Wednesday, September 23, 2009

The Displaced Missionary

This species, usually male (not being sexist, it's just fact) can usually be spotted by his medieval flat halo, of the missionary glow variety, (although the glow is tarnished somewhat by the fear that he may have to come in physical, and thus secular, contact with the fairer sex.)
But beyond the flickering glow, the DM can be found by the phantom side-part, the nervous where's-my-companion twitch, or by the jeans of metabolisms past, that hug the second and third helpings the DM gratefully consumed for two years. These unholy jeans are also riding a little higher than they were two years ago, and therefore giving a peep show of a little argyle sock or, even better, some flirtatious white ankle.
And if the physical signs aren't enough to give the DM away, there are enough non-physical (dare I say spiritual...?) signs like his testimony as a default prefix to everything he says. Or his "small" talk which is about as small as Shaquille O'Neal's bathtub. The DM can turn a comment about the long line at L&T into a machine gun onslaught of questions, ranging from namehometownmajor? to current gpa, blood type, weight on moon and before you know it, you're committing to another interrogation at Freschetta on Friday.
And this time, bring your scriptures.

3 comments:

  1. Oh ho ho! "jeans of metabolisms past," "flirtatious white ankle"...you, miss, are the Hans Holbein of blogging. One can also spy the DM in the Wilk, meeting new people and looking down at his shirt pocket in surprise when they ask him his name--buddy, you're not wearing a name tag anymore.

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  2. AHHHHH hahaha I about died laughing reading through this last one. You girls hit the descriptions right on the nose. And it's hard to hit noses right on (apparently).

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  3. the end is. . . perfect. you guys crack me up!!!

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