but time honored hobby. Most people shudder when I break out the paddle. My favorite paddle is the one the Fraternity dedicated to me for being the biggest and baddest ASS SPANKER since Big Bad Biff who was held back two years in a row but eventually graduated with the class of 1922.

Col. Bryan (Biff) A. Digbutter wore a bow tie to house meetings though, so he ain’t got nothin’ on me. Plus, he combed his hair with Muel Tonic and looked like a big sissy.

It’s fraternity policy to bestow paddles to the lead man complete with your name imprinted on it, so it shows up across bums. I remember wanting to put in an official request for my name to be etched in cursive, but the boys were way ahead of me on that idea. It was an innovative concept at the time, especially for the mid-1960’s. I still like to think I was the inspiration for this paradigm shift in enhanced and more technically advanced Fraternity Spanking Paraphernalia. But, bottom line, that year, several Seniors made it part of the initiation process for freshmen, still wet behind the ears and, apparently, in possession of very nimble fingers. The freshmen prospective members who took Calligraphy 101 and Wood Burning class headed up the forgery and nailed my signature, right on the money. What a beautiful relief etching. And in wood no less! I always wondered how they pulled it off.

I didn't really enjoy spanking the freshmen boys though. It was more of a chore really. Erotic tasks, hetero, homo, or otherwise, are not really my thing. In 1962 it was still not considered inappropriate or racially offensive for spankers to put on black face make up, if you can believe it. My, how times have changed. These days sex is so flagrant and it's all about instant gratification with these kids. They don't appreciate how hard it was when people had to actually work for things.

When Melvin Yankov, a Russian immigrant with weight problems complained that my Siggy wasn’t going to show up on his fat arse because he said I might be working with too wide of a canvas, I smacked his chubby smug Russian face and said, “What’s your problem, Tard!” [another terrible epithet no longer tolerated but left in here to preserve historical integrity, accuracy, and show how far we have come since those dark times.] He made a long winded plea about how it was going to provoke teasing and taunting from his fledgling Fraternity delegates, especially in the locker room, if everybody’s signature was proportionate to their arses except for his. I force-fed him a half-bottle of Vodka, slightly mixed with piss and then calmly reassured him, “Look, Moron, you'd be surprised. Steady hand and a dirty mind. Anything is possible. Sky's the limit!” He said, “O, no, please! Not Sky!” with tears in his eyes, “Sky only has three letters in it…” Now don’t get confused here folks. The Vodka was Stoli. Sky Vodka didn’t exist. But, a paddle with the insignia of “Sky” most certainly had existed at one time. Little Melvin wasn’t supposed to know anything about it. And I found his insolence and foreknowledge to be bordering on nothing less than treason. I promptly sent him to his dorm room where he was asked to present all his notes for an upcoming Term Paper. It was due the following Monday. Me and Fred Drunkowitz made Melvin suck all the ink out of his cup-full of pens and stuffed all his notepads through a campus tree-shredder. That’s right, the paper shredder had not yet been perfected at that time, either. But the smart-ass kid wasn’t wrong. “Sky” really does only contain three letters. And I was more than livid that the kid had put me in a position where I had to feign ignorance about the fact that he was actually referring to a white paddle with the insignia "Sky" embossed on it’s flat side. The plump pleb, Melvin, never admitted who leaked him the info about the paddle’s secret replication. So, we scooted him off naked and muddy ‘round midnight to the girl’s dorms at McMuntry’s sister college campus. Shreaks and laughter were heard far and wide from the plush greens of Mary Gish Grumpham College. Now, I was quite proud of the paddle I’d been given, by the brothers, with my much longer name. It would be inconceivable that I would actually deploy the Sky Paddle. So, Melvin was being a dick. So, Melvin never could get a date after his little incident at Grumpham.

First of all, the original paddle no longer existed, neither did the replica, as far as anybody outside the most inner circle would know. The Brown Circle was a secret elite faction of the Frat. It’s name was based on the wide oak table that the founders stole from the Library in order to fashion several new paddles during the year of the tree shortage in 1948 when the North American Oak tree experienced a terrible blight. So, the Sky paddle was strictly legend, to anyone who wasn’t a Browny. As much a piece of fiction as Moby Dick. We kept the replica under lock and key in Craig Asp’s Mother’s home. He was a local kid who’d gotten into McMurtry University on a scholarship. We branded his ass with a bar code that said FREEBEE underneath it in fine print.
(cunt. on pg. 2)

 

[LaurenceO]

Anyway, I digress. Sky Thrush was the Dean's daughter. She’d been the object of Buff’s amorous onslaught for about six months and that's exactly how Buff got demoted the second time back in '21. When Dean Thrush took his family to the beach earlier that summer, he’d noticed his daughter’s fleshy name branded on her pink rump. She was about 42 years old, prematurely grey, and had never married, for some odd reason. But, nevertheless, the 61 year old Dean Thrush was most pissed. He found his prize student, Buff and took Buff's official Fraternity paddle and shoved it's handle clear up Buff's arse. All were bemused. Buff lived out the rest of his days at McMuntry U. as an outcast. Could the paddle be saved, you ask? Now that's really the important question and there is much contradiction, speculation and lore surrounding that particular tail. In my opinion, this is the accurate version: it took three Sophomores and four hours of planning to dislodge the thing out of Buff who was temporarily comatose after having dosed himself on a bottle of aspirin and Jamaican Rum, by way of a make-shit painkiller. The Senior members spent the rest of their Sunday afternoon staring at the shitty handle with horror and loathing, before skinny Tim Yohdler snatched it up and popped it into a paper sack. The official story is that brothers burned it in the bonfire at Spring break. Nobody chided Buff about the humiliating ordeal, not ever, ie. “how’s your ass?” and what-not. It was a more gracious age in 1920’s America and Fraternities in the know all across New England figured Buff had gotten his comeuppance. One explanation for the Dandleberry Omega uniform specs including mandatory rubber gloves during Octorber hazing is that, in honor of the white paddle, named Sky, the Fraternity brothers all put on rubber gloves and gave the paddle the official grab-ass solute before sending it to the sandy crematorium littered with beer cans and driftwood.

Big Buff Digbutter went on to become the lead man involved in drafting the target plans for the bombing of Germany in WWII. He had plenty to get off his chest, we’re all sure. His son flew the first plane that dropped the A bomb on Hiroshima.

But the infamous paddle never lived to see this momentous occasion in history. And ironically, the moral of the story is that not at all unlike Nuclear Obliteration, a stinky handled paddle is but a heart beat away, my dears. Thus, we have hence forth learned and long noted in our Spank Hand Book Manual which is abridged on an annual basis. The reference to Nuclear annihilation is aptly included in the opening quote on the manual’s forward. Many freshmen who’ve heard the folk tale about Buff’s anal rape, often request a clean paddle for their initiation rights. The ones that do that get black eyes and are told to “learn to fucking read.” It's rule # 14, section b., in the sub-series of "Clauses and Blunders." And I quote directly: “the paddle must not be stinky handled.” Period, end of story. The amendment is a very seriously dirty bone of contentious debate and liberal over-interpretation, however. But, here’s the nut of it. It must be clean, initially, anyway. It's still a bit of a grey area as to what condition it should be in during and shortly after proper use. However, it must be returned to it's proper owner, well waxed and polished. Violators will be sent to the basement. Graduates of McMuntry U. have set up guilds and international Club Alumni groups that meet regularly. There is an official "Hall of Paddlers" in Buffalo. Paddles once owned or used by famous people are encased in glass. In summer, many men have horse shoe throwing contests.

I, Archibald Grist, being ever so judicious, and humble on occasion, create and leave this thread to all Brothers McMuntry who once served in Dandleberry Omega. Please, feel free to contribute your reminiscent anecdotes, and any pertinent details of your present career accomplishments, plus any ways in which you feel the glory years of your time at McMuntry and Dandleberry Omega have influenced and enhanced your life as you look back on good times. We like to keep track of our alumni and regularly send notices of any updates, or fundraising drives. So do be sure to state your name and town, along with the year you graduated from McMuntry.

Your Stolid Compatriot, Archy.

***A brief epilogue to this announcement: my professional career is in journalism, art criticism, and literature. Therefore it is important for a very small few of you to duly note that I created and typed this newsletter in just under 17 minutes. It does not take me all day to craft any letters on any subjects when the essay is kept under 30 pages. Without resorting to any “name-calling” that can be directly tied to one specific person, unless they know who they are and know how to read, or singling anyone out in order to laud their magnanimity, I would simply add this: Anyone who might accuse me of being somebody other than myself, or allege that I spend all day crafting missives, rebuttals, or articles of any other variety are being smug, illiterate, jealousy driven, bating, deranged, bored, uncreative priggish MORONS. Also note that cruelty to animals or children is not only illegal in all states, but it is a terrible come on line, and is NEVER tolerated at McMuntry. It will always be dealt with swiftly by the Brown Circle. You can read it also in the Dandleberry mission statement. If you like killing animals for anything other than food, you’re in the wrong place. And if you’ve read this far, you probably have an un-healthy interest in good old Archibald and probably have to seek counseling for your mental health problems.

Thank you and a cheerful “greetings!” to my fellow Brownies! Keep up the quota. And do rosy justice wherever priggish sanctimony may be found. (Off to get my back waxed. I suggest you all do the same.)